Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov was not the kind of man who chased.
He took. He won. He provoked until the other person snapped, and then he laughed like it was all part of the game. He lived on reaction—on the heat in someone’s eyes when they couldn’t help but look back.
But that night in Vegas, sitting in the awards hall in a perfectly tailored tux, Ilya stole glance after glance at Shane Hollander and got nothing in return.
Shane sat like he belonged there more than anyone else. Calm. Composed. Applause washing over him like rain he didn’t feel. His profile was clean-cut in the stage lights, jaw set, mouth neutral—not tense, not angry.
Just…absent.
Ilya’s gaze snagged on him anyway, again and again, like his brain refused to accept the new reality. Every time Ilya looked, he half-expected Shane’s eyes to flick back, that familiar glare—annoyed, heated, alive.
Shane didn’t look once.
It was a stupid feeling, in Ilya’s chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Like the air had changed pressure.
When the cameras swung their way during a cutaway and the crowd laughed at something onstage, Ilya leaned slightly closer, just enough that his voice wouldn’t carry.
“Your room,” Ilya murmured. “Tell me number.”
Shane didn’t turn his head.
Instead, he did something worse.
He smiled.
It was polite. Smooth. For anyone watching, it looked like Shane was being charming—like he was indulging a rival’s joke.
Then, through that pleasant expression, Shane muttered, almost casually—
“Fuck you.”
And he stood up.
He didn’t storm. He didn’t shove past anyone. He simply rose, buttoned his jacket, and walked away like Ilya was nothing more than a draft he didn’t want to stand in.
Ilya’s heart kicked hard enough it made him nauseous.
He sat there for a second too long, eyes following Shane’s retreating back, panic rising in his throat like bile.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
This—this feeling—was not part of the arrangement.
Because it was an arrangement, wasn’t it?
That’s what Ilya told himself, jaw clenched, hands tight on his knees.
Sex. Secrecy. Heat. Control.
Not…whatever this was that made him want to stand up and follow Shane through a crowd of cameras and executives and grab his wrist like he had a right to him.
Not this humiliating sense of loss.
Not the thought that Shane might actually be done.
Ilya swallowed hard and tried to breathe. He tried to tell himself it would pass, the way every inconvenient feeling passed. He tried to tell himself Shane would cool off. Shane always cooled off.
But then he remembered Shane’s voice in that bathroom—steady, brutal.
“I already gave you what you wanted.”
And something cold washed through Ilya’s veins.
He didn’t go to the party.
He didn’t flirt, didn’t drink, didn’t bask in attention like he usually did. He went back to his hotel room and stood by the window like an idiot, watching the lights of Vegas glitter like a joke, replaying Montreal in his head with a sick kind of clarity.
Not the sex.
The care.
Shane’s eyes, wide and trusting.
The way Shane had said yes like it meant something.
Ilya dragged a hand down his face and finally, finally admitted a thought that made him feel stupid.
He wanted Shane to look at him again.
He wanted it so badly it hurt.
So he did what he never did.
He texted first.
Where are you.
No reply.
He stared at his phone until the screen dimmed.
He texted again an hour later, irritation sharpening into something restless.
Tell me your room. We talk.
No reply.
The next morning, he tried to call.
Straight to voicemail.
Ilya hung up before it could beep, like the sound would make it real.
He tried again later.
No answer.
He tried one more time, more furious now, like anger could fix this.
Still nothing.
The days after Vegas were a blur of travel and obligations and summer training plans, but Ilya carried the silence like a weight he couldn’t set down.
He kept expecting Shane to break first.
He kept expecting Shane to text something biting, something furious, something that meant Shane still cared enough to burn.
But there was nothing.
Weeks passed. Then more.
Ilya tried to be himself about it at first—playful. Sharp. Like he could coax Shane back into the old rhythm with the right bait.
You still mad?
No reply.
I see you in preseason. Try not cry.
No reply.
Hollander.
No reply.
The silence did something to him.
It scraped.
It got under his skin and stayed there, making him restless in a way he hated. Making him check his phone between drills like a teenager. Making him stare at the “delivered” status and feel like it was mocking him.
He tried calling again in September. Then October.
Nothing.
By November, he’d stopped trying to act like it didn’t matter.
The first time their teams played each other that season, Ilya skated onto the ice feeling like he was stepping into a familiar war.
Shane was across from him at warm-up.
Shane looked up, met Ilya’s eyes for half a second—and then looked away like the glance had been accidental.
Ilya’s stomach dropped anyway.
During the game, Shane played like himself—fast, smart, relentless. When Ilya got in his space, Shane chirped him like always. He smirked during the faceoff. He rolled his eyes dramatically when Ilya tried to bait him.
To everyone watching, it looked normal.
But between whistles, in the moments when the cameras weren’t tight on them, Shane’s face went blank again. His attention slid away. Ilya could practically feel the wall.
After the final buzzer, in the handshake line, Shane’s grip was firm. Professional.
His eyes never met Ilya’s.
In the tunnel afterward, Ilya moved instinctively, pushing through the stream of bodies until he caught up.
“Hollander,” he said, low and urgent.
Shane didn’t stop walking.
“Hollander,” Ilya tried again.
Shane’s shoulders didn’t even tense. He just kept going, like he hadn’t heard a thing.
Ilya stood there in the corridor, surrounded by noise and movement, and felt something inside him crack with frustration.
This was worse than hatred.
At least hatred meant Shane saw him.
At least hatred meant Shane cared enough to react.
This—this was erasure.
So Ilya kept trying.
Not constantly. Not in a way he could blame on obsession. He told himself it was just persistence, just refusal to lose.
He texted every few weeks.
Sometimes, he tried humor.
Sometimes, he tried bluntness.
Talk to me.
No reply.
I was wrong.
No reply.
I do not want this.
No reply.
He tried calling again. Then again.
Nothing.
By January, the denial had become its own kind of torture.
Because if this was just sex, then why did he feel sick every time Shane’s name came up in an interview?
Why did it make his chest go tight when he saw Shane laughing with teammates, relaxed and bright, like the light had returned to him—just not for Ilya?
Why did he want to break something when he imagined Shane giving that careful trust to someone else?
The answer sat at the edge of his thoughts like a cliff he refused to look over.
He didn’t like Shane.
He didn’t.
He didn’t.
He repeated it until it sounded less like truth and more like begging.
Eight months after Vegas, after another game where Shane smiled for the cameras and turned to ice the second the spotlight shifted, Ilya finally snapped.
Not on the ice.
Not in public.
In a narrow corridor behind the visiting locker room, where the staff had already moved on and the noise was fading into distant hum.
Shane was walking alone, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. He looked tired. He looked older than he had in Montreal, older than he had any right to look.
Ilya stepped into his path.
Shane stopped instantly.
Not startled. Not angry.
Just…still.
His eyes lifted, calm and unreadable.
Ilya’s throat tightened.
“Please,” Ilya said, the word rougher than he wanted it to be. “Hollander. Just hear me out.”
Shane stared at him for a long moment, as if weighing whether Ilya deserved even one more second of his life.
“Move,” Shane said, voice flat.
Ilya didn’t.
His hands curled into fists at his sides—not to threaten, but to keep from doing something stupid like grabbing Shane.
“I know I hurt you,” Ilya said quickly. “I know. I—”
Shane’s expression didn’t change.
“You don’t know,” he said softly. “You think you know.”
That sentence hit Ilya harder than any shove.
He swallowed.
“I do not have good words,” Ilya admitted, miserable. “But I have truth.”
Shane’s mouth tightened, like he was fighting the urge to laugh.
“Truth,” Shane repeated. “Okay.”
Ilya’s chest felt like it was burning.
“Russia,” he said. “Sochi. It was—” He exhaled hard. “It was not safe.”
Shane’s gaze flickered, just barely.
Ilya latched onto it like a lifeline.
“My father,” Ilya continued, voice low. “He was watching everything. He was calling. He was—” He shook his head, frustration sharp. “He wants me to be someone. Always.”
Shane’s jaw worked once, like he was grinding his teeth.
“So you punished me for it,” Shane said.
“No,” Ilya said immediately. “No. I was trying to—”
“You were trying to erase me,” Shane cut in, still quiet, still controlled. “That’s what it felt like.”
Ilya flinched.
Shane’s eyes stayed steady.
“You looked at me like I was a mistake,” Shane said. “Like I was something you regretted touching.”
Ilya’s stomach turned.
“I did not regret,” he said fiercely. “Never.”
Shane’s laugh was small and sharp.
“Then why did you keep doing it?” Shane asked. “Why did it keep going after the Olympics? After you left Russia? After it was safe again?”
Ilya opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because there wasn’t a clean explanation. There wasn’t a reason he could lay down like proof and have it make sense.
He had been afraid. Of what it meant. Of how it felt. Of how quickly Shane had gotten under his skin.
And instead of facing it, he had run.
He had been a coward.
Ilya hated himself for it.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice breaking on the words. “I don’t have explanation. I have only—” He swallowed, throat tight. “Fear.”
Shane’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Fear of what?”
Ilya stared at him, breathing hard.
And in that moment, the denial finally collapsed.
He couldn’t keep pretending this was about sex.
Not when his chest hurt like this.
Not when he’d spent months feeling like he was missing something he didn’t deserve to want.
“Fear of you,” Ilya said, and saw Shane stiffen. “Not you as person. You as…” He shook his head, struggling. “You as something real.”
Shane’s expression flickered—shock, maybe, buried under the ice.
Ilya took a step closer, careful, like Shane might bolt.
“You really hurt me, Rozanov,” Shane said, voice still calm, but there was something jagged under it now. “You made me feel like a thing. Like something you could use and then discard.”
Ilya’s face went hot with shame.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said, urgent. “I swear. I did not—”
“But you did it anyway,” Shane said.
Ilya nodded once, miserable.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I did.”
Shane’s gaze dropped for a second, like he couldn’t stand to look at Ilya anymore.
Then he looked back up.
“If you want to say something,” Shane said, voice tight, “say it. Because I’m not doing this in a hallway.”
Ilya’s heart kicked.
“Your apartment,” he blurted. “Please. Let me talk there. No people. No cameras. Just—please.”
Shane studied him for a long, agonizing moment.
Then, finally, he exhaled.
“Fine,” he said. “One conversation.”
Ilya’s lungs forgot how to work.
Shane’s eyes hardened again immediately, like he’d caught himself giving too much.
“You don’t get to touch me,” Shane added. “You don’t get to charm your way out of it. You talk, I listen, and then I decide.”
Ilya nodded so fast it was almost pathetic.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Thank you.”
Shane gave him an address and a time like he was scheduling a meeting with someone he didn’t respect.
Then he walked away.
And Ilya stood there in the corridor, staring after him, hands shaking slightly, realizing with a sick jolt that this was the first real chance he’d been given in months.
And he could still lose it.
The night of the meeting, Ilya arrived early.
Of course he did.
He stood outside Shane’s door for a full minute before knocking, trying to force his heartbeat into something less frantic. When he finally lifted his hand, it trembled.
Shane opened the door wearing sweats and a t-shirt, hair dry, face unreadable.
He didn’t invite Ilya in with words.
He simply stepped back.
Ilya walked inside like a man entering a church.
Shane’s apartment smelled the same—clean, faintly citrus, a little like laundry detergent. The familiarity hit Ilya so hard it almost knocked him off balance.
Shane crossed his arms.
“Talk,” he said.
Ilya swallowed.
“In Russia,” he began, voice low, careful. “It was…bad. Not just country. My father. He called me before games. He told me what to do, what to say, how to stand.” His jaw clenched. “He told me what kind of man I must be.”
Shane’s eyes didn’t soften.
But they stayed on him.
So Ilya kept going.
“And then Montreal happened,” Ilya said, voice rough. “And it was—” He stopped, frustrated. “It was not just sex.”
Shane’s mouth tightened.
Ilya forced himself not to reach for him. Not to beg with hands.
Just words.
“You trusted me,” Ilya said. “You gave me something precious. I knew it. I knew it then. And I—” He exhaled hard. “I was scared because I liked how it felt. I liked you.”
Shane went completely still.
Ilya’s heart clenched painfully at the sight of it—the way those words landed like a blow, not because Shane didn’t want them, but because he hadn’t expected them.
Ilya pressed on, voice breaking through his pride.
“Winter Olympics happened right after our first night,” he said. “And everything was watching. Everything was dangerous. I panicked.” He swallowed. “I told you ‘not here’ because I was afraid. Not ashamed of you. Afraid of what they would do.”
Shane’s gaze flickered, but his voice stayed flat.
“That explains Sochi,” he said. “It doesn’t explain six months.”
Ilya’s throat tightened again.
“I don’t have good answer,” he admitted. “Only ugly truth.”
Shane didn’t speak.
Ilya stared at the floor for a second, shame burning.
“I was afraid of how it was going,” he whispered. “Because it was not just a game anymore. It was not just…secret fun.” He looked up, eyes sharp with honesty. “I like thrill, yes. I like secrecy, yes. But I also like you.”
Shane’s eyes widened slightly—shock breaking through the ice for the first time.
“You,” Shane said slowly, like he couldn’t quite believe it, “are the first one to say that.”
Ilya’s mouth twisted, sad and self-aware.
“Yes,” he said. “Because I am idiot.”
Shane stared at him for a long time.
Then, quietly, he said, “You made me feel like I was just…a first.”
Ilya flinched.
“No,” he said immediately, voice fierce. “No. Shane. No.”
Shane’s jaw clenched.
“That’s what it felt like,” he said. “Like once you got it, you didn’t need me anymore.”
Ilya stepped forward without thinking—then stopped himself at Shane’s sharp look.
He stayed where he was, hands open at his sides.
“I did not disappear because you were not interesting,” Ilya said, voice shaking with urgency. “I disappeared because you were too important.”
Shane’s breath caught—barely, but Ilya saw it.
Ilya swallowed hard.
“I know it sounds like excuse,” he said. “But it is truth. I did not know how to have this and still be…me. Still be safe. Still be what everyone expects.” His eyes burned. “So I ran. And you paid for it.”
Shane’s arms tightened across his chest.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”
Silence stretched.
Ilya took a shaky breath.
“I am sorry,” he said, and this time it wasn’t sharp or performative. It was raw. “I am sorry for Sochi. I am sorry for silence. I am sorry I made you think you were only…a thing to me.”
Shane’s eyes flicked down, then back up.
“And what now?” he asked.
Ilya didn’t hesitate.
“Now I do better,” he said. “If you let me.”
Shane’s laugh was small, disbelieving.
“That’s not a plan,” he said.
Ilya nodded once, swallowing pride like a bitter pill.
“Okay,” he said. “Plan.”
He looked at Shane like he was trying to memorize him.
“I don’t disappear again,” Ilya said. “If I feel fear, I tell you. If my father calls, I tell you. If I am overwhelmed, I tell you. Even if it is ugly.” His voice went quieter. “Even if it makes me look weak.”
Shane’s expression tightened.
“You were already weak,” he said. “You were just weak in a way that hurt me.”
Ilya flinched, but nodded.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Correct.”
Shane held his gaze for a long time, as if searching for a lie.
Then he exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction.
“I like you too,” Shane said, the confession quiet and reluctant, like he hated that it was true. “Which is why this was so…bad.”
Ilya’s chest ached with something that felt like relief and grief at the same time.
“I know,” he said softly. “I feel it too.”
Shane stared at him, eyes sharp again.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” Shane said. “One.” He lifted a hand slightly, warning. “But I don’t ever want to feel like that again. Like I’m disposable.”
Ilya’s throat tightened.
“I don’t like feeling like that also,” he admitted, voice rough. “This—” He gestured helplessly between them, then to his own chest. “I hate this feeling. You ignoring me. You not looking. It makes me—”
He stopped, jaw clenched hard, like saying the next word might kill him.
Shane’s eyes narrowed.
“It makes you what?”
Ilya swallowed.
Then, very quietly:
“It makes me scared.”
Shane went still again.
Not cold this time.
Just…stunned.
Ilya looked at him, heart pounding, and added, voice shaking with honesty.
“Because I think I already lost you once.”
The silence that followed was different than the others.
Not empty.
Not punishing.
It was heavy with something newly fragile, like a door cracking open.
Shane’s arms loosened slightly. He didn’t uncross them, not yet, but the wall shifted.
“Okay,” Shane said finally, voice low. “Then we do this differently.”
Ilya’s breath caught.
“Yes?” he whispered.
Shane’s eyes held his.
“We talk,” Shane said. “We set rules. And if you start to disappear again, you tell me before you do. You don’t make me guess.”
Ilya nodded, desperate and grateful all at once.
“Yes,” he said. “I can do that. I will.”
Shane hesitated, then stepped back toward the couch.
“Sit,” he said.
Ilya sat like he’d been ordered by a king.
Shane sat too, leaving space between them that felt deliberate and necessary.
For a long moment, they just breathed.
Then Shane spoke again, quieter.
“You really scared me,” he admitted. “In Sochi.”
Ilya’s eyes softened.
“I know,” he said. “I am sorry.”
Shane nodded once, swallowing.
“And when you kept ignoring me after…” Shane’s voice tightened. “…I started rewriting everything. Montreal. The kiss. All of it. I started thinking it was stupid to believe you meant any of it.”
Ilya’s chest hurt.
“I meant it,” he said immediately, voice fierce but controlled. “All of it.”
Shane’s gaze flickered.
“Prove it,” he said quietly.
Ilya didn’t reach for him. Didn’t try to close the space.
Instead, he nodded once, solemn.
“Okay,” he said. “I will. Slowly. As long as you need.”
Shane watched him, eyes searching.
Then, finally—barely—his mouth softened.
Not a smile.
But not nothing.
“One chance,” Shane repeated.
Ilya’s voice came out raw.
“I will not waste it,” he promised.
And for the first time in almost a year, the silence between them didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like possibility.