Archive of Our Own

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June 24, 2021

2:05 PM

Las Vegas

Ilya always forgets how hot Las Vegas is in summer. The dry desert air leaves him feeling dehydrated and sandblasted right away, but he kind of loves it. After living in places that are bitter cold for half the year, he relishes the warmth and the blazing sun on his skin. 

Shane’s not such a fan, but he doesn’t complain. Much.

The nights here are mild, though. Once the sun sets, the temperature drops drastically, to something much more comfortable. It will be perfect for their dinner later. Ilya smiles to himself as he thinks about what he’s got planned, hoping that Shane will get out of his own head long enough to enjoy it. 

He takes Shane’s hand as they exit the shuttle from the airport in front of the hotel and a little thrill races through him when Shane’s fingers slot into his without hesitation. As if it no longer matters at all who sees them. 

That’s a good sign. 

At the desk, Ilya checks in, Shane at his side. He listens politely to all the amenities the hotel offers, though he’s pretty well acquainted with them already. It’s not Ilya’s first visit, nor Shane’s, though maybe Shane doesn’t remember. It’s been years, after all. 

It’s also not the same hotel where the MLH awards will be held this year, so the chances of running into another player here are pretty slim. Most of them book rooms at the same place as the banquet, since there are often press events to attend beforehand. 

Ilya hasn’t been nominated for anything this year, not that he expected to be. Shane, however, as a presenter and guest of honor, will be busy the day of, with two separate press conferences, and a rehearsal. 

No doubt sports journalists will want to fawn all over him and ask questions about his alleged comeback. Shane hasn’t said it, but he’s nervous. His speech has improved so much it’s almost normal again, but sometimes, when he’s tired or anxious, it gets a little jumbled and he starts forgetting words. Or maybe, he just lets his head and his nerves get in the way. 

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Rozanov,” the clerk tells him and slides the little envelope containing their key cards across the counter. “Let us know if there’s anything you need.” 

Ilya thanks her and turns to Shane. “Come on. Let’s go up to the room. We have some time to relax before dinner.” 

“We have dinner plans?” 

“Yes,” Ilya says without elaborating. He heads toward the elevator. “But we have time for other things before.” 

“Other things.” Shane snorts. “You plan to keep those promises you made on the plane?” 

“Maybe.” 

The elevator door opens and Ilya hits the button for the penthouse. If Shane notices, he doesn’t say anything. 

“This place is familiar,” Shane says. “Did they have the awards here one year?” 

“They did. It has been a while, though.” 

It doesn’t dawn on Shane exactly where they are until they step inside the room. The furniture is different – it has been years, after all, but the open concept layout is the same, and so is the view. Not that Shane would know what it looks like during the day, but Ilya remembers. 

“Is this…?” Shane’s eyes get wide as he turns in a slow circle, taking it in. 

“Yes. Same room.” 

“Holy shit.” 

Ilya chuckles and carries both their bags to the bedroom, where he’s assaulted by memories. Ilya in a chair, Shane, on the bed, putting on a show for him, embarrassed, but determined to do a good job. How Ilya wanted to kiss him into the mattress and fall asleep next to him, and how fucking impossible it was for either of them to have that.  

“God,” Shane says, blushing as he stares at the bed. No doubt remembering the same thing. “That night was something else. I’d never done anything like that before.”

“I remember,” Ilya says with a grin. 

Ilya’s… sad all of a sudden. Not the kind that will take him so low he wants to be erased from the world, just regretful for all the time they wasted, denying themselves, torturing themselves.  

“I wanted you to stay,” Ilya says quietly. “That night. I had an early flight, yes, but…”

“Really?” 

“I wish I had kissed you. But, it would have made it harder. For you. Me.”

“Me too. I regretted it later.” 

“No more regrets,” Ilya says and backs Shane toward the bed. “So, what should we do? Take a nap? Watch some TV?” 

“I could really use a shower.” 

Ilya’s thinking about reenacting that night, but a shower also sounds good. Best to save fooling around for later.

He takes Shane by the hand and leads him into the large, fancy bathroom, which is just as nice as he remembers. Black granite, brass fixtures, fancy water pressure settings, frosted glass.  

They exchange kisses as they undress each other, leaving their clothing in a pile on the granite floor, hands wandering over each other’s skin. They make out in the shower, neither in any hurry to escalate things. 

Ilya loves that he’s gotten a second chance to do this, and that Shane is still willing to let him after all these years. He loves that he’s going to be able to for many more years to come. Wild, that their hunger for each other is the one thing that has never changed. 

He’s going to have to be very careful here, though. His medication makes it a little difficult to get off more than once a day. Sometimes, not even that much. Going there now means he might not be able to later.

It’s one of those side-effects he’d been warned about, and one he’s not at all a fan of, but it could be worse. It could have annihilated his sex-drive altogether. 

Ilya’s willing to give Shane whatever he wants now, though. And he does, slowly, lazily, on his knees in the shower, with Shane’s fingers tangled in his hair, murmuring encouragement in stilted, clumsy Russian. 

Later, after they’re both clean and dried, they tumble into the bed, where they exchange slow, unhurried kisses on top of the luxurious sheets. It’s sweet and indulgent and it’s been a while since they’ve done this. The fact that they can is still nothing short of a miracle, for more than one reason. 

Ilya came so close to losing this. He doesn’t plan to waste a second from now on. Whatever happens, he wants to make the most of it. 

“What time is dinner?” Shane eventually asks. 

“Eight.” 

“Good. I could use a nap.” 

“Yes. Has been a stressful day for you.” Ilya drags his hand through Shane’s hair, his fingers accidentally finding one of the scars on his scalp. A pang of sadness cuts through him, thinking of how it came to be. “It was very brave of you to get on the plane today, you know. I thought you might change your mind.” 

“I almost did. When we were in line, I thought really hard about running away,” Shane says with a small laugh. “But, I’d still have to do it eventually. And I wouldn’t have gotten to come here with you.”

“I am very glad you did.” 

Shane pulls back, a hand against Ilya’s cheek. “Thank you. For just… everything.” 

Ilya hums sleepily and presses his lips to Shane’s palm. 

“I mean it. You’ve been… I don’t think I would have come this far without you.” 

“I think you would have,” Ilya says. “I have never met someone so determined as you are.” 

Ilya doesn’t tell him that he would not have survived if Shane hadn’t. Maybe he would have stuck around physically for a while, but on the inside, he would have died a little more every day that Shane was gone until he just… faded into nothing. He wouldn’t have bothered seeing his therapist anymore, and he definitely wouldn’t have gone on medication. He wouldn’t have cared if he won another hockey game. He would have disappeared. Become nothing.

The crash would have killed the both of them, just in different ways. Because Shane’s nightmare, up until then, had been being found out. Ilya’s nightmare has always been losing Shane.

God willing, they’ll get to grow old together. Play hockey for another ten years or so. Adopt some dogs and a couple kids. Spend their summers at the cottage. Maybe Ilya will become a junior’s coach, maybe Shane will have a podcast or a regular spot on the MLH network. 

Only good things ahead for them. 

Ilya knows this. They’ve struggled enough. And after tonight, maybe they won’t have to for much longer. 

7:55 PM

Shane has no idea what to expect when Ilya takes him up to the hotel’s rooftop, but he does like that Ilya is so excited about it. His glittering eyes and smug smile are infectious, and Shane finds himself grinning back at him in the elevator without really knowing why. 

It’s good to see Ilya finding himself again. For the last month his moods have been more even and that sadness he carried around with him all the time seems to have lifted. Shane’s cautiously hopeful it means Ilya’s days of being scared of himself are over, or at least, will be few and far between.  

And of course, Ilya looks fantastic in his tailored suit – dark gray jacket and pants, white shirt, lavender tie, hair slicked back. The overall effect is more high-powered captain of industry or fashion model than a guy who makes his living playing a sport that routinely involves concussions and getting teeth knocked out. 

They exit the elevator and Ilya leads him to a spot that’s been curtained off and marked with a sign that says Reserved: Private Event. A slight breeze makes the curtains billow and the night air is balmy and dry without a hint of humidity. Perfect for outdoor dining. 

A hostess appears out of nowhere, her smile warm and welcoming. “Good evening, gentlemen. Right this way, please.”

Shane’s heart is thundering, but in a good way this time, as he follows her behind the curtain, where a table is set for two, complete with candles and flowers, and the view of the city lights reminds him of another night, a long time ago. 

It might even be the same place. If so, Ilya is certainly taking him down memory lane.

“Please, have a seat,” the hostess says. “I’m Rachel. I’ll be your server tonight. We’ll start your six course meal with champagne and an aperitif of Russian Red and Beluga caviar served with blini and creme fraiche.”

Ilya grins at him across the table as Rachel pops the cork on a bottle of dry champagne and ferries a pair of small plates to the table. 

Shane inspects the offering as she fills their glasses. In the center of each plate are two small pancake looking things with a spoonful of caviar in the middle, one an orange color, the other a deep black. The plate itself is ice cold when he touches the edge.

Over the years, caviar has been served at various functions he’s attended, but Shane has never actually tried it before. Not because he didn’t think he would like it, but because he rarely sampled the options at hors d'oeuvres tables, put off by the idea of food sitting around for a while like that. Warm fish eggs never sounded like something that was safe to consume.

He would probably never try it on his own, either, but Shane’s decision to do things he’s never done before means he’s going to try the caviar and he’s going to let Ilya plan adventures that take him outside his comfort zone. After all, tomorrow is not a guarantee. 

“Enjoy,” Rachel says and disappears behind the curtain. 

“This is fancy,” Shane says. “You really went all out, huh?”

“Yes.” Ilya gets up and moves his chair and plate so that he’s sitting next to Shane instead of across from him. “Have you had this before?” 

“Never.” 

“Okay. I will explain, because there is a difference and you should know about it. Russian red caviar comes from salmon usually. Is a very good, respectable caviar,” Ilya says. “But, Beluga caviar is the best in the world. Very expensive. Very delicious.” 

“Beluga, like the whale?” 

“No. Is from Beluga sturgeon. Very important fish in Russia.” Ilya takes a sip of his champagne. “Is best served with a good vodka, but a nice champagne is okay, too.” 

Shane’s glad there’s no vodka involved in this. He’s never been a fan. Not even the quality stuff Ilya drinks changed his mind about that. 

“Are these pancakes?” Shane asks as he picks up one with Russian red on it. 

“They are blini. Traditional Russian dish. Like a pancake but not.” He picks up one of his own. “Go ahead. Try.” 

Shane pops it into his mouth and Ilya watches his reaction with great interest. 

At first, all Shane tastes is the creme fraiche, but then there’s a salty, briny flavor as the eggs pop against the roof of his mouth. It should be unpleasant, but it isn’t. 

“Do you like it?” 

He’s surprised to find that he does. It’s not something he would go out of his way to get, but he definitely wouldn’t turn it down if it was offered again. 

“It’s pretty good.” 

“Yes. Now, take a sip of champagne and then try the other.” 

This one is even better, just as Ilya said it was. Still salty, but also rich and kind of… buttery or something.  

“I like this one a lot,” Shane says. 

Ilya’s smile is so pleased, Shane is glad he didn’t tease him about the impromptu caviar lesson. He realizes it’s something Ilya decided to share with him from home. He could have just let Shane eat it without comment, but he’d taken extra steps to let him know that these are explicitly Russian things, and very special. 

“Thank you for this,” Shane says. He takes a sip of his champagne. “Does it make you miss home?” 

“A little,” Ilya says with a small nod. He sips his own glass, thoughtful. “The first time I tried caviar was with my mother. It was New Years and my father had a big party with all his important friends. I was supposed to be in bed, but I wanted to see. She found me hiding at the top of the stairs and sent me to my room. But then she brought me some of the things from the party and we ate them there, on the floor beside the bed, me in my pajamas, her in her fancy gown. The caviar was my favorite. She told me it meant I would always have a taste for expensive things.” 

He smiles. It’s soft and a little sad. Shane’s heart hurts for him, for how the loss still causes him pain.

“I guess she wasn’t wrong,” Ilya says, his smile turning wry. “I do like expensive things.” 

“That’s an understatement,” Shane agrees. “How old were you then?” 

“Seven, maybe?” 

“I bet you were a really cute kid.” 

“I was adorable,” Ilya says, flashing that brilliant grin of his, the one that always makes Shane melt inside. “But you were, too, with your little freckles and your fat cheeks.” 

“I didn’t have fat cheeks!”

“Yes you did. I have seen the pictures,” Ilya says. “Is okay. I did, too.” 

Shane almost tells him he wishes he could see pictures of little Ilya, but he knows Ilya doesn’t have any, and he doesn’t want to make him sad.

Ilya tops off Shane’s glass, and then his own. Shane didn’t realize he already had so much. He should probably pace himself. Champagne has a way of going straight to his head. 

Rachel returns and clears the plates. “How is everything?” 

“Delicious, thank you.” 

“Great,” she says and places fresh plates in front of each of them, unphased by Ilya’s seating change. “For our next course, we have a white asparagus bisque with maitake mushroom brioche.” 

“Wow,” Shane says. “That smells amazing.” 

“This is one of my favorites,” Rachel says candidly. “You’re lucky. We only get white asparagus once a year, so it’s always a treat when we have it.” 

Then she leaves them to their soup. It tastes even better than it smells.

“God, I wonder if dad could make this,” Shane says. “This is really good.”

“Probably,” Ilya says. “I like his crab bisque very much. He taught me how to make it, so maybe we could try when we get home.”

“Definitely” 

They discuss wedding cake options until Rachel returns with salads of marinated bok choy, tangerines, and watercress, topped with thin slices of seared tuna, drizzled in a soy-ginger dressing. The salad is followed by wagyu beef with pencil-thin rainbow carrots and fresh green beans on the side. Then a palate cleanser of bergamot-lavender sorbet, and a dessert of key lime cheesecake so rich and decadent, Shane can’t finish it. 

By the time they’re done, they’ve killed the bottle of champagne and Shane is fairly drunk. He’s never had a meal like this, not even at the fancier events he’s attended over the years. Every single thing was delicious, and though the menu was fairly eclectic, somehow everything complimented everything else. 

To know Ilya picked this specific menu with him in mind tells Shane just how much thought he’s put into this. He can’t even imagine what else he might have planned if this is just the beginning. 

“This was amazing, Ilya,” he says. “Thank you for doing this.” 

“I told you I would come up with a romantic date for us.” 

“This is going to be hard to top.” 

“Yes. Maybe.” His hand covers Shane’s, his smile mysterious. “Are you ready to go?” 

“Do we need to pay?” 

Ilya waves him off. “Already taken care of.” 

“So, back to the room?” 

“No. I am not done with you yet.” 

“There’s more?” 

Ilya just laughs. 

10:36 PM

Ilya’s heart is pounding, though outwardly, he keeps his cool as they take the elevator down to the second floor, where there are an assortment of shops and other distractions available to guests. He’s a bit drunk and very nervous, but he hopes Shane doesn’t notice. Shane is more drunk than Ilya’s ever seen him, but it’s the giddy kind brought on by champagne, not the kind that will have him hugging a toilet later.

Downstairs, under the guise of using the restroom, Ilya texts Yuna to let her know they’re done with dinner. 

For a few minutes, they stroll around, checking out the amenities and shops. There are a lot of high-end brand stores, all closed at this hour, but maybe one or two he’d like to check out later. Ilya laughs when he spots a larger than life photo of himself in the Tom Ford storefront, looking pretty damn sexy in his suit, arrogant and unsmiling, with his shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal his mother’s cross and a peek of his pecs. 

“God,” Shane says. “It’s not fair.”

“What?” 

“That you got all the sex-appeal.” 

“Well, I was never hockey’s good boy, was I?” Ilya teases. He turns to Shane and gives him what he hopes is a seductive smile. “But, pretty, boring Canadian boys have their appeal, too.” 

He’s overwhelmed by the urge to kiss Shane right here, in public, in front of whoever might be watching. 

Soon. He’ll be able to do that soon.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and he checks it quickly. 

[Yuna] We’re here!

“Something important?” Shane asks, a note of suspicion in his voice. 

“Nothing. Just stupid e-mail. Porsche really wants me to buy the new Cayenne.” 

Ilya can practically hear Shane rolling his eyes. “Like you need another.”

“I could trade it in,” Ilya says with a shrug. “New colors are nice.” 

“And you can still only drive it four months a year.” 

Ilya will never admit his sportscars are totally impractical in Ottawa. Even though they really are.

“Yes, but for four months a year I don’t look like a suburban dad named Brad driving my boring, practical SUV.” He stops and leans over. “And you look very sexy in passenger seat.”

“Is that another one of your fetishes?” 

“Yes. Passenger princesses are hot.”

“Who taught you that?” Shane asks, laughing. 

“Harris. Of course.”  

He guides Shane toward their destination, pointing out various things along the way to distract him, trying not to worry too much about Shane’s reaction. Ilya has faith this crazy idea of his is going to be one of the best decisions he’s ever made. He has a little bit less faith that Shane will be on board, but Ilya has taken care to arrange things so that maybe he will be. 

“Are you okay? You’re being weird,” Shane says, his suspicion plain. “Where are we going, anyway?" 

“You will see,” Ilya says and stops just shy of where they’re going. “And you’re going to love it. But first. Tell me if you still want to marry me.” 

“Of course I do,” Shane says, confused. “We just talked about wedding cakes.” 

“How much do you want to marry me?” 

“I don’t know. I’d marry you right now, if that were possible.” 

“Yes?” Ilya was hoping for that answer. “Then let’s do it.” 

“What?” Shane lets out a laugh of disbelief. “Ilya. We can’t.”

Ilya tips his head at the doorway behind him. The sign says Chapel.

“We are in Vegas. Twenty-four hour weddings. We could be married tonight. If you want.” 

“Wait.” Shane’s eyes are huge. “You meant that literally?” 

“Yes. We can get married right now.” Ilya tugs on Shane’s hand, and Shane follows, aghast but completely without a fight. “We have rings. We are in love. Is easy. Simple. And then I am all yours.” 

“Ilya. We can’t.” Shane says, but there’s a spark of hope in his eyes, a want that’s not so different from the one Ilya sees in the bedroom. “You know we can’t.” 

“What is the difference between now and waiting until July?”

“You know my mom would kill us, right?” 

“Would she?” Ilya asks with a smile as he leads Shane into the reception area. 

“Ilya, she’s already planned half –” Shane stops in his tracks. His hand comes up to cover his mouth and his eyes get misty. “Oh my god.”  

Yuna and David Hollander stand just inside reception – David in a navy suit with a silver and navy paisley tie, Yuna in a slim, navy blue halter gown with silver beads on the bodice. They’re both beaming and probably a little drunk themselves. Ilya might have arranged a special dinner for them, too.

“Ilya,” Shane says a little helplessly. “This is – holy shit.” 

“Surprise,” Ilya says. 

“Hey, son,” David says, grinning as he gives Shane a fatherly hug and a pat on the back. “How was dinner?” 

“It was great, but –” Shane manages, rendered partially speechless. “Holy shit.” 

Shane’s shock is so cute, his face red and a little scrunched as he struggles not to cry. 

Yuna leans in and kisses Shane on the cheek. She laughs as she takes Shane’s face in her hands. “Red, yellow, or green?” she asks. 

“Red. Green. Fuck. I don’t know. All of them,” Shane says. Ilya can’t tell if he’s laughing or about to hyperventilate. “Holy shit. This is a lot.”

Ilya reaches for Shane’s hand. “Do you need a minute? To think about it?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, a little breathless. “But, wait. Will this be legal in Canada? Like, the same as doing it there?” 

Of course Shane would ask that. Fortunately, Ilya covered his bases beforehand. This was not an impulsive decision on his part, though it probably feels that way to Shane. 

“Yes. I checked first. Vegas wedding is valid in Canada. No problems.” 

Shane turns to his parents. "You… you guys knew? And you’re okay with this?” 

“We’re here aren’t we?” Yuna asks with a smile. 

“Dad?”

“Well, when Ilya told us his idea, I thought it was risky, just knowing how you are about schedule changes and things,” David says, “but I’m in if you are.” 

Shane covers his face with both hands and takes a couple of deep, slow breaths. Ilya’s pretty sure he mutters holy shit at least two more times before his hands drop away and he throws his arms around Ilya’s neck. 

“I hate you so much for this.” 

“No you don’t. You love it.” 

“Yeah,” Shane laughs but he sounds emotional. “I really do.” 

“So, you want to do this, then?” Ilya whispers in his ear.  

“This is such a bad idea.” 

“Everything we do is a bad idea. Never stopped us before.”   

“Yeah. Okay. Let’s fucking go.” 

Ilya grins. “Okay.”

10:51 PM

The actual Chapel is even nicer than it looked in the pictures. It also doesn’t look much like a church. The walls are covered with heavy off-white brocade fabric with silver threads running through it, the floors are made of beautiful white marble, and there are red roses everywhere – in large floor vases, on the altar, in ribbon-tied bundles attached to stands along the aisle, and in the bouquet in Yuna’s hands. 

It’s been a while since Ilya felt like bursting into tears. Not since he started his meds, but this time there would be a good reason for it if he did. He’s about to marry the love of his life, after all these years. He finally gets to keep something he loves. That would be worth crying over, if he were to allow himself to do it.

But he won’t. No tears on his wedding day. Not even happy ones.

He barely hears anything the pastor says. The words are probably similar to the ones he’s heard at other weddings over the years. He’s been to enough of them to know the script is pretty standard. A part of him thinks maybe he should have written them instead, but though his grasp of the English language is pretty solid these days, there aren’t enough words to express his feelings anyway. None that are big enough to say what he wants to say.

All his focus is on Shane, who by some miracle, is still here with him, alive and strong and beautiful and ready to take this leap with him. He detects no reluctance on Shane’s part, no hesitance to do this, only love and excitement. 

Ilya has waited for this for so long, he can hardly believe it’s really happening. A part of him maybe believed that it wouldn’t.      

He’s so busy looking at Shane, he almost misses his cue. 

“Do you, Ilya, take Shane to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness –” 

“Yes, yes. All of that,” Ilya interrupts. “I do.”   

Behind him, David chuckles, which causes Shane to laugh, too. 

“Okay then,” the pastor says. “Shane do you take Ilya –”

“Yep. Me too,” Shane says. 

“Shane, you have to say I do,” Yuna scolds, but she’s also struggling not to laugh. 

“Fine. Yeah. I do.”   

Thrilled, and very close to tears in spite of himself, Ilya steps forward and grabs Shane’s face with both of his hands and kisses him. It’s an objectively terrible kiss – they’re both giggling, still giddy from the champagne and both too ridiculously, stupidly in love for it to matter.  

This time, the pastor joins in on the laughter. When they don’t stop, he clears his throat. “We haven’t quite gotten to that part yet, gentlemen.” 

“Oh, sorry,” Ilya says, flashing a sheepish, apologetic grin, even though he doesn’t regret it at all. “I forgot there is more.”

“It happens more than you know,” the pastor says. “Do you have the rings?” 

Ilya tugs Shane’s ring from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He takes Shane’s hand in his and repeats the words the pastor tells him to say as he slips the gold and black band onto Shane’s finger. A moment later, Shane does the same. 

The weight of it on Ilya’s finger is unfamiliar, but very welcome. It means he finally belongs to Shane Hollander, the way he’s wanted to for years.

“By the power vested in me by the State of Nevada, I now pronounce you husband and husband,” the pastor says. “Now you may kiss.”

This time, Ilya makes sure it’s a good one. 

June 25, 2021

12:10 AM

Las Vegas

They’re both still drunk when they stumble into the penthouse, having indulged in an additional two glasses each of champagne to celebrate while they signed the paperwork.  

Ilya’s definitely not supposed to drink this much – a drink or two every now and then is not forbidden on his meds, but it’s not really recommended either. He’s not worried, though. It’s not like he drinks much at all anymore. One night of overindulgence isn’t going to hurt anything. Especially not on his wedding night.

Shane’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes sparkle in the dim lamplight. His smile is adorably goofy and Ilya can’t help but back him up against the edge of the completely unnecessary dining table that’s just past the door. He strips off Shane’s suit jacket and then his tie and casts them both aside with a flourish. Both pieces land on the tabletop, knocking aside the metal sculpture that serves as a centerpiece.

“We are married,” he murmurs, half giggling in Shane’s ear. He’s probably said it a dozen times already, but he can’t quite get over the fact that Shane Hollander is his husband and they’re married. Legally. For real. “We are so stupid.” 

“I can’t believe we did this,” Shane giggles. “God, I love you so much.”

Ilya wants to devour him. He shoves Shane back against the table’s polished wooden top and tugs at the buttons of his dress shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the freshly exposed skin with wanton, hungry abandon. 

He’d planned to take it slow, but fuck, Shane is his husband now. His intoxicated brain keeps tripping over this new information, trying to assimilate it, and it’s playing on repeat like a broken record. 

Ilya can’t get Shane’s clothes off fast enough – he tugs impatiently at Shane’s belt and shoes, strips off his pants and his unbuttoned shirt, leaving him in nothing but his underwear and spread out on the table like a feast. 

He’s only dimly aware that he’s still fully dressed as he steps back to admire Shane’s body. Shane has worked so hard over the last couple months to get back into shape and it shows. 

“Beautiful,” Ilya murmurs.  

“Take me to bed,” Shane says in Russian and it breaks Ilya’s brain completely. 

Ilya hooks his arms under Shane’s knees and lifts him up off the table. Shane’s arms loop around his neck, and Ilya carries him into the bedroom, where he deposits him on the bed. Unable to help himself, Ilya drops his full weight on top of him, kissing him hard as Shane’s hands tangle in his hair with a needy purr. 

“Why are you still dressed?” Shane asks. 

“Maybe you should fix that, then.” 

Shane’s just as careless as Ilya was, tossing pieces of Ilya’s clothing away without any concern for where they land – his tie on the pillow, his shirt across the comforter, his pants in a pile on the floor. 

And finally, finally, Ilya gets to kiss Shane into the mattress the way he wanted to all those years ago, in this same room, back when they were young and stupid and having something like this was impossible. 

He feels so blessed to get a second chance. 

Blessed, to finally get forever. 

1:03 AM

Ilya’s half draped over Shane's chest, his hair still damp from the shower. He toys with the ring on Shane’s finger, spinning it around like a fidget toy. The soft smile on his face is all Shane needs to know they’ve done the right thing. He’s done the right thing.

A month is not that long a wait in the grand scheme of things, but Ilya needed this. The meds might have brought back some of his confidence, but they don’t do much to fix his unspoken fear of being abandoned. That’s something Shane didn’t notice until recently and he regrets that he didn’t. After Ilya gave so much of himself these last few months, maybe at the cost of his own well-being sometimes, marrying him now was the least Shane could do. Maybe now, that fear will go away, too.

Shane doesn’t have a single regret about tonight. The worst is behind them now. If he can survive a plane crash, and Ilya can survive months of depression so deep, it made it hard to function some days, they can weather the coming media shit-storm. 

“When do you want to make the announcement?” Shane asks. 

“Now, if you want,” Ilya says. He caresses Shane’s ring with a fingertip, then draws Shane’s knuckles to his lips. “But, whenever you are ready.” 

It’s tempting to do it now. Just say fuck it and let the chips fall where they may. For Shane, it’s still a terrifying idea, to have the world know the truth, but it’s also exciting, as long as it’s on their terms and no one else’s. 

And to think, a year ago, Shane would have been petrified at just the thought of this. Now he can hardly wait to get started. 

“How about after the awards?” Shane asks. “I don’t want it to be all about us. Not with the press here.” 

“When we get home, then.” 

“Yeah. That way we have time to plan it out. You know. Decide what we want to say.”

“I like that idea,” Ilya says. “Farah has written a statement for us already. I will send it to you to look at in the morning. The Chapel is supposed to send our pictures, too.” 

Even better. Shane’s not particularly eloquent, especially not when it comes to writing. Ilya can be, when the mood strikes him, but sometimes he’s too much to the point and would probably just write: We got married and fuck you if you don’t like it. 

“You talked to Farah about this?” 

“Of course.” Ilya yawns. “You are not the only one who can make plans.”

“For the record, I love that you did this.” 

“Yes?” 

“Da.” 

“Good. Because you are stuck with me now.” Ilya’s sleepy grin is precious. “And there are more plans for tomorrow.” 

“There’s more?” Shane asks, surprised. “I’m not sure there’s anything better than this.” 

“Probably not,” Ilya says. “But we will have fun.” 

“Are you going to tell me?” 

“No.” 

“Tell me one thing,” Shane asks, stealing Ilya’s line. 

“We will have brunch with your parents at the Bellagio.” 

That’s something, but Shane suspects that’s probably not going to be the highlight of their day. It’s driving him crazy, not knowing, but it’s also sort of exciting to give up control, knowing he can trust Ilya to make it worth their while.

“Are they included in the rest of our plans?” 

“No. They have plans of their own.” 

“I can’t believe they were in on it.”

Ilya chuckles, a rich, deep baritone that Shane feels in his bones. It’s funny how proud of himself he is, but why shouldn’t he be? 

“So what do we do about July?” Shane asks. 

“Yuna was thinking maybe we have a reception instead. Catered, with a fancy cake. We can do the vows the right way if you want to.” 

Shane laughs, remembering how quickly theirs went off the rails. “Mom would probably like that, but… I like what we did. Besides, I don’t want to take my ring off.”

“No?” Ilya touches the ring again. “No more hiding?” 

“No more hiding,” Shane says. “Let people wonder. We’ll be announcing it in a couple days, anyway, right?”

Ilya gets quiet for a minute. “Whatever happens, we are doing this together.”

“You and me against the world, Rozanov.” Shane smiles and kisses the top of his head. “Whatever they throw at us, we can take it.” 

“Is Hollander now, I think,” Ilya says. He places a lazy kiss on Shane's bare chest. “Rozanov is only for the ice.” 

“What?” 

“I am boring now. I should have boring name.” 

“Shut up. It’s not boring. You’re not boring either.” 

“I do puzzles and play board games with your parents instead of partying all night. I am very boring.” Then Ilya grows serious. “Your family has been very good to me and mine is… My brother will disown me when he hears anyway, so I would be very happy to leave it behind.”

Shane gets a little choked up. They talked about hyphenating their names but never decided on anything officially. To know Ilya loves his family enough to be one of them hurts his heart. Maybe it never occurred to him just how much Ilya needed a family, even though Shane’s known for years that Ilya’s own family, save his mother, have never been kind to him. 

“Are you sure? Your name is your last connection to home, isn’t it?” 

“No. My mother is still with me. That is enough, I think.”

Shane swallows down the lump in his throat and lets his fingers glide through Ilya’s hair. Ilya hums contentedly and nuzzles into Shane’s neck in a way that sends a shiver all through Shane’s body. 

“Ilya Hollander’s got a nice ring to it,” Shane says. 

“Better than Shane Rozanov. Sounds like Russian cowboy.” 

Shane snorts. “Are there Russian cowboys?” 

“Probably. Russians secretly like American things. John Wayne. Levi’s jeans.” 

“I don’t know. I kind of like it. But we could still hyphenate if you want.” 

“Too many letters. I like Hollander.” 

Shane kisses Ilya’s forehead, thinking his parents will love it. Especially his dad. 

“Hollander it is, then.”  

5:45 PM

“I swear this machine is rigged,” Shane gripes. “It’s like it’s programmed to get me addicted.” 

“Is how they make money, yes?” Ilya says with a big grin. “Have you won anything?” 

“I win five dollars, then I lose five dollars. That’s it. You?” 

“I won a thousand,” Ilya says with a shrug. Which he’s already cashed out, with no plans to continue playing. 

“What?!” Shane cries. “Obviously, I’m playing the wrong machines.” 

“You are taking this too seriously.” Ilya dares to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Should we go?” 

“You’re the one with the itinerary. I’m just along for the ride.” 

He sounds… grumpy. As if the stupid slot machine ruined Shane’s whole day. Which is definitely a sign that it’s time to go. 

“Why don’t we go find something for dinner?” Ilya says. “Your choice tonight.” 

Shane sighs and stands up, sending one last dark look of betrayal at the slot machine. Ilya wants to laugh, but he doesn’t want to make Shane angry at him, too. 

“What are you in the mood for?” Ilya asks. 

“Tacos, maybe?” Shane shrugs. “I don’t know. Something Mexican.”

Tacos do sound good. Ilya does a quick search and finds a restaurant at the Luxor with good ratings. It’s a few blocks away, and it’s still hot out, but it’s not a thousand degrees like it was earlier. 

The sidewalks are loaded with people of all kinds in spite of the heat – young, old, big, small, obviously American, obviously not. He picks out ten different languages. Most are taking it all in – the strip, the hotels, the palm trees, the gridlocked traffic, the random Elvis or Captain Kirk or person carrying a large snake. 

Shane’s quiet the whole way there and Ilya starts to worry he’s regretting getting married last night. He’s still wearing his ring, though, so maybe that’s not it. Maybe he really is just pissed off about losing. He never has taken defeat well. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya asks once they’re inside the hotel and out of the heat. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Shane says. “Just a lot on my mind.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Let’s get to the restaurant first.” 

The restaurant isn’t busy when they arrive and they’re seated right away. Shane orders a beer. Ilya sticks to coke, though he’d really like something stronger. 

“What is bothering you?” Ilya leans his chin on his palm and watches Shane’s face for any sign that he’s going to back out. 

“I got an e-mail while we were in the casino,” Shane says. “Apparently my guest of honor duties now include an unscheduled interview with ESPN. They’re gonna ask me about the crash.” 

“Oh.” 

So far, Yuna has kept the reporters and the requests for interviews at bay. Shane, being safely tucked away at Ilya’s house, had also helped. If there’s been any pressure to speak about it publicly, neither of them have been informed. As far as Ilya knows, JJ and Hayden have not spoken about it, either.  

“What am I supposed to say?” Shane asks. “Everybody died and it sucks?” 

“Tell them you don’t want to do it.” 

“It doesn’t sound like I can.” Shane rubs his eyes and opens the menu. “I don’t want to talk about it. There are details I’ve never told anyone, not even Elise.” 

Ilya thinks about the flight attendant who Shane said died in his arms. That had to be very hard to remember, even if Shane didn’t know the man. It’s only occurring to him now, Shane must have seen some very bad things if he’s not able to talk about it. Things that will maybe stay with him for the rest of his life.  

As he had last night, Ilya switches seats so he’s next to Shane instead of across from him. He takes Shane’s hand and holds onto it under the table.  

“Would you tell me about it?” 

“Someday. Maybe,” Shane says. “I’m not sure you really want to hear it, though. It’s…” He waves a hand in front of him, searching for the words he’s looking for. 

“A lot?” 

“Yeah. I don’t even want to think about it, let alone talk about it.”

He’s probably right that Ilya doesn’t want to hear the details, but he can handle it, even if it’s awful. “If you tell me, I will listen. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Ever. You also don’t have to tell them anything.”

“They’re expecting something.” 

“You don’t owe them anything, Shane. Tell them to fuck off if you don’t want to do it.” 

“That would go over well.” His tone is flat and humorless. 

“You could always tell them we got married instead,” Ilya says with a grin. “They would forget all about the crash. Cause a big scandal.” 

Shane laughs and shakes his head. “I think Crowell would have a stroke.” 

“Fuck him, too.” Ilya plays with the ring on Shane’s finger. “He will have to deal with it.” 

The waiter brings their drinks and a basket of chips with salsa, but neither of them have really looked at the menu yet. Ilya asks for more time. 

“What do you think about the chicken fajitas for two?” Shane asks.  

“Sounds good,” Ilya says. He’s not picky about Mexican food. All of it sounds good. “I think we need some queso for these chips, though.” 

Shane opens his mouth to say something, probably about how terrible queso is for him, then he shuts it. Probably because he knows queso is delicious, and life is too short to worry about a bowl of melted cheese. 

11:12 PM

Shane waits nervously in line outside a nightclub off the strip, Ilya at his side acting like he hasn’t a care in the world. It might not be that big a deal, but it’s immediately obvious that this isn’t just a regular nightclub – it’s a gay club, and judging by the other patrons in line, one that will be full of gorgeous men.

He’s not sure he wants to go in. Clubs aren’t his scene and no matter how hard he tries to learn to like them, he’s never seen the appeal. Ilya knows this about him, so he’s not sure why he chose to bring him here, of all places.  

“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya says. “You are going to have fun.” 

The Cirque du Soleil show they attended earlier was fun, and an unexpected choice. Ilya had gotten them tickets for the troupe’s adults-only show, which Shane had enjoyed a lot more than he thought he would. It had been equal parts sexy, provocative, and beautiful, and he’d found himself fascinated by the skill and flexibility required to be able to pull off some of the acrobatics involved. 

After, they’d walked around the strip for a while, looking at the lights and the people, the sights and sounds, and took selfies together in front of landmarks and hotels and even random things – the Flamingo, the Excalibur, a reproduction of the statue of the goddess Nike, a talking animatronic camel in one of the shopping malls attached to Luxor, even a wax Wayne Newton, and an Elvis impersonator. They’d checked out cheesy souvenir shops and caught the synchronized fountains at the Bellagio. 

All that was fun. This fills Shane with a kind of low-key dread that he can’t seem to shake, no matter how much he trusts Ilya. Logically, it shouldn’t be a big deal and he’s not such an uptight brat that he can’t let Ilya have some fun of his own after everything he’s done. Still, he worries that someone is going to recognize them and pictures or videos of the two of them making out at a gay club will hit the internet before they have the chance to tell the world themselves. 

But what does it matter? They’re married. They can do whatever they want now. 

Inside, they order drinks at the bar and take in the scene. Ilya seems to be in no hurry to haul Shane off to the dance floor, as Shane feared he might. He needs a few drinks in him to even consider it, and after last night’s indulgence, he’s not sure he wants to go overboard tonight. 

Would that matter, either? He has no commitments until his interview tomorrow afternoon. They can sleep in, order room service or hit up the hotel’s buffet for an early lunch. It’s not like they do this all the time.

It makes Shane anxious to see so many men engaged in open displays of affection, bodies pressed close together, some dancing, some just making out. He’s actively avoided places like this for years, afraid of being labeled or stereotyped, even after he came out to his team. He avoided being seen as anything but a hockey player, and all that entailed.  

He orders another beer and Ilya finally caves in and orders a vodka. 

“Are you okay?” Ilya yells over the music. “Freaking out?”

“I’m good.”

He’s sure Ilya doesn’t quite buy it, but he leans in and touches his lips to Shane’s, without hesitation or apology, in a room full of people. Shane’s first instinct is to pull back, but he forces himself to lean into it, to welcome it, because Ilya is his husband and there’s no reason to be ashamed and no reason not to kiss him back. 

By the time Shane finishes his second beer, he’s a lot more relaxed. 

“Come dance with me,” Ilya says.

Shane figured it was coming, but he hoped to avoid it. He’s pretty sure there’s nothing more awkward on god’s green earth than Shane Hollander trying to dance.  

“You know I suck at it.” 

“Anyone can dance. And no one here cares if you’re bad at it.” 

Ilya takes Shane by the hand and leads him to the dance floor, where men of all shapes and sizes and in various states of undress are dancing and making out without a care in the world. 

“Just follow my lead,” Ilya says, drawing him close, an arm draped around Shane’s neck. “Pretend we are alone.” 

That’s tough, in a room full of people, but Ilya’s so at ease, it puts Shane at ease, too. And when Ilya kisses him, the whole room vanishes. It’s just them and the primal, thundering music and Shane does what he was never able to make himself do when he danced with Rose – he touches, teases, lets Ilya know just how much he wants him. 

Then he does become aware that they’re not alone, that maybe people are watching, and that’s an even bigger turn-on than it should be. And Ilya seems to know it too. His hands grow bolder, his kisses more passionate, the glint in his eye hungrier. 

God. It’s all foreplay. Shane sort of knew that’s what dancing was, but it’s never worked on him before. Of course, he’s never danced with someone he wanted to be with either. Certainly not someone he loves. 

“I think we should go back to the hotel,” Shane says. 

Ilya’s smile is crooked – smug and sweet at the same time. He’s always been able to read Shane so well, and Ilya’s reading him loud and clear right now. Without a word, he leads Shane by the hand toward the door. Outside, he hails a cab. 

It’s only a mile back to the hotel, but it feels like forever. Traffic moves slowly and Ilya takes the opportunity to torture him by letting his hand travel up the inside of Shane’s thigh a little at a time, his fingertips tracing circles through the fabric of his jeans. Ilya knows exactly what he’s doing and it's driving Shane mad.

By the time they make it back to their room, Shane’s ready to tear Ilya’s clothes off. They crash through the living room, shedding shirts and belts along the way until they reach the bedroom. 

There, Shane has a brief flashback, to that long ago night, of sitting on the bed, following Ilya’s commands like a good boy, yet also realizing just how much more control he had over the situation than it seemed on the surface. 

Shane takes a breath and steps back, his eyes on Ilya’s, suddenly compelled to flip the script, even though they’ve done much worse over video calls since then.

“Take your clothes off.” 

Ilya’s eyebrow shoots upward, amused, but he obediently strips off his pants and socks as Shane turns his back and walks toward the chair in the corner. He grasps the back of it and drags it to the end of the bed. Ilya’s chuckle lets Shane know he’s read the situation loud and clear. 

“On the bed,” Shane says without looking at him. 

When Shane turns around, Ilya’s sitting in the center of the bed, just as Shane had all those years ago, but unlike Shane that night, Ilya’s gaze is fearless and eager. He leans back into the headboard, arms folded behind his head. 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Ilya purrs.

Shane tosses a bottle of lube onto the bed beside Ilya, then eases into the chair and leans back, emulating Ilya’s easy slouch. 

“Put on a show for me, Hollander,” Shane says, using Ilya’s newly chosen last name. “I want to watch.”

Ilya is more than happy to comply.

July 26, 2021

12:50 PM

Las Vegas

Shane expected the ESPN interview to be in the conference room, where the presser for the candidates for Rookie of the Year will be interrogated an hour from now, but instead, he’s taken to a smaller room that looks like someone’s office. There are potted palms in the corners, and a pair of plush armchairs set in front of a series of floor to ceiling bookshelves. On the other side of the room, an oak desk is being used to hold various types of AV equipment. 

He tries not to move his face as he sits down and allows a technician to attach a small microphone to the lapel of his suit jacket. The make-up they put on him feels heavier than usual, and dry, like it might crack if he so much as moves a muscle, and it doesn’t allow his skin to breathe at all.

At the moment, he’s by himself, and he really wishes Ilya was here for moral support, but he’s not sure how he would explain Ilya’s presence without giving something away. He settles for twisting his ring on his finger, hoping to glean some comfort the way Ilya seems to. 

“Shane!” The voice is booming and authoritative, though not immediately familiar. Still, Shane goes to his feet and turns toward the door to greet whoever it might be. He’s dismayed to see the Commissioner approaching, but instinctively holds out his hand to offer a handshake. “So good to see you. You’re looking well.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Shane says. 

“You are a hard man to get a hold of,” Crowell says. “Your mother’s certainly had you on lockdown.” 

Shane bristles at the mention of his mother. She’s his manager, and he’s not a two year old. 

“She was just doing her job. I wanted to keep the focus on my recovery.” 

“Yes, of course. Your big comeback.” 

There’s something about the way he says it that bothers Shane. As if he doesn’t have a chance in hell of ever coming back. Which Crowell could easily make happen, if he wanted to. 

“Sir, I know this interview is supposed to be about the crash, but I’m not ready to talk about it publicly,” Shane says. 

“Give it a shot. It’ll be cathartic,” Crowell says and pats his shoulder. 

“But… Why me? Why not ask JJ? He was there, too. He probably remembers more than I do.” 

“We could, but he’s not the one the public wants to hear from, son.” Crowell smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are cold and almost seem to be daring Shane to challenge him. “He’s a good player, but he’s not you. Besides, these will be softball questions. Don’t want the public hearing the gory details, now do we?” 

“No, sir,” Shane says. He swallows around the lump in his throat. All he has is gory details. 

“Good. Now that it’s settled, there’s another matter I wanted to discuss with you.” Crowell’s smile falls away. “I hope there’s no truth to these rumors about you and Rozanov. It would be a scandal if it were true, and I’m sure you don’t want anything standing in the way of your return to hockey.” 

God. How does he even respond to that? It’s very clearly a warning.

The corners of Crowell’s mouth hitch up into something resembling a smile, but isn’t. 

“Something to consider, Mr. Hollander.” 

Crowell turns on his heel, leaving Shane alone. 

He sits down and texts Ilya to warn him, his stomach churning with anxiety. The threat of having his career end because of their relationship has been a persistent fear since the beginning. Though Ilya assured him that legally Crowell can’t use their relationship against them, it’s pretty clear to him that Crowell thinks he can. Or he has some other excuse to fall back on. 

By the time the interviewer and crew shows up, Shane’s a nervous wreck. All he wants to do is get the hell out of here, find Ilya, and spend the rest of the afternoon sequestered in their room. 

Why did he want to come to this thing in the first place? He’s not nominated for anything. There was already some award for bravery presented to his mom while he was in the hospital, which he didn’t want, and doesn’t even feel he deserves. He was only invited for publicity, and he should have known that. Now he feels like an idiot for falling for it.  

“Hi. I’m Donna Osterfeld,” the interviewer says. “You must be Shane.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Shane says. 

“So, this interview will be pre-recorded and edited,” she says, “probably into a couple of shorter segments, so if you need to take a break, just let us know.” 

“Thanks. I will.”

He waits while she gets mic’ed up, then sorts through her notes, his stomach turning as he thinks about how the organization he’s given over ten years of his life to is so much more insidious than he ever imagined. How did Ilya see it when he didn’t? 

Because Ilya sees everything. Shane only sees the hockey. 

“And we’re rolling,” someone says. Shane puts his media face on, dreading what’s to come. 

“We’re here with Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs and one of six survivors of the deadly crash that killed 26 passengers on flight 3771 in January….” 

Shane tunes out for her introduction, not wishing to hear a recap of the worst day of his life. 

She starts with questions about his recovery, to his surprise. He gives a boring answer about perseverance and determination that would probably make Ilya roll his eyes. He mentions his amazing support system, great doctors, and trainers that helped him get where he is. He wishes he could publicly give Ilya his flowers too, without causing ruin to both their careers. 

“Word is Montreal has declined to renew your contract for next season. Can you tell us what led them to that decision?” 

Anger flares up inside him, remembering just how shitty they were to him, but no good will come of airing out his grievances. Maybe they don’t feel the need to be professional, but Shane does. 

“It’s unfortunate, you know? I played for Montreal for over ten years and I really love the fans and the city, but it wasn’t my choice,” Shane says. “Ultimately, their management felt I wasn’t fit for play and chose to pass on a renewal.” 

“Where does that leave you for next season?” 

“My personal doctor has cleared me to return to professional hockey next season, and that’s been confirmed by additional independent fitness and medical tests,” Shane says. “I have other prospects, though, which I’m really excited about and I’m looking forward to getting back to it, even if it’s with a new team.” 

They take a quick break to adjust a camera. Shane takes a sip of water from the bottle offered to him by a crew member and wishes this was already over. He’s never liked the media stuff, but he’s finding this a lot harder than usual, even though nothing so far is beyond what he can handle. 

“Okay. We’re good to go,” the cameraman says. 

“So, tell me about the moment you realized the plane was going to crash.” 

Shane’s chest gets tight and his mouth goes dry. It hurts to breathe. The make-up feels like it’s either going to suffocate him or melt right off his face. 

Everyone in the room is silent and staring at him, waiting for an answer. He doesn’t want to relive this with a camera on him, and he has a sudden, uncontrollable urge to run from the room.

“There was a loud bang… then an explosion,” Shane says. 

“That would have been the wing detaching, and then striking the tail section of the plane?” 

“I…I don’t know,” he stammers. “I guess it was. I only heard it.” 

His vision is starting to gray out, the same way it did that day. His head hurts and he’s nauseous. If he doesn’t get out of here, he’s going to be sick. 

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” He shoots to his feet and rushes out of the room, ignoring whoever calls out his name.

He jogs down the hallway, in search of refuge – a stairwell, a bathroom, an empty office, a fucking maintenance closet, anywhere, so he can go to pieces without a witness – and runs straight into Scott Hunter. 

“Hollander,” Hunter greets, then frowns. “You alright?” 

Shane’s probably ten seconds from throwing up his brunch. “Bathroom?” 

Hunter points him toward the hall behind him. “I just saw Rozanov. You want me to go get him for you?” 

“Please.” 

In the bathroom, Shane stumbles to the sink and throws water on his make-up caked face, trying desperately to remove it. The nausea fades, but the anxiety stays with him. 

“Hey. You are okay." Ilya’s voice behind him is soft and soothing. “Come here.”  

Ilya draws him away from the sink, his face full of concern. Hunter seems to be guarding the closed bathroom door. 

“I couldn’t do it,” Shane says. “I couldn’t even answer one question.” 

“Is okay,” Ilya says. “They should not have asked.” 

Shane allows Ilya to clean the remaining make-up off his face, giving him a moment to collect himself. He’s ruined his suit jacket, but he doesn’t care. He’s not going back in that room, and maybe he’s not going to go to the awards ceremony tonight, either. 

“Better?” Ilya asks. 

“Better.” 

“Do you want to leave?” Ilya asks. 

“Yeah.” 

Hunter clears his throat. “Kip and I were going to grab a late lunch, if you want to join us.”

Ilya kisses Shane’s forehead. “You want to go to lunch instead?” 

Shane nods. He’s not sure if he’s hungry or not, but something cold to drink would be nice. 

“We will meet you in the lobby, okay?” Ilya says without looking at Hunter. 

“I’ll go grab Kip.” 

As soon as they’re alone, Ilya leans in and kisses Shane on the lips, cradling Shane’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

“Not your fault. I should have told them no from the start.” Shane closes his eyes. “Is it bad that I really want to skip the award ceremony?”

“No.” Ilya steps back and tugs his hand. “Lots of other things we could do.” 

“Like what?” Shane asks. 

“I will think of something.” He opens the door and steps out into the hall, still holding Shane’s hand. “Or maybe you have an idea.” 

Shane doesn’t, but this city is nothing but entertainment. Ordering room service and watching a movie is also an option, but he takes out his phone and searches potential activities for this evening to distract himself from his anxiety. 

They head for the lobby, bypassing the hallway Shane just escaped. 

Only to run right into Roger Crowell. He glances at their joined hands. His face turns red. 

“Well. I see my orders have been ignored.” 

Ilya’s hand twitches in Shane’s, as if to let go, but Shane’s grasp stays firm. Something tells him this conversation is not going to be a pleasant one, and he hits record on his phone before pocketing it. 

“I don’t like surprises. I like liars even less,” Crowell says. He gestures at the two of them with a disgusted sneer. “Whatever this is, it needs to end. Right now.” 

“Care to explain why?” Shane asks. “I want to hear exactly what your reasons are. Because as far as I know, there are no official rules against it.” 

Shane sounds brave but on the inside, he’s a five-alarm structure fire. 

“Don’t play stupid, Hollander. This would be very embarrassing for the league and you know it. Not to mention, your reputation would be ruined. Your careers would be over. Neither of you would ever play again.” 

“More embarrassing than the thirteen players with pending domestic violence charges and convictions last season?” a voice says behind them. Shane glances over his shoulder, where Scott Hunter is propped casually against the wall at the mouth of the hallway they just passed, fists shoved in his pockets. “Or the seven who have been accused of sexual assault? Two of those involve minors, you know. There are eight assault and battery charges. One attempted murder and one armed robbery.” Hunter pushes away from the wall. “Most of those guys are still playing, even though they’ve broken actual laws and hurt other people. And you consistently choose to ignore that. I think you’re the one who should be embarrassed, Mr. Crowell.” 

Shane is shocked. Not only by Hunter’s willingness to step in, but also by the facts. He knew there were probably men who liked to go home and bounce their wives and kids off the walls, and guys who coerced or forced women into having sex with them, and of course the occasional drunken bar fights, but he didn’t realize the numbers were that high. Very few of those incidents ever made the news. 

And here Crowell is, acting like what they’ve done is somehow worse than any of the things Hunter mentioned. He wonders how many others Crowell has bullied into silence over the years. If there were others, like himself and Ilya, that never got a chance to be happy. 

“This building is full of journalists,” Hunter says with an almost apologetic smile. “I bet they would love to hear all about the scandals the league has hidden while under your leadership. I’d be worried about that if I were you, not the players who aren’t hurting anyone.” 

“This has nothing to do with you, Mr. Hunter,” Crowell says.

Hunter strolls past them, winks at Ilya, and keeps going. 

“Have a good day, Mr. Crowell,” Hunter calls over his shoulder. Though his tone is friendly, it sounds like a threat.

Ilya lets out a funny giggle and squeezes Shane’s hand. 

Crowell’s not exactly shamed by Hunter’s speech, but he’s lost a lot of his bravado. He fixes his cold eyes on Shane for a second, then flicks them to Ilya. 

“Put an end to this. Immediately. Or there will be consequences.”

“It’s a little late for that,” Shane says. “We’re legally married, Mr. Crowell.” 

“No,” Crowell says, as if denying it will make it not true. “That is not happening.” 

“Are you telling us to get a divorce?” Ilya asks with a laugh. “Good luck with that. I don’t think there is a lawyer in all of North America that would take that case.” 

“If either of you want to play again, you will end this. And don’t even think about posting an announcement on social media,” Crowell says. “You’ll be a joke.”  

“You think you scare me? The only joke here is you,” Shane says ferociously. He lifts his chin and looks Crowell directly in the eye, taking strength from Ilya’s hand in his. “So here’s how this is going to go. Ilya and I are going to announce publicly that we’re married. We’re going to stay married and we’re going to keep playing hockey. And you are going to leave us the fuck alone and focus on fixing the real problems. If you can’t do that, then I’m sure there’s someone else out there better suited to do your job.”

Shane is shaking, but not afraid. Crowell doesn’t intimidate him and he can’t believe he ever thought he was intimidating. He’s nothing compared to what Shane has already been through.  

“If you continue to harass us,” Shane says. “Well sue the shit out of you.” 

Shane turns his back on the commissioner, Ilya’s hand in his, and walks away without waiting for a response.  

Fuck him.

“What do you say we head back to the hotel and order some room service?” Shane asks. “Maybe binge watch a boring car movie series thing together?” 

“Fast and Furious is not boring.”  

Shane kisses Ilya right on the mouth, in the middle of the lobby, in front of a dozen or more MLH players. And probably a few journalists.

And Shane doesn’t care at all.