Chapter Text
Epilogue
Ilya Rozanov has only ever shaken hands with Shane Hollander in Canada. Maybe it is something in the air that makes good manners. Probably it's just a coincidence.
The first three times they shook hands they were seventeen, and Ilya had no idea who Shane Hollander was, not really. Hollander had just been a rival, someone who had had everything come easy and didn't seem to realise. Ilya had wanted to get under his skin even back then.
The fourth time Ilya shakes hands with Shane Hollander they're in Harris Drover's office, and Harris is taking pictures of Shane handing Ilya a Centaurs jersey.
"Okay guys," Harris says. "I'll get a couple like this and then we'll do one with the jersey on. A bit higher on your side, Shane? Great, hold it there."
And Ilya likes Harris, he really does; Harris is exactly as cheerful and uncomplicated as his Instagram had suggested. But Harris had asked him and Shane to come in early today, and posing for pictures for social media is not compensation for Shane refusing to let Ilya blow him in the shower. It wouldn't even have made them late, because Shane is so easy for it.
"This is not fair, Harris," Ilya says. "You promised me surprise if we came early, but Hollander's face is not a surprise. I see it every day."
"But what a handsome face it is, right?" Harris says. "Okay Ilya, jersey on."
Ilya lets go of Shane's hand to shrug it on. "Also Shane is not even captain, only alternate, so why are you making him take pictures with me?"
"We don't have a captain, Ilya," Shane says mildly. "Remember?"
"You wait. Next season they will make me captain."
"In your dreams."
"No, really. And then you will have to do what I say, yes sir captain sir."
He isn't really thinking, doesn't mean anything by it, but he is never going to be upset about making Shane blush. Also, Shane looks good like this, Harris will get some nice pictures now.
"When you two are finished," Harris says, which makes Shane blush some more, "Ilya, your hair's a little — thanks, Shane. Looking at the camera, both of you? Great."
Harris takes a few pictures and then lowers the camera. "Okay, so the surprise should be waiting for you in the large conference room, if you want to head down. I'm going to be filming, though, so keep it clean, okay?"
Maybe he just means keep the language clean, though maybe he means in other ways too. Harris has not asked, and Ilya and Shane have not told, but that does not mean Harris hasn't guessed. And maybe this is okay. They are in Ottawa, together, and the sun keeps coming up and setting again; no one has taken hockey away from Shane and no one has taken Shane away from Ilya. And now Ilya is officially a Centaur, only on a one year contract, but there is nothing in any of their fancy English words that says he can be sacked for fucking one of their alternate captains. He had asked Farah to double check before he signed.
In the large conference room down the hall is Ryan Price, looking utterly bewildered, and then, when Shane comes in after Ilya, guilty. Three weeks of preseason training together and Price's face keeps doing that every time he's in the same room as Shane. Ilya even thinks he overheard Price in the locker room garbling out an apology to Shane for Toronto having beaten Boston in the conference final. What a weird guy. Ilya kind of likes him.
"Hey, Shane, hi, Roz," Ryan says. "Do you know why Harris wanted — oh, hi, Harris — uh, Harris, are those puppies meant to be in here?"
Puppies? Ilya rounds the table. Yes. A pile of fluffballs of golden fur, tumbling over each other in a playpen. "Shane," he says. "Puppies. Puppies, Shane."
He hears Shane's smile rather than sees it. "Yeah, Ilya. I see them."
"Oh, great," Harris says. "They made it."
"Harris, this is your surprise?" Ilya steps over the playpen fence and plonks himself down on the floor. Immediately, one of the fluffballs comes to investigate his shoelaces. "This is best surprise. Good job. I promise to never doubt you again."
Harris laughs. "Thought you'd like it. Yeah. We partner with the local shelter. I thought it might be fun to get pictures of you with some of the dogs up for adoption. You know, you boys have found your new homes here in Ottawa, but these little guys are still looking? Something like that, anyway. Needs workshopping a bit more."
"You do not need to explain," Ilya says. One of the puppies is now chewing on the sleeve of his new jersey. He scratches behind her floppy ear, gently pushes his thumb into her mouth to detach her, and she promptly settles in to chew on his thumb instead. "Bring puppies every day, no reason needed, I am happy."
"I can see you're a man after my own heart." Harris leans over the fence to let the closest puppy sniff him. "To be honest, mostly it's just an excuse for me to play with these dudes and call it work."
Harris lays out the plan: a few photos, a couple of short videos of each of them with the puppies, to be posted on the shelter's social media as well as the Cens'. The lady from the shelter is bringing in some older dogs who are up for adoption, too, and they'll take some more pictures when they arrive.
Ilya volunteers to go first, because Price looks like he's afraid he'll squash the puppies — maybe a reasonable fear with those giant hands — and Shane can be weirdly uncertain sometimes around dogs, given that he is one. Was one. Is one? Ilya isn't sure; he hasn't seen Chernysh since April.
There hadn't been time for Chernysh in May, between the playoffs and Ilya trying to work himself into the shape he'd need to get Ottawa to take a chance on him. Then, in June, they had gone to Shane's cottage in Lanaudiere; Shane's cottage, and wasn't that English word doing a lot of work. Ilya had fucked him in every one of the three king-sized beds, and also jerked him off in the lake, Shane holding on to the edge of the dock, water lapping at the bite marks Ilya had already left on his chest.
One lazy afternoon a few days into their stay, Shane had looked over at him after lunch and said, "I was thinking I might try to change, this afternoon, if you wanted to go for a run with Chernysh? There's a cool trail around the lake we could check out," and Ilya had wanted, but it turned out Shane couldn't. Half an hour of waiting outside the bathroom, while Shane said things like, "I can't — but I don't — fuck."
They'd skipped the run. Shane hadn't said anything the next day, but he'd been quiet, and then the evening after that they'd been outside because Shane wanted to sit and stare at a fire for some mysterious Canadian ritual, and Shane had put his head in Ilya's lap and said, "I'm really sorry."
"Yes. You should be." Ilya's ankle had been itchy already despite Shane's industrial strength repellent; he was sure he'd been bitten again. "You did not tell me cottage is home to one million tiny vampire bugs."
"Ilya." Genuine misery in his voice. Ilya had put his hand on Shane's head, slid around to scratch behind his ear.
"Sorry for what, moy lyubimyy?"
Shane had described it like the switch in his head having vanished. No, he didn't remember it being like this before, but then he'd never really been in the habit of changing for fun, only as an escape.
Ilya had hummed, and rubbed the back of Shane's neck. "Is easier for you to do, maybe, when you really need."
"You think so?"
"I don't know. Is just an idea."
Shane hadn't said anything more, but he hadn't relaxed, either, drawing tight little circles on Ilya's knee with his left hand. The hiss-pop of the flames had filled the silence. Ilya could maybe see the appeal of the fire after all, though it would be better if Shane wasn't so tense. He'd tried scratching behind Shane's ear again. Nothing.
"Stop thinking so much, Hollander. You said fire is meant to be relaxing, yes? So relax."
Shane had made an anguished sound and wriggled in Ilya's lap until he was lying face-down, words muffled. "But you loved him."
Ilya had smoothed long lines down Shane's back. Shane had still theoretically been taking it easy this week before he got back into preseason training, but for Shane this only meant slightly shorter gym sessions, and his lats were insane, even under two layers. "Of course. But he is you. And you are still here, so is okay."
"But —"
"Stop. Ya lyublyu tebya. You. Not magic tricks. Is okay."
Shane had taken a deep breath and turned again, nuzzling into Ilya's groin. Ilya had let him for a minute — it was easier to play with Shane's hair this way, and it was getting long again, enough to really get his fingers tangled in — but then Shane had started mouthing at his dick through his shorts, and then tried to get Ilya's dick out, which is when Ilya had stopped him.
"Wait, wait. What are you doing?"
Shane had looked up at him like Ilya was the one doing something stupid. "You don't want to?"
"Not out here!"
"Says the guy who jerked me off in broad daylight in the fucking lake the other day."
"I am not shy, Hollander, I just don't want mosquitos eating my dick."
"If your dick is in my mouth, how are the mosquitos going to get to it?"
"You can't fit whole thing in your mouth."
"Yes I can."
"No. I am too big."
"Are not."
"Are too."
"Wanna bet?"
Anyway, they hadn't talked about Chernysh again while they were at the cottage, and not in Ottawa either. Maybe Shane was still trying to change and just not saying anything when it didn't work. Ilya hadn't wanted to ask. What was he supposed to do, hope that Shane was miserable so he could see Chernysh again? No. Better not to mention dogs at all.
So Ilya takes his turn in front of the camera, repeats the lines Harris gives him, then gets back in the pen to enjoy himself while he can. Shane does a good job when it's his turn, Ilya thinks, even if he does have his media face on the whole time. Price's puppy pees on him, which is hilarious.
Shane comes over while Harris is off finding Price a clean jersey and Price has gone to the bathroom to wash up, and leans on the playpen fence behind Ilya. "The puppies are really cute," he says.
He doesn't sound like he's particularly happy about it, though, so Ilya shrugs and tips his head back to look up at him and says, "Don't worry. I know is not a good idea." There is no way they could manage a puppy who needs house training, socialisation, obedience, not with the season about to start.
Shane smiles at him, close-lipped, media safe. "Hey, uh. Bood texted. He's on his way in, wants to grab coffee or something with me and Chewy when we're done here."
"Okay."
"Did you want to come?"
"Is secret alternate captain business, no?"
"I'm sure Bood wouldn't mind."
Probably he is right. Bood is a good guy, and this is lucky, because at the pre-season barbeque Bood had hosted, Ilya had caught Bood looking at Shane while Shane was looking at Ilya. Shane's face had not been subtle, either. Bood hadn't behaved any differently since, on or off the ice, and he hadn't said anything, but then — he is a good guy, so maybe he is waiting for them to say something. Maybe someday they will.
A knock on the door, then it swings open. "Anyone in here missing some good dogs?" It's Wiebe, followed by a woman Ilya doesn't recognise. "Morning Roz, morning Shane. This is Patricia, from the shelter, I ran into her in the carpark looking for Harris. You boys know where he is?"
Both Wiebe and Patricia are holding leads, three dogs each. Ilya stands and gets out of the pen, since it looks like they might need a hand. Then the doorway gets even more crowded when Harris bustles in, followed by Price in a fresh jersey.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm here," Harris says. "One of the puppies had a little accident on Ryan here. Thanks for helping Patricia bring them all up, Coach."
"My pleasure." Wiebe gives the tallest of the three dogs he's holding — maybe a Great Dane or something, practically a small horse — a solid pat on the head. "Can't keep me away from good dogs, and all dogs are good dogs, isn't that right?"
"You and the kids looking for an addition to the family, Coach?" Harris asks.
"Maybe someday. Waiting until the right one comes along. When you know, you know, right?"
This is a very Wiebe thing to say. He's as easy-going as Cherchesov had been a hardass, unironically drinks his coffee from a 'World's greatest dad' mug, and the only player he's made cry so far is Shane when he gave him the A.
Patricia says something about how many people come to the shelter with a particular breed in mind and go home with another altogether, but Ilya has stopped listening, because hiding behind the Great Dane and a chocolate Labrador is another dog, and Ilya can't take his eyes off her.
She's a beautiful mottled blue-grey, like the night sky beginning to fade toward sunrise. She's curly where Chernysh was sleek, but her eyes are the same, clear and bright.
Now that the door is shut, Patricia is unclipping the leashes. Ilya crouches where he is and holds out his hand and the dog comes trotting right over, fearless, and sniffs his hand.
"Privet," he says, always easiest to slip into Russian when he's talking to animals. The dog bumps its nose into his hand again, wanting more. Yes. Good. Ilya sits down right in the middle of the floor so he can concentrate on patting this good dog properly. The dog's ears are floppy, not like Chernysh's, but they're even softer, and the dog melts just like Chernysh when Ilya scratches gently behind them.
"Hey." Shane has appeared, a funny expression on his face as he looks down at them. "Her name's Blue."
Blue has sat down in front of Ilya, now, and he scratches under her chin. She likes that too. "How do you know?"
"I asked Patricia."
Ilya looks up at him.
"What? You were busy."
"You should be busy also. Sit down and say hello."
Shane does, settling on the floor next to Ilya. Their knees bump. It still gives Ilya a thrill, when Shane touches him in public. Maybe because he knows the calculation that goes on behind it. Such a little thing, to sit like this, but not nothing, not in Shane's head.
"Apparently she's about two years old," Shane says. "They're not sure what breed she is. Pretty chill, likes going for walks, but loves naps even more. Belonged to an older lady who had to go into care and couldn't take her along."
"You asked Patricia many questions."
"Thought it might be important."
"Mm." Hard to know whether Blue likes chin or ear scritches best. Ilya stops patting her to see what she'll do, and she immediately climbs into his lap, paws slipping until she gets herself turned around and settles herself comfortably.
Shane knocks into his shoulder.
"Hey," he says.
Ilya puts a hand on Blue's side. Her fur feels a little like crushed velvet.
"Hey," Shane says again, and Ilya drags his eyes away from Blue to find Shane looking at him, one eyebrow raised.
Oh. "You are serious," Ilya says.
Shane shrugs. "Backyard's big enough. And didn't Galina agree a pet might be a good idea?"
She had said that. But she has also said things like what do you think Shane would tell you, if he heard you say that, and I think it might be helpful if we talk a bit about your father, so Ilya tries not to think about her too much between their sessions.
"We will be away a lot."
"I hear there are these things called dog hotels," Shane says. He puts a hand, palm up, on his thigh. Blue stretches her neck to sniff his fingers. "Ilya. Do you want to?"
"We don't even know what will happen after this season —"
"Ilya," Shane repeats, patient, not looking away. "Do you want to?"
Hard to shake the feeling, each time he reaches for something more, that this will be the time it's too much. But Blue's heartbeat is steady under his hand, Shane's eyes steady on his, so Ilya nods, and Shane smiles, his real one, the sun coming out. "Okay. Good. Then we'll make it work."
Ilya is grateful there are no other Russians on the team, because sometimes it feels like there's not enough room in his chest to fit this feeling and his heart, and his lungs, and he has to let it out somehow, even if it's quiet: "Ya lyublyu tebya."
"Ya loo-blue-tee-baa," Shane says back, just as softly, but Blue nudges at his hand. "Yeah, I said your name, huh Blue? My accent is a work in progress, so be kind."
Blue wriggles, follows her nose, climbing over Ilya's lap to investigate Shane's.
"Oh, hey. Hello." Ilya waits for Shane to stiffen up, but he doesn't, even when Blue gets right up in his face and licks his chin, just laughs. "Yeah, yeah, ya loo-blue-tee-baa too, Blue. Fuck, that's a tongue twister."
Noise from the doorway: Bood and Chouinard coming in. Harris is introducing them to Patricia, inviting them to meet the dogs. Shane doesn't get up, so nor does Ilya.
"Roz, Shane, you boys doing okay over there?" Harris calls.
Probably he should be worried about how this looks, him and Shane sitting together like this. Probably he should stand up, make a joke, deflect. But Wiebe, Harris, Price, Bood, Chouinard — they are good people, Ilya thinks. At least half of them have probably guessed, and no one has made problems. Maybe he and Shane are really going to be allowed to have this.
"Roz, you look like you might've found the one," Wiebe says.
And sitting shoulder to shoulder with Shane in front of everyone, their new dog — their new dog — licking Shane's laughing face, Ilya answers Wiebe with his eyes still on Shane. "Yes. I think so too."