Archive of Our Own

October 2016, Boston

It had been a long time since Ilya had played hungover.

This felt different than before, though. Usually, a night of partying and drinking and maybe fucking, where he ended up in some girl’s bed or on Marly’s couch or on St. Vicky’s floor or in some random hotel room, would leave him with a splitting headache but also a small thrill. He was alive. His body was his own, to seek pleasure where he wanted to. And if he threw up a little when he tried to take his first sip of water, that was just his body reminding him that it still worked. It was still his, his choices, his consequences. 

This wasn’t like that. 

The lights in the TD Garden home locker room were far too bright as he laced up his skates, and when he sat up, the nausea rolled through him. He wasn’t surprised. Yesterday he had sat on his couch long enough that the shadows slid across the room and the sunlight shifted from warm yellow to dull orange, staring at nothing, feeling the cum dry tacky on his skin. Something on the television must have jolted him back into awareness. It had been on, but he had turned the volume down low when he had first pulled Sh — Hollander to rest against his chest. Maybe the programming had shifted, and the sound design on the new show was louder. 

It hadn’t mattered. He had startled back into his body, blinking slowly, hearing the emptiness in the huge house around him under the veneer of sound spilling from the TV. He had jabbed at the power button on the remote, stood with sharp, staccato movements, and strode to the kitchen. He ignored the dishes in the sink — his housekeeper would charge him extra, but it was only money, it didn’t matter — and pulled a bottle of vodka from his freezer. His vision had tunneled as he had gone up the stairs, passing the owner’s bedroom where Sha — Hollander’s warmth still clung to the sheets, where his clothes still sat folded on the dresser, where the shape of his body was still carved into the mattress, where his scent still drowned the pillows. Instead, he had collapsed onto the bed in one of the guest bedrooms, taken the cap off the vodka bottle, and drunk. He didn’t even remember the last time he had been in that guest bedroom. That didn’t matter either. 

He had made a mistake, he realized. He had taken the ways that Hollander had been looking at him, the way Hollander sometimes caressed his face, the way Hollander would run his fingers down the skin of Ilya’s back, and he had made a mistake. He had thought that the soft looks, the gentle touches, the borrowed minutes after the sex was over, meant that Hollander might, someday, want him. Want Ilya, for something other than sex. But he had forgotten that that wasn’t the deal. Physical release, mutual satisfaction. That was all. He had tried, stupidly, to tell Hollander that he was capable of more than that. He had tried to tell Hollander about his friendship with Svetlana, had tried to ask if Shane was seeing anybody else, and that he would understand if it would be complicated for Hollander to give that up. And he had tried to do that while not revealing too much, not giving too much away, so Hollander wouldn’t see how soft, how sad, how pathetic, he really was, and leave. 

At some point Ilya had fallen asleep, and the only reason he knew that was he had jerked into wakefulness when the morning sun was already halfway up the sky. His skin still felt sticky, disgusting now, with the evidence of release, of what had followed. In a way, it had been good that he was running late. He hadn’t had time to think as he had rushed through a shower, as he had left his joggers abandoned on the bathroom floor (another thing his housekeeper would hate, and he only hoped she wouldn’t realize what the mess was), as he had grabbed his game day duffel and two protein bars to eat in the car. If he had taken the time to think, he would have had to confront the fact that he was going to see Hollander on the ice. 

Ilya was shaken out of his memories by LeClaire’s meaty hand clapping down on his shoulder. “Anything you want to say to the boys, Rozy?”

His head drifted up. He noted, with an almost clinical detachment, that all his teammates were staring at him, some combination of anticipation, nerves, and delight on all their faces. He swallowed hard. To his right, Marly nudged Ilya’s shoulder with his own. He probably meant for it to be subtle, but Ilya flinched at the contact. 

Ilya cleared his throat and stood, the weight of all the eyes on him threatening to sink him through the floor. “First time we see Montreal this season, yes?” he started, then cleared his throat a second time. “So they won the Cup last year, so what? Does that mean we let them come to our city and embarrass us on our ice?”

“No, Cap!” came the cheer in response. 

Ilya nodded, and hoped that was enough. “Good. Let’s go, then.” He grabbed his stick and headed for the door. It took a moment for the room to shuffle into motion behind him. 

Marly caught up to him just as they lined up to take the ice. “You good?”

“Fine,” Ilya said, shortly. Then, because it wasn’t untrue and it would hopefully be a good enough answer, he added, “Hungover.”

Marlow laughed, and Ilya almost winced again at the sound. “Seriously? You usually don’t start this shit until later in the season. You get into trouble last night?”

Ilya shrugged, not listening. He was about to see Hollander. Out there. On the ice. In the face-off circle. His head pounded, and he felt nausea roil in his gut again. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t — I can’t do this.”

I’m sorry.

“Roz?” The laughter was gone from Marly’s voice now, leaving something that sounded like concern in its wake. “You sure you’re okay, man? Like are you good to play?”

The rumble of the announcers started to bleed into the tunnel, and ahead of him, Ilya saw his players begin to take the ice. “Fine,” he bit out. “I can play.” He had to play. If he could do nothing else, ever again, he knew he could play hockey. Before Marly could ask him any more stupid questions, they had reached the threshold, and Marly only had time for one more worried glance at Ilya before he skated out.

***

Ilya didn’t know how he got to the blue dot at center ice. Darkness pressed in, all around him. Literally — the fans in the crowd were almost all wearing Bears merch, or Bears colors. Black with gold accents. And stadium management always played up that coloring by dropping house lights as low as possible, keeping the accent lights a deep purple, and contrasting that with bright white light on the ice itself. The effect was meant to be intimidating. A wall of shadows rising endlessly above the ice. It had worked on Ilya when he was nineteen, even though they were screaming his name. But he didn’t think he had ever seen it work on Shane Hollander. 

When he approached Hollander at the face-off dot, he wondered if the stadium’s intended effect was finally getting under Hollander’s careful facade. Hollander’s face was blank — not the focused intensity that Ilya was so used to, that he so enjoyed chirping at until it cracked. This was something else. Hollander’s eyes were staring down at the blue dot, like the void where the puck would be soon was all that mattered. Like Ilya wasn’t even there. Like Hollander couldn’t even bear to look at him, after what he had seen yesterday.

Ilya swallowed down the bile in his throat, and waited for Hollander to place the blade of his stick on the ice. Hollander’s movements seemed slower, calculated. There was none of the sharpness that Ilya had come to expect. Hollander didn’t even want to be near him.

I’m sorry.

“You boys going to play clean tonight?” demanded the ref. Hollander didn’t flinch, didn’t tilt his head, didn’t blink. Ilya knew he didn’t because he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blank nothing in Hollander’s face. 

I’m sorry.

The puck dropped, and they both fumbled for it. Ilya’s hands were slipping in his gloves, and he felt unsteady on his skates. He managed to win it, to snap it over to Marly. Immediately, Marly was away, and Ilya knew he should be chasing him, knew he should be finding pathways for Marly to pass — 

But he hesitated, just for a moment, just for one last look at Hollander’s face. He only caught Hollander’s profile — eyes still blank, Hollander pivoted to chase after Marley, ignoring Ilya entirely. 

I’m sorry. Come back. I can go back to how it was. Nothing has to change.

Hollander was already gone. 

Final Score: 3-2, Montreal

Hollander: 2 goals, 1 assist

Rozanov: 1 goal, 1 assist

December 2016, Montreal

Ilya kept his back to the line of Voyageurs, to Hollander, as he tapped his team back into the box. His usual words of encouragement — “good job, I love you, we’ll beat them next time” — tasted like ash in his mouth, and he caught more than one concerned look from the Bears as they passed him to head to the Bell Centre’s visiting locker room. He felt numb. He knew he had just played the worst game of his career, worse than Sochi when he had lost to Latvia. He could already hear his father’s voice, demanding to know what the fuck was wrong with him.

Marly, as the Bears Alternate Captain, was last in line as always. “What’s going on with you?” Marly asked, his voice low, before Ilya could give him a perfunctory congratulations. 

Ilya shrugged as he followed Marly through the gate in the boards. “We’re not going to win every game, Marly.”

“Man, I don’t care about that. I mean, I guess I do, but I’ve never seen you play that bad.” 

Ilya snorted, trying to find his usual bravado. “Oh, I’m sorry, I have the first bad day in the six years I have been on this team —”

“Roz.” Cliff placed a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, stopping him before the two of them crossed the threshold into the noise of the locker room. Ilya fixed his gaze on a spot to the left of Cliff’s ear. “Is everything okay? You even… I mean, I know you like to play up your rivalry shit with Hollander for the cameras, but it seemed like you were really fucking trying to hurt him out there.”

At that, Ilya jerked his shoulder free. “Fuck off, Marlow.” He stalked off towards the locker room without waiting for a comeback. 

As if he’d ever hurt Hollander, he thought, as he went through the motions of showering, nearly rubbing his skin raw under the spray. And even if he had, well, Hollander had fucking hurt him first, hadn’t he?

I’m losing you. 

It was the thought that had echoed around Ilya’s skull for weeks, ever since Marly and Connors had showed him that fucking TMZ story about Hollander and Rose fucking Landry getting caught together by the paparazzi. It wasn’t like he and Hollander had ever made each other any fucking promises, after all. Ilya still saw girls in most of the cities that the Bears played in. He still saw Sveta. Hollander knew this, because he had told him. And Hollander hadn’t given him a direct answer back about his own roster, had he?

But Ilya knew Hollander, even if Hollander hadn’t wanted him to. Ilya knew that Hollander was deeply, intensely private, that every move he made regarding his image, his reputation, the face he showed the world, was carefully calculated. Planned out weeks in advance, if not months. Shane Hollander was not photographed in public with Rose Landry, telling the world that they were together, if Rose Landry was just a girl on Shane’s roster. This was serious, and it must have been for a while. Maybe it had been serious when Ilya had had Hollander in his home, in his bed. 

I’m losing you.

Because Hollander was famous, wasn’t he? In a real way, beyond just hockey circles. He had been in campaigns for high fashion brands. He could have known Rose Landry for months. Could have been planning this for weeks. Could have been biding his time until he could be through with Ilya.

For Hollander to be willing to be seen with her in public, to invite the press into his relationship like that, he must have been sure about her. About a future with her. Ilya had never suspected it, but that was his own fault.

I’m losing you.

When he had put Hollander into the boards that night, Hollander hadn’t even looked at him. Had barely acknowledged him. No matter how many times Ilya had done it. He hadn’t been trying to hurt Hollander, not really. He had just wanted Hollander to look at him, just fucking once. 

Look at me. Be honest with me. Tell me to my face that I’m losing you. Tell me that it’s over. 

Ilya had known since that day in his house in Chestnut Hill that he was too much. It hadn’t been a surprise to learn that he couldn’t give Hollander what Hollander needed. All he could offer was sex, just sex in the dark, messy beds behind doors that snapped shut, and whispers, and denials. It was always going to end at some point. A fucking warning would just have been nice. 

The recriminations swirled in Ilya’s head all through press duty — God knows what he’d said — and on the bus back to the hotel, and through his second shower. He nearly clawed at his arms, his chest, trying to work the soap deep enough into his skin. Hollander wasn’t even the last person who had touched him — there had been a nameless, faceless girl in New York, and another one in Pittsburgh, and another in Washington — but seeing his face brought the ghost of his fingertips back to Ilya’s body. He was going to be sick. 

“Fuck this shit,” he muttered, striding out of the bathroom to where Connors was sitting on his bed, skimming the room service menu. “I need to get laid,” he announced. “Let’s go out.”

Final Score: 1-0, Montreal

Hollander: 0 goals, 0 assists

Rozanov: 0 goals, 0 assists

January 2017, Tampa

The sun was barely creeping up over the horizon through the windows overlooking the tarmac as Ilya paid for his iced coffee. The Tampa airport didn’t have a fucking Dunkin except the one before security, which was fucking useless if the American security state didn’t allow liquids greater than three ounces, and that was some sort of hate crime against Ilya personally, so he would have to put up with whatever brand of syrup this little coffee stand kept on hand. 

It was an odd thing to worry about, the syrup for his iced coffee. As if less than twelve hours ago he hadn’t been sobbing in the arms of the man he loved. The man he’d thought he’d lost forever.

Ilya thought it must have been years since he’d cried in front of another person. Svetlana, maybe? A few years ago, the anniversary of his mother’s death? They had been drunk on Ilya’s couch, he remembered now, and the memories had overtaken him. Sveta had pulled his head into her lap, and he had pressed his eye socket into his knee, a kaleidoscope of colors erupting around the pressure, his breath hiccuping in his chest. 

And it had felt good. Comforting, even. Sveta had been the most important person in Ilya’s life for a long time, the only person who he was always sure cared about him. 

“I don’t think I can keep pretending that I don’t like you.” 

Shane had been different. Shane had always been different. He had crawled into Ilya’s lap, and drawn a kiss from his mouth, wrapped his arms around Ilya, and stayed. His weight had pressed Ilya to the bed, to the earth, keeping him anchored, tethered. And Ilya was many things, but a fucking idiot wasn’t one of them, so even if he was being stupid, and pathetic, and small, he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to hold Shane again. To hold him for the first time, really.

Shane. Shane, Shane, Shane. 

Shane hadn’t spoken again while Ilya cried in his arms. He hadn’t said anything empty, like it’s okay, or don’t cry. He had just pressed his lips to Ilya’s temple, and rocked him back and forth, reminding Ilya that they were both there, solid, present, warm, alive, in that Tampa hotel room with its crisp air conditioning and its ugly duvet cover. And Ilya had wrapped his arms around Shane’s waist in turn, anchoring him back, reassuring himself that Shane was there, with him. Was staying. 

Their sex had been different. “We don’t have to, Ilya,” Shane had whispered, brushing a thumb across Ilya’s cheek, catching stray tears. “We can just be here.” 

Ilya had shook his head, because he didn’t have words in English to fully say that the only way he’d know for sure that Shane was real was if Shane took him inside his body again. He didn’t know how to say that he had been having the same terrible, floating, numb experience of himself since that October day in Boston, and that if he was going to feel like he belonged in himself again, like he knew where he ended and where he began, he needed Shane to show him the way home. 

But Shane had looked into Ilya’s eyes, with that intense, serious gaze he got sometimes when he really wanted to understand something, and had nodded, slowly. “Tell me if you want to stop, okay?”

Never, Ilya had thought, but instead he nodded back. Shane had watched him for another moment, quiet, and then had taken him apart.

Shane, Shane, Shane. 

Idly, Ilya watched the half-asleep barista put coffee orders together, and wondered if it had been the best sex he’d ever had in his life. He wasn’t sure how to quantify something like that. He’d had good sex, and he took a lot of pride in making sure his partners were never left in any way disappointed, and he knew there were threads on Reddit and Twitter and probably other websites he’d never heard of praising him as the best sex of various women’s lives. But were you ever able to say something like that for sure?

Shane had kept his weight pressed into Ilya the whole time, had run his fingers over Ilya’s face and ribs and hips and heart, had fixed Ilya’s gaze with his soft, warm, brown eyes, and had taken him slowly, so slowly into his body. “Ilya,” he had whispered. “Ilya.” 

“Ilya,” the barista called out, bored, pronouncing it wrong in the way that Americans and Canadians always did. Ill-ee-yuh. He stepped forward and took the plastic cup with a muttered word of thanks, before lifting the straw to his lips. He grimaced. It was the synthetic-tasting hazelnut. 

Coffee in one hand, carry-on handle cradled loosely in the fingers of the other, Ilya wandered over to the windows by the boarding area of his flight to Toronto. He couldn’t be bothered with the VIP lounge, not when there were this few people around so early in the morning. Nothing was really different, he thought. He had tried to warn Shane. They couldn't ever stop being a secret. Ilya wasn’t worth the effort Shane seemed, suddenly, to want to put into him. Russia would never accept Ilya as he was and let him live. Ilya’s family was a fucking disaster. All of that was the same now as it had been before.

Well, maybe not. Shane and Rose Landry weren’t compatible. That was different. He had cried in front of Shane Hollander. That was different. “I think I like you maybe a little bit too much.” That, certainly, was different. 

So Shane felt something for Ilya. Ilya had hoped against hope, for months (years), that he might, and had hated himself for the hope, because what then? What the fuck was supposed to happen then?

He had meant it when he asked why it fucking mattered. 

He had meant it, but then Shane had crawled into his lap and held him close, and it was so, so easy for Ilya to slip into believing that maybe it did matter.

Shane, Shane, Shane.

A heavy hand clapped down onto Ilya’s shoulder. “You could have texted me.”

Ilya jumped and spun his head to the side, only relaxing a little when he saw that it was just Marly. “We could have shared a car,” Marly went on, hitching the strap of his backpack further up his shoulder. “Or, like, you could at least have told me I didn’t have to worry about waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” said Ilya. He had forgotten Marly was in Tampa, in the same hotel as Ilya. But then Shane had left Ilya’s bed maybe three hours ago. They were all lucky Ilya hadn’t forgotten his own passport. 

“Hmm.” Ilya felt Marly studying him, in the way Marly had been studying him since December. Or October. Or maybe before. “Why do you look like shit and not like shit at the same time?”

At that, Ilya raised his eyebrows, cutting a glance at Marly. “What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”

“I don’t know.” Marly didn’t look away. Annoying. “You look different, though.” 

Ilya just shrugged. 

“All right, then,” said Marly eventually. “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Is that place any good — hey, there’s Hollander and Pike.”

Ilya looked up.

Shane, Shane, Shane.

 A hundred yards away, Hayden Pike and Shane Hollander were walking past the entrance to the terminal that Ilya and Marly’s gate was in. Ilya was content to just watch Shane move. He definitely wasn’t going to yell a salutation in the middle of an airport at five in the morning. Instead, he studied Shane’s profile: hood of his sweatshirt up, jet black fringe peeking out to frame his eyes, one hand pulling his carry on, the other tucked into his pocket. Like a hook had grabbed him behind his navel, Ilya was jerked backwards, over nine years. To a parking lot in Saskatchewan. A little wave, like a penguin’s flipper. A bright smile, like the sun peeking through the clouds. A dusting of freckles, like the fuzz of a dandelion carried in the breeze.

But then, as if he had felt Ilya’s gaze, Shane’s eyes darted up. Ilya watched Shane scan the area, all the way down to the end of the terminal, before he found Ilya. Shane’s steps slowed, and he smiled, small, quiet. Ilya felt his own lips twitch up in response. 

Shane, Shane, Shane. 

Pike, who had kept walking, faltered when he realized Shane was no longer beside him. Ilya watched as Pike turned back, laughing, before following Shane’s gaze down the terminal. He raised his eyebrows when he found what held Shane’s attention.

Marly raised one hand in greeting. After a moment, Pike waved back, then touched his fingertips to Shane’s elbow, guiding him on.

Ilya held Shane’s eyes until Shane was out of sight. 

Final Score: 11-4, Team Eastern Conference

Hollander: 4 goals, 3 assists

Rozanov: 5 goals, 2 assists

March 2017, Boston

Ilya had never asked to see Shane the afternoon before a game.

The risks felt higher — being late to pre-game was far worse than missing curfew. It was easier to get caught sneaking around in broad daylight. They could fuck each other so stupid that they were sore, or blissed out, throwing off their game. It was a bad idea, as Shane correctly observed, but after seeing him in Tampa, Ilya couldn’t help it. 

And apparently Shane couldn’t either, because despite not ever confirming that he’d left his hotel, suddenly there he was, ringing Ilya’s doorbell. Again.

In October, when Shane had crossed Ilya’s threshold, he had been nervous, moving stiffly, until he got distracted by the fucking architecture and design of Ilya’s stupid house. His big, sleek, ridiculous house that he had only bought because he could, that felt so empty he might as well have been a pebble rattling around inside it most days. But at least it impressed Shane Hollander and his real estate portfolio.

This time had been different, though. Shane had already been smiling when Ilya opened the door, and had reached out to pull Ilya into his arms, to kiss him, without any of the hesitation that had been carved into his skin four months ago. When Shane had gently broken their kiss, and smiled softly, and whispered “hi,” Ilya thought he might melt into a puddle on the floor. He had let himself believe that Shane was actually happy to see him, that whatever delicate balance they had struck in Tampa was going to last, somehow. 

Stay.

Their sex had been different, again. They had laughed through it, in ways that they had never done before. It didn’t feel like another front of their constant competition, or like they were on borrowed time (even if they quite literally were, five hours before puck drop and two hours before the Voyageurs’ bus would leave their hotel and take the team to TD Garden). Stupid fucking Alexei had almost ruined it by calling, again, threatening to rip Ilya away from the fragile little bubble of contentment he’d managed to draw around himself and Shane. And Shane had told Ilya he could answer it, and had asked about Ilya’s father, because Shane was a good and selfless person. “Enough,” Ilya had said, and waved Shane off. It wasn’t that… he wasn’t afraid, or ashamed, of Shane knowing anymore. That ship had sailed some time around Shane crawling into Ilya’s lap and anchoring him to his own body. No, it was just that Ilya didn’t want to leave this moment with Shane. 

And it mattered to Ilya that Shane had let him. That Shane had chirped at Ilya — “We’re gonna destroy you guys” — and had laughed with Ilya after. They hadn’t had time to fuck again, but Shane’s big stupid smile, Shane’s strong hands swatting at Ilya’s chest, had Ilya making out with Shane until the stupid fucking alarm on Shane’s phone had gone off.

When Ilya had walked Shane down the stairs and to the front door, they had both lingered. Ilya found his hand drifting up, cupping Shane’s cheek, his thumb stroking back and forth across the freckles that took up a truly concerning amount of his brain’s storage space. “Come back later?” he asked, voice low. “After the game?”

Stay.

Shane’s face had fallen. “I’m so sorry. We’re flying out at like two in the morning, because we have an afternoon game at home tomorrow, and—”

“It’s okay.” Ilya had already been shaking his head. “It’s not your fault, yes? I just wanted…” he shrugged, trailing off. 

Shane had reached up, pressing his hand to Ilya’s, keeping Ilya’s palm tucked to his face. His dark eyes were earnest. “I wanted, too,” he’d said, nodding like he was agreeing with himself, like he could make Ilya believe him that way. “But you could… text me? If you want?”

“I want.” Ilya had swallowed hard, then used his hand on Shane’s face to draw him in for one more kiss. “Play terrible tonight, okay, Hollander?”

Shane had grinned. “You too, asshole.”

That new, different, lighter energy had stayed, flowing between them during the game. Ilya knew, had known for years, that Shane Hollander was masterful with legal checks. He drew minors, of course, everybody did, it was impossible not to, but Ilya was pretty sure Shane had never once in the NHL drawn a major penalty of any kind. He didn’t need to. He could get the puck and push himself to where he needed to go without them. Which was why it had been so surprising, so delightful, to watch Shane smirk at him, to push his shoulder into Ilya’s and wrestle the puck away from him, to feel Shane’s body pressing him into the boards and hear Shane’s laughter in his ears before he was gone. Ilya hadn’t been able to keep the grin off his own face for the whole game. It got so bad that Marly had eyed him warily during a media break. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Love of the game, Marly, keep up. Find some joy in your cold dead heart.”

“Man, fuck you.” Marly had snorted as play resumed and Boston’s second line had skated out. “Hollander’s on a tear too,” he had observed. 

“I love it,” Ilya had said before he could stop himself. “He finally showed up this season, yes? Giving me an actual challenge.”

“Huh” had been all Marly had said in response. 

(Even with whatever new lightness there was between Shane and Ilya, Shane still had to do all the fucking work for his fuckass team, and he had scored all three of Montreal’s goals, one of which had been unassisted. What was the fucking point of the rest of the Voyageurs, Ilya was always asking himself. It hadn’t stopped him from scoring three goals of his own.)

And maybe it had been the lingering… happiness of seeing Shane on the ice that had softened Ilya just enough to finally pick up his brother’s call in the locker room. His stomach had dropped out from under him when Alexei had said, flat, “Fucking finally you answer. Father is dead. Come home,” and then hung up. 

Ilya had stared at the wall of the Bears’ home locker room, blank, while the feedback over the open line cut off and silence replaced it. It had taken a moment for Marly to realize that Ilya wasn’t moving. 

Ilya didn’t remember much of what happened next. He must have told Marly, because Marly walked him to LeClaire’s office, and he must have called Svetlana, because at some point he and Sveta were side by side in the first class section of a Turkish Airlines flight to Istanbul. Svetlana, who had dropped everything to make this pilgrimage back with him, who had told him to fuck off when he had tried to tell her he could go alone. It had been only in the Istanbul airport, Sveta dozing on his shoulder as he once again was staring at the wall, did it occur to Ilya that he hadn’t texted Shane. He had told Shane he would text, and he hadn’t done it. He looked down at his phone for the first time since the plane had touched down, and felt his throat close up. A few dozen missed messages, mostly from his teammates, but his thumb flicked those off the screen until only one remained, from jane. “Are you okay?”

Ilya hadn’t been sure how Shane had known, or even what exactly Shane did know. But Shane had texted him. Shane had reached out. Ilya tucked his phone back into his pocket, his eyes stinging.

The little, three-word question sat with him like a thorn in his shoe all through the second half of the journey. When they had landed in Moscow at four in the morning, they were met by the car service that Sveta had arranged — Alexei hadn’t offered to come pick Ilya and Sveta up, or to send anyone else in the family, and Ilya hadn’t asked. He knew he was in Moscow to pay for the funeral, to throw money at the void left by his extreme abdication of filial duty, to atone for the sin of being in the United States as his father was dying. 

Ilya flopped down on the gaudy, ornate black leather couch in his father’s favorite sitting room. He could have gone to his own fucking condo in the Tsentr, but it was already so fucking early, and he knew he’d be expected to be present with the family at breakfast. He stared up at the god awful ugly ornate crown molding ringing the ceiling, tracing its whorls and florals like he had so many times as a child. 

He didn’t want to fucking be here. He wanted to go back and reject Alexei’s call. He wanted to go back who knew how many fucking hours it had been, to his bed in Boston, Shane lying beside him, chirping at him as his own cum dried on his chest. 

Stay.

He couldn’t text Shane back, he knew that. Whatever this new space they had been in since Tampa, however much it felt like the air in Ilya’s lungs, he couldn’t put this on Shane. It wasn’t what Shane had signed up for. 

Ilya sighed, and leaned over without getting up from his seat on the couch, to fish his phone out of his backpack. He would delete Shane’s text so he wouldn’t be tempted to respond to it. 

But as he tapped the screen, activating it for the first time since landing, he faltered. Because there was a missed call. From jane. 

Ilya swallowed hard. They didn’t call. He had never once spoken to Shane Hollander on the phone. He had never felt Shane’s voice soft in his ear even across distance. He had punished himself, in fact, several times over the years, by staring at jane on his phone’s screen, the little phone icon tempting him, tempting him, tempting him. 

Without Ilya giving it permission, his brain was already doing the math. It was eleven at night in Montreal. He wasn’t sure if Shane would still be awake — disciplined Shane, whose nighttime routine Ilya had spent more time than he could admit imagining over the years. Montreal had played Florida while Ilya had been in the air, and he knew they played Tampa Bay at home tomorrow, and if Shane was the competitor that Ilya knew him to be, he was committed to a full night’s rest before he had to be at morning skate. 

Not that it mattered. He wasn’t going to call Shane back. That wasn’t… that wasn’t the deal. That wasn’t what Shane had agreed to.

Ilya’s phone screen faded to black, and reflexively, he tapped the glass, bringing back the missed call notification. He stood up, pacing from one end of the room to the other. Something bubbled in his chest, crowding out his air. 

Stay. 

It couldn’t hurt, he reasoned. Not anymore than it already did. 

He pressed the little video camera icon beside jane’s name.

Final Score: 4-3, Boston

Hollander: 3 goals, 0 assists

Rozanov: 3 goals, 1 assist

April 2017, Montreal

Ilya let the door of Hollander’s hospital room fall shut behind him, but still, like a fool, he lingered for just a moment. He watched as Shane muttered a “hello” to the nurse. His smile was stiffer than it had been a moment ago, with Ilya, even through the cloud of pain medication. If there was one thing that Ilya knew that Shane Hollander was always, always going to do, it was filter himself through the expectations of others. 

Ilya sighed and forced himself to walk away, even as Hollander’s invitation crawled at his back, as if it would rend the fabric of his jacket. Soft brown eyes, bright freckles, “Will you come to my cottage this summer?” 

Maybe. He had said maybe, like a fucking coward. He could tell himself all he liked that it was because he hadn’t wanted to hurt Shane, to reject him when he was already lying in a hospital bed facing the end of his season. But that would be a fucking lie, wouldn’t it? He had said maybe because the alternative was following through with what he had decided must be done in Moscow. He had to end it with Hollander. He had to. He had to, because there was no future here.

He knew he had to, so why give false hope? To Hollander or to himself? 

Coward. 

He was weak, he had always known this about himself. He shrugged deeper into his jacket as he made his way towards the elevators. He spent so much of his life fighting against it that he could fool himself, sometimes, into thinking he had overcome it, but it was always fucking there. He had never been able to stomach doing the right thing when it was difficult. 

When he and Svetlana had landed back in Boston, Ilya’s first instinct had been to call Shane. He hadn’t, not in the least because Marly was picking them up from the airport, and Ilya wasn’t fucking stupid, at least not all the time. They had taken Svetlana back to her place, and then when Marly had brought Ilya back to Ilya’s own house, Marly had offered to come inside, to hang out, or help Ilya unpack, or make sure Ilya ate something. Ilya had waved him off, because as much as he appreciated Marly in theory, there was only one person Ilya had wanted to talk to. But he knew he had asked too much of Shane while he was in Moscow, so Ilya settled for texting him instead. Hollander had been on a road trip, in Utah, and Ilya had put his game on low in the background while he called LeClaire. The Voyageurs had won, four to two. Hollander had scored twice. 

Ilya had turned off the TV and was getting ready to go to bed when his phone had rung in his hand, lighting up with jane’s name. Ilya had sworn at himself, scolded himself, gripped his phone in his hand with his thumb hovering over the “decline” button, but he was weak. He had answered. 

“Hey.” Hollander’s voice had been breathless, echoing slightly, like he was still in the cinderblock tunnels of the Delta Center. “Are you okay? Are you back?”

“You let Thomas steal the puck from you on the power play in the second period,” Ilya had responded, smiling to himself when Hollander sputtered. 

“Fuck off, asshole — but seriously.” Hollander’s voice had dropped, and Ilya could almost see him glancing over his shoulder towards the door of the visiting locker room. “How are you?”

“Fine. And yes, back in Boston. Will be on the ice to beat you next week.” Ilya had flopped back onto his bed, resting his head on the pillow where Shane’s had been not two weeks prior. 

“Are you sure? I mean… I’m glad you’re out of… out of that place, if you didn’t want to be there anymore, but that doesn’t mean you have to get back to work if you’re not ready.”

Ilya had listened to the careful way Hollander had chosen his words, and had shut his eyes rather than stare up at the shadowy ceiling. That was the thing, wasn’t it? That was why he had to end it. It was one thing when it was just stupid casual sneaking around, but neither he nor Hollander could afford this kind of investment in a… well, not a relationship, but an arrangement that put them both in so much danger. Being back in Moscow had come with a stark reminder of what Ilya risked every time his hands sought out Shane Hollander’s skin.

“I am ready,” he had said, and hoped Hollander couldn’t tell what he meant. He was going to do it, he just… needed a little more time. 

Coward.

Hollander had texted him again the following morning, but Ilya had kept his messages short, and had found the earliest chance to trail off into silence. Because he shouldn’t have reached out at all, he knew that. It wasn’t fair to Hollander, not when Ilya was going to end it with him. It would have been cleaner to do it over the phone, or even through a text, but even Ilya knew that Hollander deserved the conversation in person. And it had been his plan for after that game. That fucking game. 

Hollander had looked up at Ilya’s face when they met at the blue dot. He had smiled, unprompted, and it was so sweet and unguarded and young that for another moment Ilya had let himself forget. Had let himself believe that maybe he didn’t have to end it, that maybe there was a way, somehow, for it to be okay. 

And of course, the universe had very quickly served him a reminder that this was not the case, delivered courtesy of Cliff Marlow. 

Ilya had no memory of playing the rest of that fucking game. Boston had pulled out a win, somehow, and Ilya had scored on muscle memory alone, but he had spent the next two hours feeling bile creep up his esophagus, had seen only the image of Shane’s horrifyingly still body on the ice. One of Shane’s arms had been draped over his face. One of Mama’s arms had been draped over her face. 

Coward. 

It had almost been a helpful reminder, in a way, Ilya told himself as he stared at his distorted reflection in the stainless steel of the elevator door. He wasn’t anything to Shane. He wasn’t a fucking WAG, he didn’t get to stay in the hospital. He couldn’t give his team any explanation as to where he had been beyond the cover of a quick captains’ courtesy visit. That was all he had. 

He would wait until he heard that Hollander had been discharged, and then he would call him. He would end it over the phone, quickly, no nonsense, with the honesty that Hollander deserved. And then Ilya would have the playoffs to keep him occupied. He had used the devastating pain, the shame, of Sochi to propel the Bears to the Cup three years ago. This hurt worse than that, he told himself, so there was no reason he couldn’t do the same here. He couldn’t have Shane Hollander and hockey, so by God, he was going to have hockey. Hockey was all he had ever really had, anyway.

He was lost in thought when he let himself back into his hotel room, and startled when he saw St. Vicky packing up his own carry-on case on the second bed. “Oh, hey Cap. How’s Hollander?”

Ilya stared at him, waiting for the world to settle back down around him before he found the words to respond. “Awake and talking,” he said, ducking into the bathroom to start throwing his stupid little travel size toiletries into their bag. “Very high, though.”

He heard St. Vicky laugh. “That must have been fun. Guy’s usually so fucking buttoned up. Did you get a video?”

“He’s in the hospital, Vicky,” Ilya muttered, not looking at his teammate as he emerged from the bathroom and began throwing the rest of his shit into his bag. No, he didn’t take video of Hollander. He didn’t have any photos of Hollander. There was no proof, ever, that he had ever known Shane Hollander, or that Shane Hollander had known him. 

Coward.

“Fucking sucks for Montreal that Hollander’s out for the playoffs,” St. Vicky chattered as Ilya tried to ignore him. “Like I’m sure they’ll still make wild card because he hauled their asses this far, but they’re not making it through the first round without him.” 

“No,” Ilya agreed, zipping his case closed. Viciously, he shoved Shane Hollander out of his head. He had a fucking Cup to win.

Final Score: 5-2, Boston

Hollander: 0 goals, 0 assists

Rozanov: 2 goals, 0 assists

June 2017, Boston

“Really?” Shane’s voice sounded breathless, even through the filter of the phone pressed tight to Ilya’s ear. “I mean — really? You’re coming?”

“If you still want me to.” Ilya stared out the huge windows in his kitchen into his backyard, the trees tastefully lit up from below with the fucking floodlights that his realtor had pointed out to him as if he gave a shit. Shane hadn’t brought up the cottage again since the hospital, in any of the texts that he had Ilya had traded back and forth since Ilya’s playoff run had ended in the Eastern Conference Finals. Ilya’s stomach had twisted painfully when he had seen the notification from jane pop up, and he had told himself to delete the message without reading it. Instead, he had opened it. 

Man, I’m so fucking sorry. You played beautifully. Congratulations on making it to Conference finals. You got farther than almost anyone else, and you made it painful for Hunter’s old ass at least.

Ilya had huffed a laugh. He had not, by any stretch of the imagination, made it painful for Scott Hunter. The series had been over in five games. Ilya had been cleared to play by the trainers after some defenseman in Pittsburgh had put him into the fucking boards, but it still hadn’t been enough. 

Even so, the crushing weight on his lungs had seemed to ease slightly as he had collapsed onto one of the couches in his living room and texted Shane back. He wanted to talk to him. Hadn’t he earned it? He could call him and end it after Hunter’s old ass won the fucking Cup.

That had been the plan. It had been the plan, and then Scott Hunter’s old ass had won the fucking Cup, and he waved his… boyfriend? It had to be his boyfriend, it was such a huge fucking stupid dangerous risk to take if it wasn’t his fucking boyfriend, down onto the ice and kissed him. 

“Of course I still want you to come,” Shane gasped into Ilya’s ear, and Ilya closed his eyes, breathing deep. “Yes. Please.” 

Please. 

“Okay.” Ilya swallowed hard. “When… I mean, are you still in your sling? You probably shouldn’t be traveling before you’re out of it, yes?”

“I — I mean, yeah, just ‘cause I can’t drive long distances with it — hang on, sorry,” Shane hurried. Ilya heard a rustle, then Shane’s voice was distant, muffled, as he called out, “Yeah, sorry, be back in a minute —” then another rustle, and his voice was clear again. “Sorry about that. But yes. I’m supposed to see my physio the day after tomorrow and I should get out of it then, and I can… we can plan for right after that? Or is that too soon? Sorry, I’m just —”

“Not too soon,” Ilya promised. “That’s Wednesday, yes?”

“Yeah. Wait — are you cleared to fly with your ribs?”

“Sure,” Ilya said, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t asked anybody. It’s not like anybody had told him he wasn’t cleared to fly, and he knew in some part of his brain that he had to make these plans real, now, before he panicked again and talked himself out of it. 

“Okay. Okay.” Ilya heard Shane breathe deep. “Can I… will you let me pay for your flight? I invited you —”

Ilya snorted. “Fuck off.” He wasn’t taking fucking charity. If he was blowing up his whole life, throwing himself headfirst into a mistake that had the potential to ruin everything, the least he could do was spend his own money on it. Also… if Hollander got sick of him, Ilya needed access to the reservation so he could change his flight out himself. 

He was flying, or falling, and there wasn’t a net, but that was nobody’s business but his own. 

Please.

“I — okay. We can argue about that later, I guess, but — I’m sorry, my mom is really trying to get my attention.” Ilya heard a thump, as if Shane had tipped his head back into a wall. “Text me your flight information, okay? For Wednesday?”

Ilya breathed in deep through his nose, then exhaled. “Wednesday. Yes.” 

“Okay. Good.” Shane laughed once, like he couldn’t believe it. “Good. I’ll see you soon.” 

“See you soon,” Ilya echoed, and waited for the click of Shane hanging up before he lowered his phone to his side. He had spent a lot of his life knowing that he was making a mistake and charging ahead anyway, but this felt different. This felt weightless. 

Please.

Ilya shook himself, remembering that half his fucking team was in his TV room, and turned to head back.

He stumbled. Svetlana stood, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen, arms folded across her chest as she watched him, quiet. They stared at each other for a moment, before she asked, in Russian, “How’s Jane?”

Ilya sighed, but didn’t speak. He and Svetlana never lied to each other, and he didn’t want to start now, but… Jane wasn’t just his secret to keep. He looked down at the tile, tapping his phone against his thigh. 

Sveta spoke again. “I hope he’s recovering well from his collarbone fracture.”

Ilya jerked his head up, sharp. Svetlana rolled her eyes at him. “You’re so lucky that the guys out there are stupid as shit, Ilyusha.”

That startled a laugh out of Ilya, but he still didn’t speak. Svetlana softened, dropping her arms and walking to him. Over her shoulder, Ilya could vaguely hear the voices of his teammates. 

“Damn, that’s fucking crazy —”

“Is he gonna be okay? Like is the Commissioner gonna —”

“He just won the fucking Stanley Cup, what could they even —”

Sveta stopped right in front of Ilya, and laid her hand on his cheek, just as she had done in Moscow. Her lips twitched up into a soft smile. 

“Tell me it’s a bad idea,” Ilya said.

At that, Sveta shook her head. “No. I don’t know if it’s a great idea either. We won’t know until you go. That’s why you have to do it.”

Ilya nodded. Sveta gently patted his face. 

“Do you need a ride to the airport? Wednesday, right?”

Ilya raised his eyebrows. “You’re offering to drive me to Logan?”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.” She dropped her hand from his face and took his wrist. “Come on. We have to get back in there before they notice that you jumped out of your seat and grabbed your phone the second Hunter kissed his boyfriend. You idiot.”

A laugh barked out of Ilya before he could stop it, and he let himself be led back to the TV room. 

As he took his seat beside where Marly, and Connors, and St. Vicky were still all talking over each other, watching as the red and white confetti rained down on the Madison Square Garden ice while Scott Hunter led his boyfriend around, introducing him to his teammates, Ilya felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He slipped it out, making sure the screen was angled away from Marly, and glanced at it. jane.

I’m so excited. Send me your flight information the second you have it. Please. 

Ilya smiled. 

Final Score: 5-4, New York