Chapter Text
Shane had replayed Montreal so many times that the memories had softened around the edges, worn smooth like a favorite jersey pulled on too often. His apartment. The unfamiliar weight of another person in his space, not crowding him, not taking over—just there. The way the night had unfolded slowly, carefully, like Ilya was afraid of moving too fast and breaking something fragile.
He remembered how good it had felt to give himself to Ilya. Not just physically, but in the quiet, terrifying sense of trust. How Ilya had kept checking in, again and again, voice low and steady, hands never demanding. “This okay?” “Still ok?” No pressure. No expectation. Just patience wrapped in teasing softness, like Ilya already knew this mattered more than the act itself.
Shane remembered the way that attention had grounded him. How every question made him feel seen instead of inexperienced. Chosen instead of taken.
Afterward, they’d stayed tangled together on Shane’s couch, the city lights spilling in through the window, the room warm and quiet in a way Shane hadn’t known he needed. Ilya hadn’t rushed to leave. He hadn’t pulled away or turned cold. He’d looked at Shane like he was something newly discovered, something worth being careful with. Soft, almost reverent. Like Shane had trusted him with something precious—and Ilya had understood the weight of that trust.
And then there was the staircase.
The way Ilya had kissed him before leaving, unhurried and tender, fingers curling briefly into Shane’s sleeve like he was memorizing the feel of him. Like neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.
Shane had held onto that kiss like proof. Like evidence that it hadn’t been just about want, or novelty, or the thrill of something secret.
Sochi tore that proof to shreds.
The arena was loud, the crowd restless as Sweden faced Finland, and Shane only half watched the play unfolding on the ice. It was during a break that he saw him.
Rozanov stood at the top of the lower bowl, alone.
He wasn’t wearing his team jacket. Instead, he had on a long black wool coat, collar turned up, hands buried deep in his pockets like he was trying to disappear into himself. His posture was closed off, rigid, nothing like the loose, infuriating confidence Shane was used to.
Shane didn’t think. He stood, adjusted his Team Canada jacket, and made his way around the perimeter until he was beside him.
“Hey,” Shane said softly.
Rozanov looked at him and immediately shook his head.
“Not here,” he said tightly.
Shane frowned. “No, I’m not— I just wanted to see… how you’re doing.”
“Fine,” Rozanov replied. “Go. Sit down.”
Up close, the differences were impossible to miss. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath Rozanov’s eyes. His face was pale, drawn. But it was his eyes that made Shane’s chest ache—the familiar spark was gone. Completely extinguished.
“I—”
Rozanov cut him off, his gaze darting around them, sharp and alert in a way Shane had never seen before.
“We are not… anything,” he said under his breath. “Not here, Hollander.”
It was the first time Shane had ever seen him look uncomfortable. Truly uncomfortable.
“Are you okay?” Shane asked quietly, leaning in just enough to be heard over the noise of the arena.
“Please go.”
Shane hesitated. “You didn’t answer my text and I thought—”
I thought you were hurt.
I thought you were in trouble.
I thought you were sad.
None of it sounded right out loud.
Rozanov’s mouth twisted.
“No, I didn’t answer your boring text,” he snapped. “Now will you go?”
He was being an asshole. That part was familiar. But this time, it didn’t feel mean in the way it usually did. If anything, Shane had the strange, painful sense that Rozanov actually wanted him to stay.
He looked like someone who desperately needed a hug.
Shane nodded instead.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
He walked away before he could do something stupid, like reach for him.
By the time Shane made it back to his seat, Rozanov was gone.
The absence didn’t fade with time. It sharpened.
At first, Shane told himself it was situational. Russia. Pride. Politics. The weight of a failed Olympic run. He gave Ilya excuses the way he always did—generously, quietly, without asking for anything in return.
But days turned into weeks.
Weeks into months.
Six months passed with nothing. No texts. No late-night calls. No sharp humor sliding unexpectedly into tenderness. Just a clean, brutal silence that felt deliberate in its completeness.
Shane stopped checking his phone after practice. Stopped half-expecting Ilya’s name to light up the screen at three in the morning. He told himself it was healthier that way.
But his mind didn’t stop working.
It spiraled instead.
He replayed Montreal until the memories hurt. Not the sex—the trust. The way Ilya had been careful with him. The way he’d asked, checked, slowed down. And the worst thought crept in slowly, insidiously, until Shane couldn’t push it away anymore.
Maybe that had been the point.
Maybe the gentleness had just been strategy. A means to an end. Shane had been new. Untouched. A challenge. Something rare enough to be worth patience.
And once Ilya had gotten what he wanted, the rest of it—the texts, the teasing, the almost-softness—had simply stopped being necessary.
The idea hollowed Shane out.
By the time the NHL Awards rolled around in June, he’d learned how to carry the hurt quietly. He wore it like armor, smooth and polished, invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking closely.
Backstage in Vegas, Shane stood alone in his tux, hands clasped in front of him, breathing evenly. They were presenting together. Most Sportsmanlike Player. The irony didn’t escape him.
Someone asked where Rozanov was. Shane told the truth.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We don’t really talk.”
Which was easier than saying he stopped answering me like I never mattered at all.
When Ilya finally appeared, he looked infuriatingly flawless. Confident. Late on purpose. Like he always was.
“Looking for me?” Ilya drawled.
Shane turned, took him in, and felt—nothing. Not the heat, not the pull, not the instinctive response that used to live under his skin.
“We’re on in less than a minute,” Shane said coolly.
Something flickered in Ilya’s eyes at that tone, but he smirked anyway. “Relax. We’re fine.”
Onstage, they played their parts perfectly. The crowd laughed. The cameras ate them alive. Ilya leaned into Shane’s space like nothing had ever changed.
Shane didn’t react.
When they stepped offstage, Shane didn’t hesitate. He walked straight into the nearest bathroom and let the door swing shut behind him. He didn’t lock it.
He didn’t need to.
Ilya followed less than thirty seconds later and locked the door behind him out of habit.
“Well?” Ilya said, crowding close, voice low and familiar.
Shane turned slowly.
“Don’t,” he said flatly.
That stopped Ilya cold.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t touch me. Don’t joke. Don’t pretend this is the same,” Shane said, voice steady in a way that surprised even him. “You don’t get to disappear for half a year and then walk back in like I’m still waiting on my knees.”
Ilya scoffed, but there was tension under it now. “You’re dramatic.”
Shane laughed once, sharp and humorless.
“You ignored me,” he said. “After Montreal. After Sochi. After everything.”
“You know why,” Ilya snapped. “You know where I was.”
“I know you could have texted,” Shane replied. “I know you chose not to.”
Silence pressed in around them.
Ilya searched Shane’s face, clearly expecting anger, desire, anything familiar.
He found none.
“What do you want from me?” Ilya asked finally.
Shane met his gaze, eyes painfully calm.
“Nothing,” he said. “I already gave you what you wanted.”
The words landed like a slap.
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
Shane shrugged. “You got the thrill. The secret. My first time.” He swallowed. “After that, I guess I stopped being interesting.”
For a moment, Ilya just stared at him.
Then the color drained from his face.
“No,” he said immediately. “No. That is not—”
“I’m done,” Shane cut in. He reached for the door. “Enjoy the rest of the night.”
He walked out before Ilya could stop him.
Back in the awards hall, Shane took his seat and focused straight ahead. Applause washed over him, meaningless and loud. He was acutely aware of Ilya staring at him from across the room.
Shane didn’t look back.
And that—more than anything—undid Ilya Rozanov.
The realization hit him slowly, sickeningly.
Shane hadn’t thought he was complicated. Or scared. Or protecting himself.
Shane had thought he’d been used.
The horror of it settled deep in Ilya’s chest, sharp and unforgiving. He replayed Montreal in his mind—not the sex, but the care. The questions. The way Shane had trusted him so completely.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispered to himself.
This wasn’t about ego. Or secrecy. Or control.
This was about something he’d broken without meaning to—and might not be able to fix.
When the show ended, Ilya didn’t go to the party.
He went looking for Shane.
And for the first time, he knew he’d have to beg.