Work Text:
The bar had been rented out by the Metro owners. It was no one but management, staff, players and WAGS. Everyone was riding high on the events of the night. The Stanley Cup was really theirs. After six hard-fought games, it was theirs.
Hayden was on top of the world. And Jackie’s mom had the kids for the night, so they were dancing as they took another shot. He saw Shane talking to a woman. Shane didn’t look like he was having a great time, so Hayden said, over the loud music, “I think I need to go rescue him.” Jackie followed his gaze and nodded, turning to dance with J.J.
Hayden didn’t recognize the woman Shane was talking to. She was younger, must have been a rookie’s girl. She had her phone shoved between her breasts, using her bra like a purse, the way so many women did.
Hayden heard her ask if Shane had someone there, and Shane sounded maudlin and wasted as he said, “I’ve been in a situationship for five and a half years. If I could have one wish in the whole wide world, my situationship would be here. Situationships don’t come to after-parties, they just leave you feeling broken and sad and… We won the Cup.”
Shane never, ever acknowledged that “Boston Lily” was as much as a friend, let alone a situationship… and five and a half years… that was back before rookie year. That was before the draft.
Reaching them, Hayden put his arm around Shane and smiled at the girl, “I need to steal the man of the hour.”
“Hayden,” Shane smiled at him. “You’re my best friend. I’m so sticky.”
They had all been sprayed with a lot of champagne after the game. People had toweled off and changed, too eager to get to the party to take showers. Now that struck Hayden as wrong. Shane hated not showering; he hated being unclean.
Behind him, he heard someone say to the woman, “I’m sorry, who are you with?” He didn’t pay her any attention as he maneuvered Shane to the far end of the room, where the bar was, and asked the bartender for a water as Shane sat on one of the barstools.
“Can I have a ginger ale?” Shane asked.
The bartender shook his head regretfully, “I’m sorry, Mr. Hollander, we don’t have ginger ale. We have seltzer,” he offered. Shane shook his head and took the water.
“I’m sorry Lily’s not here,” said Hayden.
“We’d get married tomorrow if it were up to me but there too much in the way, y’know?” slurred Shane. “S’okay, I’ve got hockey, I’ve got the team. That’s my life. We got the Cup.”
That struck Hayden as heartbreakingly sad. The Cup wouldn’t mean much without Jackie there to celebrate it. But he didn’t say that. Mittka came over and said softly, “No one knows that woman.”
That was a different, weird issue. Right now, Hayden was just focused on getting Shane back into a party mood. He nodded and gestured for Mittka to back off a little.
Hayden turned the conversation gently to the off-season, to the relaxing couple of weeks they had coming up. He knew that Shane was looking forward to going to his cottage and spending time with his parents. He hoped the conversation would make his friend happy again.
Shane was halfway through his glass of water when the room went quiet. The music was still so loud, but the talking died. Hayden turned and saw Ilya Fucking Rozanov. The man looked pissed. Hayden wondered if there was about to be a bloodbath.
Someone said something Hayden missed. But Ilya’s voice cut through the music. “I assumed it was an open party as you are letting reporters from Bleacher Babes livestream interviews with Hollander about his love life. Look at the internet, idiots.” He marched across the room and was at Shane’s side in an instant. Every single person was watching and listening. “I came to offer my congratulations. Good job. If I can’t have Cup, you’re the only person who is allowed.”
Shane didn’t have a chirp in reply. His face lit up like a Christmas tree, and he said, “Ilya, you came,” and he threw his arms around the man.
“You are very, very drunk. You have a little alcohol poisoning. You need help for alcohol poisoning before sicker.”
“I don’t feel good,” admitted Shane, sounding defeated.
“You break diet for alcohol sixteen days a year. How much you drink?”
Rozanov shouldn’t have known that; there was no way for him to know about Shane’s insane diet. But Shane didn’t seem confused by it.
Shane said, “There was beer, and there was shots, and then there was more, and.” He shrugged. “I’m sticky.”
“Da, why?”
“We came here after all the champagne on the ice and in the locker room, I didn’t shower because everyone wanted to come. Oh yeah, before the beer there was champagne.”
Rozanov nodded. “You’re not having ginger ale?”
“They don’t have any.”
The bartender flinched, and Rozanov said, “That’s not your fault,” to the man. Then he said, “Do you have bread or crackers? We need to fill stomach.”
“Why fill stomach?” asked Shane.
“You have early stages of alcohol poisoning. It’s fine. You are very light weight, and we can do ‘homemade charcoal.’ Fill your stomach with puffy carbs and water ‘til you puke. Your blood won’t eat any more alcohol. You’ll be fine.”
Hayden thought explaining metabolizing things as blood eating them was weird. But was unsurprised that Rozanov had his own form of at-home alcohol poisoning treatment.
“I don’t want to puke.”
“I know but you are on internet and you were visibly clammy and clearly unwell, so I came to help ‘cause team isn’t. You’ll feel better.”
“I don’t feel good,” repeated Shane.
“Da, I know Hollander, you’ll be fine.” The bartender put a large basket of dinner rolls and another glass of water in front of Shane. “You eat that, and drink all the water, until you puke, then I will help you get home and your team can party, okay?”
It was bizarre to see Rozanov being so kind, but maybe the clip on Bleacher Babes had looked really bad. Hayden was really drunk himself and didn’t know the early symptoms of alcohol poisoning.
“I tell team you go, okay? You stay here and eat, yes?” Rozanov started to move away, but Shane caught him by the front of his t-shirt and pulled him in for a shocking kiss. It went on for an embarrassingly long time.
When they broke apart, Shane said, “I won the Cup, asshole.” He giggled, and he almost fell off his barstool.
Rozanov steadied him and said, “Fuck you, I had first and I’ll get back it next year. Eat.”
Everyone was staring. Rozanov went back to the main part of the room, and Hayden followed, wanting an explanation. But Rozanov spoke before anyone could say anything, “Hollander score all but one of the goals in the six games that got you Cup. He calls team family. But here he is, sticky even though he hates not showering after game, in room that is too loud, does not drink but has alcohol poisoning, favorite drink not here, and you let reporter put embarrassing thing online. He hands you Cup; you do this for him? Some family.”
“He kissed you,” said Wilson.
Rozanov said, “You miss seven easy passes this week but kiss you can see? Get eyes checked.”
“He said he’d marry you tomorrow if he could but there’s too much in the way,” said Hayden, feeling too many things. He was drunk but those bitter, sad words from Shane still rang in his head.
His best friend had kept Ilya Fucking Rozanov hidden for five and a half years. And sure, maybe he wouldn’t tell Hayden who it was, because fuck Rozanov — a dude who made him miserable for five and a half years — but keeping it a secret that he was gay? Did he think Hayden was a bigot? That was fucked up. Shane wanted to marry this asshole apparently and no one knew.
Rozanov looked at Hayden like he was something he scraped off his shoe. “MLH has no out players for reason. Is homophobic place. He is Canadian Golden Boy. Already push limit by being Asian. People don’t like. If he dates man what happens on ice? How brutal are checks? And does team he loves as family keep blocking checks? Does team he thinks of as brother start thinking he’s pervert in shower? Does family and career fall apart? If we got married tomorrow, I could never go back to Russia. Okay.” He shrugged like giving up his country wasn’t a big deal. “But if we got married, Hollander could lose hockey and he cannot risk that. Hockey is everything and team is family. But family is ignoring alcohol poisoning, so I came before he got sicker.”
Shane started puking into a bucket at the bar, and Rozanov cheerfully called, “Great job, Hollander, we can leave soon.” Then to the rest of them he said, “You all talk it over. You discuss. Is team family? Is Hollander brother and friend and safe with you? If not, he makes history again getting traded week after winning Cup before his contract is up. Probably everyone make a lot of money,” he said, staring down the owners. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Brunch at his place at two. Talk, sleep, get less hungover. No wives and girlfriends. You don’t even know who they are.” He turned his back on them, dismissing them as he went back to Shane, who was still puking. “You are so great at that. We found your real skill. It sure as fuck isn’t your backhand.”
“Fuck you,” Shane groaned into the bucket, “Your season ended weeks ago, asshole.”
Everyone was quiet. Shane stopped puking, and Rozanov said, “Step two: shower, PJs, rehydration, Advil, food and bed.”
When Shane stood up, he tried to push off the bar and glide, like it was the boards at the rink. Rozanov steadied him, “It’s floor, idiot, not ice, you have to walk, not skate.”
“Okay, cool,” said Shane, leaning heavily into the man as they left.
***
Shane woke up, snuggled into Ilya’s side. He was wearing his cozy flannel PJs. There were several empty bottles of Gatorade around the bed. He had only hazy memories of getting there. He remembered winning the Cup. It made him feel joy right down to his toes. Nothing had ever made him feel happier than holding the Cup, knowing he had led the team to that moment. Then he remembered all the champagne and the party.
Then things got hazy for a while. Then he remembered being clean and cozy and Ilya making him a tuna melt, saying, “A whole eighteen days before you have to count carbs and shun dairy.” The bread was thick and whole grain, and the cheese was really nice cheddar. It was delicious. And Ilya had brought him his favorite brand of ginger shots from America, with turmeric in them. He remembered lots of Gatorade and Ilya cuddling up with him, saying, “I fuck you tomorrow. Now you sleep.”
He snuggled into Ilya, trying not to wake him. Ilya smelled good and was meant to spend three days with Shane before going to Russia for a couple of weeks. He was careful, but Ilya was semi-awake because his arms tightened around Shane. “Are you angry?”
“Why would I be?” asked Shane. “I don’t remember last night. I remember winning the cup then… you made tuna melts.”
Ilya studied him. “A woman tricked you into interview. It was livestreamed. You had alcohol poisoning. No one at party noticed. They were too drunk. I came to congratulate you captain to captain and point out your alcohol poisoning before you had to call an ambulance. You were blacked out. Kissed me in front of team.” Shane felt a chill wash over him. “I’m sorry. You were aiming for hospital. I tried to avoid kiss.”
“Fuck,” said Shane. “How bad was it?”
“I told them all off.” Shane felt shocked, and it must have shown because Ilya said, “Losers didn’t win Cup. You did. You had alcohol poisoning in loud bar with no ginger ale and were not given time to shower. Told them to talk and come here to say if you are being traded or if they are going to be not assholes. We have to order food for brunch.”
“We’re hosting fucking brunch?” asked Shane, feeling shocked.
“Yes. How is hangover?”
“Mostly okay,” said Shane.
“How angry are you?”
“I’m not. S’my fault for getting dangerously drunk and scaring you.” Ilya leaned in to kiss him, but Shane pushed him back. “Your breath is gross. Let’s brush our teeth.”
“Situationships don’t brush teeth,” said Ilya jokingly.
Shane raised an eyebrow, “Who called you a situationship?”
“You did, to internet,” said Ilya. Shane groaned and reached for his phone. “Is not that bad.”
The clip wasn’t hard to find. It was on fucking Bleacher Babes of all places. Shane looked pale and unwell. It would scare him if he saw Ilya looking like that. He would go to Ilya if no one was helping Ilya when he looked like that. And then he heard himself saying he was in a five and a half year long situationship that made him sad. He groaned again.
“Is not that bad. You didn’t out yourself or cry. Is fine. Five and a half year is longer than I thought.”
“I was drunk,” said Shane. “I don’t even remember this. It’s four and a half years. Nothing happened until rookie year.”
Ilya studied him. “Sober you says rookie year. Drunk you say Prospect Cup. I counted from the commercial. I like the drunk answer best. I like parking lot in Saskatchewan as start.”
Shane muttered, “So fucking embarrassing.”
“Is cute,” said Ilya. He leaned in for a kiss, and Shane pushed him back again. “Fine, teeth, asshole.”
The morning went by too quickly. By the time a knock came at the door, Shane was in knots. He was usually calmer after he’d been fucked. But despite sex, a shower and a massive amount of food delivery, he was stressed as could be.
Opening the door, he found only Coach Theriault. The man said, “Everyone else will be by in a bit. We have to have a talk first.”
Shane felt like a man facing execution, but he let him in. The coach was carrying a bag; Shane wondered if it was stuff he had left in his stall in the dressing room. He led the man to the kitchen and got him a coffee.
It was weird to have Theriault in his kitchen, weirder still that Ilya was there. “I have to ask a question and it’s going to determine your future with the team.” Shane nodded. “We get why you would keep your private life secret when working at the MHL. As hard as it was for the team to hear that they were excluded, we talked it over, it made sense. Everyone gets it. Rozanov says you view the team as family.”
“They’re my brothers,” said Shane fervently, unsure if that was the question but wanting to be clear.
“Well brothers don’t screw each other over. Have you two ever decided the winner of the game before getting on the ice?”
“Oh my God, no,” said Shane, feeling shocked. “That’s horrifying. We text before games, but it’s all chirping about how the other person is going to lose and how much the other person sucks. I would never. There’s no point in playing if you aren’t going to genuinely play. That’s cheating, and it stops being fun.”
Theriault looked at Ilya. Ilya shook his head, “If you decide who wins, it’s not hockey, it's figure skating. Is all just planned. Never wanted to figure skate, just like beating the best.”
The knee-jerk reaction got to Shane, and he said, “We got the Cup, dick.”
“I had it first and I will get it back next year,” said Ilya with a cocky smile.
Theriault looked between them and breathed out, “Okay, okay. If you were fucking with everyone’s careers this would have been unforgivable. As it is… You’re their captain. They love you; they’ll protect you; they want to play with you. We talked it through. It’s gonna be fine. I’m glad everyone has a couple of weeks to wrap their heads around Rozanov.” He sent out a text, “People will be here soon. I just… that was the question everyone had.”
Shane felt relief washing over him.
“Now, as for you,” Theriault turned to Ilya, and Shane saw how Ilya held himself tighter, readied himself for a blow, “We get you out of the American branch of the MHL. And your contract is up for renewal this year. The Americans are more homophobic than the Canadians.”
It was weird. Theriault had always been the one to say shit like, “pick up the speed, ladies,” and ask if practice was a scrimmage or a circle jerk. There wasn’t a hint of that present now.
“You can’t keep this under wraps forever,” said Theriault. “You’re far less likely to get fired and lose your visa if you’re on a Canadian team and Canada wouldn’t deport you to Russia even if your visa got revoked. Metros can’t afford you and Hollander. The managers, owners and I put our heads together. Ottawa could afford you. Before you say they’re a shit team, I’ll remind you that the Raiders were too, back when you were drafted. You made them good. It might take you a few years, but you can do it. You’ll also only live two hours apart. You were the one saying you’d give up hockey for Hollander last night.”
“You said that?” asked Shane, feeling a touch of wonder.
“You don’t remember?” asked Theriault.
“I remember being sticky with champagne and then a tuna melt,” Shane shrugged.
“Christ, I’m sorry,” said Theriault.
“I’m an adult. I know I’m bad at drinking,” Shane shrugged.
“I’m your coach. I’m supposed to look out for you,” replied the man. “Just kept thinking… I’ve known you since you were eighteen, what if you were my boy dealing with this by yourself? What do your parents think?”
“My parents don’t know.”
“About Rozanov or?” he left the question hanging.
“About anything… I guess they have seen the video by now. My mom texted. I told her I would call her tonight… I don’t know what I’m gonna say.”
“Hollander, they love you. They’ll get over him being a Raider. You should tell them.” Shane nodded. “You two need to start a charity or a foundation. Some cause you can care about. Did anyone die of cancer in your family? Get hit by a drunk driver? It gives you plausible deniability to be seen in public laughing. No one thinks you’re dating, they think you’re planning charity work.”
“Yeah, yeah we could do that. Maybe teach kids hockey,” suggested Shane. “Ilya is amazing with kids. We could keep tuition low and give whatever proceeds we get to charity for… well, we can figure that out.”
The coach nodded, “Players can volunteer as teachers. It’s good press.”
“I could go to Ottawa now,” said Ilya. “Last contact had clause. Said I could trade if we didn’t get into the Cup finals.”
“Jesus, Ilya, that’s fucking presumptuous,” Shane laughed, “You just assumed you’d be in the playoff?”
“I knew if we weren’t, would not be my fault and I might move on,” Ilya shrugged, and Shane laughed at his brazenness.
“Then get your agent on the phone and get it in motion,” said Theriault. “And forget about getting home to Russia this summer, Canadian preseason starts sooner than the American one.”
“Come to my cottage,” suggested Shane, feeling hopeful.
Ilya nodded, a matching look of hope flickering over his face. “I make calls, cancel flight.”
He walked away, toward the bedroom. When the door shut behind him, Theriault held out the bag he was carrying, “My wife made you rosemary sourdough. I know you love bread and you only have a short window to eat it. It seemed like a better way to celebrate winning the Cup for you.”
“Wow, Coach. That’s really thoughtful, thanks,” said Shane.
As people turned up, they all had little gifts on them — new types of electrolytes and ginger shots, snacks he wanted but denied himself all season. Hayden turned up with Arthur in his baby sling, saying, “I know Rozanov said no WAGs, but I figured babies don’t count and you love your godson.”
“He did?” asked Shane.
“Bleacher Babe was pretending to be WAG. If no one can keep track,” Ilya shrugged. Looking at Arthur, he said, “You are adorable and clearly got you mama’s genes.”
“Fuck off,” said Hayden, without any heat.
“Swear jar,” said Shane, taking Arthur for a cuddle. Hayden didn’t protest, didn’t look at him weirdly. He didn’t think a pervert holding his baby, even knowing Shane was sleeping with a man.
As people settled in, they talked about the game, about the break; they asked how Shane was feeling after getting too drunk. No one made a huge deal out of Ilya being there. And, for the first time, in a long time — maybe in years — he felt like he could breathe out.