for the bible tells me so

He pulls at the collar of his dress shirt, buttoned to the top as is proper dress in the church. Somewhere above them, an organ plays deep, haunting notes of wordless hymns. Shane knows it by heart.

Holy, holy, holy

Shane rubs his sweaty palms against his slacks.

Through the darkness hide thee

His leg bounces nervously.

Through the eyes of sinful man

It’s hot in here, isn’t it? Such a small, cramped space. He feels sweat gather at his temples.

The glory may not see

He can see Father Ed’s side profile through the carved screen of the confessional. His heart jumps to his throat, his stomach revolts. Can he see Shane too? Can he hear Shane’s quick, panicked breaths?

Only thou art holy

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and The Holy Spirit.”

Shane quickly complies, his arm feeling heavy and sluggish as he moves to mimic the sign of the cross. “Amen.”

“And how long has it been since your last confession?”

There’s no way he doesn’t know it’s Shane. He’s known Father Ed since he was a boy. He wore the white robes for Saturday mass until he was sixteen. There’s no way he doesn’t know.

He’s probably wondering why Shane has been avoiding mass. He hasn’t gone all summer, even though he’s been back in Ottawa since April.

Shane clears his throat. “My last good confession was… too long ago, Father.”

“Hm. Lord, you know all things. Open your child’s heart so that he may be absolved of his sins.”

There is none beside thee

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

God has given Shane everything. Or so Grandma Hollander always told him.

God gave him his parents, who love him so much that they drive him hundreds of miles every month to support his hockey career. God gave him his athleticism, which has led him to being the number one Canadian prospect in his sport. One of the top prospects in the world. God gave him his friends and his church, who have always supported Shane in his endeavors.

When Grandma Hollander died last year, Shane learned that God takes away. That’s the way of it, Father Ed had consoled him. She was called back to heaven. It was her time.

Romans 14:8. If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord.

But she was only just barely in her mid-sixties. She was healthy and strong and had unwavering faith. There was nothing divine about the car or its drunk driver that took her from the world. There was no higher calling for her suffering if she died anyway.

Shane does not tell anyone his thoughts on this. The clergy would say it’s his faith being tested. His friends would accuse him of going down an unrighteous path. His parents wouldn’t understand.

Grandma was the one who took Shane to church on weekends, sometimes the earliest mass so Shane could make it to an afternoon game in time. Mom and dad never joined them. Mom said she prays every night and God knows her heart, but it makes Shane anxious.

What if they don’t get into heaven with him? What if, after they leave the mortal world, they never see him again?

It doesn’t make sense to him either. Father Ed says we should shepherd people to join the church to save their souls, but Mom has the purest soul of anyone Shane knows including those who attend mass regularly. Dad gives to charities and helps old ladies cross the street and gives homeless people his spare change. Would God send him to hell?

Shane blinks away the rampant, plaguing thoughts and focuses on his pre-face-off prayer. It’s just as much a part of his routine as wearing the same jockstrap for every game. Thessalonians 5:17. To walk with Jesus is to pray without ceasing.

“Lord,” he mumbles. “Let all glory today be yours and yours alone and let me score in humility and give all praise to you.”

“Hollander, your God will not help you tonight!” A voice calls, thick with a Russian accent.

Shane looks to the other side of the ice where Russia’s junior team is finishing their stretches.

It doesn’t bother Shane. He’s used to people not… understanding. It’s an especially easy dig for the opposing teams.

He doesn’t recognize the defenseman that called out to him, but he is familiar with the team captain who skates up to him and barks something in Russian before the guy drops his chin and finishes his hip flexors.

Ilya Rozanov.

Shane was hoping he’d get to meet the Russian hopeful face-to-face before their draft. He knows Rozanov recognizes him too because he gives Shane a small nod in acknowledgement before skating off.

They’ve never spoken, but Shane understands him. They stand alone at the top, where no one can reach them. Always together, always fighting for the highest spot. They’re already the obvious contenders for the first and second draft pick; it’s just a matter of who takes the first spot.

Shane hopes, of course, it’s himself. He’s dedicated his life to the sport and hopes to be rewarded for it. But watching Rozanov command the ice, Shane isn’t so sure it won’t be close.

For someone so… big, Rozanov is fast on his skates. His body should weigh him down, but instead it seems to help propel him forward. Shane watches the Russians do their quick cuts. No one can keep up with their captain, who moves in a flurry before stopping on a dime, turning, and going forward in one fluid motion.

“Shane,” his coach yells from the sidelines. “Get focused!”

After the game, and a devastating loss to the Russians, Shane spots Rozanov slip through an emergency exit behind the locker rooms. He’s not sure why, but his feet carry him to the double doors and outside into the New York winter.

Rozanov is casually leaning against the building, one hand flicking a lighter and the other hand cupping the delicate flame to protect it from the wind.

Between his lips Shane can see a cigarette. He can also see the obvious No Smoking sign directly above Rozanov’s head. Maybe he can’t read what the sign says, even if the picture of a cigarette crossed out is pretty universal.

“Oh,” Shane jogs up to him before the flame can catch. “I don’t think you can smoke here.”

He mimics the motion of puffing a cigarette just in case Rozanov doesn’t understand his English. The man’s gaze rakes down Shane’s entire body while he takes a slow drag and breaths out sweet smelling smoke. Shane doesn’t know why but his cheeks are warm, even in the unforgiving weather.

“Okay.”

Realizing that Rozanov does know and just doesn’t care, Shane sticks his hands in his pockets awkwardly.

“You’re an awesome player to watch.”

Another puff of air. Rozanov doesn’t look annoyed, per say, but more… curious. Like Shane is a particularly interesting game on TV.

“Yes.”

Shane laughs. A man of few words, he muses. In the resuming silence, he watches Rozanov pucker his pouty lips and inhale deeply. A veiny hand cradles the filter— and what the fuck? Pouty? Veiny? Since when did Shane notice stuff like that?

“You want?”

Shane freezes, his entire body locking up. “Huh?”

Rozanov holds out the smoke, the tip still wet from his mouth.

“Oh! Uh, no thanks. I don’t…”

Rozanov snorts and removes the offering. “Of course.”

Blaming his red face on the cold, he decides it would be best to return to his awaiting team. He sticks out a hand in a show of good nature.

“I should get back to… yeah. Anyway. Good luck tomorrow.”

There’s an awkward beat before Rozanov returns the cigarette to his mouth so he can shake with his right hand. His hand is so big and warm Shane nearly gasps. It feels like electric currents are sparking from Rozanov’s fingertips to his palm.

Shane pulls away quickly and watches Rozanov’s face for any signs that he might have felt that too, but he gives away nothing. Shane is being silly. A little defeated and a lot embarrassed, he walks back to the exit doors.

“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”

Shane swings around. He hadn’t expected Rozanov’s English to be so good. So maybe he had understood what his defenseman was shouting to Shane that afternoon.

Shane laughs incredulously and shakes his head.

“That’s not gonna happen.”

Rozanov’s responding grin is so bright that Shane thinks it might melt the snow around them. It relaxes the hard planes of the man’s face and reveals a boyish softness that makes Shane’s heart race.

What the fuck?

Before he can embarrass himself any further, Shane returns to his team. E-Man, Emmanuel Herrera, slings an arm around his shoulder.

E-Man is one of Shane’s best friends. Not only are they on the same team; he and E-Man attend the same hockey camp in June and church camp in July. Shane has never felt like he couldn’t tell E-Man his struggles.

But this? The way he feels right now? He can’t even put words to it, but Shane can not share this with him. With anyone.

“What’s up, man? Where have you been?”

“No where,” Shane says quickly. Then adds, “Just needed some air.”

He doesn’t remove his friend’s arm from his shoulder, hoping it’ll ground him somehow. Remind him of his testimonies. The Russian team walks by them with Rozanov trailing in the back.

No one is paying attention to them. Even E-Man has focused his attention on something else someone is saying. The voices around Shane seem to warp and quiet as he meets Rozanov’s gaze.

The Russian raises an eyebrow towards the arm around Shane’s shoulders and smirks. Shane blushes, his body tensing under E-Man’s hold. His friend turns to him with a questioning look.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Shane mutters and when he looks back, the Russian team is long gone.

Shane can’t sleep.

He told his parents he was too old to be sharing a hotel room with them and so they allowed him his own adjoining room, but Shane is starting to regret it. It’s so quiet without the shuffling of his restless mom or his dad’s snoring.

Shane turns on the TV for background noise, but the blue light is too bright for him to sleep with. He turns it off. He tries to pray to ease his racing mind, hoping God will speak to him and offer wisdom.

Not that God has ever spoken to Shane. He doesn’t know how it works, if he should hear another voice in his mind or a figment in his vision, but God has never visited him like he’s heard other people claim. It’s been a lot of one-sided conversations.

Maybe God won’t speak to him because of Shane’s failings. The thought makes his stomach hurt. Shane tries to be unwavering in his faith like grandma, but maybe God has heard Shane’s questioning.

“Father, I surrender my mind to you completely. Cleanse me of these unrighteous thoughts and replace them with your holiness. Let these thoughts be destroyed by your fire for no weapon formed against me shall prosper.”

Tonight, he is plagued by impure desires. He can’t stop thinking of Ilya Rozanov and his mouth. The way the filter of the cigarette would come away a little shiny with his spit. How that mouth might feel–

Shane sits up. He needs a distraction. If he can’t calm his mind, he’ll have to exhaust his body.

Pulling on a pair of basketball shorts and a thermal, he makes for the hotel gym. At this time of night it’s completely empty. It has been for a while as the sensor turns on the lights when he walks in.

He unravels his earbuds and turns his Christian Hard Rock playlists on shuffle. Really, Shane would prefer the Pop radio for his workout but he can’t afford the temptation of secular music when he’s already feeling so… Offkilter.

He paces himself at a brisk jog when he notices movement from the corner of his eye. The treadmill next to him is taken and Shane looks over and nearly trips over his feet when he sees Ilya Rozanov.

He could have picked any others in the line of machines, but he chose the one right next to Shane. He tries to ignore him as Rozanov increases his speed to match Shane’s pace. And then up some.

So, obviously, Shane increases his speed as well. Which makes Rozanov go faster, which makes Shane go faster, until both of them are pumping their legs in short, quick strides to match the sprint of the belt.

Shane is the first to break. He blames it on the fact that he was already running for a good chunk of time before Rozanov joined him, but he pulls the red emergency stop key and collapses onto the ground with deep, gasping breaths.

He hears a short, victorious laugh before Rozanov’s treadmill is slowly turned down and he joins Shane on the floor, his grinning face glistening in sweat.

“Could not sleep either, huh?”

Shane blinks. He hadn’t expected Rozanov to, like, talk to him. Not after how dismissive he had been that afternoon.

“Maybe I like to come when the gym is quiet.”

“It is middle of the night, Hollander. Gym is not quiet, is closed.”

“Oh,” Shane says, thinking about how he had to use his keycard to open the door. “I didn’t know. Why are you here, then?”

Rozanov shrugs. His broad shoulders are still heaving. “Could not sleep, I said. From, how you say, difference of time.”

“Right. It’s like, what? Ten o’clock for you right now?”

“Yes. Very early. Maybe not for you.”

Shane chuckles at the notion of ten being very early. He’s usually at least done with his nighttime verse reading and scrolling mindlessly on his phone in bed by then.

“You must be a regular party animal,” Shane teases and then adds, when he notices the confused bunch of Rozanov’s eyebrows, “It means, like, you stay up late to party. Not an actual animal.”

“Ah, yes. Party animal. I will use that now,” Shane blushes and ducks his head. “You still have not said why you can not sleep.”

“Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Thinking of how we will beat you tomorrow, eh?”

“Not a fucking chance,” he laughs and laughs more when Rozanov’s eyes widen surprise. “What? I curse. I play hockey. I can’t not curse.”

“And God forgives for this?”

Shane tips his head back and forth. “Not really. Colossians 3:8, put off all obscene talk from your mouth. But it’s a venial sin, not a mortal sin. So.”

Rozanov shakes his head, his lips pulled into a grimace. “I do not know these words, sorry.”

“Oh, sorry,” Shane apologizes back, blushing. “Venial. It’s, like, a small thing. Not a big deal. You don’t even have to go to confession for it, God will forgive you if he knows you’re contrite– like, that you’re sorry for it.”

“Are you?”

It’s Shane’s turn to be confused. “Am I what?”

“Sorry for it. If you keep doing it, are you really sorry?”

Shane has nothing to say to that. How can he explain that everyone commits such sins? That the people in his church gossip and lose their patience and talk badly about others? How can he explain how some things are okay when others aren’t when he doesn’t really understand it himself?

They lapse into silence. Rozanov drinks from a bottle and Shane wishes he had thought to bring water. He watches the way Rozanov’s throat works around each swallow and it makes his mouth drier and drier.

“Want?”

Rozanov shakes the bottle in front of Shane’s face. “Take it. You need.”

Shane nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs from the bottom. Their fingers graze and it almost feels intentional. Shane hopes it looks like his face is still red from the exertion and not a blush.

He takes a swig and tries to hand it back. Rozanov shakes his head.

“More.”

Shane stares at him as he takes in more water. Their hands brush again when he gives it back and, yeah, it was definitely intentional this time. Shane feels a stirring in his gut. His gaze focuses on the gold crucifix dangling from Rozanov’s sweaty neck.

“Are you religious?” He asks, needing the tension to dissipate. Is he the only one who feels it?

“Eh?”

“The cross,” Shane points to his own neck and Rozanov touches his chain, reminding himself it’s there.

“It’s pretty,” Shane says, looking at the not quite gold, not quite pink metal.

“Is Russian gold. Was my mothers.”

“Oh. Was?”

“Yes. Dead.”

“Oh,” Shane’s eyebrows come together in sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

And then because it’s his nature he adds, “She’s in a better place now, with God.”

Rozanov looks like he wants to roll his eyes, but stops himself to be polite. Shane smiles.

“You don’t believe that?”

“No. I believe better place is here. With me. God… I do not know so much about him.”

“It’s not too late. 2 Chronicles 30:9. For the Lord your God is gracious and compassionate, he will not turn his face from you if you return to him.”

Rozanov rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, not meeting Shane’s eyes until he says seriously, “I do not think… He would not have me.”

“God accepts everyone,” Shane says earnestly.

“That is not really true though, is it?”

Once again, Shane is struck speechless. It’s unfathomable to him. In the book of John, Jesus ate with even the most depraved of sinners. He protected adulterers and prostitutes from stones thrown. He met people where they were and healed them and everyone was welcome.

Shane doesn’t think a sex worker could walk into his parish so freely.

With a huff, Rozanov pushes up from the floor and stands, offering his hand to Shane to do the same. Shane takes it gratefully and then he’s being yanked up so quickly that their chests would have bumped if not for the clasped hands between them.

Rozanov is a tower of a man. He’s only eighteen, like Shane, but so much taller and wider than him or any of Shane’s teammates. He has to crane his neck to look up into Rozanov’s dark eyes.

Shane licks his lips and Rozanov’s gaze darts down to track the movement. The stirring in Shane’s gut becomes a flutter. A warmth spreading to his toes and his– he jumps back, removing his hand from Rozanov’s.

“Thanks. Goodnight.”

He doesn’t run from the room, but it’s a near thing. He hears Rozanov’s soft goodnight, Hollander, as he shuts the gym door and leans against it.

Shane looks down, then back up at the ceiling. He’s hard. Oh God, help him.

Canada takes the next game. Shane refuses to even look Rozanov’s way and is compensated for resisting temptation with a win. He’s smiling as they line up to shake hands. The Russians sneer at him, which only makes his smile wider.

Until he gets to Ilya Rozanov, who smirks at him. “If I do not see you in gym tonight, congratulations on second draft pick.”

Shane swallows, his heart leaping to his throat. “Fuck you. Don’t be so sure that you’ll be first.”

Rozanov’s smirk widens and his thumb strokes over the back of Shane’s hand lightly before skating away. Shane would be stuck, frozen in his spot, if not for his team who crowd around him with celebratory jeers and push him off the ice.

That night, Shane has already recited the Our Father a hundred times.

“... and lead us not into temptation,” he says for the hundred and first time, “but deliver us from evil, amen.”

He will not go to the hotel gym. He will not accept the obvious invitation that Rozanov offered him. Maybe it was in good faith, maybe Rozanov is ignorant to Shane’s reaction from the night before, but Ilya Rozanov is a temptation.

Matthew 26:41. Keep watching and praying that you may not enter into temptation; the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

And right now, Shane’s flesh is so, so weak. He doesn’t trust himself to meet Rozanov in the gym, but that doesn’t mean he can’t allow himself some fresh air.

At least, that’s what he tells himself while he ties his sneakers at an unGodly hour of the night and closes his door gently behind him so as to not alert his parents in the other room.

He descends the stairs to the roof hatch, which Cam had told him was left unlocked at night and offered a great video of the city skyline. He takes the long way to avoid crossing the hallway with the gym, not trusting himself to not take a detour.

Shane pushes open the hatch and a gust of wind almost knocks him backward. He pulls his beanie further down over his ears and steps onto the roof. He takes in the scenery; so many lights, he can’t believe people are still awake like this on a Tuesday night.

He hears a rustling that he blames on the wind before it happens again. And again. He strains to hear. It sounds like giggling. A small groan. Shane turns his head to decipher where the noise is coming from.

Shane has always struggled with resisting his curiosity. It leads him around a large cable antenna where two shadowy figures are very close together. Now that Shane is closer, he can make out the soft, wet smacking sounds of kissing. He starts to turn away, embarrassed at what he’s stumbled upon, when the city light affords him a view of the profile of the man pressed against the structure.

Rozanov looks hungry. His grin is wolfish and sexy before he ducks to capture the mouth of the person in front of him. Shane can’t help it, he gasps softly.

The guy in front of him. Ilya Rozanov is kissing a guy. Not just kissing, but he’s doing something with his tongue that makes the other person go wild, practically climbing up his huge body to deepen the kiss.

Rozanov hears the sound and pulls away with a soft smack of lips. Shane knows he’s been spotted when Rozanov’s face slackens in surprise.

“What is it?” The other guy asks and starts to turn. Shane should run, but he’s glued to the spot.

Rozanov hasn’t looked away, has barely blinked. He catches the chin of his partner to stop him from turning. Shane thinks it might be the goalie from the French team.

“Was nothing,” he murmurs. “Keep going.”

The goalie giggles and presses a kiss to Rozanov’s jaw, down his neck. Drops to his knees. Shane is shaking.

The wind isn’t loud enough to mask the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Shane can’t see it, but he knows. He knows the French player has Ilya Rozanov’s cock in his mouth. He can hear the gurgled noises of pleasure. He seems to be enjoying it even more than Rozanov, who hasn’t looked away from Shane once.

Rozanov hisses at the same time that his partner makes a choking sound. The noise pools in Shane’s stomach. He can feel his balls draw up. He’s never even watched porn, at least not on purpose. This… This is so…

“S’okay,” Rozanov coos to the man on his dick. “Don’t need to take it all.”

Shane’s breath catches. Rozanov’s hands; those big, veiny hands that Shane hasn’t been able to stop thinking about, plunges into the boy’s hair and gently guides him.

The molten lava that Shane was feeling sours and turns into something fiery. Anger. Jealousy. Of Rozanov? No. Of the French guy who is making such happy sounds around his cock.

Rozanov can’t seem to keep his eyes open any longer. They roll and close, his head falling back and his lips parting in a low moan that makes Shane’s dick kick in his sweats.
“Fuck,” he pants and Shane knows. He knows he’s about to watch Ilya Rozanov’s face as he comes.

Rozanov swears in Russian and tries to pull the French guy’s face away, a sweet gesture if he doesn't want to swallow, but relaxes his grip when it becomes obvious that his partner is keen to take all of him.

The jealousy burns right again, an unforgiving monster in Shane’s throat.

Rozanov pants through his release and his head rolls to the side, his eyes opening to meet Shane’s again.

His lips are a salacious red from being bitten. His eyes are glassy and blown wide and reflect the city skyline. The lights gleam off the cross dangling from his neck and Shane finds the strength to book it. He doesn’t even care if the sound of the roof hatch alerts the goalie. He needs to get out of here.

He doesn’t even bother with the elevators. He shoves the door to the stairwell open and takes them three at a time. By the time he gets to his room and jumps into his bed, he feels like one big nerve ending. Raw and exposed.

“Put to death what is earthly in you,” Shane recites, his voice shaking. “Sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desires, which is idolatry.”

Still, he can’t stop his hand from reaching into his pants. He can’t stop the gasp that leaves him at the first stroke, the groan at the second stroke, the whimper at the third.

And he can’t help imagining Rozanov’s open mouth and euphoric expression as cum coats his hand. He can’t help it.

Shane sits in the very last pew, his body locked tight.

It’s been a week since the World Junior championship and he’s been tormented by both his waking thoughts and the subconsciousness that fuels his dreams. He can’t escape the sight of Ilya Rozanov, of the goalie on his knees, of the sinful urges it provoked.

Shane wonders if anyone can tell. He looks around the hall, but no one seems to be privy to his lustful thoughts. He turns forward and nearly jumps when he finds Mrs. Bateman staring at him expectantly.

No. No, no, no. Does she know? Can she hear his impure thoughts?

“Peace be with you, Shane,” she urges, her hand out to him.

He releases a shaky breath and takes her old, bony hand and hopes she can’t feel how sweaty he is. “And also with you.”

After the service, Shane takes the spiral stairs to the basement where his youth bible study meets. E-Man is already halfway through a pack of Cheezies and offers Shane the bag when he sits down.

“No thanks,” Shane says politely. He already feels sick without the fried, cheesy snack settling in his stomach.

“Alright,” Abby Doyle claps her hands together to get the circle’s attention. “Today we will be discussing the seven sacraments. Please join me in congratulating Kayla and Shawn on receiving their first communion!”

A round of off-beat snap applause goes up. “They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayer.”

“Amen,” the group responds.

“Amen,” Shane says, a beat too late. E-Man eyes him, but Shane keeps his focus forward.

“Now that communion has been granted, can anyone tell me what the next sacrament we can look forward to is?”

There are murmured answers and Abby nods enthusiastically.

“That’s right. Holy matrimony. So they are no longer two, but one flesh.”

A vision crosses Shane’s mind of flesh.

“The book of Matthew tells us that God created man and woman to be partners in their faith. It’s a holy institution that demands unconditional commitment. Let’s discuss.”

Somehow, to Shane’s dread, the topic of Canada’s Civil Marriage Act is brought up and not in a favorable way. No one is looking at Shane, but he still feels like there is awareness crawling all over him. A neon sign that flashes gay, queer, homosexual with a giant arrow pointed at him.

“... an abomination,” Dylan King is saying over the roar of blood in Shane’s ear. “They shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.”

Shane’s heart beats faster. He thinks of Rozanov. His happy smile being done away with as he’s carted to hell. Shane thinks of his own soul, tainted with the deadly sin of lust.

“Canada is secular,” Shane hears himself say. Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Matthew 7:1. Do not judge or you too will be judged.”

All eyes turn to him. Abby frowns.

“Acts 20:28. Take heed of yourself and to all the flock, among which the Lord has made you overseers. From among yourselves, men will rise up and speak perverse things to draw away the disciples. We are called to be shepherds of faith, Shane.”

“Peter 5:1,” Shane shoots back. “Shepherd the flock of God not by compulsion but willingly. In Matthew, Jesus doesn’t force the men or children to believe in him. If God gives them the freedom to choose, so should we.”

You could cut the thick tension between Shane and Abby with a knife, but Shane refuses to lower his chin.

Blessidly, Rose Landry, a girl one year younger than Shane with beautiful strawberry hair and a dazzling smile, takes Abby’s attention away with a question about sacrament vows.

“What was that?” E-Man whispers.

“It’s… My friend. My friend is gay. I just found out. And I guess I feel…”

Emmanuel wrinkles his nose in distaste, “Yeah, I get it. I feel bad for them too.”

“You do?”

Shane nearly sighs in relief until he answers, “Well, yeah. It must be scary. Knowing you’re facing eternal punishment. Maybe you should bring him here, show him that he doesn’t have to choose a life of damnation.”

Shane says nothing. He says nothing the rest of the hour that he’s forced to be in a room with people that, at one point, he thought knew him better than anyone. He doesn’t know them at all. Had they always been so… hateful?

He thinks of E-Man’s suggestion of Rozanov being doomed to eternal fire. Does that scare him? Does he worry, like Shane does, that he’ll never see his mom again?

Shane leaves as soon as the hour strikes and doesn’t say goodbye to anyone. He’s nearly down the street when a voice calls after him.

“Shane! Shane Hollander!”

Shane stops and waits as Rose Landry races to meet up with him, bending to grab her knees to catch her breath.

“Woah. What are you, an athlete or something?”

“I–”

“I’m kidding,” She smiles kindly.

Everyone likes Rose. All the girls want to be here, all the guys want her to be their Godly wife, Shane wants… Nothing. He should find her beautiful, and he does, but not the same way he finds Ilya Rozanov beautiful.

“Listen, I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says, his fear bleeding into frustration. “I was just asking a question back there. Fuck.”

To her credit, Rose doesn’t flinch at the cursing like Abby would have. Instead, she smirks.

“And I’m asking you a fucking question now. Are you alright?”

“I’m…” He trails off.

“My uncle is gay,” Rose supplies. “Both of my uncles, considering they’re husbands, but… Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm. And I don’t think they’re, like, going to hell over it.”

Shane cautiously says nothing.

“I mean, I don’t agree with what Abby said back there. Jesus was persecuted for his beliefs so why should we do the same to other people? We don’t even know for sure that our religion is the right one. There’s literally a million different types of religions that believe in God, what if we’re the ones who’re wrong?”

“Anyway,” she finishes shyly. “Sorry. I just… Wanted to say I agree with you. We should follow Jesus’s teaching and love our neighbors without judgement.”

Shane’s voice sounds as thick as his throat feels. “Thanks, Rose. I… My friend. He– I found out he’s gay. He doesn’t think he can go to church ‘cause of it.”

Rose frowns. “Do you blame him? I don’t think he’d feel very welcome. I mean, imagine being gay and hearing all that back there.”

“Yeah,” Shane whispers. “I can’t imagine.”

Shane is drafted to the Voyageurs as the second overall draft pick. Did it sting? He wished it didn’t. Galatians 6:4. Let each person examine his own work, and then he can take pride in himself alone, and not compare himself with someone else.

Shane watched Ilya Rozanov hold up his Boston Bears jersey with a gorgeous smile and Shane can’t look away from it. He feels so… happy for him. Proud. He forgets his own ego. He loses his sinful envy and marvels at the joy that threatens to crack his chest open. Rozanov notices him staring and sends a sly wink and only then does Shane look away.

Shane tries to corner Rozanov so he can tell him what Rose said. To tell him that Shane understands his fears and that God calls him to face them away. John 14:27. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.

But Shane isn’t given the opportunity to. Rozanov is swarmed by the media and by the time the cameras are gone, his father has a strong hold on his shoulder and is guiding him out of the hall.

“Hey, Rozanov!”

Both men, Shane realizes with a blush they are both Rozanov, turn. The elder sends a nasty sneer his way which startles Shane and Ilya’s face begs something like, don’t. Not here.

Shane swallows. “See you on the ice.”

His father says something in Russian and Ilya is gone.

Now, Shane sits in full Sunday service with his mom’s hand in his. He should be overjoyed that Yuna Hollander agreed to attend, that she’s in the building that has been Shane’s second home, but for some reason he wishes she weren’t.

He doesn’t like the judgemental stares that are being thrown her way, even if she seems unphased by them. But today’s mass is being dedicated to Shane, their hometown hero, and Yuna agreed to attend.

“Shane Hollander,” Father Ed is saying. “Is exactly the type of Godly man that hockey needs.”

Mom squeezes his hand.

“I first met Shane as a shy, timid child. When the late Mrs. Hollander, God rest her soul, told me that Shane had chosen hockey? I said, not our Shane! I couldn’t believe it, that such a modest child would pick such a bold, violent sport!”

The crowd laughs and even Shane cracks a smile when his dad nudges him with an elbow.

“Yes,” Father Ed joins in the laughter. “I had told Shane’s grandmother my concerns that the sport might change Shane. That he would be tempted by the pridefulness and idolatry that so many athletes fall into. But not our Shane.”

“Shane has never failed to surprise me with his humility, his commitment to his church, and his love of spreading God’s word. As we know, the sport is headed down a very dangerous path.”

The laughter fades from the crowd and, in its place, a murmur of agreement. His mother sends him a questioning look and Shane realizes how tightly he’s holding onto her hand. He relaxes his grip and smiles placatingly.

“... we are seeing rainbow tape on hockey sticks!” Father Ed says in outrage and nods along with the disagreeing tongue clicks. “Yes, yes. We have children of management testifying their sinful lifestyle as something to be proud of!”

He’s talking about Brendan Burke, an American university hockey player and son of the former Toronto Maple Leafs GM, who came out just a month ago and took the media by storm.

He advocates for tolerance and speaks out against homophobia and is the closest person affiliated to the NHL to come out publicly. Shane had almost cried when he saw the news. He wondered if Rozanov saw it. What he thought about it.

Shane tunes out the rest of Father Ed’s rant. He ignores the pointed stared Abby Doyle is throwing his way and he ignores Rose, who turns around to offer a sympathetic frown.

He’s numb and silent as he and his parents load into the car.

“... bullshit,” Yuna scoffs. “What a bunch of miserable, hateful old fucks.”

“Yuna,” Shane’s dad warns and Shane can tell he’s looking in his rearview mirror at him. He stares out the window and watches the snowy landscape pass by.

“I know, I know,” mom turns in her seat to look back at Shane. In a much gentler voice she says, “Listen to me, Shane. You know I respect you and your beliefs. But you’re still my son. And no son of mine will go out into the world with hate in his heart. God made everyone in his image, isn’t that right?”

Genesis 5:1. When God created man, he made him in the likeness of God.

“Yuna,” Shane’s dad says again. “He heard you. Leave him be now, eh?”

Thankful for his dad for running interference and thankful for his mom… Thankful for his mom for being her. For being full of love and tolerance and everything the church claims to exemplify yet doesn’t.

Shane leans his forehead against the cold window and closes his eyes to stop the tears from falling.

Shane meets Ilya Rozanov again during a promotional photoshoot for a U.S sports magazine based in Boston. It’s the first time Shane has traveled outside the country without his parents and it’s a little bit of a thrill.

He’s nineteen, more than an adult by legal standards, and he has an NHL signing bonus with so many zeros he thought it was a mistake. Less zeros now that he put a down payment on his own condo in Montreal and ordered so much room service last night that the kitchen manager had come up to personally shake his hand.

On the other side of the ice, Rozanov listens intently to who Shane assumes is his agent. Shane’s agent is somewhere… somewhere. He hasn’t really paid attention, honestly. Too focused on the excitement that he and Ilya Rozanov are finally in the same building again.

The shot director instructs them to face each other and skate forward until their helmets almost knock together. It’s supposed to be a very, very serious edit about their budding rivalry, but they can’t stop laughing.

“Alright,” the photographer sighs. “Let’s take five and give the boys a chance to calm down.”

Shane twists open a Gatorade and waits for Rozanov to approach him, even if he’s practically vibrating out of his skin in anticipation for it. He plays it cool until he chokes a little on his drink and blue liquid dribbles down his chin.

“Nice,” Rozanov snorts and Shane blushes, wiping at his mouth with his padded forearm.

“Shut up.”

“You have little bit still…”

Rozanov reaches up to brush a thumb across Shane’s jaw. It’s nothing, really. It’s so quick and so obligatory that no one would ever think twice about it. Shane’s eyes still dart around to see if anyone notices them.

“Relax,” Rozanov murmurs. “Is not contagious.”

“What? Oh!” Shane shakes his head quickly. “I didn’t– that’s not–”

“Am just kidding,” Rozanov smirks. “But it was you on the roof, da?”

Shane looks down at his skates, his body suddenly hot all over. “Yeah. Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”

When Shane bravely looks up again, Rozanov’s eyes are glowing. “Oh yes?”

“Yeah. I realized– what you said in the gym. About you not being welcome at church. It’s because of, well, that right? Because you’re… you know.”

“I am what?” Rozanov seems to be enjoying Shane’s discomfort far too much and it makes Shane’s teeth grind together.

“Gay,” he hisses. “That you’re gay.”

“Am not gay.”

Shane’s head jerks back. “Huh? But I saw you–”

“Because I fuck men, I am gay? Such small minded Canadians are. I fuck women, too. What that makes me?”

“Oh,” Shane responds stupidly. “Well, you’re still a part of the LGBTQ plus.”

“Okayyyyy,” Rozanov draws out the word. “And?”

“And I was talking to my friend at church about it—“

“You tell them you see me on roof being sucked off?”

“I—no,” Shane blanches. “I told her I found out my friend was gay—“

“Ah,” Rozanov grins. “So we are friends now. How far we have come.”

“Would you shut up,” Shane snaps and then takes a deep, regulating breath.

He’s not one to lose his temper. Proverbs 14:17. A quick tempered person acts foolishly. While a patient person shows great understanding, a quick-tempered one promotes foolishness.

Why does Ilya Rozanov make him act like such a fool?

“What I’m trying to say,” Shane goes on once he’s calm. “Is that I understand your reservations– your worry. That you won’t be accepted.”

“You understand, huh?” Rozanov’s voice is cheeky and Shane can’t help but feel like he’s being teased.

“I do. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a relationship with God.”

Rozanov crosses his arms. “God says, do not fuck men. Is bad. How I have a relationship with him?”

“You don’t have to…” Shane trails off, unable to get the words out.
Rozanov watches him expectantly, a cautious anger simmering in his dark eyes.

“Do not have to… what, Hollander?”

“Act on your urges. You can’t help being, um, queer or whatever. Obviously. I don’t think that makes you a sinner. It’s only when you lie with another man.”

“But you like women, too, you said,” Shane adds quickly when Rozanov’s eyes narrow into angry slits. “Which is, like, great. Because that means you can be with just women, can’t you?”

The last question is said with such naive hope that Shane almost winces. Rozanov is not amused. Air puffs from his nose in the cold rink like an angry bull.

“Is that what you need to tell yourself, Hollander?”

“What?”
“That if you do not act on it, does not make you gay.”

Shane’s entire body locks up. After a beat he says, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Somewhere in the distance, the photographer is calling for them to return to the set. Rozanov starts to skate away when Shane catches his arm.

“Listen, I am not– I am not like you. I’m not.”

Rozanov’s sneer softens to something like pity and it makes Shane’s eyes burn. He skates a little closer so he can whisper, hot breath over Shane’s cold ear that makes him shiver.

“And still you watch me get my dick sucked. And you get hard. I saw you, Hollander. To me, there are worse things than being gay. Like being hypocrite pussy.”

Shane’s breath is knocked out of him. He feels like he might melt right through the ice with how fired up he is. “Fuck you–”

“No. I think you would like if I fucked you.”

And then he snatches his arm back from Shane’s grip and leaves Shane trembling and scared and wishing he had brought his parents to Boston so he could collapse in his mother’s arms.

Instead, Shane is forced to return to the shoot. There’s no laughter anymore and they finish in one go.

“Good job, fellas,” the cameraman says. “That’s the contention we’re looking for!”

Rozanov is already gone from the ice. Shane goes to the locker room like a kicked puppy, pulls off his clothes, and hops under the hot spray of the shower.

He’s not… He’s not. This is just temptation. Like the urge to smoke or stay in bed all day or lie to your parents. Corinthians 10:13. No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.

And Shane will bear this. Please, God, let him bear this.

A shower turns on behind him and, impulsively, Shane turns around. He’s met with the sight of Ilya Rozanov’s strong, muscled back. His tapered waist that leads down to pale globes of soft looking flesh. Strong, hairy legs part and Shane can see the swing of Rozanov’s cock between them.

He looks up again and Rozanov is already looking at him with a pointed look, raising an eyebrow at Shane’s crotch. Fuck. Shane covers himself quickly, but it’s still too late.

“You are not like me?”

He doesn’t hear Rozanov approach, but suddenly he’s being spun around and pinned against the wall. The only point of contact between them is Rozanov’s forearm braced across his chest, but Shane nearly loses himself.

He tries to think of a verse, any verse. Anything to distract him from this.

“Look,” Rozanov whispers. “I want too.”

Shane, against his better judgement, does look. And then squeezes his eyes shut because it’s too much. Rozanov’s cock is fat and long and bobbing so close to his own that if Shane came right now, it would be all over Rozanov’s thigh.

Rozanov wasn’t lying. He’s as hard as Shane is. Shane wonders if it feels the same as his. If it would be the same juxtaposition of soft skin and steel hardness if he took it in his hand.

He wants to touch. He wants so badly to touch. This is blasphemous. This is wrong. This is–

“Gorgeous. You are so gorgeous. These freckles. Drive me crazy.”

And then Rozanov releases him and steps back and Shane almost whines at the loss.

“Come find me when you accept to yourself. I will be waiting.”

With that, he turns off his shower head and leaves Shane once again alone, scared, and now with the addition of an almost painful erection.

Shane likes his new team. He likes JJ Boizaiu who he can speak French with freely and he likes Justin Gateou, their goalie who always brings Shane healthy snacks for after practice. He likes his captain Scott Hunter, who is a level headed and calming presence for the team. He really likes Hayden Pike who’s only a year older than Shane and immediately took him under his wing.

Being so far from Ottawa was scary for the first few weeks. He hated waking up alone in such a big condo. He considered getting a cat until he realized he was away too often to be responsible. Now, he falls asleep with the TV on in the living room so that there’s some noise but no overstimulating light.

If he muffles his hearing a little and closes his eyes, he can pretend there are people there and he’s not so alone.

Being alone scares Shane. He takes every invitation just to ensure he won’t be stuck alone with his racing thoughts and so he finds himself, often, at the Pike household with Hayden and his wife, or exploring Montreal with JJ.

Over the last few weeks, Shane has had a lot of time to himself. Alone, alone, alone. A lot of time to talk to God. A lot of time for God to ignore him over and over. A lot of time to think about Ilya Rozanov.

That day in the shower changed something fundamental inside Shane. It made him unable to deny the truth of it all; how his body reacted, how his mind reacted, how his heart reacted.

He obsessively Googles Ilya Rozanov to punish himself. To read every article about him being seen with someone new on his arm. Proverbs 27:4. Wrath is cruel, anger is overwhelming, but who can stand before jealousy?

He still hasn’t said the words out loud, but he thinks them sometimes. Recites them just to see how they feel. He imagines telling his parents, every day a new scenario that he revisits over and over and over.

No. He won’t. His mind is wired a certain way, there’s nothing he can do about that, but he can do as he suggested to Rozanov and control his physical urges. Matthew 5:27. If your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and cast it from you; for it is more profitable for you that one of your members perish, than for your whole body to be cast into hell.

The idea is so frightening that Shane tries to ignore it all together. If he never comes out, if he never says the words out loud, if he never loses himself to the temptation; he will still be able to continue a righteous life.

Still. After his realization, he avoids mass. He’s tried a few different parishes in Montreal but none that felt right. Or maybe it’s Shane who doesn’t feel right. Maybe his soul is being repelled from the holy places because of his depravity.

Tonight, they played Boston and lost. No one will say so, but Shane knows it’s his fault. It’s just– this was the first time seeing Ilya Rozanov since the photoshoot and Shane had worked himself into an anxious mess over it.

What if Rozanov told people Shane got hard looking at his ass? What if he got on the loudspeaker, the jumbotron, and proclaimed to everyone that Shane Hollander is gay?

Shane rips off his socks and stuffs them in his cubicle. Such stupid concerns and it cost them the game. Of course Rozanov wouldn’t do any of that, what would he get out of it? But the fear cost them the game and Shane prepares himself for another night, alone, with his guilt and shame.

A hand slaps against his bare shoulder. Scott Hunter.

“Don’t beat yourself up too bad. It’s one game, Hollander. We already know you can kick Boston’s ass.”

Boston’s ass. An ass, in Boston. Firm, flexing, calling him gorgeous.

“Sorry, I know,” Shane swallows and gives his captain a wobbly smile. “I’ll do better next time.”

“Fuck yes, you will!” JJ shouts in French and joins Shane on the other side of the bench. “And then you will fuck Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane chokes on an inhale and Hayden comes over to smack his back.

“I think you mean ‘fuck with’, Jay,” Hayden offers, but JJ isn’t deterred.

He sticks a nose haughtily in the air. “I said what I said.”

“I’m alright, guys,” Shane coughs. “Seriously.”

“This is our first loss. We should go out and commiserate,” says Justin, who would find any reason at all to go out and Shane agrees only because he’s not ready to return to his empty, lonely condo.

That’s how he finds himself inside of Kelly’s Tavern, a pub style bar that’s close to the arena. It’s packed. Shane has to squeeze through bodies to get to the bar.

“Three draft Millers,” he shouts over the music, “And one sparkling water. Please.”

He pays and returns to the table his teammates have taken to pass out the drinks.

“That’s so wrong,” Hayden shakes his head, even as he takes the drink. “Making a rookie buy the first round.”

“I’ll get next,” Scott offers.

“Of course you will. You make more than all of us, asshole. You’ll get the next three.”

The table erupts with laughter and Shane feels himself relax, until Hayden groans next to him and Shane turns to a chorus of boos.

Boston’s captain walks in first, his arms spread in a mock apologetic gesture. Behind him, the rest of Boston’s team trails in.

“Figures,” JJ scoffs. “They want to celebrate their win in our city. They have no shame.”

Still, JJ is the first to pull Boston’s defenseman Ronald Pick, who used to be a Voyaguer, into a hug.

“You fucking shit,” JJ musses up his hair. “You are not supposed to use your knowledge against us!”

“Maybe your coach should change up some plays,” Pick smirks.

The rest of Boston and Montreal intermingle and, naturally, Shane finds himself face to face with Ilya Rozanov. The man looks at him blankly, offering no insight into how he feels seeing Shane again.

Shane, however, feels like it’s written all over his face how he feels about seeing Rozanov. He ducks to hide his blush as one of Boston’s players accidentally knocks into his shoulder and Rozanov has to catch him before he falls off the stool.

“Sorry, bro,” the man slurs and Shane waves him off. “Hey! You’re Shane Hollander. Oh man. I was hoping we’d get you. Instead we got this asshole.”

“I love you too,” Rozanov says sarcastically and blows a kiss. The arm he caught Shane with is still wrapped around his waist. No one seems to notice, but it makes Shane squirm. Rozanov raises an eyebrow as if daring him to step away.

Shane just takes another sip of his water. He’s not doing anything wrong. There’s nothing sinful about being in close proximity to a male friend. At least he can’t think of a verse to say otherwise.

“What are you drinking?” The guy who bumped into him asks. “I’m buying.”

“Look, Hunter, you’re off the hook! I’ll take another Miller, Dennis.”

“Oh, I’m not-“

“Hollander doesn’t drink,” JJ pouts. “At least not with us.”

“What?” Another Boston player snorts. “Is it against your religion or something?”

“No, I just—“

“Come on,” Dennis begs. “Let me pay you back for how badly we kicked your ass tonight.”

“Leave him alone,” a voice commands and Shane is surprised to find it’s from Rozanov, whose jaw is set protectively and whose hand flexes on Shane’s hip. “He just does not want to be alcoholic like you old fucks.”

A chorus of jeers sounds, but Shane can’t stop looking at the profile of Rozanov’s handsome face.

No, Shane, stop it. Not handsome. A regular, boring face.

“Actually,” Shane finally steps away from Rozanov who looks at him questioningly. “I’ll take a drink.”

The jeers turn into excited celebration and Dennis rushes off before Shane can change his mind. Rozanov slides closer again and ducks to whisper in Shane’s ear.

“Do not do this if you don’t want to. You have nothing to prove.”

Shane bites his bottom lip. “I want to. I… I want to. I’m allowed to want things without it being a thing.”

Rozanov pulls back to look at Shane’s face. He must read something because he nods and returns to a safe distance away and Shane can finally breathe again.

Dennis returns with shots and Shane resists the urge to hold his nose. He gags as soon as it hits his tongue and everyone is laughing.

“That the fuck was that?”

“Rumplemints,” Dennis wipes a laughing tear from his eye. “Holy shit. That was too good, Hollander. You’re so damn green.”

Shane frowns. It’s only one shot, but it makes his belly warm and tingles in his peripheral. He feels insecure and young. He’s almost twenty now, but everyone still treats him like a kid from Ottawa with stars in his eyes.

“Give me another.”

“Hollander,” he hears Rozanov warn.

“Fine,” Scott Hunter says. “But only one more. You’re a fucking minor.”

Shane nods gratefully. Scott must know that Shane… needs this. Rozanov sighs and curses in Russian.

Blessedly, since it’s Scott getting the round this time, the shot is sweet and goes down much easier. Shane doesn’t even make a face. He’s rewarded with claps on the back and someone playfully pulling his earlobe. He grins. He feels a part of something.

Why is Rozanov frowning? It makes his gorgeous, sexy, hot face look so… sad.

Woah. Two shots in two minutes really does a number on someone who doesn’t drink, huh?

He’s not trashed, but he’s pleasantly buzzed for the next little while. Instead of being ribbed for his faith, the collective teams seem fascinated.

“Tell them that verse you told us the other day,” Hayden says after sneaking Shane a sip of his whiskey sour.

Shane purses his lips in thought. “Psalm 3:7? Deliver me, my God. Strike all my enemies on the jaw; break the teeth of the wicked.”

“No, the other one!”

“Oh. Psalm 137:9. Happy is the one who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.”

“Jesus,” someone whistles. “That’s fucking fucked up.”

Shane shrugs. Yeah, he guesses it is.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he says and braves the crowd to find the restroom. The door opens a second after him and Rozanov enters. Shane frowns.

“I actually have to piss, Rozanov. Fuck off.”

“Okay,” he waves invitingly at the line of empty urinals. “So, piss.”

“I can’t with you watching me, though. It, like, won’t come out. I get shy.”

Rozanov curses in Russian and turns to face the closed door. “Is better?”

“Yeah.”

Shane unzips and starts to relieve himself before Rozanov speaks again.

“What are you doing, Hollander?”

Shane looks at his dick. “Um—“

“Not that,” Rozanov snaps. “Out there. You do not drink. So, why?”

“You don’t fucking know me.”

“I know you better than you think, Hollander.”

Shane sighs and tucks himself back into his pants. He steps to the sink to wash his hands and Rozanov stares at his reflection in the mirror.

“I don’t wanna tell you. You’ll make fun of me.”

“I make fun of you either way. Might as well be for the truth.”

Shane rinses his hands and chews his bottom lip.

“In Ottawa… I thought I knew everything. About the world, about myself. But then I come here and I meet you and I realized I don’t know a goddamn thing.”

Luke 10:12. But anyone who blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will not be forgiven.

Shane’s never taken the Lord’s name in vain before. It fumbles awkwardly out of his mouth and he waits to be struck down or set ablaze, but nothing happens. He’s still just in a faux pub bathroom, with his rival, telling him about his deepest secrets.

“I haven’t gone to church since I moved here,” Shane admits. “I’ve gone to church every week since I was seven. I didn’t even fucking miss a week when we went to Sweden for World Finals. I literally Googled a church and went there even though I didn’t understand what they were saying because I was scared that if I didn’t, God would punish me. What the fuck?”

Rozanov says nothing. He does, however, lock the bathroom door and then prop himself against the counter. He has no right looking so good in those sleek pants and tight shirt. His biceps bulge as he crosses his arms and Shane has the insane urge to bite them and then bury his face in Rozanov’s armpits.

“What else?” Rozanov prompts, leading Shane back from his lustful urges.

“Isn’t it fucked up?” Shane asks, begs Rozanov to understand. “To act a certain way because you fear reckoning? To be obedient just ‘cause you’re scared not to be? To think that your friends and family and loved ones will perish in hell because they’re not devout like you. That you’ll be invited into heaven for being a believer and have to leave them behind. It’s fucked up.”

“Okay,” Rozanov says calmly. “What else?”

Shane smacks his hands on the counter. “And it’s not fair. God gives us free will and then punishes us when we do something against his word? The church preaches acceptance and tolerance, but if they ever found out I…”

“Shh, Hollander. Okay. Shh. You are having panic attack.”

Yeah, Shane fucking knows that. His heart feels like he’s run a marathon and his legs are numb and his limbs are so damn heavy. He drops to a crouch and Rozanov is right there with him, rubbing a soothing hand between Shane’s shoulder blades.

“I think I’m gay,” Shane whispers and Rozanov’s hand falters. “Not gay like you are. I don’t… I don’t like women too. Just all the way gay.”

“Okay,” Rozanov murmurs. “That is okay.”

Shane realizes he’s crying. He’s crying on the floor of this dirty bathroom and people are probably trying to get in to take a piss but he can’t imagine them seeing him like this.

“It’s not okay. The thoughts I have… the way I feel. The way I feel about you. I can’t. It’s wrong.”

Lord, please forgive him. Forgive him these wicked enticements. Who has Shane become because of this man? Because of this beautiful, charming man that draws Shane in like a proverbial moth to a flame? His constitution is weak, God.

Shane thinks of how Grandma Hollander would react. How her old, weathered face would crumple in disappointment. Disgust. She’d look at him like she doesn’t know him, but why? Does loving a man change his spirit? Is he suddenly not filled with humility, integrity, or faithfulness?

If God is always listening, can he hear Shane now? Does he know Shane’s heart is breaking?

Like a beacon of warmth, Rozanov pulls him to his chest. Shane’s body eases its wracking in shock. He’s never been held like this. His head tucked under Rozanov’s chin, being rocked back and forth like a child. Smelling the sporty, spicy cologne Rozanov sprayed to go out tonight to celebrate with his team and, instead, followed Shane to the bathroom to make sure he was alright.

“Hollander, feel this,” he presses Shane’s hand to his chest where Shane is shocked to find Rozanov’s heart beating almost as wildly as his. “How can I feel this and it be wrong?”

Shane has kissed a handful of girls before, but it’s nothing compared to the first press of Ilya’s lips. They’re just as soft as Shane has imagined them. It’s chaste and proper, if not for it being between two men, but Shane can still taste a hint of liquor on Rosanov’s closed mouth.

Rozanov doesn’t handle him the way he did with the French goalie on the hotel roof. He lets Shane set the pace and meets him where he is. When Shane tentatively peeks out his tongue, Rozanov responds by offering an open mouth to explore.

Shane sighs and melts against him. There’s pounding at the door.

“We should go,” Rozanov says against his lips, but he seems just as reluctant to part.

“Go? Where?”

There’s no way Shane could return to the rest of the guys. Not with an obviously tear stained face and an even more obvious hard on.

“You are homeless?” Rozanov teases.

“No? I have a— oh. Oh. Um, let’s go then.”

Rozanov doesn’t ask if he’s sure. Shane is thankful because he’s not sure what he would say. No, he’s not sure that he’s ready to pass the point of no return.

Yes, he’s sure he’s never wanted something more in his life.

Rozanov leads him through the bar with a hand on his nape. Outside, the cold air pushes reality back into Shane’s conscious mind. He’s about to tell Rozanov that he’s changed his mind when the man uses the hand on his neck to pull their mouths together again quickly, like he can’t help it.

A taxi pulls up for them and Rozanov loads Shane into the backseat before getting in himself.

“Address?”

Shane rattles off his complex’s street number and when the car lurches forward, he’s knocked into Rozanov’s side. Rozanov doesn’t move back. He continues to crowd Shane’s space and then Shane feels a hand trailing up his inner thigh and he can’t remember why he thought this was a bad idea in the first place.

A thumb grazes his stiffening cock through his pants and Ilya purrs in his ear in appreciation. Shane stifles a man and quickly ensures the driver isn’t paying attention to them before settling his hand over Ilya’s and pulling it firmly over his dick.

“So impatient, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing the shell of Shane’s ear.

Shane is leaking through his pants. He knows there’s probably a wet spot forming where his tip rubs against his jeans, but he can’t help it. He’s wanted Rozanov’s hands on him for weeks. Months. Years?

The ride to Shane’s apartment is a test of his patience. He’s afraid he might come before they even make it there and, if he’s going to do this, he wants it to be with Rozanov doing… Shane doesn’t know. He’s had so many fantasies, things he’s not even sure are possible. But he wants them all and he wants them now.

As soon as the driver parks, Shane is yanking Rozanov out of the car. Or at least attempting to. Rozanov is so much bigger, even Shane’s strong athleticism is no match. He watches with growing frustration as Rozanov pays the driver and thanks him. Once the car is gone, he turns to Shane with an arched brow.

“You are in such a rush?”

“Fuck you,” Shane blushes. “I just need…”

Rozanov stalks forward like a big cat. Shane gulps. Their chests press together and if anyone were looking out their window right now, they’d see two men indecently close and Shane trembling in anticipation. It should scare him, they could be recognized here, but it only seems to add to his excitement. He’d pulsing with need.

“Need what?” Rozanov purrs, grabbing the sensitive shell of Shan’s ear and rubbing.

“You,” Shane whispers and tries to press his dick more firmly against Rozanov’s. For how calm and collected the other man seems, he’s just as hard. “I need you.”

“Mm. Yes, moy lyubimyy, and you will have me. But I will take my time. I want to savor you, Shane Hollander.”

Shane closes his eyes just as Rozanov pulls him into a filthy kiss, a whine broken by Rozanov’s tongue invading his mouth. Shane presses two hands to his chest and shoves him away.

Their lips separate with a loud, wet noise and Rozanov’s eyes are narrowed, but not in anger. He’s a predator stalking his prey who thinks it’s trying to escape. No. Shane is killing himself willingly, a lamb for the lion.

“Not here.”

“Lead the way, then.”

They take the stairs because Shane can’t trust himself to be in an elevator, alone, with Rozanov. He has neighbors to consider and he doesn’t think they’d be too happy to find Shane bend over the railing being fucked in their shared space.

But the fantasy of it makes Shane’s stomach clench. Oh. Does he want that? Not to be fucked, but to be owned so publicly?

He unlocks his door with difficulty; hands shaky because Rozanov’s mouth is on his neck and it makes it hard to focus on getting the key in the hole. Shane steps in first, crowded immediately by Rozanov against the door.

Shane’s head knocks back and hits the wall with the force of their kiss. Rozanov reaches up to cup the back of Shane’s head to soothe the sting and to leverage his neck for better access.

“My bed– oh,” Rozanov cups Shane’s cock and squeezes. “My bedroom is–is down the hall.”

Rozanov presses a quick kiss to Shane’s open mouth. “Yes. Show me.”

It’s startling to have Ilya Rozanov in his space. Shane has spent so long hating how huge and empty his condo is, but with Rozanov in it it seems… smaller, somehow. Cozier. Like the space is filled with someone else other than silence.

Shane leads him down the hallway and notices Rozanov trailing behind him, slowly taking in the pictures on the wall.

“What?” He asks, a little embarrassed and, also, how can Rozanov just stand there when his dick is this hard?

“This is you?” Rozanov points to a frame where a picture of a twelve year old Shane is attending church camp. He’s smiling and showing off two missing front teeth, teeth that didn’t come in until he was almost in high school.

It’s a reminder that makes Shane freeze. “Yeah. I used to go to church camp every summer.”

There must be something in Shane’s voice because Rozanov’s gaze snaps from the picture to Shane’s face.

“Hollander…”

“Don’t. Please don’t.”

Rozanov reaches a hand out for him and Shane goes willingly, unable to ignore the draw he feels to Rozanov’s orbit.

“I want you. So badly. For so long. But, I will not do something you do not want to do. We do this because you want me, too. Is not wrong.”

Shane knows there’s a plea in Rozanov’s answer. Please don’t regret this. Please don’t hurt me.

“Why is it you?” Shane bites his bottom lip, which is quivering. “I don’t understand. Why is it you?”

“Is you for me, too.”

And what else can Shane do with his chest cracking open like this but to kiss Rozanov and pull him the rest of the way to his bedroom.

Their clothes leave breadcrumbs on the floor. Rozanov is Shane’s physical opposite; golden skin covered in thick hair from his chest leading a trail down to a thatch of curls at the base of his cock. Broad, muscled shoulders and thick, powerful thighs.

He looks like the statue of David carved out in soft flesh.

Rozanov tosses him onto the bed and crawls between Shane’s splayed thighs, kissing and biting his way from Shane’s ankle to the thin skin of his inner thigh. Shane’s dick jerks, nearly hitting Rozanov in the face.

Rozanov grins. “Your poor balls, Hollander. Look at them. So tight and heavy.”

Shane is mortified, crossing his arms over his face so he doesn’t have to look at the sensual picture Rozanov makes between his legs. He feels precum drooling on his stomach.

“Shut up– Oh, God,” Shane shouts. While he wasn’t looking, Rozanov crawled further across his torso and now leans down to lick the weeping head of Shane’s cock.

“Wow. So blasphemous.”

Shane peers out from under his arms. “How do you even know that word?”

Rozanov doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks Shane’s cock up with his mouth and sinks onto it. One hand keeps Shane’s legs, quivering with overstimulation, open while the other rolls Shane’s tight balls in his hand.

Shane whimpers. Rozanov’s mouth is making dirty, sloppy noises around his cock. It’s so fucking warm and wet Shane feels like his dick might melt. He jerks and sucks in a breath as Rozanov presses a dry finger to his hole.

“Have you ever touched here?”

Shane shakes his head shyly. “Is that… okay?”

Rozanov moans, sounding in pain. “Fuck. Yes, Hollander. I love to be the first to touch you here. To show you how good it can be. Do you have something, uh, lube?”

Shane’s stomach sinks. Shit. “No. I–I didn’t know, obviously, that this would happen, so–”

“No problem,” Rozanov reassures. “You have lotion?”

Shane nods, pointing his chin to an attached en suite. “In the bathroom, in the cabinet.”

Rozanov hops off the bed and Shane watches him; how his cock bobs with every step, how his muscled ass flexes. There’s no denying this is a man.

Rozanov returns quickly, already squeezing lotion onto two fingers. The first breach is weird and a little painful. Rozanov pauses and makes little soothing sounds.

“Relax for me, Hollander. Push your ass out.”

Blushing, Shane does as he suggests and Rozanov is able to pass the first ring of muscle. It doesn’t feel great, honestly, and Shane’s dick is starting to soften.

Undeterred, Rozanov licks a stripe up his shaft and sucks on the head while his fingers move and explore Shane’s insides until–

“What the fuck–” Shane nearly launches off the bed. If not for Rozanov’s hands keeping him pinned, he might have.

The tips of Rozanov’s fingers brush something inside Shane that lights off fireworks in his entire body. It feels like that one spot is connected to every nerve ending in Shane’s body. And now that Rozanov has found it, he won’t let up.

Shane squirms and gasps and begs and screams. He didn’t know something could feel so good. It’s nearly too much, but not nearly enough.

“Come on,” he begs. “Please. Come on.”

“Begging already?” Rozanov gives the tendon where Shane’s thigh meets his groin a playful bite. “Watch this, Hollander.”

Rozanov’s mouth leaves Shane’s cock. Shane whimpers at the loss but it’s interrupted by a long groan as Rozanov’s tongue joins his fingers in Shane’s hole. Shane almost forgets how to breathe, his entire focus on Rozanov and the assault on his ass.

“Please. Please, Ilya,” Shane feels like he might cry. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t–please, I need..”

“Shh, shh, Hollander,” Rozanov crawls up his body and nuzzles Shane’s cheek. “Okay. I’m sorry. Okay.”

Shane sniffles and hides his face in Rozanov’s neck. He peers down and watches Rozanov smear more lotion on his down cock, his face set in concentration. It looks like he’s trying not to come from his own hand.

Curiously, Shane reaches down and swipes his thumb across the slit and gathers the moisture there. Rozanov’s cock is an angry red, his foreskin tight and pulled almost all the way back.

He groans, then curses in broken Russian as Shane tentatively puts his thumb to his mouth and licks off the seed beaded there.

Shane makes a face. “Tastes like lotion.”

“You are so…” Rozanov's laugh is ground out and he bends to kiss Shane. It should be gross, considering where Rozanov just was, but it somehow doesn’t bother Shane at all.

“I’m what?”

Rozanov shakes his head. “Fucking beautiful. Fucking mine.”

Shane isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing at all. Instead, he hooks his legs around Rozanov’s waist and urges him closer.

He feels the blunt head of a cock at his entrance and it doesn’t scare him. It doesn’t scare him because this is Ilya and Ilya will take care of him. Shane grunts and sighs as Rozanov notches his cock to his softened opening and presses in.

The arms propping Rozanov above Shane are trembling. Shane turns his head to kiss the dip of his elbow and the protruding veins in his forearm.

Now it’s Rozanov making noises uncontrollably. Shane wonders how it feels inside his body; hot? Wet? Tight? Experimentally, he clenches around Rozanov’s cock which makes the man hiss and groan.

“Don’t do that,” he begs. “Not if I’m going to last. Am already too close.”

“It’s okay,” Shane whispers, feeling powerful and sexy and in control. It’s a heady thing, watching Rozanov fall apart above him. “I want you to.”

Rozanov pulls back before slowly thrusting forward again. Shane’s mouth falls open. It’s different from fingers. Thicker. Harder. More rigid. And unforgiving when Rozanov angles his hips to press into that special place inside Shane.

Shane’s eyes cross. Rozanov is sweating, his teeth bared. Suddenly, to Shane’s dismay, he pulls out and clenches the base of his dick to stave off his release.

“Goddamn, Hollander. Turn around. You are too sexy, I can not look at your face.”

Sexy. Shane feels sexy. He’s never felt that way before. Obeying Rozanov’s request, Shane turns and leans his upper body on a pillow and raises his ass.

“Fuck,” Rozanov moans. “Your hole. So pretty. I want to fucking ruin it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I want that too. Make a mess of me.”

Shane yelps when Rozanov’s hand comes down to lend a punishing slap to his ass. It makes his cock bounce and graze the sheets under him.

“Who taught you to speak like that?”

“Fuck you,” Shane moans, feeling is empty hole clenching around nothing. “You did, asshole.”

Shane looks over his shoulder where Rozanov is grinning down at him. “Yes. Never forget that.”

He leans over Shane’s body to take his mouth while lining up his cock again. He pushes in in one swift motion and his groan vibrates across Shane’s lips.

His moans sound like angels singing. His kisses feel like heaven. This is the closest Shane has ever been to nirvana. And it’s all because of Rozanov’s cock and his hands gripping Shane’s waist to pull him back onto his dick and his plush lips demanding Shane’s obedience.

Shane feels the cum bubbling in his cock before he shoots, untouched, onto the bed. He opens his mouth in a soundless scream.

“Are you… Are you… Oh, God, Hollander–”

Shane feels Rozanov’s cock pulse and a rush of warmth fill him. It’s so… dirty. Shane loves it, until he doesn’t. Until Rozanov gently pulls out with a kiss to Shane’s shoulder and his cum leaks down Shane’s thigh. It’s dirty, he’s dirty. Oh, Lord, what has he done?

Rozanov’s strong arms are around him, drawing patterns on his skin. A star, a heart, a letter. Shane is grateful because, without his touch, he’s afraid he might fly apart. His body feels segmented and not his. His ass is deliciously sore and his body is lax and sated, but his mind is restless.

“Don’t,” Rozanov begs quietly.

Shane’s heart pounds. “I’m sorry,” his voice is so small. “I shouldn’t have–”

Rozanov sighs. It sounds a little sad and a lot annoyed and Shane completely understands but it doesn’t make it easier when he removes his around Shane’s waist and sits up.

And then Shane is left very, very cold.

It’s bone deep. The condo is warm and his skin is still fevered and sweaty from their activities, but his teeth are chattering. He wraps his own arms around himself protectively, but it does nothing to warm him.

“I-I’m sorry,” Shane’s trembling causes him to stutter. He wishes Rozanov, who is pulling on his socks, would look at him.

“Yes. I am sorry too. So sorry to think that you might—“

He growls something in Russian and angrily tosses on his boots and his shirt. With him fully clothed, Shane feels like he can think again. He sits against his headboard and hugs his knees to his chest.

“I just. Please, Rozanov. Please don’t be mad. I just can’t. I’m not—“

“Don’t fucking say it,” he spits, finally whirring around to face Shane. “You are not like me? I am not like you. I do not fuck people and then tell them, oh, I regret! I do not say, it is wrong what we have done while they are still dripping in my cum!”

Shane flinches. A reminder that Shane is, in fact, still covered in Rozanov’s and his own release.

In a different life, Rozanov would have gotten a wet, warm rag and brought it back to bed. He would have wiped away the spend and kissed the wet trail as he went.

In a different life, Rozanov would still be holding him. He would press soft, gentle kisses to Shane’s temple, his cheek, before finding his mouth. And then Shane would laugh and Rozanov would roll them over and they’d find themselves messy again soon after.

It’s not that life.

In this life, Shane is a man of God. He’s sinned, maybe unforgivably, but the Lord is forgiving. Shane will repent and he will never touch the flesh of Ilya Rozanov again, but why does that sound like its own different kind of hell?

“Hollander…”

Shane looks up hopefully. Maybe Rozanov can absolve him of this uncertainty and guilt for bringing him to bed only to toss him out. But Rozanov’s face is so defeated. Shane has never seen it look this way, not even when Boston lost the playoffs for the Cup.

This is true devastation. And Shane caused it. He holds his breath and waits for the onslaught of more. More insults, more blame, more anger. And he would deserve it all, but Rozanov just shakes his head and leaves Shane’s apartment.

Leaves Shane alone, alone, alone. Always fucking alone, with not even God by his side. Shane puts a pillow over his face and screams.

“Hey.”

Shane is tying his skates when he hears a voice behind him. He turns to find Hayden, already fully dressed in his street clothes, looming over Shane’s cubicle awkwardly.

“Hey.”

“Are you… okay?”

Shane tries very hard not to let anything show on his face. He’s seen this talk coming for a while, but has been able to brush off his friend’s concerns so far. Not tonight.

It’s been seven months and fourteen days since his night with Ilya Rozanov and Shane has been plagued with guilt ever since, but not for the reason you’d think.

Yes, he feels contrite. His soul is heavy with the burden of his sins, but that’s not what keeps him up at night.

Instead, it’s Rozanov’s face the moment before he left Shane’s apartment. Shane has never made someone feel like that, so lowly and discarded. He dreams of Rozanov’s face and each night it twists into something different.

Some nights it’s anger. Dream-Rozanov will shout every secret insecurity Shane’s subconscious can think of at him. Some nights he watches Rozanov crumble in agony and Shane knows for certain it’s from heartbreak.

He deserves all of that and more. He takes it on the chin as penance, both for his sinful acts before and his treatment of Rozanov after.

When he sees Rozanov at their games, when they meet each other for face-offs in the middle of the rink, Rozanov doesn’t meet Shane’s eyes. Ever. Shane wants to beg him to look up from the puck because even if he gazes at him in anger, at least Shane can see his lovely eyes again. Maybe he would be able to see them in his dreams instead.

He doesn’t let it affect his game. This is his career and he gets paid too much money to let his personal afflictions affect that and his team counts on him as their new captain to maintain composure.

But he also recognizes that he’s become withdrawn. Before, he accepted every invitation to spend time with his teammates outside of the rink, but now he avoids them completely. He returns to his apartment each night alone, alone, alone, and allows the too big space to fill up with his sadness.

His parents have started to worry. He can hear it in their voices when they call and when they gently suggest a visit to Ottawa to see them. Shane declines. He can’t go back to Ottawa, not now. He can’t face Father Ed or the clergy.

So, he’s seen Hayden’s concern coming from a mile away and tonight probably did him no favors.

Yesterday, Brendan Burke died. Shane had felt sick seeing the news, thinking back to Father Ed’s sermon about the immoral path hockey was being led down and how Shane Hollander was going to turn people back to God. He saw Brendan’s photo on the article clip and saw himself.

The NHL has banned “themed gear”, which Shane knows means they were lobbied to remove any semblance of equality and inclusion that was promoted. Shane’s never taped his stick, but last year Ilya Rozanov did. Proudly. The ban happens suspiciously close to that game, after Rozanov gets in front of the media cameras and declares his bisexuality.

There’s no more rainbow tape after that. Not until tonight. Not until Brendan Burke dies and the Florida Gators skate onto the ice, each one of them repping some sort of Pride merch. Even their coach wore a colorful tie in solidarity for their lost Miami native.

Shane had been so overwhelmed with it all that he cried under his helmet. He doesn’t think anyone saw him, but he was almost positive Hayden could hear his sniffling. The fact that Hayden is coming to him now is proof of that.

“Actually,” Hayden looks around at the still full locker room. “Let’s go on a walk.”

Begrudgingly, Shane finishes pulling on his sneakers and follows Hayden. His friend leads him back into the arena, where the only people are the workers in the zamboni smoothing out the ice. Shane watches the wet trail of clean ice it leaves behind as he and Hayden take a seat in the stands.

Hayden shoves his hands in his pockets and slumps in his chair slightly.

“I’m gonna ask you something, but I don’t want you to get offended, okay?”

“It’s easier to agree before I know what you’re going to say,” Shane tries to joke, but Hayden doesn’t laugh. Shane swallows around a lump in his throat and the saliva settles along with the dread in his stomach. “Alright. I promise.”

Hayden takes a deep breath. “Are you gay?”

Shane closes his eyes, letting the question settle in him. Seven months ago– fuck, yesterday, he would vehemently denied it. Now? He’s just so damn tired. He’s tired of feeling like he has to be ten different people to appease ten different people and ignoring the one true version of himself.

“Yeah.”

The word puffs out. He can almost see it swirl in the foggy breath he can see in front of him.

“Okay. Okay, cool. So… how long have you…”

“Been gay?” Shane smirks. “Probably my whole life. It’s not a choice, you know.”

“No,” Hayden blanches, sounding embarrassed. “Like, how long have you known?”

Shane thinks back to the rooftop of the Junior World Championship– no, before that. Meeting Ilya Rozanov in the gym. No, maybe even before that. Seeing Rozanov in person for the first time, before they even spoke, nodding at Shane after protecting him from a bully for the first time, but not the last time.

“A few years,” Shane responds, a much simpler answer. “Right before my rookie year.”

Hayden whistles. “Damn. That’s a long time to keep it to yourself. Does anyone else know?”

He thinks of Rozanov’s mouth on his. Plush and dry and forgiving.

“Yeah. I’ve… with another guy. Last year.”

“Oh,” Hayden seems to realize. “So that’s why you’ve been avoiding us? You feel, like, I don’t know… bad about it? Because of your faith?”

“Because of that. And because I really hurt him. Afterwards I basically… told him it was a sin. That I regretted it. That it was wrong and it shouldn’t have happened.”

“Fuck,” Hayden sighs. “That’s kinda an asshole move, you know.”

“I know.”

“Have you talked to him? Since? Or are you going to be, like, one of those guys who marry a woman and have really terrible sex for the rest of your life so you can pretend you’re not gay?”

Shane laughs incredulously. It feels so good to laugh after denying himself happiness for so long. “Shit, Hayden. Fuck.”

“Sorry, sorry. I know. And, dude, I totally respect your religion. You know that, right? But, I mean. There are plenty of gay people who have a relationship with God and still live, like, authentically. That doesn’t mean you’re going to hell.”

“Leviticus 20:13,” Shane recites. “If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.”

Hayden grunts angrily. “Fuck that, though. If people can decide that eating shellfish and mixing fabric is fine even if the bible says otherwise, why can’t you decide that loving another guy isn’t wrong?”

Shane doesn’t answer. It’s not the first time hypocrisies have been brought forward to him. It’s not the first time he’s even questioned to himself what makes some sins more acceptable than others if all sins are supposed to lead you away from God.

“And,” Hayden continues his tirade. Shane is touched at how angry his friend is for him. “The bible. It was written a million years ago by some old guys in a language we don’t even speak anymore, right? So, like, who’s to say any of it is translated correctly? Or that it’s real at all?”

“I believe it is, though,” Shane clarifies. “Even now. I still have my faith, I can’t just… forget that. I believe God loves me, even if I’m gay, because he made me in his image. But I also believe that going to mass and receiving the eucharist is a part of being faithful.”

Hayden is silent for a long time. The zamboni is long gone now and the ice reflects the overhead lights of the arena. Shane breathes in the smell of the cold and the remnants of the concession stand.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” Hayden finally asks.

Shane blinks. “Nothing, I guess? Why?”

Hayden stands and stretches his arms over his head. His face is set in complete, earnest seriousness. “We’re going to church.”

Shane is so nervous that his fingers shake as he buttons his shirt. It’s his Sunday-best; a baby blue dress shirt and pressed khakis. When Shane opens the door, he almost laughs. Hayden is not in his Sunday-best, but he is in something that one might wear to a black tie wedding.

“I’m overdressed.”

“You think? You’re wearing a bowtie.”

Hayden sighs. “Whatever. I don’t have time to change and the service starts at ten.”

Shane shuts and locks the door behind him. “Where are we going? St. Andrews?”

It’s the closest congregation to Shane’s condo and the only one that he’s patronized more than once in his time in Montreal. He likes the priest, who is the oldest man maybe in the entire world and loses his place in the scriptures often.

“Nah. It’s close. It’s called All Gods Children or something.”

“Is it Catholic?”

Hayden pauses. “Um, did it have to be?”

“I guess not. It’s not Protestant, is it?”

“I don’t know,” Hayden groans. “That wasn’t a part of my filtering process.”

“Okay, what was?”

Hayden doesn’t answer and surprises Shane by not walking to his car, but starting down the block. “Are we walking?”

“Yeah, like I said. It’s close.”

Shane furrows his eyebrows and they come up on a small building Shane had noticed when he first moved into his condo because of the sign in front of it claiming, “God Loves You, No Exceptions.”

Hayden holds the door open and Shane steps in quietly. There are no pews, but folding chairs in a line. There are no stained glass grandeurs, but there is thin, colorful fabric covering the windows.

In the front of the room, a woman speaks to a dispersed crowd. She’s Black, no older than fifty, with short, gray curls and wearing a traditional clergy shirt. Hayden bumps him with an elbow and gestures to the very last row of seats.

Shane looks around. These are not any church-goers he’s ever been around before. There’s colorful hair and piercings and eccentric haircuts. Two women are passing a fussy baby back and forth to each other and Shane wonders which one is the mother and then realizes they both are.

His heart rate picks up. “Where did you take me?”

Hayden shrugs. “I Googled ‘gay church’ and this came up.”

Shane sits back. Gay church. Isn’t that an oxymoron?

“... And Jesus, quoting Isaiah, proclaimed that the house of worship should be for all people,” the pastor is saying. “He was angry to find people acting as gatekeepers to God. Because he calls all people to his home, to be his servant. And nothing can separate us from the love of God.”

“Romans 8:38,” Shane whispers.

“Huh?” Hayden leans over, thinking he’s missed something.

Shane shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Shane spends the rest of the sermon with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat and then the pastor is suddenly making her closing announcements. Shane blinks. Has it already been an hour?

“I’d like to finish today with a poem, Jesus at the Gay Bar,” she says and flips a page in front of her. “At some point in the evening, a boy will touch the hem of His robe and beg to be healed. Beg to be anything other than this;”

“And He will reach His arms out, sweat-damp and weary from dance. He’ll cup the boy’s face in His hand and say,”

“My beautiful child, there is nothing in this heart of yours that ever needs to be healed.”

After the service, Hayden forces Shane to stick around while the pastor makes her rounds. She kisses the baby of the women and she hugs the men who have tears in their eyes like Shane until she finally reaches them.

“Welcome,” she smiles. “Is this your first time attending?”

“Yes,” Hayden answers and Shane is grateful for it. “I saw your advertisement on Facebook.”

“And are you two…”

“No! Oh my god, no. Well, he is,” Hayden rectifies and Shane’s eyes nearly bug out. “I’m married. To a woman.”

“Hayden?”

“Yeah?”

“Please stop talking.”

The pastor laughs. “Don’t worry, everyone is welcome. Even the straight, married ones.”

Hayden nods, his face a deep red in embarrassment. “I’m just gonna… yeah.”

He steps away to a refreshment table that had been set out, which leaves Shane and the pastor alone.

“My name is Helene,” she says. “And this is my church.”

“I’m, uh, Shane,” he says awkwardly.
She smiles politely. “Yes, I know. We’re a very big hockey family, my father has been a Voyageur fan since he was a boy.”

“Oh.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” she assures. “It is a secret, I presume?”

“Yeah. It’s… new.”

“Have you ever been to a church like this? Non-demoninational?”

“No. I, uh, grew up catholic. Roman Catholic.”

“So this must be very different to you.”

Shane looks around again. Hayden is talking to the women with the baby, probably about parenthood. Others gather to share the drinks and snacks and no one is in any rush to be dismissed like Shane is used to.

“Yeah, pretty different. But, like, nice. I’ve been feeling…”

Shane trails off. He doesn’t have a good word for it.

“Lost?”

“Yes,” the word fits. “Really lost. I haven’t been to mass in a long time, not really.”

“Mm. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

“Psalm 34:18,” Shane recites and Helene arches an eyebrow.

“Impressive. I can tell you’ve studied the bible extensively.”

“Religion was- is a huge part of my life,” Shane corrects. “It is a huge part of my life.”

“It’s not uncommon for people like us to stray away from their faith, Shane. It’s hard to find a home somewhere you don’t feel welcome.”

Shane swallows. Yes. Yes. That’s exactly right. Everything Shane has been thinking, Helene is reaffirming to him. He’s not evil or immoral for his questions, for his desire of deeper understanding.

For his desire of Ilya Rozanov.

“... that’s why I created this church,” Helene is telling him. “So that we can once again have a place to call home and keep the sabbath. I should finish my rounds but, Shane… I hope you decide to come back.”

Shane nods, his throat thick. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

Helene smiles understandingly, grasps Shane’s bicep and squeezes gently before walking away. Hayden takes her place, his face creased in worry.

“You good? Sorry if this was a little much. I just wanted to show you–”

Shane hugs him. They’ve never hugged before, but it feels right. He has a good friend in Hayden, who chuckles nervously.

“This is nice and all but with where we are, I think people are getting the wrong idea.”

Shane pulls back and sees the raised eyebrows of the congregation. But they’re not judgemental, not disgusted. They’re amused.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Hayden drops him off at his apartment and Shane… Shane feels lighter than he has in a year. He wishes he could call Ilya and tell him everything. Wishes he could apologize and clear the hurt from Rozanov’s heart.

Instead, he calls his mom.

“Hi, baby,” she answers on the second ring. “You alright?”

“I went to church today.”

“Oh? You sound a lot better than the last time you called, honey, is that why?”

“Yeah, and…” Shane clenches his phone and says bravely. “Hey, can you get dad on the phone? I need to tell you something.”

For the first time, Shane and Ilya are put on the same all stars team. Rozanov doesn’t know it, but it was actually Shane’s personal request.

Because Shane needs to speak to him and it seems the only way to do that is by force. The games are being held in Boston this year and while Shane gets a respectable amount of applause, it’s nothing compared to the roar that Rozanov receives skating behind him.

“They love you,” Shane mutters to him.

Rozanov doesn’t look at him. “Is my city. I win them Cups, they look past my pervertedness.”

Shane’s stomach clenches in guilt. “Listen–”

“Nothing you say I want to listen to,” Rozanov snaps. “If you will just tell me again how wrong I am and how you do not want to touch me when I so badly–”

“Ilya–”

Rozanov rounds on Shane, his teeth bared in anger. “You think you can-”

“I came out to my parents.”

Rozanov blinks owlishly. He looks really… proud. The anger that was in his eyes softens and shines, before hardening again.

“And I care why? You break my fucking heart.”
“I broke my own heart too,” Shane pleads. “Just… Please. I’m staying at the Hilton. Room 1410. I want to talk to you.”

Rozanov takes a deep breath and his eyes narrow. “If I come to room 1410, there is no more going back, Hollander. If I knock and you answer, you are mine.”

Shane swallows. His entire body is hot, a feeling he hasn’t had since the last time he and Rozanov were this close. Rozanov, seeming to correctly read Shane’s reaction, smirks a little before skating away.

Shane is grinning and keeps his focus on Ilya doing his stretches when he hears Hayden’s voice behind him.

“You’re fucking kidding. Him?”

“Yeah,” Shane answers distractedly.

“Put your damn tongue back in your mouth, Hollander. We have a game to win.”

They do win. Shane and Ilya command the ice, much to the other team’s disgruntlement but the crowd’s delight. They move in unison, barely having to look at each other to make seemingly impossible plays.

After, they have separate media circuits. Shane goes first and he and Rozanov brush against each other as Rozanov takes his vacant seat. They exchange a look, one that if anyone saw would tell just how hungry and needy they are for each other.

The places where their skin touches tingles for long afterward. Shane returns to his hotel room and fluffs the pillows. Changes his shirt. Changes his shirt again. Turns the TV on. Turns the overhead light on. Changes his shirt again.

An hour later, he’s a mess. He’s put an indent into the carpet with his pacing and chewed his thumbnail down to the quick. Fuck, he can’t do this. He thinks he’s gonna throw up. He had so much confidence before, but now–

A sharp knock comes at the door. Shane freezes. Fuck, fuck. Should he answer? No. He can’t. It’s one thing to be gay, it’s another to be with his career rival. No one would accept them, no one would understand.

Another knock, this one a little louder like he thinks Shane can’t hear him. All Shane can hear is him. His deep, accented voice. His moans and his sighs of pleasure. Sounds that Shane pulled out of him.

Fuck. Shit.

A final knock, three of them in rapid succession. A little desperate. He wants Shane to open. It’s always been this way with them. He’s always given Shane the power, always letting Shane set the pace.

Say what you want about Ilya Rozanov; he’s an asshole, he’s a dirty player, whatever. But he’s a good fucking person. He’s a good person and he deserves more than being left outside a closed door.

Shane rushes to the door and throws it open, his heart leaping to his throat when he sees Ilya isn’t in front of it anymore. Shit. He can’t be too late. He runs down the hall and sees the back of Ilya’s coat disappear into the stairwell. Shane rushes after him, throwing open the door.

“Ilya,” he yells. Way too loud for the echo chamber of a stairwell.

Rozanov is only a few stairs below him and jumps at the sudden noise. He turns with wide, wet eyes and Shane’s heart clenches.

Rozanov’s face reminds him of his dreams and Shane swears he will never, never put that expression on him again.

“Shane,” he says cautiously and Shane practically leaps down the steps into his ams and kisses the hurt from his handsome face.

“You know what this means,” Rozanov’s voice trembles as he nearly carries Shane back to his room. “Yes?”

“I’m yours,” Shane whispers, pressing a kiss to the hinge of Rozanov’s jaw. “Yeah. I’m yours.”

The door closes behind them.

Father Ed is silent. Shane’s throat is dry from talking. The organ begins a new melody. Surprisingly, Shane doesn’t recognize this one.

“If we confess our sins,” Father Ed finally says, his voice tight, “He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins. But you must be truly repentant, Sha– my child. Which means you must remove from your life all that is leading you astray.”

He means Ilya. Shane knows without a doubt. He’s telling Shane that the only way he will be absolved and welcomed back into the church is to remove Ilya from his temptation.

But Ilya is more than temptation. He’s always been more, but Shane didn’t always know that. He is everything.

“Your penance will be five Acts of Contrition,”

My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things. I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.

“And you will not be welcome back to mass until you’ve completed your penance and rejected the unrighteous influence on your soul. Understand?”

Shane nods, even if Father Ed can barely make him out through the partition. He understands completely. He stands and wipes his palms on his slacks.

Before he leaves, he pauses with a hand on the doorknob. “Father.”

Father Ed pauses before answering, “Yes, child?”

“John 2:9. Anyone who says they are in the light yet hates his brother is still in darkness.”

With that, Shane exits the booth. He takes in the grandeur of the hall. Of the oak benches he once sat with his Grandma. The paschal candleholder that he would bring the flame to as an alter boy. The communion table where he accepted Christ’s body and blood.

He doesn’t recognize it anymore. He doesn’t even know the people who kneel in pews, waiting their turn for confession. He doesn’t know this place. Had he ever?

To begin penance, all Shane has to do it join them in kneeling and recite his prayers.

He steps forward on instinct. And then, on his heel, he turns and pushes open the door. Outside, Shane feels free. Free of the burden of guilt he’d been carrying around for so long.

So, there. Father Ed knows. The whole congregation will know soon, when Shane takes the media stand to declare his support for reinstating Pride merchandise during games because, Hey NHL, Shane is gay and he’s the best player in the damn league and he’s in love with the second best (don’t tell Ilya) player.

Shane smiles and takes out his phone, hits dial on a contact cheekily named Lily; an inside joke between him and Rozanov.

There’s an answer on the second ring.

“Sweetheart. Are you okay?”

Shane’s grin widens. Ilya is at home. At his parents home, here in Ottawa, waiting for Shane to return. Shane didn’t tell them where he was going, but Ilya watched him get dressed with nervous apprehension. He kissed Shane before he left.

But he doesn’t need to be nervous, not any more. There was no question in Shane’s mind about where home really is.

“I’m fine,” he says gently. “I’ll be home soon, I just wanted to call and tell you… I love you.”

“I love you too, Hollander,” he responds earnestly. Relieved. “Now come. Your mother is beating my ass in Yahtzee. I am losing all our money.”

Shane hears mom in the background, laughing and poking fun at Ilya’s terrible strategy.

“Alright. Wait for me.”

“I will wait for you forever, moy lyubimyy.”

Shane hits the red end cal button and presses the phone to his heart, which is swelling too big for his chest.

Pocketing it, he begins the walk from the church to his parent’s house where everything is waiting for him. He doesn’t look back.

Notes:

Thank you for reading <33

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