Chapter Text
Chapter 11
lya Rozanov Might Actually Be The One Who's Concussed This Time
Shane Hollander could not—under any circumstances—admit to Ilya that part of him was actually grateful he’d been kidnapped.
The thought had been following him all afternoon, through their late lunch at the restaurant, lingering in the quiet stretch of the drive back to Ilya’s house. It kept circling stubbornly at the back of his mind, like if he just turned it over enough times, it might start to make sense. There had to be a version of it that didn’t sound completely absurd, right?
There wasn’t.
And maybe it would’ve been easier to be angry about it if Ilya had been wrong. Or if he hadn’t looked so damn pleased with himself every time it came up, like dragging Shane out of a situation he’d refused to leave on his own was just obvious. And even he had to admit—quietly, reluctantly, in the privacy of his own head—that maybe he’d needed someone to see how bad things had gotten and decide it wasn’t okay.
That was the part he couldn’t quite seem to shake. He was almost certain it was written all over his face, because his mother kept glancing at him from across the room like she was just waiting for him to give in and say it out loud. But Shane couldn’t bring himself to look back at her.
Because if Ilya ever got it into his head that forcibly removing Shane from bad situations was something he actually appreciated—fuck. There would be no stopping him.
He could already picture it. Coming home one day mid-argument, already halfway through saying something he’d regret—and the next thing he knew, he’d be tied to their bed while Ilya explained, very calmly, that this was for his own good. Or worse, he’d start doing it preemptively. Stealing him away whenever he started to get overwhelmed.
And then—
Shane’s grip tightened slightly where his fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves.
—and then Ilya would fully commit to distracting him.
They’d probably end up not leaving the bed for hours. Until they either collapsed from exhaustion or completely forgot what they’d been arguing about in the first place. Until whatever had set him off didn’t seem as urgent anymore—or didn’t seem worth going back to at all. Which was—
Shane huffed out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over the back of his neck.
Which was a terrible idea.
Probably.
The sound of footsteps pulled his attention away before he could follow that thought any further.
He turned to find Ilya coming down the stairs, his hair still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends where it brushed his collar. He looked completely unbothered that Shane and his parents were sitting in his living room, or that their shoes were lined up by the door like they’d always been there.
Shane found himself glaring at how utterly distracting he was, even when he was doing something as mundane as walking down the stairs. It wasn’t fair, he thought. Because Ilya seemed, annoyingly, like none of the uncertainty in Shane’s head existed for him at all. Like this—being here, being seen, being part of Shane’s life in a way that wasn’t carefully hidden away—was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was, but he didn’t have to make it look so fucking easy.
The television flickered somewhere in the background, filling the room with low noise as his mother flipped through the channels, muttering softly under her breath at the lack of anything worth watching. Beside her, his father let out a quiet, uneven hum that sounded suspiciously like he was drifting off.
But Shane’s attention stayed fixed on Ilya. He watched as Ilya pulled his laces tight, then stood to grab his jacket from the hook on the wall. Then he paused—just long enough to turn back, step into the room, and lean over the back of the couch to press a brief kiss to Yuna’s cheek.
“Enjoy the game,” he told her, glancing up just long enough to meet Shane’s eyes over her shoulder.
Yuna smiled up at him, soft and fond. “We will,” she said, pausing as she landed on a sports panel, the commentators’ Boston accents spilling into the room almost immediately. “Ah. There we go,” she added, settling in to listen to them break down tonight’s Bears versus Admirals matchup, already nodding along like she had strong opinions about it.
Then she glanced back at Ilya again, her expression turning just a little more pointed. “You make sure you win tonight, hm?”
David made a vague noise of agreement beside her without opening his eyes.
Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly. “Da,” he replied automatically, already turning toward the door.
Shane stayed where he was for a moment, his teeth worrying at the inside of his cheek as he tried to figure out how to move through this uncertainty without overthinking it. Finally, he pushed himself up from the couch to follow Ilya out of the room.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said.
It was mostly for his parents’ benefit—but he still winced slightly as the awkwardness of walking Ilya out of his own house caught up to him. It felt backward in a way he couldn’t quite explain, like he was stepping into a version of his life he didn’t quite know how to move through yet.
But Ilya just smiled at him over his shoulder as they stepped into the hallway, his eyes flicking back to Shane when they reached the door.
“What?” Shane asked, his shoulder settling against the wall that separated them from the living room.
And, fuck it—he probably wouldn’t have heard anything Ilya said even if he had answered.
He was too distracted by watching the easy strength in the line of Ilya’s back, the shift of muscle beneath the black top he was wearing. It made it difficult to focus on anything else. Even the noise from the television faded into something indistinct as Ilya turned toward him slowly, his gaze already fixed on Shane—sharp and intent in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
Shane didn’t even realise he’d pushed off the wall until Ilya met him there without hesitation.
Ilya reached for him with a hand that slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape as he closed the last inch of space between them. He pressed his mouth to Shane’s in a firm, impatient kiss that felt like it had been waiting all afternoon to be claimed.
Shane’s hand caught in Ilya’s jacket, pulling him closer as Ilya tilted his jaw just enough to deepen the kiss. It lingered a second longer than it probably should have, especially with his parents literally on the other side of the wall—but Shane found he didn’t particularly care.
“You will still be here when I get back?” Ilya murmured when he finally pulled back, his voice low.
Shane huffed a quiet breath, his forehead resting briefly against Ilya’s. “Of course I fucking will,” he mumbled. “Kidnapped, remember?” His hand tightened slightly in Ilya’s jacket, just enough to hold him there for a second longer. The hallway felt too small suddenly, like it couldn’t quite contain the completely unreasonable urge not to let Ilya walk out that door.
“I’ll still be here,” he added quietly.
“Good.” Ilya’s thumb brushed once along his jaw. “I like knowing you are waiting for me.”
Shane groaned softly, cutting the sound off at the last second as he stepped out of Ilya’s reach. He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard as he tried to pull himself back together, even though he could still taste the warmth of Ilya’s mouth when he licked his bottom lip—which was not helping at all, considering he had to walk back into a room where both his parents were still waiting for him.
“Go,” he said softly. “Before you’re late to your own fucking game.”
“Hm. I am never late,” Ilya said, giving him a quick, self-assured smile.
Then he stepped forward anyway, completely ignoring Shane’s warning. He caught his jaw again, titling his head just enough to steal another kiss. His thumb brushed once along Shane’s cheek as he pulled back, lingering a second too long before letting go.
Shane huffed quietly when Ilya grinned at him before turning toward the door.
“I will score the first goal just for you, solnyshko,” Ilya promised, his hand settling on the handle. “And then I will win the game, so you can congratulate me properly when I come home.”
“What—like you won your last game?” Shane asked, one brow raised, his lips pulling into a teasing smile.
Ilya’s eyes narrowed in mock offence. “Doesn’t count,” he said, completely serious. “You were distracting me.”
“Fuck off,” Shane grinned, laughing as he leaned his shoulder back against the wall.
Ilya flashed him a wink before pulling the door open, and Shane watched him until it slid shut behind him, the quiet of the hallway settling in his absence.
It shouldn’t have felt so complicated, Shane thought. But he kind of hated how easy it was to be here. In Boston. To stand at the door and kiss Ilya goodbye. To sit in the kitchen arguing about their future like it was something they were actually allowed to plan for now. Or to just exist in a space that already felt lived in, like he could step into it and stay. Build something that looked exactly like this.
It made sense in every way that mattered, but there was still a thread of uncertainty running underneath it. Or maybe it was something quieter than doubt—the slow, uneasy recognition that Ilya had been offering him a version of their future all along, and it was something Shane had never really let himself picture.
Only now he was starting to want it.
Like—he was starting to really fucking want it.
And that felt almost cruel, in a way. Because they still hadn’t heard anything about the trade, and there was no guarantee he’d even end up in Boston when it came time to sign his next contract. But he wanted this. He wanted to stay right here, even knowing what it would take—the move, the adjustment, the anxiety of walking into a new locker room and starting over again.
At least he already knew most of the Bears. He’d played against them for years, traded words across the ice, shared quick conversations after games or during events. And the easy acceptance they’d greeted him with over the last week was something he was still trying to wrap his head around. It hadn’t felt cautious—more like they’d just made space for him without asking him to shrink first.
So what the hell was he supposed to do if he didn’t end up in Boston? Was he supposed to just go somewhere else instead? To a different team, a different city—and spend the next ten years building a life that didn’t include waking up to Ilya every morning?
The thought made something sharp twist under his ribs, because they’d spent the last decade pretending that was fine. And sure, most of that time had been spent sorting their own shit out. But Shane was so fucking tired of building a life that always had to leave space for that kind of absence. Not after he’d finally gotten a taste of what their life could be like if—
He groaned softly, staring at the closed door as he tried to forcibly shake those thoughts from his head.
After a second, he forced himself to move, stuffing his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t keep tugging at his sleeves. But then he felt the folded paper of Becky’s envelope shift against his fingers as he stepped forward, and it suddenly felt heavier than it had any right to be.
He’d slipped it in there before anyone could question him about it at the rink, then sat through the late lunch at the restaurant Ilya had taken them to with it burning against his thigh the entire time. Only, it was impossible to ignore now that he was alone with it again.
Or—almost alone.
“Even the Boston panelists seem to think the Admirals will win tonight,” Yuna said as he stepped back into the living room.
“Hm?” Shane mumbled, dropping onto the opposite couch.
“They’re discussing how their defensive line looks stronger this year,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the screen. “And that they’ve been playing much more aggressively—which is probably because of their new coach, to be honest. Everyone knows the Bears are still trying to replace Price’s depth.”
She tilted her head slightly. “I’ve been saying for years that the Admirals had the potential to win the Cup. Looks like they might actually have a real chance this year,” she hummed softly, her eyes still fixed on the screen. “Oh—I still hope Ilya’s team wins tonight, obviously,” she added with a quick, guilty smile. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
Shane huffed quietly, more amused than anything. “You know Ilya would rather die than give Scott Hunter the satisfaction of winning anything, right?”
Yuna snorted softly, tucking one leg beneath her as she settled more comfortably into the couch. “That’s because Ilya makes excellent life choices.”
“You’d defend him against anything,” Shane muttered, letting his head fall back against the cushions when she didn’t deny it. He stared up at the high ceiling for a moment before sighing. “He’s going to be insufferable if they lose.”
“He’s already insufferable,” David pointed out without opening his eyes.
“Hm.” Shane smiled faintly, his thumb absently tracing along his lower lip, the skin still tingling from Ilya’s parting kiss. “Yeah. That’s—ah—probably fair, actually.”
On the screen, the commentators shifted into a breakdown of the starting lines, their voices rising with that particular brand of pre-game excitement that always felt just a little manufactured. Shane’s gaze drifted back to it, unfocused, more out of habit than interest.
Then his gaze flicked to where his mother had settled comfortably into the other couch, his father still half-dozing beside her, listening with one ear like he might drift off at any moment. They both looked like they’d already decided to stay exactly where they were, and something about that made it harder for him to even suggest interrupting them.
“Uh,” Shane began slowly, wincing slightly at how awkward it already felt to start a conversation he had no idea how to bring up properly. “Do you, uh—maybe feel up to going out?”
His shoulders stiffened when his mother went a little too still in response. He watched her brows draw together in a faint frown and felt that familiar heat creep up the back of his neck as he realised exactly how that must have sounded.
“Uh, I just meant—”
“And miss the game?” Yuna asked, turning to him with an incredulous look.
David chuckled, clearly entertained by her reaction. His eyes opened slowly, a faint smile already tugging at his mouth as he glanced between them. “Now that’s a bold suggestion,” he said. “Where were you thinking, kid? Gonna show us around some of the Boston sights?”
He pushed himself upright on the couch, dragging a hand down his face to wake himself up before leaning forward, his eyes sharpening as he looked back at Shane. “Or are you finally taking me to a decent sports bar? Y’know, we never did find a good one in Montréal.”
“That’s because everyone kept coming up to Shane for a picture or an autograph,” Yuna said, crossing her arms with a huff. “Completely ignoring that he was trying to spend time with his dad.” She glanced back at Shane, her expression softening. “You know Ilya’s been looking forward to you watching his game tonight.”
“I always watch his games,” Shane said, rolling his eyes.
“Yes,” Yuna agreed, her lips curving faintly. “But not in Boston.”
“Oh, don’t you start,” he muttered.
“What?” she asked, blinking at him.
“Oh—ah—nothing, sorry,” Shane said quickly, heat creeping up the back of his neck as he ducked his head. “I don’t think I know this city well enough to show you around yet,” he admitted with a small shrug. “I was just wondering—I mean—” He trailed off, frowning when the words refused to line up properly.
Then he huffed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, already regretting the way he’d started this entire conversation. “Did you, uh—did you bring any formal clothes with you?” He tried instead, but from the way his parents frowned at him, that hadn’t actually been any better.
“I brought you two suitcases from Montréal,” Yuna said slowly, giving him a pointed look. “For what you keep describing as a ‘weekend visit,’” she added, a faintly amused smile tugging at her mouth. “You really think I didn’t pack myself enough clothes?”
Shane winced. “Right. Yeah,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—ah—figured you packed for Mexico, not Boston,” he said, before glancing at her crisp white blouse and tailored trousers, which were definitely not beachwear. “I was just wondering if you brought anything for—uh—for going out?”
David snorted. “Your mother packs for every possible occasion,” he said, amused. “Including ones she hasn’t been invited to yet.”
Yuna lifted her chin slightly. “Being prepared is not a flaw.”
“Never said it was,” David murmured, leaning over to kiss her cheek, murmuring something low in her ear that made her smile.
Shane looked away, fairly certain he didn’t actually want to know what his father had said. Still, he found himself sneaking another glance at them, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth.
There had always been something easy in the way they fit together. He’d grown up with it, but it still caught him off guard sometimes. The way one of them would reach without looking and find the other already there. The way conversations folded naturally around shared understanding. Or maybe it was just the open affection of two people who had long since stopped pretending they didn’t adore each other.
He wondered, briefly, if they ever looked at him and Ilya and thought the same thing. Like they looked inevitable. Like two people who had been circling each other for so long that loving one another had become its own kind of gravity. He liked that idea. Of people seeing the shape of them together—even while he was still figuring out how to exist without second-guessing every glance, every touch, every moment that might give them away.
“Don’t worry,” David added, glancing back at Shane with a knowing look. “If there’s an event you suddenly need to attend, your mother is already prepared for it.”
“Is there an event you suddenly need to attend?” Yuna asked, turning to him with a raised brow.
“No,” Shane said.
He hesitated.
“Maybe,” he corrected himself, sighing as he dragged a hand through his hair. “I just—formal was probably the wrong word,” he admitted. “I just meant, like, nice clothes?” He winced. “For something where there might be cameras. Or people paying attention.”
His parents shared a look before turning back to him with identical, carefully neutral expressions.
“What do you mean?” Yuna asked slowly.
Shane hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope, smoothing the fold along the middle before turning it over in his hands. “Becky gave me a couple of tickets to the game tonight,” he admitted quietly, still staring at it like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do with it now that he’d said it out loud. “I thought we could maybe—” He shrugged. “Go watch Ilya play.”
David let out a startled laugh. “Oh god,” he said, his eyes widening as the realisation hit. “Does Ilya know?”
Shane winced. “Ah, no,” he admitted slowly. “It’s a surprise?” He added, though it came out more like a question than he’d intended. “He’s done a lot for me. Especially recently.” He frowned slightly, uncomfortable with how vulnerable those words sounded once he’d said them out loud. “And I don’t like the idea of him feeling like that’s one-sided.”
“Shane,” Yuna said gently. “You know he doesn’t think—”
“I know,” Shane cut in quickly, wincing when his voice came out sharper than he’d meant. He exhaled slowly. “Sorry.,” he said. “I just—I know that. I do. But he’s been really worried about me recently. Which I get. I kinda really fucking scared him, I think, and—”
“You scared a lot of people, Shane,” David said, his voice quieter now. “You went down hard out there. One second you were skating, and the next you were just—” He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “They left you on the ice for far too long before they brought the stretcher out. Everyone was just watching, and no one was saying a damn thing that was useful.”
He frowned. “We watched the footage as soon as we got Ilya’s texts,” he admitted. “He told us not to, but we couldn’t—” He cut himself off with a sharp exhale. “I don’t know what we would’ve done if he wasn’t here looking after you.”
Shane swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. He stared down at his hands for a second, like he could still feel the phantom impact of his knuckles hitting Comeau’s face—which, admittedly, made him feel a little better about the moment everything had gone dark later.
“Yeah, he’s been great,” he said quietly. “Bossy as hell, but—yeah, he’s been taking good care of me.” He exhaled slowly. “Wouldn’t really let me get away with much, even when I tried. But, uh—I’m sorry for worrying you. I didn’t—”
“Ah. It’s okay, kid,” David said gently, cutting him off. “That’s part of the job description. Comes with the whole ‘caring about you’ thing.” He shrugged, then added with a crooked grin, “Would’ve probably felt better ‘bout it if you’d hit Comeau again, though.”
Yuna snorted. “He already hit him twice,” she said, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. “Honestly, you’re lucky your endorsement partnerships didn’t panic,” she added, before sighing. “Though it seems there’s apparently a market for you being a little reckless,” she murmured, frowning like she was still deciding how she felt about that. “But that doesn’t mean you can start making a habit of it.”
“Hm,” David said, grinning at her. “But three’s a lucky number, right?”
“David,” Yuna said sharply.
Shane huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders as he listened to them bicker. It didn’t fix everything—the injury, the locker room, the quiet weight of everything he couldn’t quite bring himself to say yet—but having their support took some of the weight off, even if it didn’t change anything else.
“I just—” he hesitated, finally interrupting them, dragging a hand briefly over the back of his neck. “I want to do something to show Ilya I support him too,” he admitted quietly, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. “Becky said it was a prank, but I’m not sure if—”
“Oh, it’s gonna be a great prank,” David said immediately. “That poor boy’s not gonna know what hit him. He’ll either be thrilled or have a full-on crisis right in the middle of the arena.” He paused, clearly pleased with the thought. “Possibly both.”
“Hm,” Yuna murmured, a smile pulling at her mouth. “He is rather dramatic.”
“He’s not—” Shane started, then faltered under her look. “He’s not always dramatic,” he corrected quickly. Then he hesitated, his fingers catching briefly against the seam of his trousers, picking at a loose thread that wasn’t really there. “Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“No, darling,” Yuna said gently, her expression softening as she watched him. There was a quiet understanding in her eyes now, like she could see exactly what he was trying to do, even if he didn’t quite have the words for it himself. “I think that’s a lovely idea,” she added softly.
Shane ducked his head slightly. “I just want—” He caught himself before saying him, which felt a little too honest, even if it was true. “I want to show up for him,” he said instead. “I want to support him and not—uh—act like it’s something I have to keep hidden,” he added, avoiding her eyes.
Yuna smiled. “Do you know where the seats are?”
Shane hesitated, then flipped the envelope over to hand her the tickets. “They’re not, like, bad seats,” he said quietly.
Yuna let out a small, surprised laugh as soon as she saw ‘Lodge 7, Row 1’ printed beside each ticket’s seat number. “Shane,” she said, looking up at him with fond amusement. “These are VIP seats.”
“Yeah,” Shane admitted awkwardly. “Becky also gave us the option for a private suite, if I didn’t want it being so public,” he added. “Which is tempting, but it kind of defeats the purpose of going to support him, right?” He tried to smile, but it came out slightly crooked. “I’m pretty sure she said we’d have access to the club facilities either way. So, y’know—we might still find a decent bar, dad.”
That earned him a dry snort from David, but Yuna was still grinning as she looked back down at the tickets, shaking her head. “You do realise most people’s idea of ‘not bad seats’ is somewhere they can actually see the Jumbotron, right?”
“Yeah,” Shane repeated, heat creeping up the back of his neck as he rubbed at it awkwardly. “Ilya called me entitled earlier,” he admitted, his lip curling slightly. “Like he doesn’t have a dozen race cars in the garage he refuses to let anyone touch.”
“Hm,” Yuna said, still smiling. “I think you and Ilya may have slightly lost touch with what normal people consider reasonable.”
David snorted. “Says the woman currently holding front-row tickets like she’s not already thinking about what to wear for the kiss cam.”
Yuna laughed harder at that, leaning into him with a grin. Then she suddenly sat up straighter, her eyes widening. “The game starts in three hours—what are we going to wear?”
David let out a long-suffering sigh that still sounded unmistakably fond, already resigned.
Shane barely had time to exchange a look with him before Yuna’s expression shifted again.
“Oh,” she said, suddenly disappointed. “We don’t have enough time to go out and buy jerseys,” she murmured, glancing at the television, where the small white numbers in the corner of the screen were counting down toward the official puck drop.
Her mouth tightened slightly as she watched the timer, like the idea of showing up without something in Bears colours was genuinely distressing—even though she’d openly supported the Voyageurs for his entire life. Or, more likely, the thought of sitting there without visibly supporting Ilya was somehow worse.
“We’re not wearing jerseys,” Shane cut in.
Yuna’s head snapped back toward him. “We’ve attended every one of your games in your jersey,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “We need to show our support for the Bears if we’re going to sit in their seats.” She crossed her arms, already halfway offended by his resistance. “Shane, honestly.”
“We don’t need to support them by wearing Bears jerseys,” Shane shot back, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m still the captain of the Voyageurs, mum. I can’t just turn up to a game in Boston wearing their colours.” He frowned. “What the fuck would people think?”
“Ah,” David said with a grin. “I think you should do it.”
Shane turned to look at him.
But David only shrugged, leaning back against the couch, clearly enjoying himself. “It’d be funny as hell. And it’d add fuel to all those trade rumours,” he added with a wink.
“No,” Shane said firmly.
“Eh. At least think about it?” David pressed.
Yuna nodded immediately. “Ilya must have a spare jersey lying around here somewhere,” she added, glancing around as if Shane would ever leave either of their clothes lying around while his parents were visiting. “You could even wear it under a jumper,” she offered, like that somehow made it better.
“No,” he repeated.
“Shane—” Yuna frowned, but he was saved from having to make the same point all over again by the sharp buzz of his phone on the coffee table. All three of them looked toward it at once, and Shane pushed himself off the arm of the couch when he saw Hayden’s picture lighting up the screen.
He snatched it off the table and hit answer before either of them could drag him back into the argument. “Hey, Hayd,” he said, already gesturing vaguely with the phone as an excuse to step out of the room. His shoulders relaxed almost immediately as he headed toward the stairs, grateful for the interruption. “What’s up?”
“Oh,” Hayden said, dragging the word out. “Boston’s actually letting their hostage use his phone now?”
“Don’t be a dick. You already know I turned my phone back on,” Shane said, rolling his eyes as he started up the stairs. “You’ve been texting me non-stop.”
“I have to make sure you’re still alive,” Hayden said, laughing now. “Or not being impersonated by that—ugh—by that Russian stalker you’re apparently shacking up with in Boston.”
Shane snorted, faintly amused at Hayden’s attempt to insult Ilya. It was equal parts teasing and genuine irritation, something that had long since evolved into its own strange language between them. Shane had stopped trying to figure out whether Hayden genuinely disliked Ilya or just resented how thoroughly he’d worked his way into Shane’s life.
It was probably both.
But before he could come up with an answer that didn’t sound like he was taking sides, he heard Yuna’s voice calling out from the living room. “Get dressed for the game if you’re going up there!” She called. “And make sure it’s something nice!”
He groaned softly, pausing halfway up the stairs as he called back over his shoulder, “Yes, Mum.” He caught the faint sound of her humming from downstairs and had to bite back a smile as he lifted the phone back to his ear. “Sorry,” he muttered, continuing up the stairs. “What were you saying?”
“Shane,” Hayden said slowly. “Is your mum there with you?”
Shane huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah. They flew in this morning.”
“David’s there as well?” Hayden let out a low whistle. “Damn. Boston’s really stealing your whole fucking family from—”
“Don’t start,” Shane warned as he reached the top of the stairs, one hand still braced on the banister. “Whatever weird territorial thing you and Ilya have going on, leave me out of it.”
Hayden made a wounded sound. “You’re supposed to be on my side,” he said, huffing when Shane just snorted. “Look, I’m just saying—ugh—I bet the stalker fucking loves that. First he kidnaps you, and now he’s got your parents staying with him? What’s next—you moving in with him and getting a fucking dog?” He paused. “Oh my god, please tell me you’re not actually getting married to that asshole?”
“They’re not staying with us,” Shane corrected, completely ignoring the rest of Hayden’s rambling, mostly because engaging would only encourage him to keep going.
He pushed open the bedroom door with his shoulder, still pinning the phone awkwardly between his ear and shoulder.
“Dad booked them into a hotel near the West End. They just turned up this morning,” he added, hesitating at the suitcases his parents had brought with them—one black, one white—both pressed up against the far wall, right where he’d left them.
They were filled with Shane’s own clothes from Montréal, which meant he no longer had the excuse to—ah, he no longer had to wear Ilya’s clothes anymore. And yet he still found himself drifting automatically toward Ilya’s dresser, tugging open the top drawer with one hand while keeping the phone pinned in place.
“Yeah, that sounds like Yuna,” Hayden said, humming. “Shows up unannounced to reorganise your entire life and somehow makes every bad decision seem perfectly reasonable.” He let out a quiet laugh. “God. If I was twenty years older and didn’t love your dad—”
“Fuck off,” Shane said, snorting as he absently started rifling through the drawer. His fingers brushed over neatly folded t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants he knew he wouldn’t get away with wearing tonight—but found himself wanting to anyway. “I’m telling Jackie you said that,” he added, just to be petty.
Hayden snorted. “Pretty sure she’d agree with me, actually.”
Shane laughed under his breath and tugged open the next drawer, trying to focus on the very practical problem of finding something acceptable to wear before his mother decided to come and help him—probably by digging out one of Ilya’s practice jerseys to force him into.
Which was still a terrible idea.
Even if it left him feeling stupidly warm every time he thought about it.
Or maybe that was just because the room still smelled faintly like Ilya’s soap from after his shower, which was distracting enough all by itself. But all those warm, slightly unruly thoughts evaporated the moment Shane noticed the damp towel Ilya had left on the floor by the bed.
He huffed in annoyance, even as fondness tugged at the corner of his mouth as he bent to pick it up. He tried not to let the sight of Ilya everywhere soften his irritation as he carried it into the bathroom to toss it into the hamper, but it was impossible.
There was something about the razor left by the sink—the jar of curl cream with its lid half off, the cologne bottle beside it, the pair of trainers by the door that Ilya had clearly decided against wearing today—that made it impossible not to feel like he’d stepped straight into Ilya’s life. Like maybe he already belonged in Boston more than he was ready to admit.
“Hm. It was kind of embarrassing, actually,” Shane admitted as he returned to the dresser, still distracted. “We were kind of in the middle of—uh—I mean—” He shook his head quickly, blushing harder now. “We hadn’t even—”
Hayden cut in with a horrified laugh. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’ve walked in on you two assholes enough to know exactly what you mean. I do not need that amount of information about Rozanov, thanks.”
Shane let out a helpless, slightly breathless laugh. “I was going to say ‘woken up yet.’”
“Jesus Christ,” Hayden groaned. “I call to check if you’re alive and instead I get fucking relationship updates.”
That only made Shane laugh harder, the sound warm even as heat climbed all the way up his neck and into his face. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, half hiding his smile, then glanced uselessly toward the closed bedroom door like Hayden could somehow see exactly how red he’d gone through the phone.
His ears were burning now, his pulse kicking faster with the sheer mortification of it, and he ducked his head as if that might somehow save him from the teasing. “Shut up,” he groaned, pressing the phone tighter to his ear as he started unbuttoning the blue linen shirt his mother had forced him into that morning.
He shrugged it carefully off his shoulders, folding it neatly and laying it across the end of the bed so he could pack it back into his suitcase later. “I am not discussing my love life with you while you’re enjoying this too much.”
“Enjoying?” Hayden repeated, sounding offended, even if Shane could hear the grin in his voice. “When have I ever enjoyed anything about Rozanov?”
Shane hummed. “Not even the way he makes me happy?” He asked, reaching for one of Ilya’s plainer t-shirts—a simple navy top with a tiny stitched bear logo at the left breast.
He held it up against his bare chest and immediately frowned. Why the hell did every single one of Ilya’s shirts seem two sizes too small for both of them?
“Ugh,” Hayden groaned dramatically. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Shane asked, distracted as he glanced toward the bed, wondering if he should just put the linen shirt back on instead. It was itchy and uncomfortable, but at least it was an easy fucking choice.
“Get all sincere and impossible to argue with,” Hayden shot back. “How the hell am I supposed to keep hating the guy when you say things like that?”
“Oh, don’t be a child,” Shane muttered, wincing at how much like his mother he sounded. He cleared his throat, still frowning at the clothes laid out in front of him. “What the fuck do you wear to a game if you’re not wearing a jersey?” He muttered, more to himself than anything.
“Why the fuck wouldn’t you wear a jersey?” Hayden demanded.
Before Shane could answer, there was a sudden burst of noise somewhere in the background of the call, Jade and Ruby’s voices carrying loud enough that Shane had to pull the phone slightly away from his ear for a moment.
“Daddy, Arthur won’t let us play with his iPad,” one of the girls cried, quickly followed by, “We want to watch Bluey!”
“Shit, sorry, Shane,” Hayden muttered, though he was laughing softly.
Shane could hear the rustle of fabric and the muffled shift in sound as Hayden pressed the phone to his chest, and he could almost picture him crouching down to their height, one hand already reaching out to smooth hair back from one of their flushed little faces.
“Hey, hey, no screaming,” Hayden’s voice came faintly through the phone, warm and patient now. “Arthur’s using it right now, remember? We’ll put Bluey on the telly at six. That’s the deal we agreed on, right? It’s Arty’s time to watch his dinosaurs first.”
There was a brief pause, then the unmistakable sound of tiny, suspicious sniffles.
“Are you talking to Uncle Shane?” Ruby suddenly asked, her small voice bright with curiosity.
“Yeah,” Hayden said, a faint, amused exhale slipping into his voice.
“Is his head better now?” Jade asked, suddenly much less tearful. “Does that mean he’ll come play with us?”
“Ah—maybe another time, sweetheart,” Hayden said gently. “His head’s doing better, but his mum’s with him to make sure he gets some rest. He’ll come see us when he’s feeling more like himself, alright?”
Shane couldn’t help smiling at that, the warmth of the interruption settling something soft in his chest as he stood there, still trying to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to wear. His fingers moved absently through folded shirts and hoodies without really seeing them—until they caught on something almost familiar.
He almost dismissed it, but then he stilled. Because he remembered it being black once—but years of wear had faded it into a washed-out grey. Across the front, the once-bright yellow lettering was now cracked and peeling, the ‘Boston Hockey, Est. Nineteen Twenty-Four’ barely clinging to the fabric.
His heart gave a strange thud as he pulled it from the drawer, turning it over in his hands as he pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder. “Fuck,” he whispered. Because right there, printed on the back, was ‘Rozanov 81’ in the same cracked lettering.
And—no, he already knew it was a terrible idea.
Which was probably why he couldn’t stop staring at it.
His pulse kicked harder as he pulled it over his head, the fabric fitting tighter than it used to across his shoulders and chest. It stretched slightly over his ribs now, the old cotton clinging in a way that made the choice feel even more deliberate. But—
“You should wear one of those anti-Bear tops,” Hayden said suddenly, apparently having sent the girls off to terrorize their mother instead. “You know, one of those black ones with big letters that say ‘No Bears Allowed’—so Rozanov can see it from across Boston.” He laughed softly. “Hell, half the Admirals fans will probably be wearing the same thing tonight.”
“Uh,” Shane muttered, his mind going blank as he stared down at the faded lettering on the t-shirt he was already wearing. He bit his lip. “Are the girls alright?” He asked instead—because he suddenly knew exactly what he was going to wear.
He tried to convince himself he could just throw a sweatshirt over it. He’d spotted a couple earlier, thin enough that he probably wouldn’t overheat in the arena, and he could wear a jacket while he was outside, right? And, he thought quietly, it meant he could carry something of Ilya with him into the arena tonight, even if no one else knew.
The thought settled his nerves more than he wanted to admit, even as heat crept back into his face. He was suddenly, acutely aware of the faded letters stretched across his chest, of the name pressed between his shoulder blades, of what it would mean if he actually walked into that rink wearing this t-shirt instead of the dozen better options he had waiting for him in this room.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah. They’re just grouchy from being in the car for too long,” Hayden said. “We’re just dropping them off now, so hopefully they’ll sleep it off by the time we get back.”
“Hm,” Shane agreed, then frowned. “Wait—you’re going out somewhere?”
Hayden hesitated for a second, then laughed. “It’s date night. I’m taking Jackie out,” he said. “Uh—actually, I think she’s taking me out?”
“I thought your date nights were on Fridays?” Shane said, arching an eyebrow slightly.
“Eh. We’re spicing things up,” Hayden said, a little too quickly. “Hey, so are you watching the game with your parents tonight, then?” he added, like he was deliberately steering the conversation somewhere safer. “Ready to watch the Bears lose again?”
Shane huffed softly, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself. “We’re, uh—we’re actually going to see the game,” he admitted, tugging absently at the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to his stomach. “We were given some tickets,” he added, distracted as he turned toward his suitcase, digging through it in search of a pair of trousers and a sweatshirt that didn’t have any branding on them.
Hayden groaned, long and drawn out, and Shane could practically picture him throwing his head back in exaggerated despair. “Somehow I knew you were gonna be there,” he muttered. “Did Rozanov get you those fucking tickets just so he could—”
“No,” Shane cut him off quickly. “It wasn’t him.”
“Please tell me you’re sitting on the Admirals’ side of the arena?” Hayden asked, almost desperately.
“Sure,” Shane lied, laughing when Hayden immediately groaned again.
“I hate you sometimes,” Hayden muttered, before sighing softly. “Hey,” he added, his voice shifting as the teasing dropped out of it, “do you still have the Voyageurs’ group chat muted?”
Shane paused with one leg in a pair of black cuffed trousers, the fabric soft enough that he wouldn’t be shifting uncomfortably in them halfway through the game. He stayed like that for a second, balancing on one leg before pulling them the rest of the way up.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Why?”
Hayden sighed. “That’s, uh—probably a good thing, to be honest,” he admitted. There was a brief pause, like he was trying to decide how much to say. “Things got a little intense after the game. And, uh—not in a good way.”
Shane stilled slightly, his fingers tightening for a second where they rested at his waistband. “How bad is it?” He asked quietly.
“Bad enough that JJ told them to fuck off,” Hayden admitted, and Shane winced.
JJ had been hovering somewhere in the middle of the locker room for months now. Sure, he didn’t laugh along with the jokes that were always a little too pointed to be harmless—but he didn’t step in to shut anything down either. Like even now, months after Shane had come out, he was still waiting to see which way the room would tilt before fully committing to it.
The fact that he’d finally snapped meant something had shifted. And Shane wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel annoyed that it had taken something this ugly to push him there.
“It’s—ah—it’s not everyone,” Hayden added quickly. “I think some of them were impressed when you hit Comeau, actually. But—” he sighed. “You know what it’s like. Once a few of them start, the rest don’t exactly shut it down. And there’s—ugh—look, there’s a lot of shit being said that you don’t need to hear right now.”
Shane was quiet for a moment, his grip tightening slightly around his phone. “Guess I’m not missing much, then,” he said finally, his voice even in a way that felt practiced, even to himself.
“Yeah. They’ve been arguing about everything since Comeau got suspended. Some of them are—” Hayden cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “It’s fucking messy, man. Coach is trying to keep a lid on it, but you know what Pelletier’s like. Oh, and the press is going insane about you being in Boston,” he admitted. “Even the guys who usually stay out of it are picking sides. It doesn’t—” he hesitated, then sighed. “It doesn’t feel like a team right now.”
“Ah,” Shane said, because what the hell was he supposed to say—or feel—when he got confirmation that his team was falling apart while he was off hiding in Boston like some sort of—
“Hey,” Hayden cut in suddenly, his voice firm. “Fuck ’em, yeah?”
He didn’t give Shane a chance to answer.
“It’s Montréal, man,” he added dryly. “Of course they’d turn a bruised ego into a national fucking crisis. But—look. I’m not telling you so you can fix it. I just figured you should know what’s going on. And maybe—” Hayden exhaled softly, his tone easing a fraction. “Just don’t open that chat for a bit, yeah?”
“So what—I should ignore it?” Shane shot back.
“Fuck yes,” Hayden said.
“That’s the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever heard,” Shane said, dragging a hand through his hair as he paced once before dropping down onto the edge of the bed, his elbows braced on his knees.
“Says the guy who got kidnapped to Boston and then fucking stayed there,” Hayden muttered, huffing quietly on the other end of the line. There was a brief shuffle of noise, like he’d adjusted the phone against his shoulder. “So,” he added, a little too casually, “have you heard anything about the trade yet?”
“No,” Shane sighed, letting him change the subject without calling him on it. “Farah said there’s been a lot of interest. But we haven’t heard anything yet.” He shrugged, even though Hayden couldn’t see it. “We might not until it’s announced by—ah—by Montréal or whoever signs me, I guess.”
“Hm. Well, it’s only been a few days. Still early yet,” Hayden said, before suddenly swearing under his breath. “I’m gonna fucking miss you, man. I can’t believe our last game together ended with you in the hospital,” he added with a sigh. “And fucking kidnapped.”
“You really need to stop tweeting about that,” Shane said, a faint, exasperated smile tugging at his mouth.
“Never,” Hayden said immediately. “Look, I, uh—need to go settle the kids in before we leave. I just wanted to check in,” he added, his voice softening slightly. “You’re sounding better, at least. So I guess I can’t keep dragging Rozanov for mistreating my captain.”
Shane snorted quietly at that, trading a few quick goodbyes before hanging up with a promise to talk again later, when they were both less busy.
Then he dropped his phone onto the bed beside him and reached for the charcoal sweatshirt he’d pulled out of his suitcase, dragging it over his head and tugging it down until it stopped catching on his shoulders. It still sat a little tight across his chest, but the sleeves were long enough to cover his wrists, and the collar was loose enough that it didn’t irritate the back of his neck—which was all he could really hope for, sometimes.
He glanced down at the edge of Ilya’s T-shirt just peeking past the collar, a small, private smile tugging at his mouth before he pushed himself up to head back downstairs.
“You look nice,” Yuna said when he walked back into the room. “No gold?” She added, watching him with narrowed eyes.
“Please don’t start,” he sighed, dropping back onto the couch across from them. “Ugh,” he muttered when she kept looking at him expectantly. “My jacket’s sort of a tan colour?” he added, absently tugging his sweatshirt down even though he knew there was no way the lettering underneath was going to peek through.
“David has his gold Rolex at the hotel,” she said helpfully.
“Mum,” Shane groaned.
David laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he leaned back against the couch. “You’re never going to win this one,” he said, shooting Shane a sympathetic grin. “Best to just accept defeat early.” He winked, still smiling. “So,” he added quickly, before Yuna could interrupt again, “ready to head to the hotel?”
Shane scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Right—yeah. We should probably get a cab,” he said. “Ilya probably wouldn’t mind if I used one of his cars. But I’ve got no idea where to park around the arena, and I really don’t want to get him a ticket.”
“You forgetting we got a rental?” David said, raising an eyebrow. “We can leave it parked at the hotel and walk to the arena from there,” he added, glancing over at Yuna before looking back at Shane. “It should only be a ten-minute walk. I checked while you were upstairs talking to Hayden.” His expression softened into something fond. “How is he?”
Shane leaned back into the couch, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “Hayden?” He echoed, glancing between them. “Worried, I think. He always gets loud when he’s scared and trying not to show it. He was the same every time Jackie went into labour,” he added, his mouth twitching faintly. “But, ah—Jackie’s taking him out on a date tonight, so hopefully that gets his mind off everything for a bit.”
He shifted slightly, hesitating as he tried to decide if it was worth telling them about the Voyageurs—about the messages that were apparently blowing up in the group chat he’d been avoiding since he’d turned his phone back on.
His thumb dragged absently along the seam of his trousers as he considered it, then he shook his head. “He’s fine,” he said eventually, with a small shrug. “Ah—we should probably get going, right?”
Yuna glanced at the countdown on the television before switching it off, already pushing herself up from the couch. David followed her, stretching once before setting the remote neatly on the coffee table.
“Yeah,” he said. “Traffic’s going to be a nightmare if we wait any longer.”
“Then we should’ve left ten minutes ago,” Yuna called over her shoulder as she headed for the hallway.
They weren’t wrong, Shane found himself thinking as he shifted in the backseat of the car twenty minutes later, watching the line of brake lights stretch endlessly ahead of them. He stretched his legs out carefully and leaned his head back for a moment, closing his eyes against the low hum of the engine.
Boston seemed to move differently than Montréal. Faster, somehow—even when it was gridlocked. Horns cut through the air in impatient bursts, and the streets were already crowded with people in black and gold, jerseys layered over hoodies, scarves wrapped tight against the cold. TD Garden loomed somewhere ahead, just out of sight, but the energy of game night was already spilling out into the streets.
Which was almost nice, in a chaotic, familiar kind of way—apart from the fact that the car had barely inched forward since they turned onto the main intersection.
He could hear the steady tap of his father’s fingers against the steering wheel as he took another turn down a side street, grumbling quietly under his breath. Beside him, his mother distracted herself with her phone, likely making a deliberate effort not to comment on the route or try to take control. Her thumbs moved quickly across the screen, and there was a small, distracted smile tugging at her mouth that instinctively put him on edge—like she was answering a text or an email she’d been waiting for all day.
Which was probably concerning.
But if Shane kept his eyes closed, he could pretend not to notice.
Honestly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know who she was texting. Or worse, what she might be orchestrating behind the scenes. Because there was a version of this situation where she was being normal about everything—checking in, making plans, doing something harmless.
And then there was the version where she absolutely wasn’t.
And Shane wasn’t sure he had the energy to deal with more of her “gentle nudging” tonight.
By the time they finally pulled into the hotel driveway, a valet was already moving toward the car. David rolled down the window, and the cold air hit them almost immediately as he passed over the keys with a polite nod before stepping out.
Shane shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his shoulders hunching as he followed his parents into the lobby. He barely had time to look around before Yuna turned back to him.
“We’ll just run up quickly and get changed,” she said, already glancing toward the elevators. “You should come with us.”
“What—and give you an excuse to get me in something gold?” Shane said, shaking his head at the way her eyes lit up a little too quickly. “No thanks.”
“You’re already halfway there,” she said, eyeing his outfit.
Shane sighed, barely stopping himself from dragging a hand through his hair as he felt the familiar pull of a conversation he didn’t have the energy to finish. It wasn’t even about the clothes, not really. It was the way everything felt like it was building toward something he wasn’t sure he was ready for.
He hesitated, shifting his weight as he glanced toward the lobby instead. “I’ll just wait down here,” he said. “We should be okay, right? We’ve still got, what—an hour before the game starts?” He added, glancing down at his bare wrist out of habit.
He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes when his mother gave him the same look she’d had earlier, when she’d tried to talk him into wearing his father’s Rolex.
“I don’t really want to get stuck queuing outside or trying to fight our way through the crowd,” he added instead, shifting his shoulders slightly as he felt the curious eyes of the other guests lingering on them, trying to figure out why he looked so familiar.
David paused, glancing back at him. “When was the last time you went to a game you weren’t playing in?”
“I—” Shane hesitated, caught slightly off guard by the question. “I don’t actually know,” he admitted, his brow furrowing faintly as he tried to think of an answer and came up blank. Something almost amused slipped into his voice as his lips twitched. “It’s been a while, I guess.”
“Hm.” David nodded, his own lips twitching faintly. “You do realise you won’t be queuing, right?”
Shane frowned. “What?”
“You’ve got VIP tickets, kid,” David said, grinning. “There’s a separate entrance for that. We’ll walk straight in and skip all the waiting. Might get a few curious looks, though,” he added with a knowing smile.
“Oh.” Shane blinked, then let out a sheepish laugh. “Yeah. Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Guess it really has been a while since I just, ah—watched a game.” He shrugged. “Instead of playing in one.”
David huffed a quiet laugh as he placed a gentle hand on Yuna’s back, steering her toward the elevators. “We won’t be long,” he said, pulling her away before she could argue.
Shane nodded, half tempted to thank him, before drifting toward one of the armchairs as they stepped into the elevator. He watched the doors slide shut, his mother still mid-sentence as she turned to look at his father—then the quiet of the lobby settled back in around him.
He sank into one of the chairs, leaning forward as he scrubbed a hand over his face.
What the fuck was he actually doing?
The question settled heavy in his chest now that he didn’t have anything to distract himself with. Just time to think, which had never been his strongest skill when it came to spiralling into something he couldn’t find his way out of. “Fuck,” he whispered, staring down at the carpet like it might have an answer for him.
But of course it didn’t. It just stared back in a dull, geometric pattern, the lines too neat to mean anything at all.
It’s okay, he tried to tell himself, copying the slow cadence of Ilya’s voice in his head. Everything will be fine.
Then, immediately—
Yeah. Sure.
Only then did he finally give in to the urge to pull out his phone, the screen lighting up with the notifications that had been buzzing against his thigh for the last ten minutes. He ignored most of them, glancing briefly at the emails Farah had forwarded with interview requests, and the handful of headlines he didn’t want to read but had notifications set up to alert him anyway.
Then his eyes caught on Rose’s name as a new message banner slid across the top of his screen.
Shane stared at the screen for a second longer, his thumb hovering uselessly over the keyboard. He could already picture exactly how this was going to go. Rose getting impatient, deciding she’d waited long enough, and immediately going to the one person who would absolutely give her too much information.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and dropped his head back against the chair behind him. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, only to startle at the sound of his father’s voice.
“Ready, kid?” he asked.
Shane looked over to see he’d only changed into a clean polo shirt and a thicker jacket, while his mother was now wearing a black skirt layered over a looser pair of black trousers. His eyes narrowed, because his mother was a lot of things, but she didn’t usually wear that much gold jewellery unless she intended to make a statement.
“Mum,” he groaned.
“What,” she asked, a touch defensive, her hands lifting to adjust the small gold hoops in her ears before fixing the simple gold necklace flat against her throat. The gold bracelet at her wrist caught the lobby’s light as she moved. “It’s understated,” she insisted.
Shane glanced down, noticing the gold buckle of the belt around her waist that was doing absolutely nothing to hold her trousers up, as well as the hint of gold eyeshadow she’d apparently had time to apply while he’d been sitting there lost in his own head. “It’s really not,” he muttered, but he, somehow, managed to let his father help him stand without rolling his eyes.
Yuna smoothed a hand down the front of her outfit, clearly pleased with herself, as they made their way out of the lobby and back onto the busy streets.
“You excited yet?” David asked, nudging him lightly as they followed the crowd of black and gold spilling toward the arena. “Or are you gonna keep pretending you don’t care until puck drop?”
Shane huffed a quiet breath, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, using it to pull the open front closed around his chest like it might hide the words he knew were printed beneath his sweatshirt. “I’m, ah—kind of nervous, actually,” he admitted.
Yuna glanced over at him immediately. “About the game?”
Shane hesitated, letting the group in front of them run across the street as the crosswalk turned red. He stopped at the light instead of picking up their pace to follow them. “Yeah,” he said, because it was easier than admitting how much this actually meant.
David snorted softly. “You know Ilya’s gonna love seeing you there, right?”
“Maybe,” Shane muttered, ducking his head slightly. Because even though it was supposed to be a surprise, he couldn’t help worrying that he should’ve given Ilya some kind of warning. Or something to take the edge off the shock if—when, he corrected himself quickly—Ilya spotted him in the crowd.
He was pretty sure the burn at the back of his throat was nausea more than nerves at this point, and the only thing keeping him moving forward was the certainty that Ilya would love it once the shock wore off. And maybe, just a little, because he wanted to get back at him for convincing everyone the Bears had kidnapped him to Boston in the first fucking place.
Sue him. He was still petty when he wanted to be.
“I fucking hate Boston,” he muttered, wincing when some of the Admirals fans overheard him and started cheering, loud and unruly in a way the plexiglass usually protected him from. “Ugh,” he added under his breath as the noise swelled around them, the same fans picking it up like it was a chant they’d all been waiting for.
“Careful,” his dad said dryly. “Give this lot half an excuse and they’ll start a fight for the fun of it,” he added, steering Shane a little further away from where the crowd was already starting to surge and jostle as the excitement for the game built.
Shane shot him a look. “I’ve just had a concussion. I should be legally protected from the consequences of my own bad decisions.”
Yuna huffed a laugh as Shane reached out to steady her when the crowd pressed a little tighter around them. “You can’t keep using that as an excuse, you know?” she said, looking up at him with a mix of fondness and amusement. “At some point you’re going to have to admit you like it here.”
“No,” Shane said, far too quickly to be convincing.
They were halfway down Causeway Street when the crowd finally narrowed into the queue waiting to enter the arena. Shane might not have known Boston nearly well enough for the number of years he’d been visiting Ilya here, but he knew a long queue when he fucking saw one.
He blinked at it in mild surprise, letting his parents guide him around the metal barriers set up to keep people from spilling directly into the street. It didn’t stop people from leaning over them as they passed, phones already out, some recording the crowd, others pointed up at TD Garden itself.
“Oh my god,” someone whispered as they passed. “Is that Shane Hollander?”
“Why the fuck would Shane Hollander be here?” Someone else muttered, snorting dismissively.
David laughed under his breath as he steered them past the main line and toward a smaller, cordoned-off entrance near the side of the building. A staff member in a dark jacket glanced up as they approached, already clocking the tickets in David’s hand.
“Evening,” he said as David handed them over. He scanned them quickly, nodding when the device in his hand gave a soft chirp. “The VIP entrance is straight ahead, then up the escalators to your left,” he explained, tearing off the stubs before handing them back. “Enjoy the game,” he added with a polite smile, stepping aside to gesture them through.
“Thanks,” Shane murmured, sighing slightly when the attendant blinked at him in surprise. He could almost see the exact moment recognition hit, but thankfully Yuna just smiled politely and ushered them inside before they could draw too much attention.
Inside, the noise was still loud but more contained now—echoing up through the high ceilings instead of crashing in from all sides. Shane felt his shoulders loosen a fraction, the tension easing as the sound settled into something more manageable.
Another attendant stood just past the doors, offering them a quick smile as they passed. “Welcome to TD Garden,” she said with the ease of someone who’d said it a thousand times before, but still somehow made it sound genuine. “Do you know where your seats are?”
“Oh, we’re in Lodge 7,” Yuna answered, and Shane tried not to react to how much she clearly enjoyed the flicker of surprise on the attendant’s face.
He’d always known his parents supported him in every way they could. They’d been to every game they could manage to attend, and he knew they watched the ones they couldn’t travel to. But he’d never really seen this part of it before—this quiet, unguarded pride of being able to show up for someone they loved.
Something in his chest ached at the thought, because now they were here to see Ilya with that same pride shining in their eyes. Shane found himself wondering, not for the first time, if Ilya had any idea how much his parents loved him too.
“Oh,” the attendant said, before recovering quickly. She nodded brightly as she glanced at their tickets, then looked back at them with a smile.
“Your section is on the lodge level, just past the main concourse and up the short set of stairs to your left,” she said, gesturing toward the interior hallway branching off beside them. “There’s a club bar available upstairs with food and drinks if you’d like anything before the game or during intermission. You can take any of the elevators up to the club level, but you’ll need your tickets with you for entry.”
Shane barely heard the rest of it. He was far too aware of the way a few heads had turned to look at them in passing, only to quickly turn back again as recognition caught up. He fought off the urge to sigh, keeping his head up and his expression carefully blank as he turned to his father instead, trying to act like all of this—him here, in Boston, at Ilya’s game, with his parents—was completely normal.
“Want to grab a drink first?” He asked, shrugging when his father blinked at him in surprise. “I just thought maybe the bar here might, ah—be better than the one in Montréal,” he added, a little defensive.
“Do you actually want a drink?” David asked, one eyebrow raised. “I thought you hated the cheap beer they have in these places,” he added dryly.
“He’s not drinking while he’s still taking medication,” Yuna said, already stepping in front of them to lead the way.
“Uh, I think that’s just the normal bar,” Shane said to his father. “The club bar might be different?”
David snorted, then clapped a hand on Shane’s shoulder to steer him in the direction the attendant had pointed. “Ah. Out of the two of us, I’ve actually been to a club bar before,” he said, leaning forward so he wouldn’t be overheard by staff. “More than once.” His mouth twitched. “Trust me, the beer’s just as cheap. They just serve it in nicer glasses.”
“But you haven’t been to the club bar here,” Shane pointed out, a little too quickly. He dragged his thumb along the seam of his sleeve, already losing the thread of the argument as his gaze flicked toward the hallway ahead of them, then away again. “It could be different,” he added, though it didn’t sound convincing even to himself.
He went quiet as his mother laughed just ahead of them, the sound echoing faintly down the corridor.
David hummed. “You’re stalling, kid,” he said bluntly.
Shane huffed as he let himself be guided further along. “I am not,” he lied, wincing slightly as the noise from the arena grew louder the closer they got to the seating sections. The crowd’s voices bled together into a low, restless hum that made something tight settle uneasily in his chest. “I’m just—”
“Oh, you are absolutely stalling,” Yuna cut in, amused as she shot them a knowing look over her shoulder. “You’ve been picking at your sleeves for the last five minutes,” she added, slowing just enough to fall into step with them. “Shane,” she said gently, raising a brow when he finally looked at her.
“I’m just—” Shane exhaled, his shoulders hitching faintly. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, his gaze dropping again as his fingers resumed their restless fidgeting against the fabric.
“Hm,” David murmured as he watched him, his tone shifting into something a little less teasing now. He slowed, then stopped, and Shane was quietly grateful that this stretch of the corridor was empty enough that no one had to try and squeeze past them.
“You change your mind?” David asked, brows furrowing slightly. “Nothing wrong with it if you have. You’ve got no obligation to go in there,” he added, nodding toward the corridor up ahead, where the sound of the crowd had begun to sharpen into something more distinct. Laughter. Shouting. The occasional sharp cheer that carried even this far from the ice. “No one knows we’re here yet. We could just go back to—”
“No,” Shane said quickly. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” he corrected himself, shaking his head. “I’m just, ah—a little nervous, maybe. About walking in there and having half the section recognise me,” he admitted finally.
David’s grip on his shoulder tightened for a second, not enough to stop him, just enough to ground him. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “That part’s gonna suck—”
“I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to lie about that,” Shane muttered.
“—but,” David continued, “you won’t be doing it alone.”
Shane glanced over at him, the tightness in his chest easing just a fraction, though it didn’t quite go away. His pulse still felt a little too fast, like his body hadn’t quite caught up to the reassurance in those words yet. He shifted his weight, his fingers catching again at the cuff of his sleeve before he forced them still, his shoulders loosening slightly even as his gaze flicked briefly toward the doors again.
“And hey,” David said, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Fewer people than you think will probably recognise you. No one’s expecting to see you here tonight, so no one’s gonna be looking for you in the crowd,” he added. “And we’re right at the front, so the walk down will be the worst part. Plus—” his mouth twitched. “Your mum will also be judging them right back. Very harshly. You know how terrifying that is.”
Shane let out a soft laugh, the sound a little breathless, as the tension eased just enough for his shoulders to drop. “Yeah,” he said, glancing ahead as the noise swelled again. “Okay. So—” he paused, smiling a little shakily, “no drinks then?”
Yuna turned fully this time, her expression softening just a touch as she took him in. “No drinking,” she said again. “Come on,” she added, resting a hand between his shoulders as David stepped through the door to hold it open for them. “You’ve done much more impressive things than this, darling.”
Shane snorted. “Yeah, but that was different,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand briefly over the back of his neck. “No one was watching me like this. This feels—”
“Important?” She guessed.
“Yeah,” he admitted, exhaling slowly as he steadied himself. “I don’t want to get it wrong, mum,” he murmured under his breath.
Yuna’s mouth curved faintly. “You won’t,” she said simply. “Unless you decide to defect to Admiral’s side to watch Ilya’s game—though I think that he’d still just love that you came.”
She rubbed between his shoulders gently, her voice lowering just enough that it felt almost private amid the noise of the arena. “You’re not here to perform for anyone, Shane. You’re here because you were invited. And because you belong in rooms like this.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the crowd, then back to him. “Just walk in, be yourself, and let them adjust to you for once.”
Shane nodded slowly, mostly to himself, before finally stepping over the threshold.
The sound of the lower bowl hit him all at once. The hum of the crowd stretched wide around them, layered with sharp bursts of laughter, the scrape of skates cutting across the ice below, the low thrum of arena music pulsing under it all. Light spilled down the steps in bright bands, catching on jerseys and glass and the restless movement of thousands of people shifting in their seats.
“Hey,” David said quietly, already a step ahead. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Shane lied, and followed him down the steps, his mother walking beside him with her arm locked through his under the pretence of keeping her balance in the ridiculous heels she was wearing. “Aren’t those shoes flat?” He whispered, steadying her as they started down the concrete steps.
“They have a small heel,” Yuna sniffed, her hand tightening around his bicep. “Shush, you’re going to make me trip,” she added, grinning as she leaned into him a little more.
A couple of people nearby glanced over reflexively as they made their way down, but Shane kept his head down just enough to avoid drawing attention. His pulse was racing hard enough that he could feel it in his throat, each beat slightly out of sync with the noise of the building as the rink opened up more with every step.
He let himself get distracted by watching a few of the arena staff moving along the boards, checking the glass stanchions or tapping at the mounts for the broadcast cameras. Somewhere off to the side, a puck rang off the boards. The sound cracked through the air, sharper from the stands than it ever felt from the bench.
One guy in a Bears jersey frowned when Shane bumped the arm of his seat, then did a visible double take when he realised who, exactly, he was looking at. “Hey, aren’t you Shane Hollander?” He said, blinking like he was trying to reconcile the Voyageurs captain with the man standing in front of him.
“Err—” Shane’s mind blanked for a full couple of seconds, and he found himself answering with, “Why the fuck would Shane Hollander be in Boston?”
The guy snorted, his lips already pulling into a grin when Yuna gently tugged Shane away, silently urging him to follow her down the remaining steps. But the murmur was already following them, and he could hear the whispers behind him carrying in that particular way arena noise always did.
“Didn’t he waive his no-trade clause?” Someone said, half-laughing.
“Oh my god, are we actually getting Shane Hollander?” Another voice murmured, the words catching and spreading, repeated in low voices down the row as more people started to realise who he was.
Someone a few rows back was very obviously pretending not to stare. Another guy leaned toward his friend, whispering something that made both of them glance over again, slower this time, trying to place him outside of his gear, or maybe just away from the ice.
It wasn’t loud enough to cause a scene in the way he’d feared, but it was enough that Shane could feel it. The weight of being noticed. Of being out of place in a building where he usually belonged on the ice, tracking plays and reading gaps, not navigating seat numbers and apologising as he squeezed past knees.
He hesitated as they reached the bottom of the section, glancing instinctively toward the ice. It was strange, he realised, seeing it from this side. It looked different from here. Smaller, somehow. The neutral zone compressed into a narrow strip between blue lines, the corners tighter than they ever felt at full speed. Without his skates under him, the rink felt almost contained, like something he could map out too easily if he tried.
“Not as bad as you thought, right?” David asked, pulling his attention back before he could get too lost in it.
Relief slipped through Shane as his father quietly nudged him to go into the aisle first. “Yeah,” he agreed, nodding automatically as they shuffled sideways past the row, quiet apologies trailing behind them.
And then he saw who was sitting in the seat next to his.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Shane muttered under his breath as Cassie’s eyes lit up the second she spotted him.
“Hollander,” she said, grinning around the straw in her mouth, a large neon-blue arena cocktail sloshing slightly in the plastic cup she was holding in both hands. She was half-curled in her seat, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie so big it had to be Cliff’s. The sleeves swallowed her hands as she wiggled her fingers at him.
“You just lost me twenty bucks with Becky,” she added, reaching out to drag him into the seat next to her. “I was convinced you’d decide not to come.” She grinned. “Please tell me you didn’t tell Ilya?”
“It’s, uh—a surprise?” Shane muttered, his mouth pulling into something that tried for casual and landed just a little too tight as he ducked his head, like that might hide the warmth climbing up his neck. “Wait—you know Becky?” He asked, surprised enough that it cut through even the low, restless buzz of the crowd still murmuring around them.
Cassie snorted around her straw. “Everyone knows Becky,” she said, before turning toward his parents with a sweet, practiced smile that snapped into place so seamlessly it was almost impressive.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander, it’s lovely to see you again,” she added warmly, leaning back against her seat to wave at them.
“Oh. Hello, Cassie,” Yuna said, smiling warmly at her as David leaned in to press a quick kiss to her cheek and drape his coat over her lap. “Are you here to watch Cliff?”
“Eh. Yeah, the team’s been really excited for this one,” Cassie said, shifting so she could see Yuna more clearly. “They’ve all got a bit of a point to prove after we lost that last game. Whole lot of them have been a little, ah—intense this week.” She took another sip of her drink. “No idea why,” she added, glancing at Shane over the rim of her cup.
“Hm. And you work in the cardiac unit, right?” Yuna asked, frowning slightly as she tried to place it. “You’re a nurse, or am I misremembering that?”
Cassie grinned. “Ah, I work in A&E now. It’s much more fun, and the hours are better,” she said, shrugging lightly. “And I still get enough cardiac cases to keep things interesting.”
Shane huffed quietly as he settled more comfortably into his seat, shifting his weight until the angle of his back stopped pulling unpleasantly. The arena air was colder than the concourse, but it was familiar in a way that made something in his chest loosen.
It didn’t stop the prickle at the back of his neck, though—the awareness of glances that lingered a second too long. A phone angled just slightly in his direction. The low, fractured murmur of his name carried through the section, not loud, but constant enough that he couldn’t quite tune it out.
Beside him, his father shifted in his seat like he was trying to escape the attention Shane was drawing without actually getting up. “I could really do with a drink right now,” he muttered.
Shane turned toward him slowly. “Seriously?”
David laughed under his breath, and Shane rolled his eyes as he shook his head. Even Yuna was smiling now, her expression soft with quiet amusement as she tucked her hands beneath David’s jacket to keep them warm.
“I swear you’re worse than Hayden at trolling people,” Shane muttered as he leaned back slightly, forcing his shoulders to loosen against the seat, grounding himself in the familiar rhythm of the rink. The sounds settled around him—pucks snapping off sticks, the hollow thud of shots hitting the boards, the scrape of blades carving tight turns into fresh ice.
Cassie turned to David with a bright smile. “Oh, Connor—Ryan’s brother—just went up to the club bar to grab the next round. I can text him to grab another beer if you want something?”
David perked up immediately. “You’re my favourite person in this building,” he said. “After my wife, obviously,” he added quickly.
“But before your son?” Cassie asked innocently, and Shane snorted under his breath as his mother laughed in response, but his attention was already drifting back to the ice.
Both teams were spread out on opposite ends, so they must have missed the player introductions—and probably the first few minutes of warmups—but the familiar structure was still there. The routine never really changed.
The Bears were in their home jerseys this time, black and gold catching under the arena lights in a way their white ones never quite managed. Shane had always preferred their home kit, personally. But the Admirals were in their road whites with blue trim, which made them look uncomfortably like the Voyageurs at a glance.
For a second, his brain tried to slot them into the wrong shape—the wrong team, the wrong night—and his stomach turned as the memory followed too quickly behind it. The hit. The ice rushing up. The way everything had gone bright, then distant all at once.
He exhaled slowly and forced his focus elsewhere.
The Bears were moving in loose, practiced patterns—small groups cycling pucks along the boards, others drifting into the slot to take quick-release shots. Luke and Artos were exchanging passes on the blue line, while Ryan hovered near the crease, tipping anything he could get a stick on.
Brad dropped into a butterfly, sealing the ice as a string of shots came in from the circles. He tracked each one cleanly, swallowing rebounds or kicking them safely to the corners before resetting, pushing back to his posts with sharp, efficient movements. The backup rotated in a moment later, stretching out in the crease before taking his own reps, his glove flashing as he snagged a rising shot clean out of the air.
Shane’s gaze followed the rhythm automatically, muscle memory filling in the details his body couldn’t act on right now. He could feel the timing of it—the weight of a good pass, the way a puck settled depending on how it was received. The tiny adjustments. Opening up along the boards. Shifting edges to change an angle. Reading a play half a second ahead of where it actually was.
It didn’t take him long to find Ilya.
The flash of blond curls peeking out from beneath his helmet made him nearly impossible to miss, even at a distance. He was running through a shooting drill now, picking up passes in stride and snapping them off cleanly, barely breaking his line. There was no wasted motion, and every touch was deliberate, like he was already playing at full pace while everyone else was still settling in.
Even from here, Shane could see the difference in the way Ilya adjusted his angle just slightly before each shot. The way he shifted his weight through his edges to open space that wasn’t really there. It was the kind of thing you didn’t notice unless you knew exactly what you were looking for.
Shane’s fingers twitched faintly against his knee as he watched. It felt wrong, suddenly, being on this side of the glass. To be watching instead of moving. The rhythm of warmups was so ingrained in him it almost pulled at him physically, like his body hadn’t quite accepted that it wasn’t part of it tonight.
Cassie made a soft, appreciative sound beside him, and Shane glanced over, frowning slightly as he tried to figure out what exactly she was reacting to.
“What?” She asked when she caught him looking, her face flushed. “You’re looking at me like I did something.”
“I mean—” Shane hesitated, glancing back out toward the ice for a second. “I’m kind of thinking maybe you did,” he admitted, lowering his voice slightly. “It’s a hell of a coincidence to be sitting beside you—and you know Becky,” he added quickly when she opened her mouth to answer, “which I’m starting to think is not a coincidence either.”
“Shane, sweetheart,” Cassie said, grabbing his forearm and leaning toward him as she dropped her voice, “this is the WAG section. We always sit here.”
Shane’s eye twitched. “What?”
Cassie bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh, her shoulders shaking just a little. “Relax,” she said, barely holding it together. “Oh, you should see your face right now.” She leaned back in her seat, still grinning. “It’s actually the friends and family section. I just wanted to see your face,” she admitted, a little too pleased with herself.
“Every player gets a couple of assigned seats for every game. Ilya doesn’t usually—” She paused, looking away for a moment. “Uh—Svetlana uses one of them whenever she comes to visit, but mostly he doesn’t really have anyone come to watch him,” she said, her lips pressing thin. Then she sighed. “But yeah—this is where partners, parents, siblings, agents—whoever’s on the list, really—this is where they usually put us.”
She tipped her chin toward the ice. “Close enough to the bench to yell at them if they start being idiots. Not that it’s ever stopped them,” she added, rolling her eyes when another puck hit the glass a few feet away, making a couple of people flinch. Victor skated past right after, tapping his stick lightly against the boards in apology before looping back into the drill.
“Eh. But it’s still early. More people might show up,” Cassie went on, completely unfazed. “And if they don’t, the arena staff’ll start moving people down before puck drop. They hate empty seats in the lower bowl.” She snorted. “God forbid the broadcast catches a gap. Suddenly it’s all ‘is the franchise dying?’ for the next three days.”
Shane huffed quietly at that, amused despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, leaning forward slightly so his forearms rested on his thighs. “I think that’s pretty universal, actually. Franchises always seem to care more about how it looks on camera than what it actually feels like in the building.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Doesn’t matter if the upper bowl’s half empty—if the glass seats are full, suddenly it’s a ‘great atmosphere.’”
Cassie glanced sideways at him, smiling slightly. “Hey,” she said, nudging his knee lightly with hers. “At least you get to enjoy my favourite part of the game.” She leaned in a little. “Warmups,” she said, dragging the word out like it should mean something else to him.
Shane frowned as he looked out over the ice. A couple of players were already taking easy laps along the boards, pucks on their sticks, hands loose as they got a feel for the surface. “Why the hell is this your favourite part?” He asked. “Half these guys aren’t even paying attention yet. It’s not exactly the highlight of the night.”
Cassie snorted into her drink. “Oh my god. Don’t tell me you’ve never paid attention to warmups before.”
Shane scoffed. “Of course I’ve paid attention to warmups,” he said. “It’s your first touch on the puck. You get a feel for the ice, and you can see how your line’s connecting before, ah—” He cut himself off when he noticed the look on her face.
But she just stared at him for a second, then slowly lifted her hand and pointed out toward the ice. “That,” she said with exaggerated patience, “is the most sexual thing I have ever seen a group of mostly straight men do in public.”
“Huh?”
“Oh my god,” she muttered again. Then she reached out, took his chin in her hand, and physically turned his head. “Look.”
Shane followed her line of sight, frowning in confusion—and then, oh.
Matti Jalo from the Admirals was leaning over the boards to stretch his hamstrings, his jersey riding up just enough to expose the line of his lower back. Scott Hunter flicked a puck lazily toward Breezy and Gillis, laughing when it slipped right through them and left them both chasing after it. Carter Vaughan was parked between the hashmarks, snapping controlled shots against Tommy Andersson in the net, picking corners with casual precision like he had all the time in the world.
Over on the Bears’ side, Ryan and Victor were working through one-timers, the puck cracking cleanly off their sticks in a steady rhythm that echoed through the arena. Frank leaned against the boards behind them, dragging the hem of his jersey up to wipe sweat from his forehead—the brief flash of skin earning a low, appreciative whistle from somewhere behind Shane.
And Ilya—fuck. He was down on the ice now, working through a slow, deliberate stretch that dragged Shane’s focus in like everything else in the arena had just fallen out of frame. His fingers curled slightly against his own thighs as Ilya dropped into a deep lunge, one knee hovering just above the ice as his hips rolled forward in a slow, deliberate motion.
Then he shifted, rotating through it again—slower this time, like he was easing into the movement with quiet control. His stick rested loosely across his thighs, a puck abandoned a few feet away as he focused entirely on loosening up properly.
Shane’s fingers dug slightly harder into the muscles of his thighs, like it might stop his brain from helpfully supplying a dozen extremely unhelpful thoughts about flexibility. Did they—did they really look like that when they were working through warmups? He’d never really understood why the crowd was always so full before a game. Why whistles and low murmurs carried through the stands before the puck even dropped—
“Huh,” he said faintly, his voice a little thinner than usual as warmth crept further down his neck, settling low in his chest. “Er—no,” he muttered, dragging his gaze away from the slow—and very familiar—roll of Ilya’s hips.
He shifted in his seat, sliding down slightly and crossing one leg over the other in a subtle attempt to hide his reaction. “It’s, uh—it’s not something I ever noticed before,” he admitted, still faintly flushed.
“Seriously?” Cassie asked, her eyes flicking toward where Cliff was attempting a similar stretch, his version significantly less controlled. Her gaze lingered shamelessly on his ass as he wobbled slightly, nearly losing his balance before catching himself on his stick. “You’ve never snuck a quick look?”
Shane snorted. “No. I never saw it like—err, like that,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely toward the ice. “And I’ve never looked at anyone besides him like that anyway,” he added under his breath, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t carry.
A whistle came from somewhere on the ice, the players shifting automatically into a new drill at the sound, but Shane’s attention stubbornly refused to move away from Ilya’s hips. “Oh my god,” he muttered suddenly. “How the fuck am I ever supposed to watch him do this again?”
Cassie snorted, completely unbothered. “Oh, you’re not,” she said cheerfully. “You’re going to suffer through it every single time like the rest of us.” She bit her lip as she watched Cliff, her head tilting slightly. “Ah. I fuckin’ love hockey,” she breathed.
Shane dragged a hand down his face, already dreading the next time he had to sit through a full warmup without reacting like an absolute disaster. “This is going to ruin my entire career,” he muttered, though there was a helpless edge of amusement in his voice now.
“Oh, somehow I doubt that’s gonna affect your—” Cassie began, only to pause when a knock on the plexiglass startled them both.
They both looked up to find Luke right there on the other side, one gloved hand braced against the glass where he’d knocked, his stick tucked under his arm. His visor was pushed slightly askew from where he’d tipped his helmet back, and there was a faint flush high on his cheekbones from the cold.
A ripple moved through the crowd behind him. Hands lifted, people pressed closer to the glass, a few sharp whistles cutting through the noise as someone called his name. Phones flashed up, trying to catch his attention, but Luke barely seemed to notice. His wide eyes flicked toward them before settling back on Shane, his mouth curving just slightly.
Then he tapped the glass again, slower this time, mouthing something as he pointed to his own shoulder before jerking his chin back toward Ilya.
Shane felt his pulse spike in response. “Fuck,” he whispered, the word catching uselessly in his throat as he resisted the sudden, overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands.
“What does that mean?” David asked, leaning in with a frown as he tried to follow the exchange through the glass.
Shane groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face anyway. “Ilya’s mic’d,” he muttered. “They’ve got him wired for the broadcast.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to mic him when he’s playing against Scott Hunter?” he added, already bracing for exactly how much damage that particular combination was going to do.
His eyes narrowed as the realisation clicked into place. “Ugh. Fucking Becky.”
Cassie made a delighted, scandalised noise under her breath. “Oh, you are so fucked,” she whispered, grinning.
On the other side of the glass, Luke’s grin widened as he opened his mouth to say something else—but before he could, another player barrelled into him along the boards. His skates carved into a sharp stop, spraying a fine mist of ice up against the glass as an arm hooked around Luke’s shoulders to steady himself, dragging him half a step sideways as Scott Hunter stepped forward to grin at Shane through the glass.
His helmet was still on, visor down—but Shane knew that expression anyway. Just like he knew the way Scott’s attention locked in and didn’t let go once he had something in his sights.
“Hollander!” He shouted, loud enough to carry over the scrape of skates and the low roar of the arena. A couple of the Bears players glanced over at the sound of Shane’s name, sticks pausing mid-motion as they tried to figure out where the shout had come from.
“What the hell are you doing in the stands?” Scott called over the glass. “You should be on the ice!”
Shane shot him a flat, unimpressed look, plucking at his sweatshirt and shrugging like he was saying, “I’m not exactly dressed for it.”
“Ah,” Scott said, nodding like that tracked perfectly. His grin widened as Matti came gliding in beside him, stopping with a sharp spray of ice that rattled lightly against the boards. “Hollander hasn’t got a jersey to play in,” Scott told him, jerking his chin toward Shane.
Matti leaned in, peering through the glass with open interest, his grin easy and immediate. “Hollzy!” He called, his accent thicker when he was shouting. “Why the fuck are you in Boston—still kidnapped?” He laughed. “You should come back with us to New York instead, yeah? We’ll take good care of you.” He winked. “You’d look good in red, I think.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck anyway as the nearby fans started reacting—laughter, a few sharp whistles, someone a row back yelling, “Fuck off!” while another voice immediately joined in with, “Yeah, he’s stayin’ in fuckin’ Boston!”
“Yeah, you should come home with us,” Scott cut in, ignoring the jeers from the crowd as he nudged Matti with his shoulder. “We’ll even let you keep your number on the back.”
Matti nodded. “Yeah, man. That suspension was shit—what the fuck is the league playing at?” He shook his head, his expression tightening slightly. “They’re basically ignoring that Comeau tried to kill you?” He exhaled sharply. “Never really liked that guy.”
Shane lifted a hand in a vague, dismissive gesture, like he could wave the whole thing away if he didn’t look at it too directly. “I’ll be sure to bring it up in my next meeting with Player Safety,” he called back dryly, just loud enough to carry without sounding like he was actually inviting the conversation.
But before he could come up with something to steer things away from getting them all fined, Ryan came barreling in from Luke’s open side, catching the edge of the scrum with a sharp stop that sent a burst of ice over Scott’s skates.
“Oi! No one’s stealing our hostage mid-game,” he snapped, jabbing a glove into Scott’s ribs. “That’s tampering, you idiot.”
“You’re accusing us of tampering?” Scott shot back, both eyebrows raised.
Matti laughed loudly beside him. “You’ve been posting hostage memes on Twitter like it’s a full-time PR campaign,” he said, pointing at Ryan.
But Ryan just crossed his arms, a grin spreading slow and unapologetic across his face. “Eh,” he said, shrugging. “We prefer the term ‘creative recruitment strategy.’”
A ripple of laughter broke through the group, tension loosening just enough to turn the moment into something almost familiar. Sticks tapped lazily against the ice, skates shifting as bodies settled into the loose circle. It was the kind of mid-ice chaos that always hovered just on the edge of getting called out by the refs.
Shane’s fingers tightened slightly against his thighs as his gaze tracked the easy movement between them—the shove, the laugh, the way no one really pulled away. He caught himself leaning forward a second too late and sank back again, exhaling quietly as Cliff skated into view, pulling his attention away from the group.
“Ah, trust Hollander to cause a fuckin’ commotion when he’s not even playin’,” Cliff said as he cut a path into the group, nudging bodies apart with easy familiarity. He flashed a wink at a grinning Cassie when she wiggled her fingers at him from behind the glass.
“Pretty sure your lot are supposed to stay on your side of the ice until puck drop,” he added, turning back to Scott and Matti with narrowed eyes.
Scott opened his mouth to fire something back, but Luke suddenly disappeared sideways as a solid shoulder knocked Scott off balance—nothing penalty-worthy, but just enough to break his stance. Artos slid into the gap like he’d been there all along, one hand braced against Luke’s chest to steady him as he dragged him away.
Scott blinked once, then snorted as he straightened again. “Alright, alright. No more messing with your rookies,” he said, though he was still grinning when Artos didn’t budge. “Ah, come on. You’re as bad as Rozanov with him,” he added, tilting his chin toward Shane.
Cassie leaned in, lowering her voice. “You know the broadcasters are probably losing their minds right now, right?”
“Ugh. Please don’t remind me that this is all getting clipped for highlights,” Shane muttered, shifting his weight slightly as he sank further into his seat. He could already picture the slow-motion replays, the panel arguing over whether it was ‘harmless chirping’ or ‘evidence of locker room fractures,’ commentators dissecting their body language like it meant more than it did.
He sighed, already tired at the thought of the headlines that would inevitably follow. He vaguely heard his mother humming from a couple of seats down, his father snorting quietly as he watched the scrum unfold like it was better than the actual game.
The cluster along the boards had started to draw more attention now. Players circled closer under the pretence of chasing loose pucks or finishing their last shots, but really they were just watching to see if it would tip into something more aggressive. Shane dragged his attention back to the group instead of focusing on the way the crowd kept reacting behind him—laughter, sharp whistles, and shouted commentary all bleeding together into a constant roar.
Ryan was still chirping at Scott, who was looking increasingly unimpressed with every passing second. Matti was still laughing loudly, and Artos stood at Luke’s side, watching quietly as Luke tried not to laugh at something Ryan had just said. A coach’s whistle chirped distantly from the far end, trying and failing to pull focus back to warmups.
And then—
Ilya shifted onto his inside edge and cut clean through the group, deliberately passing behind Scott and nudging him just enough to knock him off balance again. “Ah. You are getting slow, Hunter,” he said, his voice low but still carrying in that sharp, cutting way it always did on the ice.
Scott huffed, already rolling his eyes as he turned toward him. “I’m three years older than you.”
Ilya’s expression didn’t change, but something amused flickered behind it. “Da,” he said, nodding once. “Then this is even more embarrassing for you. When was the last time you won a race to the puck?”
A couple of players nearby snorted.
“Hm. Keep talking, Rozanov. We’ll see how fast you are in the third,” Scott scoffed, shoving lightly at Ilya’s shoulder as he pushed off, dragging Matti by his collar behind him—who shot Shane a wink and a little call me hand signal.
“Only if you make it that far without falling over,” Ilya shot back easily, not even looking at him now. He’d already turned back to his team, clearly unimpressed as he took in the way they were all glancing repeatedly over his shoulder with poorly hidden smirks.
“What?” He asked flatly.
Ryan just coughed into his glove to smother a laugh, his shoulders shaking with the effort, while Luke and Artos shared a look of open disbelief. Cliff, meanwhile, just kept grinning, crossing his arms as his eyes locked on Shane again.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, and Shane had to narrow his eyes to read the shape of his lips, because the sound barely carried over the crowd chanting Ro-za-nov, which was so loud it swallowed everything else whole. “I ever tell you I love it when Cass comes to watch me play?” He asked casually.
Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What,” he repeated.
“Just—y’know,” Ryan added, his voice suspiciously innocent, though his grin ruined it completely, “there’s somethin’ about having the right kind of motivation that really helps you focus, right?” His grin turned sharper. “Ah. And you always play better after you’ve been with your, uh—Montréal girl?” He added, frowning slightly like he wasn’t sure that was the right thing to call Shane where they might be overheard.
“I imagine it must be the same feeling when someone you care about is watching.” Ryan’s eyes flicked to Shane again, his eyebrows raised. “Even if they’re not wearing your colours.”
“You are chronically single,” Ilya said dryly. “My Montréal girl,” he echoed mockingly, “is at home, probably ignoring my messages and pretending she is not waiting for me.”
Luke snorted, then tried to cover it by adjusting his gloves. Beside him, Artos tilted his head, glancing not-so-subtly past Ilya’s shoulder toward the stands. “Is funny,” he mused. “Usually you can feel it, right? When someone, ah—important shows up for you.”
Cliff hummed in agreement. “Yeah. Like—completely hypothetically, of course—but if someone was sitting, I dunno, really fucking close with a good view of the ice—” his eyes flicked between Shane and Cassie, his grin widening slowly, “with really good company,” he added, smirking at Cassie. “Eh. You’d definitely notice, right?”
Ryan leaned in slightly. “Especially if they were sitting, like, directly behind you.”
Ilya didn’t turn, but his shoulders went so still Shane wasn’t sure if he was still breathing.
“What the hell are you idiots talking about,” Ilya said again, slower this time. He muttered something in Russian under his breath, half annoyed, half suspicious, before—finally—turning to look at the stands, still frowning.
His eyes found Shane almost instantly, which maybe wasn’t so surprising, considering he was standing directly in front of where Shane was sitting. His mouth parted slightly. The frown slipped, forgotten. Whatever he’d been about to say didn’t come. For a moment, it looked like he’d lost track of everything else entirely, like the rest of the world had simply dropped away mid-thought.
Shane just shrugged, a little helpless, a little caught out.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d imagined this moment, but it definitely hadn’t been like this—right in the middle of warmups, with Ilya’s teammates grinning at them far too obviously, while the crowd was still chanting Ilya’s name loud enough for it to echo across the lower bowl. Or while he was still a little unsteady from the adrenaline of actually showing up in the first place.
But maybe this was better than Ilya catching a glimpse of him at the end of the game. Or worse—mid-shift, when he couldn’t afford the distraction.
Shane waited for the shock to fade, for the horror or the frown of recognition to appear. But instead, the tension in Ilya’s shoulders eased all at once, something bright and almost boyish breaking through the harder lines of his expression as he realised exactly who was watching him from behind the glass.
“Holy shit,” Ryan said under his breath somewhere to Ilya’s left, not even trying to be subtle.
Cliff just laughed, nudging Luke hard enough that he nearly lost an edge.
Artos snorted beside them. “I thought you were more observant than this,” he said in Russian. “I thought you would miss him entirely for a moment there.”
But Ilya didn’t even glance back at them.
Shane felt his own mouth pull into a matching smile, his chest tightening—aching with how badly he wanted to lean over the glass and kiss him, consequences be damned. For a second, the rest of the rink seemed to fall away as Ilya’s gaze dragged slowly over him, taking him in like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. The noise dulled under the rush of blood in Shane’s ears, movement blurring at the edges as players skated past in streaks of colour and motion.
He had the strange, fleeting thought that Ilya could probably pick him out blindfolded—could feel him there the same way he always seemed to know where the puck was on the ice. And absurdly, irrationally, Shane wondered if Ilya could feel the number pressed against his back beneath the sweatshirt, the same way he could.
It almost felt like the fabric hiding it had burned away under Ilya’s eyes. Like there was no hiding it at all. Like maybe it was obvious to everyone in that moment that Ilya Rozanov had stamped his name across Shane’s heart too.
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head once like he’d just remembered where he was. He pushed off, carving a short arc closer to the glass. “Yuna!” He called suddenly, his voice carrying easily up into the stands as he grinned at her. “I knew I was your favourite son.”
A ripple of laughter broke out around them—on the ice, in the stands, even Cassie choking on a delighted sound beside Shane. But Shane just stared at Ilya, warmth blooming low and steady in his chest, because despite everything—he looked happy. And worse, he looked like he didn’t care who saw it.
His hand came up to rest against the glass as he leaned in to grin at Yuna, and it was a coincidence, surely, that his palm was pressed directly over where Shane was sitting. No one else would think anything of it. Though Shane was absolutely certain someone would write a piece about Ilya flirting with his mother right in front of him.
Still, his breath caught when Ilya turned his head slightly and looked at him—and winked.
“Come to see a proper game, Hollander?” He called out, his eyes fixed on him again.
Shane huffed a quiet laugh, leaning forward slightly despite himself. “Hm. Someone said there was a game tonight,” he shot back, his voice lighter than he felt. “Figured I’d come see if it was worth sticking around for.”
A few of the guys nearby let out sharp, delighted sounds at that—someone in the crowd whistling, someone else laughing outright. But Ilya just grinned, slow and sharp, his attention still fixed entirely on Shane like the rest of them were nothing more than background noise.
“Besides,” Shane added, his lips quirking at the corner, his gaze flicking deliberately to Ilya’s mouth before returning to his eyes, “someone promised me a goal.”
Ilya’s answering smile went sharper, something competitive snapping back into place. “Then you should watch more closely,” he called back with a wink—
—and right on cue, the officials’ whistle cut sharply through the rink, signalling the end of warmups.
Ryan actually groaned, visibly disappointed, but he grabbed Luke and Artos anyway, dragging them back toward Coach LeClaire, who was already calling them in with a clap of his hands and a pointed look.
The rest of the players peeled out of their drills as well, drifting toward their benches as the whistle cut through the noise. But Ilya didn’t follow immediately. Instead, he drifted backward, his edges carving clean, controlled lines into the ice without ever looking away from Shane.
There was something in his expression, something threaded with promise instead of competitiveness, and it made Shane’s grin widen in response. Then, finally, Cliff rolled his eyes and dragged Ilya by his jersey into the cluster of players around him, a few already leaning in to say something, all of them grinning in a way that was impossible to miss even from a distance.
It probably should have worried Shane more than it did, especially with the mic stitched into Ilya’s jersey. But he stayed where he was, shaking his head slightly as his pulse kicked harder than it had any right to, watching the number on Ilya’s back disappear into the mess of black and gold spilling over the Bears’ bench.
“How the hell has no one figured you two out yet?” Cassie murmured as she leaned into him. “You’re basically flirting through reinforced glass on national television.”
Shane huffed softly, not bothering to answer. It wasn’t like they were being subtle. At least, not anymore. It was just that no one was looking for it. And there was something almost comforting about the idea that it really could be that simple. Pretending nothing unusual was happening until everyone else stopped paying attention.
He knew that was Ilya’s approach.
Maybe Shane just needed to relearn how to let the room move around him instead of trying to control how he fit into it. His eyes narrowed slightly at the thought, because he used to be good at that. Once.
He was pulled out of his thoughts by the rink staff stepping onto the ice. He watched as the final stragglers stepped off the ice so the linesman could prepare for the puck drop. One of them skated a slow arc through the neutral zone, scooping up the last few pucks that had been left behind, while another checked the nets with a quick, practiced tug.
The lights dipped a moment later, the warmup playlist cutting mid-song and bleeding into the low, cinematic swell of pre-game music. The shift in energy was immediate, the crowd rising with it, a restless hum building as spotlights swept across the stands.
Then the announcer’s voice rolled out overhead, names echoing through the rafters as the starting lineups were introduced. Each one landed differently—cheers for the home side, a chorus of boos when the visiting lineup was called.
“Hey, what’d I miss?” A guy in a Bears cap and a faded Pastrňák jersey said as he dropped into the empty seat beside Cassie. He leaned forward over the row, passing down a precarious lineup of plastic cups, nearly sloshing one onto Cassie’s head when she ducked too late to avoid it entirely.
“Jesus—careful,” she muttered, grabbing it from him before it tipped.
“Occupational hazard,” he said easily, flashing her a quick grin.
“Ugh. You didn’t miss much,” Cassie grumbled, settling back as the players re-emerged in tight lines from their tunnels, helmets on now, visors down. Sticks tapped in rhythm against the ice as they skated out for the official introductions. “Just warmups. Oh—this is Conner,” she added, helping pass a drink down to David. “Conner, this is Shane.” She tilted her head toward him. “He’s here to support Ilya.”
“Oh, cool,” Conner said, already leaning back in his stolen seat, one foot braced against the boards in front of him.
Shane gave a short nod in return, turning his attention back to the ice. All in all, it was probably the least weird introduction he’d had since he’d woken up in Boston.
They watched in silence as the players lined up along their respective blue lines for the anthem, the starting units clustered near centre while the rest of the roster stretched down toward the boards. The anthem singer stepped out to centre ice as the lights dimmed further, the crowd settling into something quieter.
Shane barely registered most of it.
His attention had already locked onto the far blue line, where Ilya stood just off-centre, shoulders squared. He tracked the small details without meaning to. The way Ilya shifted his weight onto his inside edge. The quick adjustment of his gloves behind his back. The small roll of his shoulders, like he was loosening something tight before the game began.
Beside him, David sighed as he took his first sip from his beer, looking at the cup with raised eyebrows.
“Is it better than Montréal’s?” Shane asked, glancing sideways, if only to give himself something else to focus on for a second.
David shrugged. “Eh. It’s just from tap. All tastes the same after a while,” he said. “This, though—” he added, gesturing to the arena around them, the noise already starting to build again as the anthem wound down, “this is different. I mean, Montréal’s louder when they love you. Boston’s louder when they don’t.” He tipped the cup slightly. “But at least here—if they hate you, it’s usually about hockey.”
Cassie snorted. “Nah,” she said. “If Roz scores, they’ll love him for it. But if he hits someone? They’ll love him more.” She leaned back in her seat, glancing between Shane and the ice. “And if he looks at you like that again,” she added under her breath, “I’m starting a betting pool for how long it takes Twitter to figure it out.”
Shane rolled his eyes at that, watching silently until the anthem ended, the last note hanging for half a second before the crowd roared back to life.
The lights snapped fully up, and the players peeled away toward their benches. The coaches leaned over the boards immediately, voices low and sharp as they made last-second adjustments that were absorbed without question and nodded through.
The officials skated into position as one of the linesmen took his place at centre ice, puck in hand, while both benches leaned forward in near unison. Sticks knocked against the boards in a rhythm that almost sounded like a roar as the Bears’ starting line stepped over, blades carving quick arcs into the fresh ice.
Ilya stepped out with them, hopping over the boards with an easy, practiced motion. He rolled his shoulders once as he took his position at centre, knees bent, his stick resting lightly on the ice inside the faceoff circle.
The visiting team answered in kind, their own starters hopping on. Helmets dipped as they adjusted their grips, and Scott leaned in from the other side of the dot, his jaw tight around his mouthguard.
Shane leaned forward in his seat without meaning to, his elbows braced against his knees, his eyes locked on Ilya.
The linesman glanced between the two captains—Ilya already grinning, Scott scowling as he muttered something around his mouthguard—then down at their skates, making sure both centres were set and the wingers were clear of the circle. He said something inaudible, probably a warning to keep it clean.
Ilya’s shoulders dipped just slightly, his stick blade flattening against the ice as he gave a brief nod.
Shane didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until the puck dropped.
Ilya won it clean, snapping the puck back to his left in one smooth motion—same move every time, Shane thought distantly; he’d have to warn him about that—sending it straight to Cliff at the point.
Cliff immediately moved it up the boards to Artos, who was already accelerating through the neutral zone. He pushed wide along the right boards, trying to beat Breezy on the outside, but Matti closed the gap quickly, angling him off. The puck got chipped deep instead, rattling hard around the glass.
Gillis reached it first behind the net and turned to reverse it—but Ilya was already on him, checking him from behind and lifting his stick just enough to disrupt the play. The puck kicked loose off the boards, and Ilya pulled it onto his blade in one smooth motion, already pivoting up-ice.
Scott tried to track him through the middle, but Cliff stepped into his lane and tied him up just inside the blue line, sticks clashing as they collided and stalled each other out of the play.
That was all Ilya needed—he drove through the neutral zone with speed, cutting between lanes as Gillis scrambled to recover. At the blue line, he slipped a pass cleanly through Breezy’s legs, threading it perfectly to Victor, who picked up the puck in stride as he cut toward the slot.
Shane could see the play unfolding before anyone else reacted on the ice. Victor didn’t shoot. Instead, he tapped it right back to where Ilya had already circled behind the net, building speed as he came around the far post. The return pass met him on his backhand just above the goal line, and he snapped it across the crease in one fluid motion.
The puck rang off the inside of the far post and buried itself in the net before Tommy could push across. For a split second, everything stilled. Then the red light flared, the horn following. The crowd was already on its feet when the scoreboard flipped.
01
00
Something sharp and electric settled low in Shane’s chest as the crowd roared. His father laughed beside him as Cassie let out a loud whistle, and even his mother looked impressed, clapping on his father’s other side with a wide grin. But out on the ice, Ilya turned his head, breathless and grinning—and looked straight at him.
Then his mouth curved into something satisfied, a little reckless, and he winked—mouthing, or maybe saying, I promised you a goal, solnyshko—right before the Bears crashed into him as the line swarmed in celebration.
Shane laughed helplessly.
It took a second for the noise to settle back into something he could actually hear over, the roar of the crowd breaking apart into pieces—chanting, laughter, the sharp whistle of a ref trying to regain control of the reset.
“Jesus,” his dad said beside him, still grinning. “He’s got a hell of a backhand.”
“Yeah,” Shane said, his eyes still fixed on the ice as Ilya got jostled by his teammates, half-laughing, half-shoving them off. “He does.”
Cassie bumped her shoulder into his. “You look way too pleased about that,” she said, grinning around her straw.
Shane didn’t even try to hide it. “Course I fucking am. It’s the only thing he’s ever beaten me in.”
On the ice, the officials were herding players back toward center, the celebration already dissolving into something sharper, tighter. The energy had shifted. Shane could feel it even from the stands—the way the Admirals’ bench had gone still, the way a couple of their players were watching Ilya with narrowed eyes.
They started playing heavier after that. Not outright dirty, but right on the edge of what the referees could call. Finishing every check a half second late, leaning a little extra into guys along the boards, sticks getting tied up just a little too long after the whistle. It was legal, technically. Just annoying as hell.
Midway through the next shift, it escalated when Artos took a pass along the wall near the hash marks, turning his back to shield the puck as he tried to cycle it down low. Then Carter stepped in and drove him hard into the boards from behind. The hit echoed, loud enough that there was a half-beat delay before the crowd reacted. A ripple of noise instead of a roar.
Shane felt his stomach drop as he watched Artos push himself up slower than usual, one hand braced against the boards as he rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake the hit off.
He was already on his feet with the rest of the section, shouting at the referee to call the fucking penalty—before he remembered where he was. He dropped back into his seat with a sharp huff, arms crossing tight over his chest as he glared at Carter through the glass when he skated past.
It was only his father’s hand on his arm that stopped him from trying to vault the boards out of pure, stupid instinct.
“Let the kid earn his stripes,” David murmured, his eyes still on the ice.
“He doesn’t need to earn shit by getting hit like that,” Shane shot back, his voice low. “That should’ve been a fucking penalty.”
“Yeah, it should’ve been,” a new voice chimed in from behind him.
Shane twisted around to see a Luke look-alike dropping into the empty seat in the row behind them. Same jaw, same wide eyes—just a little less put-together and a lot more expressive. Or maybe just a little less starstruck.
“Ah, man. Luke’s not gonna like that,” he added, leaning forward immediately, elbows braced on his knees as his attention snapped back to the ice—then he did a double take as he properly registered Shane. “Wait—hang on.” His eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Montréal?”
He groaned when Shane just blinked at him. “Ah, fuck—mum told Luke not to get caught doing anything illegal.”
“That’s Jack,” Cassie supplied from Shane’s side, not even looking up from her drink. “One of Luke’s brothers.”
“Right,” Shane said, a little blankly. “I don’t think anyone got caught doing anything illegal?”
Jack snorted. “I don’t think that makes it much better, man.”
“It does if it means we get Shane Hollander on the Bears,” Cassie muttered around her straw.
Shane huffed a quiet, reluctant laugh at that, but his attention snapped back to the ice as Boston sent their second line out early, probably to avoid Ilya starting something with a smirking Carter. Only, Shane wasn’t sure any of them had clocked the way Luke was already hopping the boards on the change, barely waiting for his line to clear.
His jaw tightened automatically at the timing. It wasn’t reckless, not exactly. But it was close enough that a coach would have something to say about it later.
The puck dropped back into play, and Scott snapped it to Gillis before Ryan could get a touch. It turned over just inside the neutral zone, clean enough to bounce free instead of settling, and Luke was on it immediately. Shane leaned forward as he tracked the play like he was back on the bench instead of in the stands.
Luke didn’t slow to set anything up. He didn’t regroup or wait for support. He cut straight through the neutral zone with more edge than control, stick-handling tight and aggressive as Breezy stepped up early at the blue line. He should have chipped it in. But instead, he dropped his shoulder and drove the line, cutting inside with a sharp edge that forced Breezy to pivot late.
Shane felt the split second where it could go wrong—the puck just a little too far out in front, the lane closing—
—and then Luke was through.
Carter stepped across to close the gap, trying to take the body instead of the puck. It was a bad choice. Luke slipped past him just enough that the contact came off-centre, Carter catching more hip than chest as his skates went out from under him. He hit the ice flat on his back, momentum carrying him uselessly out of the play as Luke stepped over him without even looking, pulling the puck cleanly onto his forehand.
His weight shifted just enough to open up the angle, and he snapped the shot low, far side.
02
00
Shane felt the crowd’s cheer hit him in the chest like a second heartbeat this time, sharp and immediate, his body reacting before his brain caught up. It had been risky as hell. A clean release with almost no dusting of the puck, the goalie screened just enough by the trailing defender drifting through the lane. But worth it.
Luke didn’t celebrate right away. He just turned, his jaw tight, his eyes still sharp, like he was already scanning for Carter—still itching for the fight he obviously wanted. But then Artos came flying off the bench with a loud laugh, barreling straight into him and nearly knocking him off his skates in a rough hug.
That finally broke the tunnel vision in Luke’s eyes. He grinned, wide and bright, hugging Artos back with a laugh as the rest of the line piled in, sticks tapping against gloves and shoulders in a quick, messy celebration.
Shane exhaled slowly, his shoulders loosening as he leaned back a fraction, the tension he’d been holding bleeding out of him now that no gloves had actually hit the ice.
“Yeah,” Jack said from behind him, sounding smug. “He’s definitely gonna do that again.”
“LeClaire’ll bench him if he keeps that up,” Shane muttered automatically, even as something in his chest warmed at the goal. “You don’t get away with forcing the middle like that every shift.”
“But he scored,” Conner pointed out.
“Yeah,” Shane said, his eyes fixed on the replay cycling across the Jumbotron, tracking the exact moment Luke cut inside instead of chipping it deep. “This time,” he murmured, because that was the thing about plays like that. They worked right up until they didn’t.
Yuna smiled slightly, watching Luke and Artos laugh as they spun a little off-balance, still tangled up in the celebration with the rest of the Bears, who were knocking on Luke’s helmet affectionately. “You used to play like that,” she said as the players skated off for the intermission, the Zamboni already rolling out before they’d fully cleared the ice.
“You’d pull the most ridiculous moves,” she added, shaking her head fondly. “Used to make your coaches want to tear their hair out, and then you’d still somehow end up on the scoresheet.”
“Hm,” David nodded. “Used to look like you enjoyed it when they told you off, too,” he added, shooting Shane a sideways glance. “Always said if they were yelling, it meant you’d done something worth noticing.”
“Oh, I remember that,” Cassie murmured. “Cliff used to roll his eyes whenever they said you’d picked up another Lady Byng when you were out there starting half the scrums on the ice, even if you never actually fought.” She huffed a quiet laugh. “Think he was always a little impressed, though. Just didn’t want to admit it.”
Conner snorted. “Pretty sure most people just gave up trying to figure out how you managed half the shit you did after a while,” he said with a shrug. “Must come with being a generational talent, right?”
Shane shrugged, but it wasn’t as dismissive as he probably meant it to be. His gaze stayed on the ice, tracking the Zamboni as it made its slow passes, fresh lines re-emerging as the surface reset.
“It’s different,” he said after a moment, his attention drifting back to the conversation as the Jumbotron switched to crowd shots during the intermission. “You get away with that shit when you’re the best player on the ice, or when the coach trusts you to read an opening when it’s actually there.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Do it at the wrong time and you’re handing them an odd-man rush the other way. It’s not really about—”
He lost the thread of his thoughts when the crowd around him suddenly erupted, a couple of people letting out sharp whistles. It wasn’t the easy, scattered laughter that followed the Jumbotron as it picked out couples and kids trying too hard to look casual under the sudden attention.
This was different. A ripple that caught and spread, building fast enough to drag Shane’s attention back to the screen, a faint frown pulling at his mouth as he glanced up.
There was no mascot. No kiss cam. No awkward fan dance-off. Just—
“Ah, fuck,” he muttered under his breath as his own face stared back at him from the screen overhead.
For a second, he just blinked at it, caught off guard by how normal he looked. Relaxed, even. Shoulders loose, his mouth curved faintly from the conversation he’d been having.
It looked, strangely, like he belonged there.
And then his eyes dropped, catching on the collar of Ilya’s t-shirt peeking out from beneath his sweatshirt on the screen. The fabric was visible in a way that felt suddenly, dangerously noticeable as the crowd noise swelled into a familiar chant of Hol-lan-dair. It rolled up in waves, a thousand voices catching and multiplying until it filled the arena, echoing off the rafters in a way that made something in Shane’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
He hadn’t heard it like that in a while.
“Holy shit,” Conner breathed, half-laughing.
Shane dragged a hand quickly over his mouth, trying to hide the way his expression had gone a little blank with surprise. He could try to hide, he thought. Maybe he should have. It was what he would’ve done if he’d been caught in the Bears section at one of Ilya’s games before today. But he just sighed, lifting his hand to give an awkward, slightly delayed wave up at the camera, his cheeks warming as the reaction only seemed to get louder.
From the bench, Ilya leaned forward and lifted two fingers to his mouth, letting out a sharp, piercing whistle that cut clean through the noise. Cliff barked out a laugh beside him, Ryan shoving at his shoulder as they both looked up at the screen, grinning.
Shane’s face flushed harder, the heat immediate and impossible to hide now that it was magnified ten times over above centre ice. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, dropping his head slightly as he laughed into his hand. The camera lingered just long enough to make it unbearable before finally cutting away, the roar fading into something more scattered.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” he added, narrowing his eyes at Ilya on the bench—even as he couldn’t quite stop the smile pulling at his mouth.
He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned back into his seat. He could already picture the reaction once the media got hold of that footage. There’d be clips circulating before the period was even over, and he had no doubt the commentators were already picking it apart from every angle.
Hollander Breaks Silence with Public Appearance—Just Not in Montréal
Hollander Spotted in Boston Amid Ongoing Trade Speculation
Unexpected Appearance: Hollander Seen Rinkside at Boston Game Following Injury
He huffed a quiet breath. They’d probably freeze-frame it, zoom in to catch the exact moment he started blushing, speculating on everything from the color of his sweatshirt to the way he’d looked at the Bears’ bench afterward. Maybe someone would notice Ilya’s t-shirt. Maybe they wouldn’t.
He wasn’t actually sure which one he wanted.
“Awh, you’re cute,” Cassie said, still grinning up at the screen. “They never seem to want me up on the Jumbotron anymore.”
“That’s probably because you flipped them off the last time they put you on it,” Jack said.
“Oh yeah—he’s right handsome,” Corner added, taking a sip of his beer. “I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason all those fans are screaming your name. Nothing to do with all those trade rumours.” He took another sip, nearly snorting through it when he started laughing. “Or because everyone knows the Bears kidnapped you out from under Montréal’s noses.”
“Can we please just focus on the game,” Shane muttered into his hand, still trying to hide his smile—though there was no chance in hell he was hiding the blush creeping up the back of his neck at this point.
“Of course we can, darling,” Yuna said.
The calm smile she flashed at them was enough to shut everyone up immediately—though Jack kept snickering under his breath somewhere in the row behind. For all of five seconds, anyway. Then someone down the row made a loud, poorly disguised whisper about “franchise players being kidnapped right before the playoffs,” and the laughter started all over again.
But eventually, the noise of the crowd dulled into something more manageable, and Shane kept his attention on the ice until it stopped feeling like he was under a spotlight.
The humour of the Jumbotron faded quickly as the next period proved him right.
The Bears got caught mid-change, their timing just a fraction off. Luke was still two strides from the bench when the puck turned over at the red line—a bad touch under pressure that bounced straight onto Carter’s stick—and suddenly they were pushing back the other way with numbers.
Shane leaned forward slightly, already seeing the lane open up before the pass was even made. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, watching as Marcus hesitated at the boards, caught between stepping up to challenge or sagging back to protect the blue line. Ryan jumped in early to close the gap through the neutral zone, but it pulled their line out of shape.
The Admirals attacked with speed through the neutral zone, forcing the defense to back in while Carter cut wide, dragging Prentice with him. Their late trailer slipped straight into the high slot, completely uncovered. There was no wind-up—just a quick, compact release that hit the back of the net before the Bears could recover.
The entire section groaned in unison as the scoreboard flipped.
02
01
Shane leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “That,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “is how you lose control of a game.”
Jack winced behind him. “Okay, yeah. Luke’s not gonna like that.”
“His coach is gonna like it even less,” Shane replied, glancing over at the Bears’ bench, where LeClaire stood watching the scoreboard with narrowed eyes—but at least he wasn’t openly fuming the way Pelletier would have been.
He turned to look at Ilya instead, who was already leaning forward on the bench, elbows braced against his knees as he watched the replay on the Jumbotron. His jaw tightened as the gap in coverage opened up again in slow motion. Shane followed his gaze, tracking the exact moment the defensive shape collapsed. One bad read. One late change. And suddenly no one owned the middle of the ice.
At this level, that was all it took.
Then Ilya reached down, tapped the blade of his stick twice against the rubber mat, and stood.
“Oh,” Shane murmured—because he knew that look. Of course he fucking did. He watched for it every time they played against each other.
It wasn’t frustration making Ilya’s eyes flash. It was calculation. The kind that meant he’d already replayed the last shift in his head and decided exactly how to make it everyone else’s problem.
Cassie leaned forward slightly, trying to follow his line of sight. “What?”
Shane’s mouth twitched faintly. “He’s about to be a massive asshole,” he said, amused, grinning when Ilya caught his eye for half a second as he stepped over the boards. There was something almost cocky flickering at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smirk, but close enough.
Shane huffed softly, almost fond despite himself, shifting forward in his seat as the line changed. “Go on, then,” he murmured under his breath. “Fucking prove it.”
Ilya won the faceoff against Scott again, but Gillis intercepted the pass to Victor, snapping it to Breezy, who settled the puck for half a second before pushing it up ice.
The Admirals had possession right up until they tried to reset their line through the neutral zone, their weak-side winger curling back to support. But Cliff read it early, stepping into the lane and stealing the puck before they could set up properly. He immediately turned up-ice, sending a quick pass to Ilya just inside the blue line.
Shane felt it in his gut the second Ilya started accelerating—the Admirals were still high in the offensive zone, and they’d left Ilya too much space to build speed through centre. Or maybe they’d just been caught flat-footed at the line, their gap blown open. Either way, they were scrambling now, pivoting too late as Ilya built speed straight down the middle lane.
Breezy was the only one close enough to even try to disrupt it, angling in hard from the side with a determined look on his face. But Ilya dropped his shoulder and cut inside on his edges, forcing Breezy to overcommit. His stick reached, overextended. His skates clipped awkwardly as he tried to recover, his shoulder slamming into the boards with a jarring thud that rattled the glass as the Admirals’ side of the crowd booed loudly.
Ilya was already half gone by the time any of the Admirals closed in on him.
He released the first shot low and quick, aiming for the far pad. Tommy made the save, his pad snapping out—but the rebound kicked straight into the slot, where Ilya had already followed through, knocking it high over Tommy’s blocker before the goalie could push across and seal the angle.
Shane actually laughed when the net rippled, the crowd exploding in a mix of groans and cheers.
03
01
Ilya pushed off toward the corner, his shoulder clipping Scott’s on the way through the lane. It was just enough contact to disrupt his stride without drawing a call. Then Ilya leaned in, stepping close enough that his mouth barely moved as he murmured something under his breath, that same smile still pulling at his lips.
Scott fired something back instantly, his lip curling as he snapped an insult over his shoulder, grinning like he thought he’d landed it. But Ilya just tilted his head, amused, tapping his chest—twice, right over the mic pack stitched into the jersey—as he winked.
Shane huffed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh as Scott’s expression shifted from smug to confused to outright horrified as the realisation hit. “He didn’t warn them he’s mic’d,” he muttered under his breath, almost delighted. “Fuck, the Admirals are gonna lose their shit if they’ve been chirping through this entire game.”
“Hm,” Cassie said, leaning into his arm as she smiled slightly. “I like you like this,” she murmured. “You’re fun when you finally relax.” She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “Should’ve known it’d take hockey to get you out of that good boy persona.”
“I am a good boy,” Shane muttered—and then immediately felt the words land wrong.
Heat climbed up the back of his neck, sudden and unavoidable, his brain helpfully replaying exactly how that had sounded out loud. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth like he could physically take it back, his shoulders hunching slightly as he stared down at the ice, very deliberately not looking at Cassie.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything. “That’s not—”
Cassie’s laugh didn’t help.
Shane exhaled hard through his nose, fighting a losing battle with the flush creeping up his face, and risked a glance back toward the ice instead—toward Ilya, who was already circling high through the neutral zone, looping back for support, still wearing that infuriating, knowing half-smile like he could feel Shane watching him from across the rink.
Which, honestly, he probably could.
“You can be a good boy and still have fun,” Cassie said lightly. “I think you probably need it after all that shit with the Voyageurs.” She bit her lip slightly, avoiding his eyes for a moment as she watched Cliff laugh with Ilya at the bench between shifts. “Cliff mentioned you didn’t want to talk about it. Which I get,” she added quickly. “I don’t think I’d want to talk about it either—but you know you deserve better than that, right?”
Shane didn’t answer right away.
On the ice, the puck cycled low to high, a clean breakout forming along the boards, but his attention drifted, snagging somewhere between her words and the echo of everything he’d been trying not to think about.
“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “It was never about what I thought I deserved. I just—” He shrugged slightly, his eyes still on the ice. “I dunno,” he admitted. “I built a life there. Made some really good friends. Found people who get me, which isn’t always the easiest thing for me to do.”
On the ice, the play turned over at the blue line—a forced entry with poor support. The Bears transitioned fast the other way, Ilya already pivoting into open ice before the puck even reached him.
“And it didn’t start out the way it is now,” Shane continued, wincing slightly when Scott checked Ilya from behind and kicked the puck loose back toward the other end of the rink. “It was like—I made one small concession because it was easier than admitting I didn’t like what they were saying, or doing, and then—”
He exhaled softly, shaking his head. “It just kept stacking. One thing after another, until it didn’t feel like a choice anymore.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I dunno. It felt small when I was in it. And now—” His mouth twisted faintly. “Now it just feels obvious in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”
A whistle cut through the ice as Ilya and Carter got tied up along the boards again, Cliff stepping in to separate them before it could turn into a fight. LeClaire made a gesture from the boards, signalling for another line change before things could escalate.
“Hm,” Cassie said, nodding, thoughtful rather than judgmental. “That’s kind of how it goes, isn’t it? It never starts as something big.”
She leaned back slightly in her seat, her eyes flicking to the ice as play reset in the neutral zone.
“Maybe my stupid husband was right about kidnapping you, then,” she added, her eyes narrowing as she watched a forward take a clean but heavy check into the boards. “It’s easier to see the shit you shouldn’t have to put up with when you’re not in the middle of it.”
Shane huffed quietly at that but didn’t argue.
She took a sip of her drink, tilting her head slightly as she thought. “It was the same for me in my old job,” she went on. “When I was still in cardiology. It’s—ah—it’s not the same, obviously. And I didn’t have, like, a million people watching and posting about it.”
“But the way my manager used to speak to me? Or when the consultants came in for rounds and just stood there shouting at us in the middle of the unit, in front of patients and colleagues—” She sighed. “They weren’t all like that, obviously. But it wasn’t until I left that I realised I deserved better than being treated like an inconvenience to someone else’s ego.”
She huffed out a quiet laugh beside him. “And don’t get me wrong, my manager now is an asshole too, but for completely different reasons. My colleagues are lovely, though, and the doctors are all terrified of pissing off our charge nurse, so they talk to us like colleagues instead of—uh—an inconvenience, I guess.” She nudged his arm again, lighter this time. “Environment matters more than people like to admit.”
Shane nodded faintly, his eyes still on the ice, though he couldn’t have said who actually had the puck anymore.
Cassie shook her cup slightly, watching the last of the blue liquid catch the arena lights. “Sorry, I’m rambling—I might’ve had too many of these,” she added, half-smiling. “I just wanted to say you deserve better.”
Her expression shifted, something more amused creeping in. “And it’s really fun watching Ilya be so completely gone for you,” she added quietly. “I swear he nearly missed a line change earlier because he was too busy looking at you.”
Shane let out a quiet breath at that, something easing in his chest as his gaze flicked back to the ice, just in time to catch Ilya hopping the boards mid-change, timing his next shift cleanly with the trailing winger so they didn’t get caught with too many men.
He barely broke stride as he joined the rush, but his head turned, just slightly—like he was making sure Shane was still watching. Shane’s mouth twitched faintly before he could stop it, something warm and unfamiliar settling low in his chest as he held Ilya’s gaze for half a second longer than he probably should have.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “It’s nice—getting to be proud of him without worrying about what everyone else thinks.” He paused, reconsidering. “I mean, I still get anxious when I think about what they’re thinking, or saying, or—ugh—it’s fucking terrifying, actually.”
“Hm,” Cassie nodded. “Don’t worry,” she said suddenly. “The Bears are all assholes, but we’ll teach you how to tell people to go fuck themselves and actually mean it.” She nudged his arm again, about to say something else when both of them jumped slightly as the crowd let out a loud chorus of boos around them.
Shane turned back toward the ice just in time to see Carter finishing his lap along the boards, one glove raised as Scott and Gillis caught up to him at the bench. Sticks tapped against the boards in a sharp, rhythmic rattle as they leaned over the rubber kick plate, shouting something Shane couldn’t quite make out over the noise.
He watched the scoreboard flip instead.
03
02
“Damn,” he muttered, his eyes flicking instinctively to the game clock—09:42 left in the third.
His brain did the math automatically, years of conditioning slotting the situation into place before he could stop it. One-goal game. Late third. The Admirals swapping their line out before the faceoff. Fresh legs against players who’d already been out on the ice too long.
“Think they’ll manage to even it up again?” Jack asked.
“It’s last-change advantage,” David murmured, his attention fixed squarely on the ice. “The Admirals have a fresh line out while Boston’s stuck finishing their shift—they’re likely trying to catch Ilya’s line while they’re tired.”
On the ice, Ilya’s shoulders rose and fell heavier than before—not exhausted, not yet—but close enough that it showed in the small things. His stride lost a fraction of its bite coming out of the turn. His top hand slid a little lower on his stick, shortening his reach.
Behind him, Cliff bent at the waist, tapping his stick twice against the ice as he reset his positioning, calling something under his breath. Victor’s jaw was clenched tight as he tracked the opposing line finishing their change, his eyes flicking between the puck and the far boards.
Boston didn’t have the luxury of changing. Not without giving up possession.
“The Admirals are playing smart,” Yuna murmured quietly, nodding toward the far blue line where they were keeping the Bears hemmed in just long enough to force their tired legs into mistakes.
They all watched in tense silence as Matti stepped up and separated Victor from the puck with a hard check on his blind side, angling him off along the boards. The puck kicked loose immediately, and Cameron was already there to collect it before Ilya could close the gap. It was a clean turnover, quick and controlled, and Cameron didn’t hesitate. He pushed it up ice in one smooth motion, transitioning from defense to attack before the Bears could reset.
The play cracked open straight up the middle.
“Shit,” Cassie breathed.
The puck was back on Matti’s stick in a heartbeat, fed through the neutral zone with speed. He hit the line with control, splitting the defense before the Bears could close the gap. One stride, two—threading between them as they pivoted too late to angle him off or disrupt the breakaway.
The crowd surged to its feet all at once, the noise in the stands spiking as the space opened in front of him.
Ilya pivoted hard, his edges biting as he pushed off to chase. He was a step behind—half a step, maybe—but it was enough for Matti to drive straight for the net.
Brad squared up at the top of the crease, dropping slightly into his stance as he read the angle. Matti shifted left, then right, trying to pull him out of position. The first shot snapped high—caught clean off Brad’s glove. The rebound dropped dangerously into the slot.
Matti lunged for it, jamming a second attempt low, but Brad kicked it out with his right pad. It gave Ilya just enough time to close the gap and lean into Matti from behind, driving him off balance just as he tried to follow up again, disrupting the shot without taking a penalty.
Artos came crashing in next, his stick down, trying to shovel the loose puck through traffic, but it deflected off a tangle of skates and sticks, bouncing into a scramble in the low slot. Prentice and Cameron both dove for it, battling Victor for possession. The puck rebounded off Brad’s pad once, then twice—before clipping the post with a sharp, ringing clang that echoed through the arena.
For a second, everything seemed to hold its breath as the puck skittered loose again, wobbling dangerously across the crease—
And then the final horn sounded.
For a split second, no one moved, like the sound hadn’t quite registered. Then the Bears collapsed inward all at once—relief breaking through them in a messy, exhausted wave.
They’d held on against the draw.
Barely.
Brad stayed down on his knees for a beat longer, his head tipped back, before pushing himself upright.
On the other side of the net, Ilya straightened slowly, his chest heaving. He turned just enough to track the puck as it drifted harmlessly toward the far corner of the zone, then let his head tip forward for a second, his eyes closing as the noise of the crowd crashed back in around them.
Artos slammed a hand against his shoulder as he skated past, shouting something sharp and breathless in Russian that sounded like victory tangled up with disbelief. But across the ice, the Admirals peeled away, frustration written into every line of their bodies, while the Boston crowd roared loud enough to shake the rafters.
Ilya lifted his head slowly, still catching his breath, and looked straight at Shane through the press of bodies along the glass. His helmet was gone now, his hair damp and curling at his temples, sweat and melted ice catching under the arena lights. His visor hung crooked where it had been knocked loose, his chinstrap dangling.
He shot Shane a quick, crooked grin, lifting the collar of his jersey to his mouth as he shouted something Shane couldn’t quite make out over the roar of the crowd—something rough and breathless, and unmistakably meant for him. And Shane just—
He didn’t fucking care if it was something outrageous or too obvious when the mic strapped to Ilya’s jersey inevitably caught every word. He didn’t even care that the broadcast cameras were already swinging toward the glass, hunting for reactions, for anything they could spin into a headline before the night was over.
He was already on his feet with the rest of the crowd, still clapping as he grinned helplessly, pressed shoulder to shoulder with a wall of Boston supporters in black and gold. The final horn had already gone, but it felt like it was still ringing somewhere inside him.
The Bears’ bench spilled over the boards in a rush—sticks tossed aside, gloves dropped mid-stride, helmets flung without a second thought. Victor lost an edge in the scramble and took down Artos and Patrick with him, and it only made the whole thing louder, messier, more real.
Ilya got swallowed into it almost immediately as bodies collided around Brad at the net in a chaotic pile of black and gold, players shouting over each other, grabbing at jerseys, knocking into the officials who were already backing out of the way.
“Let’s go Bears!” Conner shouted, his hands cupped around his mouth as the entire section picked up the chant, the building practically shaking under the thunder of stomping feet and hands pounding against the glass.
Shane glanced sideways, catching sight of his parents—his dad laughing openly, his mum half crying as she grabbed his arm and pulled him into a quick kiss. The normalcy of it hit him just as hard as everything else, and he laughed too, breathless and a little unsteady, dragging a hand over his face even as the tears slipped through anyway.
The cameras could catch it, he thought distantly. The commentators could say whatever they fucking wanted. They could replay it, slow it down, speculate, pick it apart frame by frame—
For once, he just didn’t fucking care.