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Shane has never really liked Troy Barrett.
He thinks that’s justified, giving the reputation the man’s best friend has. So even when the shit about Kent gets out and Troy takes an opposite stance, Shane is still wary. So Barrett doesn’t support rapists, congratulations for having the bar raised slightly above hell. That doesn’t mean he’s not a bigot or a homophobe or the embodiment of whatever bullshit he and Kent spew on the ice.
And then he becomes Ilya’s teammate and Ilya, who can read people like a book, begins to tell Shane that whatever person he was in the past isn’t who he really is. It was a front, a cover. His boyfriend knows a thing or two about those.
Still, Shane doesn’t know the guy. He has no personal experience to say whether or not this is true. All he has to go off of is Ilya’s word and the random clips he catches of Barrett on social media. Shane follows the Centaur’s social media pages, justifying it to be because it’s his hometown team in case anyone would ever question him on it. No one ever would—deep down he knows that—but it’s as if his mind has planned an escape route for every possible situation.
He sees Barrett begin to click with the Centaurs, on Ilya’s line. He sees a bit more personality in the videos the social media manager makes them do. But again, Shane has no real reason to pay him much attention. Even if the Centaur’s Instagram starts to feature more and more Ilya and Barrett content. Even if the hockey podcast Shane listens to while he runs starts to talk about their chemistry. Even if Shane starts to harbor resentment towards the player for entirely new reasons.
And then, to make it worse, he’s gay. Well, he’d been gay the whole time. Probably. But he’s out. To Ilya and Ilya is out to him back, confessed on a fucking romantic walk through New York. It’s way too easy for Shane’s longing to be as publicly as close as Ilya and Troy to slip into something more… dangerous.
Jealousy, his mind unhelpfully supplies him.
It’s fucking stupid, is what it is. Even if Ilya joked about a threesome with him, Shane knows that his relationship is in no real danger from this other boring Canadian hockey player.
He should unfollow Ottawa. But there’s that stupid fucking followers tracker account that Hayden was talking to him about and he doesn’t want to have to explain that ‘No, I actually unfollowed my hometown hockey team because seeing my boyfriend laughing with Barrett at practice makes me actually feel homicidal. No further comment.’.
Instead, he’s subjected to whatever video the social media manager had them doing before today’s morning skate.
—
HARRIS: Who has the best bromance on the team?
DILLION: Roz and Barrett.
DYKSTRA: Ilya Rozanov and Troy Barrett
Cut.
Bood shuffles into frame, one glove hanging from his teeth as he pulls the other one on.
BOOD: Best bromance on the team? Roz and Barrett.
Cut.
HAYES: Dude, did you see Roz and Barrett’s Christmas picture? Cute as hell.
Luca Haas enters the frame.
HAAS: Um, maybe Dillon and Bood?
HAYES (off screen): Rookie, did you just blurt out the first two people you thought of?
Haas looks behind the camera, blushing.
HAAS: What? No. They’re on a line together. They have good chemistry.
Rozanov enters behind him.
ROZANOV: Chemistry? Do you have science test to study for?
Rozanov ruffles Haas’ hair and Haas swats him away.
HARRIS: Today’s question: who has the best bromance on the team?
ROZANOV: What is this ‘bromance’?
HAYES (off-screen): Like friendship, but a little homoerotic.
HARRIS: Who is teaching you ‘homoerotic’?
HAYES (off-screen): I know things! Lisa reads a lot of books.
ROZANOV: Okay, then Barrett and I, I think, yes? I read the comments on the puppy Christmas photo.
Rozanov winks at the camera.
HARRIS: It’s not about who fans are shipping—
Cut.
BARRETT: Oh, um. Dillion and Bood are really good friends, right?
ROZANOV (off-screen): Barrett! You offend me!
Cut.
LAPOINTE: Oh, easy. Barrett and Rozanov.
CHOUINARD: Gotta go with Barrett and Roz.
—
The video starts to replay and Shane instantly locks his phone, setting it down to the side. So everyone thinks Ilya and Troy are really close. So what? He’s sure if the Montreal social media manager filmed a video like this, everyone would say the same about him and Hayden. Ilya wouldn’t be jealous of that. He would tease Shane and probably make fun of him a little for it. But Troy isn’t married with four kids. He’s a bachelor, on a team with a bunch of married men, a child, and another ‘bachelor’. No wonder Troy and Ilya gravitate towards each other.
They probably sit together on the plane and debrief after games. Troy’s new to town. Shane wonders if Ilya has been showing him around, taking him to the places that Shane mentioned, ones that are his favorites from growing up there.
Shane is so fucking stupid.
He wants Ilya to have friends. It’s so fucking good for Ilya to be making friends in Ottawa, for his entire existence there to not be tied to Shane. But did it have to be the hot one who apparently the whole city of Ottawa thinks he has a ‘bromance’ with?
Ilya already has a romance in his life. With fucking Shane.
He grabs his phone again. He knows Ilya’s game likely isn’t over yet, but they’re playing a Florida team that’s at the top of their game this year. Shane doesn’t really love to watch Ilya’s team get their asses handed to them. He doesn’t want to text him about some pointless Instagram video though. Not when they haven’t talked properly all day.
Shane puts his phone down, knowing he has probably an hour before Ilya gets back to his hotel and calls him. In the meantime, Shane does a nighttime yoga routine and reads a few chapters of his book before Ilya’s call comes through, right on schedule.
When Shane answers the call, Ilya’s hair is a mess of curls, stuck up in different directions like he barely ran a comb through it after his shower. He’s propped up in the bed of his hotel room, a hint of his bare chest and necklace visible at the bottom of the screen.
“Hey,” Shane exhales.
“Hi,” Ilya murmurs. “If I ever get traded to Florida, fucking kill me, Hollander. This humidity is terrible.”
Shane manages half a smile. “If you get traded to Florida we’ve got bigger problems than the humidity.”
Ilya hums, taking a swig from his water bottle before leaning over to place it on the nightstand again. “You could be my trophy husband. You’d fit right in down here. Shuffleboard and morning crosswords.”
“You’re in Miami, not fucking Naples,” Shane reminds him. “And I’m a hockey player too, asshole.”
Ilya grins. “But you’d be so cute on a shuffleboard rink.”
“Court,” Shane corrects.
“Huh?”
“It’s a shuffleboard court.”
Ilya groans. “Oh my god, Hollander. Who cares what it is called.”
“I’m just saying. If you’re going to insult me, at least be accurate with it.”
Ilya chuckles. “So demanding.”
Shane shrugs, studying Ilya’s face before he decides if he wants to ask. “How was the game?”
Ilya pulls an annoyed face. “Ugh. Bad.”
Shane hums sympathetically. He doesn’t bother asking if Ilya got any goals. It’s not like they’re close in a scoring race this year. He’d rather not remind Ilya of that. Instead, he pivots to a slightly related topic. “Heard you were in a bromance.”
Ilya raises his brows at him, assessing him. Shane tries not to squirm under Ilya’s watchful gaze. “Yes, I’ve been swept off my feet.”
“Not sure that fits with the ‘bro’ part of the ‘mance’,” Shane grumbles.
“Swept me off my feet by bringing over beer and talking about girls.”
Shane frowns. “I thought he was gay?”
Ilya snorts a laugh. “Ah, sorry. I thought we were in your make believe world where you have something to be jealous of between me and Barrett.”
Shane looks off to the side, away from Ilya’s way too amused face. “I am not jealous.”
“No? Then why are you watching Instagram videos of us?” he teases, and Shane blushes. God damn his boyfriend for knowing him so well.
“I was a Centaurs fan before I was ever a Voyageur, you know.”
Ilya gasps. “Do not let the people of Montreal hear Shane Hollander say this.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but finally, he smiles. “You’re an idiot.”
“Do not worry, Hollander. You and Pike still have biggest bromance in hockey. I think maybe romance on his end of things…” he trails off.
“Oh my god, Ilya. Hayden does not have a crush on me,” Shane insists for probably about the hundredth time in their relationship.
“Blah,” Ilya dismisses. “Okay, enough about boring teammates. I want to hear about Shane. What did you do today?”
Shane shifts until he’s more comfortable on his bed. He feels even more ridiculous than he did an hour ago. One short conversation with Ilya and he already feels better. The distance was just getting to him, he thinks. “Well, I tried this red lentil soup for dinner.”
Ilya grins. “Boring. Tell me more.”
—
A few weeks later, Shane gets the privilege of witnessing Ilya and Barrett’s bromance first hand when he plays in Ottawa.
From the other side of the ice, Shane watches them warming up together, passing the puck back and forth before Ilya slaps it into the back of the net. It only gets worse as the game gets underway. Troy gets a hug after he assists Ilya’s goal; Shane gets slammed into the boards with the silent promise of something sweeter later. Troy gets Ilya next to him on the bench; Shane gets a few stolen glances. Troy gets his picture with Ilya from the children’s hospital shown on the Jumbotron during a media break; Shane gets his stats compared to Ilya’s.
The thing is, Shane likes all of the moments he and Ilya share. It’s their song and dance, basically their foreplay, so it really shouldn’t be bothering him as much as it is. When he’s battling Rozanov for the puck behind the net, he’s exactly where he wants to be. Which is why there’s no real explanation for the sour feeling in his stomach as he talks to some media outlets about the game before scrubbing his skin extra hard in the shower.
He doesn’t even have to pretend to be in a good mood with the team for long. As soon as they’re back to the hotel, he’s grabbing his bags and ordering an Uber. His parents live in Ottawa. It’s so much easier for him to disappear here than in Boston. But his driver doesn’t take him to the house he grew up in. Instead, the car winds along the river until he gets to Ilya’s house.
From the driveway, Shane can tell that Ilya beat him home. He can see one of the upstairs lights on and Shane’s pace quickens. They haven’t texted since before the game, and Shane had half a mind to wonder if Ilya would go out with his team. It’s not like they’d be celebrating a win, but they always seem to be hanging around one another. They seem way closer than Shane’s team. Shane half-expected Ilya to be in a booth somewhere, laughing with Bood and Hayes and, of course, Barrett.
But he’s here. He’s home, waiting for Shane. Shane feels the tiniest bit of guilt for feeling so relieved.
“Ilya?” he calls out as he steps instead, automatically rearming the security system as he steps out of his shoes.
“Upstairs!” Ilya calls out, and Shane grins to himself. Ilya’s probably lounging on the bed, thick cock in his hand as he waits for Shane. Shane’s heart starts to race in anticipation before Ilya calls out, “Be down in a sec!”
Oh. Never mind, then.
Shane feels momentarily awkward in Ilya’s entryway before he forces himself to remember that this is essentially his home too, even if he hasn’t been here in weeks. There’s a stack of mail on the kitchen island and a basket of unfolded laundry on the couch. The latter draws Shane’s attention. Habitually, he shuffles his way over, sorting his way through mostly gym clothes. He’s working on turning a pair of socks inside out when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs. A moment later, strong arms wrap around his waist.
“My sexy maid is here,” Ilya murmurs into his ear, and Shane lightly throws his elbow behind him.
“Fuck you. Fold your own laundry,” Shane fires back, dropping the pair of socks he balled up together.
Ilya momentarily stiffens behind him, and Shane is about to apologize, but then he feels soft lips brush underneath his ear. “But it is like meditation for you.”
Shane closes his eyes, exhaling. Ilya’s not the one he’s mad at, he reminds himself. He’s not mad at all. It’s easier to relax into Ilya’s embrace as he remembers that. But then Shane’s gaze catches on a Toronto Guardians t-shirt in the basket. He knows two people that played for the Guardians, and while Shane supposes it could be Hayes’, he knows it’s not.
“I didn’t know you played for the Guardians,” Shane says, aiming for a normal chirp. This is what they do, they poke fun and tease each other. Shane’s not actually upset. That would turn this into something bigger than it is.
Ilya shifts to the side, keeping one hand on Shane’s hip while peering into the basket to understand what Shane is getting it. “Ah. Yes, did I forget to tell you? Tonight was my last night as a Centaur.”
“Probably should have tried harder to win, then,” Shane fires back. It’s cheap, and he worries a little too mean as well, until Ilya laughs.
“Asshole,” he chuckles, kissing Shane’s jaw. He doesn’t pull away as expected though. He pulls Shane closer, leaving his mouth pressed along the side of Shane’s face and his hand tight on Shane’s hip. “The guys were over a few nights ago. Dykstra spilled a beer on Barrett.”
Shane knows that’s true. Ilya called him with a million questions about removing stains from the rug right under where they are standing. “I know,” Shane murmurs. “I didn’t think it was anything.”
He doesn’t look at Ilya while he says it, but Shane can feel the other man’s gaze. Ilya presses one long kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth before he murmurs, “Come on. Gimme proper kiss.”
A small smile dances over Shane’s lips and he turns in Ilya’s arms, letting their mouths meet in a hello. But even as Ilya’s tongue prods gently at his lips, Shane can’t let it go. Not the shirt—he doesn’t give a fuck about an old Toronto shirt—but it’s a reminder of tonight. A reminder that he’s the one on the sidelines, at least as far as everyone else is concerned. Shane has no one to blame but himself for that, though. This is what he wants, this is what they need, and yet… Shane wants to be the one by Ilya’s side. And he fucking can’t.
He pulls away, ducking his head and clearing his throat. “I’m gonna get something to drink,” he mumbles, turning around and making his way towards the kitchen where he knows Ilya keeps ginger ale stocked.
“Shane? What’s wrong?”
Shane shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Shane,” Ilya sounds increasingly distressed. “You have nothing to worry about. I love you, you know that—”
Shane looks over his shoulder at Ilya, standing like a lost puppy in the living room. “Ilya. Of course I know that. I don’t think anything like that happened.”
Ilya’s shoulders slump and Shane continues his quest for his comfort drink. “But something is not right with you.”
It’s not a question this time, and Shane supposes it doesn’t need to be. Ilya knows him pretty well. His hand curls around a cold can before he lets the fridge door fall shut. He feels like the contents he’s holding, bottled up and ready to fucking explode.
“It’s just… he gets to be your friend,” Shane blurts out as he cracks open the soda, pressure releasing. “You spend all your time together and have the whole Internet talking about you two and you get to hug on the ice and it’s no big fucking deal and I can’t even be at a bar with you after a game without someone acting like we’re signing a peace treaty just to talk to one another.”
Shane sucks in a few deep breaths once he’s done. His heart is racing and Ilya is still on the other side of the kitchen, probably thinking Shane is overreacting and Shane needs to fucking breathe again. He grasps the edge of the counter, bowing his head and focusing on pulling air into his lungs. Why is he even freaking out? Nobody even invited him to a bar tonight. Ilya’s not even out tonight. But the last time he was in Montreal, Ilya’s team wanted to go out. Shane had to wait an agonizing hour before Ilya could give some excuse to leave. An hour of their precious time together taken away because there would’ve been no way for Shane to meet them and explain why he was hanging out with… who? His coworker? It’s all so fucking stupid.
“Shane,” Ilya says gently. Carefully. “Does it hurt you that I get to hang out with him publicly when I can’t do the same with you, or does it hurt you that I get to hang out with him—a gay man—publicly?”
Shane looks up so quickly he gets dizzy. “No. No, Ilya. That’s not it. I trust you. Completely. And besides, you said Troy is with the social media manager so like… I know it’s not like that. I just—” He sighs, his shoulders falling in defeat. “I want that.”
He sounds like a petulant toddler, but fuck. Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?
Ilya looks at him with a raised brow. “A social media manager?”
Shane’s not having it. “Ilya,” he deadpans, and Ilya signs. His lips pull into a frown and he rubs at his nose.
“You think I don’t want the same? You think I don’t watch Shane Hollander highlights and see you and Pike celebrating after a goal and think, ‘fuck, I want that with him’?”
Shane blinks a few times. It’s not what he should be focusing on, but now he can’t get the image of Ilya in his bed alone, watching Shane’s best moments. “You watch my highlights?” he asks in awe, and Ilya flaps his hand in dismissal.
“Soothes me to sleep when you’re not there.”
Shane has no idea whether he’s being serious or not, but he smiles a little anyway and it breaks some of the mounting tension. Ilya takes the opportunity to come closer, circling around the island until his hands are on Shane’s hips. “Who cares that people online think Troy and I have some big love affair.”
Wait— hold on. “They think what?” Shane practically screeches, and Ilya’s face falls in mild alarm.
“Oh. I thought you knew.”
“No, I didn’t know!”
“I thought you were jealous because the Internet is talking about what a cute couple we’d be and you want them to know me and you are the cute couple,” Ilya explains. Shane feels like his eyes are about to bulge out of his skull.
“Why would I want that? I’ve spent twelve years panicking over people thinking exactly that.”
Shane shoves his hands through his hair, pacing a few steps away. Ilya is there in an instant, pulling his arms down to protect him from ripping out his strands.
“Okay. Okay, let’s sit down, I think,” he says softly before leading Shane to the couch.
Shane plops down hard, landing on one of Ilya’s runaway socks. He pulls it out and drops it into the forgotten laundry bin. “Maybe… maybe I am a little jealous of the people that think you would be a cute couple. But it’s not like they wouldn’t think the same about us, right? I mean, that’s not why we have to hide.”
Shane turns to Ilya, searching for comfort in his eyes. Ilya gives him a smile that’s just on the side of cocky. A signature Ilya look that Shane fell so impossibly fast for.
“Yes. We would have support from outside the league, I think. At least from some people.”
“Yeah,” Shane mumbles, and then sighs. “So that’s not… We know the truth, so who cares if someone thinks you and Barrett should have a million babies.”
Ilya frowns. “Biologically impossible, unfortunately. I’ve been trying with you for years.”
“Shut up,” Shane retorts, but it finally gets him to smile. “I just want to spend time with you. Could you imagine being on the same team? I know it could never happen, but…”
“It would be cool,” Ilya says wistfully.
“It would. We could be even closer than we are now.”
Ilya hums. “Maybe not such a good thing. You would get sick of my dirty socks and loud music.”
Their whole relationship was built on them being just a little bit annoyed with each other. It’s their thing. It works for them.
“No. I wouldn’t,” Shane argues, and Ilya gives him a look of disbelief that morphs into an amused smile. When Shane stays quiet, Ilya grows contemplative, reaching for Shane’s hand.
“Moya lyubov, I don’t know how to fix this,” Ilya whispers as he runs his thumb over Shane’s knuckles.
Shane groans. “I don’t even know what’s wrong. I wish it was… easier, I don’t know.”
Shane’s gaze is forced up when Ilya tilts his chin, and then their lips meet softly. “Me too.”
He falls into Ilya’s side after that, melting into him and letting their bodies morph into one. Shane loves the way they fit. The press of his forehead sliding right against Ilya’s neck, Ilya’s arm around his shoulder, their knees bumping. The finger Ilya runs up and down Shane’s arm causes shivers and Shane cuddles in closer.
“You told the team you were staying in Ottawa tonight to discuss charity business tomorrow, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane mumbles.
“Okay. So we go to lunch with your mom. In public. And we ‘discuss charity business.’”
Shane frowns, ready to list all the reasons why that wouldn’t work, except… there are none. None that really matter, that wouldn’t feel like excuses borne out of fear. “That… could be okay.”
Ilya kisses the top of his head. “And maybe, one day soon, you and I go around Ottawa and Montreal, bringing supplies and necessities to different crisis centers and group homes, for charity business. And maybe halfway through the day we get hungry and have to have lunch somewhere.”
Shane’s eyes grow embarrassingly wet at his boyfriend’s big heart and how he shares it with the world around them and Shane himself. “Hiding in plain sight,” Shane mumbles slowly.
“We are allowed to interact,” Ilya reminds him. His fingers find the back of Shane’s head, carding softly through the strands before scratching at his scalp. He can play Shane’s body like a fiddle, and Shane feels himself melting. “We host a whole camp together; we can be seen outside of a hockey rink.”
“I thought my own hobby was hockey,” he teases before he gets too emotional.
“It’s a hockey-related charity, Hollander. You are not out of the woods,” he fires back, and Shane smiles. “And maybe, if it’s not too much, I post a picture at lunch tomorrow. With a reminder that camp sign-ups open in a few weeks.”
Shane pokes his head up. “Strictly business.”
Ilya grins. “Yes. I am a professional, of course.”
Shane leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. “I love you. You really don’t have to do all of this just because I’m being dumb.”
“I have to hang out with my boyfriend? Oh my god, Hollander. You are torturing me. Why are you making me do all of this?” Ilya groans, and Shane laughs.
“Shut up.”
Ilya grasps his cheeks, kissing him firmly. “I love you so much,” he reminds Shane. “Text your mom about lunch and then we go to bed. I have an early morning, moving to Toronto and all.”
“Asshole,” Shane murmurs, a little too fondly, as he swats at Ilya’s chest. But Ilya traps Shane’s hand there, so he thinks he may not be the sappiest one here.
—
HARRIS: Okay, Centaurs. New season. Time to see how some answers changed from last year. Best bromance on the team?
DILLION: Hayes and Bood.
DYKSTRA: Dude, what? It’s Roz and Hollzy.
DILLION: He said bromance.
DYKSTRA: Yeah, and they’re bros that are romancing. Ultimate bromance.
Cut.
LAPOINTE: The husbands.
CHOUINARD: Yeah, this isn’t even a contest. Hollzy and Roz. Making everyone else look bad.
Cut.
BARRETT: Is it weird to say Hollander and Roz? I know they’re married, but they also call each other ‘dude’, so.
Cut.
Rozanov grins when he sees Harris holding the question card.
ROZANOV: Such an easy question, Harris. Barrett! Tell your boyfriend he needs to try harder.
BARRETT (off-screen): I know better than to tell my boyfriend how to do his job.
HOLLANDER, entering the frame: Words you should listen to, Rozanov.
ROZANOV: I am your Captain. It is my job to tell you how to do your job.
HARRIS: Guys. Question.
ROZANOV: Oh, right. Me and Hollander, obviously.
HOLLANDER, blushing: It says bromance.
Rozanov frowns.
ROZANOV: You are my best friend and my romance. I do not understand how anyone else could possibly win this question.
HARRIS: It’s not a competition.
Cut.
HAYES: Rozanov and Hollander, ultimate bromance.
Haas enters the frame.
HAAS: I don’t know, Barrett and Hollander are pretty tight.
Rozanov laughs loudly off camera and Shane rolls his eyes, skating away.