Chapter Text
January 2017 — Montreal
Shane skated up to the face-off circle, heart beating out of his chest as he tried to guess whether Ilya would talk shit like he normally did, or if he would glower at Shane like he sometimes did just to mix things up a bit.
Ilya did neither. He kept his eyes down, silent as he has been for the entire game, waiting for the puck drop. Maybe Shane imagined it, but the lineman seemed to hold for an extra second as if anticipating something from Ilya that he didn't offer this time. Shane swallowed. He lost the face-off.
Ilya was on the warpath tonight. Fast (he was always fast), brutal (he was always brutal), focused (he was always focused). It was probably fine. Shane fought to keep his eyes on the play, not Ilya, who kept slamming J.J. into the boards like he was personally offending him for having the puck. He was really skirting the line of legal play.
If he didn't know better, Shane would guess that Ilya had lost badly at his last game. But Shane did know better, he knew Ilya had crushed Buffalo 4-0. He knew the Bears had been on a winning streak. Something else was bothering Ilya, and it was bothering him a lot, and Shane told himself he had no idea what that something might be.
Instead of dwelling on what Shane definitely didn't know anything about, he locked back into the game, stealing the puck from Marlow.
He had it for about three seconds before Ilya slammed into him, dashing off with Shane at his heels. Shane hadn't closed before J.J. appeared, and Ilya glanced J.J.'s direction before throwing his weight toward him, and J.J. hit Ilya, hard, from the worst angle, and Ilya's body smashed into the glass before falling limp on the ice. Shane skidded to a stop, stick dropping from his hands as he stared down at Ilya's body.
…Move.
Fucking move.
Do something.
J.J. was shouting, waving, and people came over to roll Ilya carefully onto his back. His lips were parted slightly, eyes closed. Shane sucked in a desperate breath when they snapped a neck brace onto him. He must be alive, then. For a neck brace to matter. He was so still. He wasn't moving. Move. Shane wanted to shake him. Have Ilya snap at him for being an asshole after he made Shane a tuna melt and said his name and said stay…
"Ilya?" They asked.
They held something under his nose, and Ilya jolted a little, eyelids fluttering. Shane let out a noise, he didn't know how loud, or what the noise was.
"Hey, man, you okay? Buddy?"
Shane pushed blindly at the arm coming around him, and finally shook out of it enough to see Hayden watching him. Shane looked back at Ilya, whose eyes were falling shut every other second as they kept talking to him and making him stay awake.
"Fine." Shane said faintly, wishing he could follow Ilya off the ice, into the ambulance and to the hospital. Knowing there's no world where he could do that.
The game continued. Of course it did, players got injured and taken off the ice all the time. Well, not all the time, but it happened. Never to Shane, never to Ilya. Shane got slammed into the boards by Marlow. He lost the puck, and took two seconds too long to catch up before Marlow scored.
It finally ended. Finally. Shane was off the ice before anyone from his team. He was back in the dressing room hurling his gloves into his stall so he could grab his phone and search for some miraculous message, from Lily, probably, Shane, I'm okay, I'm fine now, it turned out to be nothing.
Lily hadn't texted.
And why would he? Why would he have texted Shane? They hadn't spoken since November. The last text on the thread was from Shane: I'm here.
He went to ESPN, every news outlet he'd ever spoken to, Ilya's Instagram… Nothing. Ilya had posted a picture of a receipt for peanut butter Oreos, ground beef, Coke, and pickles. It had eight thousand likes. No caption. The post was from November, there was nothing more recent.
Shane noticed his team had come in, oddly quiet.
Shane's jaw clenched when he saw J.J.'s pale face. J.J. seemed willing to stare Shane down. He looked shaken, but it was Ilya's fault. Shane could kill him. J.J.
And Ilya. Both of them. It was undeniably Ilya's fault. It was a weird move, because Ilya was in a weird mood, and it showed in his game. It showed in Shane's game, too. Shane could kill him.
"Shane, buddy."
There was Hayden in front of him again, mouth guard hanging from his lip. Shane looked down at his phone, stuck on the slide to power off screen, because Shane had been holding down the button. He dropped it back into his stall.
"Hey, take off your gear at least." Hayden said, and Shane robotically obeyed. No one else spoke. Hayden lowered his voice. "What's going on, man?"
"I…" Shane's mouth hung open as he searches for words. "I… I don't…"
What could he even say? I left him in November because he said my name and it was the scariest word that's ever come from his mouth. The silence between them in the past three months had been filled with late night conversations with Rose – oh, Rose, Shane's actual girlfriend. So it hadn't felt quite like the empty chasm that opened between them in the months when Ilya had stopped talking to Shane after the Olympics.
"He'll be okay." Hayden said, though he wasn't confident, and Shane just kept staring at his face. "I'll watch the news, go shower. I'll get you if anything goes up."
Shane nodded. Generous, probably. Hayden hated Ilya more than anyone else on the Voyageurs. Except Shane, who supposedly hated Ilya even more. He wandered off toward the sound of water, stood under it for about twenty seconds, decided he was clean enough, and found Hayden again in his towel. Hayden looked like he was dutifully refreshing ESPN. Shane was distantly grateful for him. Maybe Hayden would have been okay with it. If he knew Boston Lily was really Ilya. Fuck.
The room emptied as Shane picked up his own phone again, moving through each site in a constant loop interspersed with scrolling back through the text thread with Lily - impersonal hookup logistics. I'm here. or Room 1882. Because Shane (and presumably Ilya as well) had always deleted anything that identified Ilya in his texts. Ilya did it all the time, teasing Shane with comments about his games in Boston, sending sexy, very masculine photos, telling Shane he wanted to get hard in Shane's mouth.
He refreshed ESPN.
Hayden – oh, Hayden was still here – sat down on a bench in front of Shane.
"Wanna tell me what's going on?" He asked. Shane had heard him ask the twins that before, in that voice, when they were fighting, or one of them was acting out. He was a good dad. He was watching Hayden's mouth form words. "We've seen guys taken off the ice before."
Shane shook his head for too long. Looked for words he's allowed to say.
"Not… not one of my guys." He said. "Not out cold."
"He's…" Hayden exhales. "He's not one of your guys, Shane. He's on the other team. He's not your responsibility."
Shane took a shaky breath. Hayden planted his hands on Shane's knees bracingly. Shane didn't realize he'd sat down. He leaned on his elbows, breathing out.
"We were rookies together. He's been there since…"
"I know, man. Me too."
Yes, Hayden was also a rookie with them. It wasn't the same. Shane didn't know Hayden until they were both on the Voyageurs. Shane knew Ilya before they'd touched NHL ice.
"I didn't… I didn't think it could happen to one of us." Shane said haltingly. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Maybe that's why I freaked out. Could've been me."
That's a reasonable justification, probably. Maybe Hayden would buy it. Shane glanced up at him. Hayden didn't buy it. He didn't press the issue, though. Shane shut his eyes again, head hanging from his shoulders.
"Sure. Yeah, it could've been you." Hayden said. "But it wasn't. He was playing dirty tonight, he doesn't usually play like that."
Shane shook his head slowly.
"Any idea why?"
He just kept shaking his head.
Hayden let out a breath, then stood, pulling Shane up by his elbows. He put both hands on Shane's face, keeping his head straight and attempting eye contact that Shane didn't particularly want to give him. Hayden didn't try very hard.
"I'm gonna shower, you get dressed. You can come home and eat dinner with us."
Shane nodded, though he hadn't heard anything Hayden said. Hayden somehow knew this, and he dug up Shane's clothes from his bag and thrust them into his arms.
By the time he got back from the showers, Shane was dressed. Hayden dressed, and they left together, Shane climbing into the front seat of Hayden's minivan and leaving his Jeep in the garage.
Something played quietly on the radio, keeping the silence at bay. Hayden glanced over at Shane when they stopped at a light.
At the house, Jackie looked surprised to see Shane. He hadn't seen much of the Pikes lately, he'd been too wrapped up in his new dating life.
Oh, Rose. He should text her. Or at least mention that he wanted to text her, so it wouldn't be weird that he hadn't mentioned her all evening.
"I should text Rose." Shane announced. There. He'd done it. He picked up his phone again, and refreshed all the sites. He really should text her. He likes her, likes talking to her best of all. It would help.
Shane couldn't eat everything Jackie had made for dinner, and she apologetically told him Hayden hadn't warned her Shane was coming. Shane apologized again for his weird diet, and she brushed it off again.
Ilya shook off the thing on his finger, and more beeps started. Long beeps, which might not be good. He looked around him, the unfamiliar space of what might be a hospital. A man hurried in, speaking nonsense and putting the clamp back on Ilya's finger. Ilya stared at his mouth, trying to make out real words. He was dizzy, the room swayed a bit.
"…Rozanov?" He said. Ilya blinked at him. Pointed at his own chest. The man spoke again, and Ilya shook his head.
"What do you want?" He asked, then, "Where am I?"
The man held up a finger to indicate Ilya should wait. He left the room. Ilya looked around himself, trying to find something familiar. There wasn't anything, so he closed his eyes instead.
A long time passed before the man returned with a middle-aged woman in a tidy blouse and slacks. She smiled briefly, walking up and offering her hand.
"Hello Ilya." She said, and Ilya shook her hand. "I'm Oksana, I'm here to translate for you."
"Oh." Ilya said. He frowned at the man who had spoken before. "He is speaking English then, yes?"
Oksana nodded.
"You're not able to understand him?" She asked. She sounded Ukranian.
"No. Should I?"
Oksana tilted her head side to side.
"You suffered quite an injury on the ice. English may take a while to come back."
"Ice." Ilya echoed. Oksana's eyebrows lifted.
"Ice hockey." She said. "Can you tell me the year?"
Ilya blinked at her. He couldn't. He glanced around himself again, looking for some clue. There was a date on the hospital wrist band, and he read it to her. She thanked him briefly, and spoke to the other man in English.
Oksana translated everything to Ilya as more people came in, looking at his eyes, asking what he remembered and what he didn't (there wasn't a good way to answer that one).
Ilya was tired, but they told him he couldn't sleep for a while. Instead, they allowed two people into the room. Ilya didn't recognize either of them.
One introduced himself – via Oksana – as his coach. His ice hockey coach.
The other was a player, Cliff. They were friends. Ilya couldn't remember him. Cliff looked worried about it.
Cliff gave Ilya a phone, a gold chain with a crucifix, and a wallet. Cliff said something as Oksana helped him with the clasp on the necklace.
"He doesn't think you're religious, but you never take the necklace off." Oksana told him. Ilya nodded, grateful for Cliff's presence.
Ilya couldn't remember the password to his phone, but his thumbprint worked. The coach stayed for a while, but eventually left after talking to the doctors.
Cliff helped him change his phone's language from English to Russian. Oksana suggested he look for what contacts he'd texted or called the most.
There were plenty, and Cliff helpfully told him which names were from the team, and which names he didn't know. Lots of women's names, but only a few texts exchanged, dates, times, club names… Finally, they reached one Ilya had texted a lot over several years. There was a partially written text in the message box. Translated into Russian with the rest of his phone – Nothing to lose your shit over, just
"Oh... Jane." Cliff said, and Ilya didn't need Oksana to translate that. Cliff's mouth was twisted oddly as he tried to find an explanation for Jane.
Ilya looked through the texts and was glad Cliff couldn't read Russian. Some of them were very explicit, always Ilya to Jane. The texts had weird gaps like pieces of their conversations were just deleted. Hopefully it was Jane responding positively to Ilya's advances.
"Jane might be your girlfriend." Oksana translated, and Ilya looked at Cliff with a frown.
"Might be?" He asked. Oksana repeated it in English. Cliff answered in a rambling, broken way, like he wasn't quite sure how to answer the question.
"He's not sure because you have been very secretive about her." Oksana said. "You've been texting her for a long time and seem to like her, but he's never met her, and you still sleep with other women."
Ilya lowered his head to the pillows to stare at the ceiling. Cliff said something else, short and quiet.
"You could call her." Oksana said. Ilya looked at his phone again.
"I don't remember how to speak English." He said. Oksana pointed at herself, and Ilya huffed.
Jane hadn't called him.
Maybe she hadn't heard he was injured, but hockey is televised, surely she would have found out.
"Has anyone reported my injury?" Ilya asked Oksana without looking away from the unsent message. "In the news?"
"Yes, your coach left to announce that you had woken up and are recovering."
Ilya frowned, nodding. He couldn't get a read on Jane with all these missing texts. He didn't know if she was even interested, or if Ilya was just bothering her. He found himself pressing the crucifix on his necklace between his forefinger and thumb.
"You don't have to call her if you don't want to." Oksana said.
"I know." Ilya responded, though it settled him more to know he wasn't expected to have someone he could call other than his coach and Cliff. But he found it weird, like something was missing. Like someone was missing. Did he not have a life outside hockey?
It was a long night before Ilya was released. His medication hadn't worn off completely, but he was given a bottle of pills and several pages of instructions printed in English and Russian. Oksana gave him her business card, and said Ilya's coach had mentioned hiring a translator until Ilya was able to get his English back. She lived in Montreal, though, so they would need to find a translator in Boston.
Ilya was so disoriented by listening to English, he couldn't imagine waking up one day suddenly remembering how the language worked. Oksana might translate for him forever. Or at least until Ilya went back to Russia.
Cliff brought Ilya to a penthouse suite in a massive hotel. He spoke with the person at the front desk, showing them Ilya's ID card. They gave Cliff a room key, and Ilya followed him to an elevator. Inside the suite that, apparently, only Ilya was staying in, Cliff got Ilya a glass of water to take some pills, the page of Russian instructions spread in front of him. Ilya was tired of reading before the end of the first line.
Cliff set his phone between them, and Ilya saw he'd opened a translating app. He started speaking, and the app wrote it out in English and Russian.
"Do you need anything? Anyone you need to call?"
Ilya looked at the Cyrillic words under the English. Cliff's thumb hovered over a button with a short English word. Ilya opened his mouth, and Cliff tapped it, erasing his words.
"I just want to sleep." Ilya said. The app translated it. Cliff nodded, and tapped the button again.
"You can text me in Russian and I'll translate it." He said, in English, and Ilya read it in Russian. He nodded. Cliff cleared the app. Ilya wondered if Cliff was Ilya's closest friend. There hadn't been much in their text thread. Some cocky shit-talking, a bit of logistical planning. Cliff knew Ilya wore a necklace all the time, but he didn't know why. Ilya didn't either. They probably saw each other almost every day.
"Thank you." He said, after too long had passed.
"Seriously, Roz." Cliff said, and the app didn't know how to translate the shortened version of Ilya's name. "Ilya."
Ilya sighed, putting his elbow on the table, leaning his head on it. He was tired of words. He gave Cliff a thumbs up. Cliff smiled.
"The rest of the team wants to check on you soon." Cliff continued. Ilya pretended to fall asleep, and Cliff laughed. "I'll tell them to wait. We're all here in the same hotel."
Cliff stuck around long enough for Ilya to get changed into comfortable sweats and get in bed.
"Call if you need anything. I'll be back in a couple hours." Cliff said, which the app on Ilya's phone translated for him. Ilya dropped his head back against the pillows, letting his eyes close briefly.
"Thanks." He said again, holding his phone screen so Cliff could see it. Cliff gave him a tight smile, and left the room.
It was too quiet, so Ilya turned on the TV. It was too bright, so he put the spare pillow over his face. Everything was a bit fuzzy around the edges, what they'd said was wrong with him – concussion, amnesia, bruising, but no broken bones somehow – it didn't make much sense to him. They would be home soon, and Ilya was staying behind to recover while his team traveled to another game. Maybe there would be answers in Boston. Cliff said Jane is from Montreal.
By noon, Ilya had barely slept. He was achingly tired, but his head wouldn't quiet long enough for him to rest. He picked up his phone, the screen blinding him briefly after having a pillow on his face for so long.
Ilya: Nothing to lose your shit over, just
Unsent. The last message was from Jane: I'm here.
November.
Ilya looked back at their texts, looking for one from Jane that wasn't a room number or announcing her arrival. He looked for photos, or jokes from her, or anything. Even his own texts were few and far between. He scrolled back forever, back through the years.
Bafflingly, the first text he'd sent to Jane: Hey Jane, see you in 2 weeks 😉 xo Lily
Had the phone translated his name in a strange way? Had he mistyped it?
Ilya turned off his phone screen. Set it down on the nightstand. Shut his eyes. The TV droned on in English. Ilya sighed heavily.
Cliff returned to Ilya's suite with lunch, and though Ilya was still nauseous from the medication, he was hungry enough to eat anyway.
"We're headed to the airport pretty soon." Cliff said to the app. "In about an hour."
"Okay." Ilya said. It didn't need to be translated. He looked at the eggs and sausage on his plate, poking them around for a minute. "Will anyone else be left in Boston?"
Cliff's eyes lifted from the phone once he's read Ilya's words. He grimaced.
"Not that I know of." He said. "You should call Jane before we leave Montreal."
Ilya frowned.
"She hasn't called me." He said. "And she hasn't texted me in months."
"Really?"
He shrugged.
Cliff hesitated.
"I don't know, man. I see you texting her all the time."
"Not since November." Ilya said. Cliff looked surprised again.
"I've seen you text her since then." He said. Ilya shook his head, holding up his phone. Nothing to lose your shit over, just
"What does that mean?" He asked. Ilya shrugged again. Oh, Cliff couldn't read the text at all. Cliff sighed. "You… you were kind of on a rampage. Last night. For a while, now."
Ilya shook his head, confused. Cliff brushed his hand through his hair.
"Boiziau didn't hit you. You hit him."
"In hockey?"
"In the game, yeah. You were super pissed, nobody knew why."
"And you think calling Jane will help?" He asked. Cliff sighed again.
"Well, you're pretty private about your personal life, none of the guys know much about it. Jane might know what happened to get you so worked up."
"Okay." He says again. He doesn't think Jane would answer, nothing in their texts indicate they're even friendly with each other. They just hook up. Maybe just to prove a point, he takes out his phone and taps the call button on Jane's contact. He holds it up for Cliff to see it ringing.
It keeps ringing. And ringing. And ringing. The call ends before it goes to voicemail.
Cliff looked very disappointed. Ilya shrugged.
"Thought so." He said.
Shane stared at the red line in his call log. Lily, 1 minute ago.
He hadn't let it go to voicemail. He should maybe change his number completely, disconnect the line so it would never go to his voicemail if he didn't see it in time to decline the call.
Ilya had amnesia, according to the media. He was awake, he was injured, but he was out of the hospital. Who was taking care of him? Was he by himself? Shane had shut himself in the bathroom in Rose's hotel when his phone started ringing. She maybe hadn't seen the name on the screen, but it's weird. Weird weird weird. If he deleted the call record, he looked shady. If she saw the name Lily in his call record, he looked shady.
Ilya had amnesia, which meant that he didn't remember Shane. Shane was in Ilya's phone as Jane, and if Ilya was a man of his word (he was), there was nothing in their texts that would identify Shane as being a man, let alone Shane Hollander.
They'd been meaning to stop, anyway.
This twisted, insane thing between them had to end, and what better time to let things fade than when Ilya didn't know what he was missing, and Shane had a girlfriend that didn't know he was gay.
Liked men. And women, like her. Probably not gay, not completely.
They'd been ignoring each other for months, anyway. Shane had left that day because it was getting too real, and Ilya said Shane, like that, in that voice, and it was too comfortable as if they had any kind of relationship whatsoever, and Shane was the one to end it then. They'd stopped, and Shane met Rose, and Ilya–
Rose knocked, and Shane nearly dropped his phone.
"Shane? You okay?" She asked.
"Fine." Shane croaked. He got out of the tub. Rose was standing outside the bathroom, shoulder leaning against the wall in a way Ilya did so often when he wanted to look very casual and cool.
Lily, 9 minutes ago was still on his phone.
"Sorry. Being weird." Shane muttered, sneaking past her toward the couch. She caught his elbow before he got past her.
"Shane." She said. Shane kept his eyes down so it wouldn't spill out of him. "Shane."
"Rozanov's injury really fucked me up." He says. This has been his story, the reason for him acting so weird around everyone. "It made me realize I could get hurt bad like that too."
Rose was quiet.
"Is that what's really going on?" She asked gently. Shane didn't like when people spoke gently to him. People that weren't Ilya, at least. He didn't love it from Ilya either, but he knew Ilya never pitied him.
"Yes." Shane said. Rose sighed, tugging him back to the couch.
"Sit." She said, pushing down on his shoulders like she could force him if he didn't want to. He sat. "Who is Lily?"
Her voice wasn't accusatory. It wasn't jealous, if anything, Shane would say it sounded curious. Like she really wanted to know who this person was and why Shane had gone and sat in her bathtub for ten minutes when Lily called.
When he didn't respond, she changed tact.
"I get the feeling that maybe I'm not right for you." She said. Shane looked up at her then.
"What? You're perfect, you're–"
"I'm great, I know." She said with a warm smile. "It's just… I don't know, it doesn't seem like you're really… into me. Attracted to me."
Shane's eyes shift over to her shoulder, where her bra strap had slid over just enough to be seen under her shirt.
"It's okay, Shane. If that's not what you want. If I'm not…"
"It is what I—I think I like men." Shane cut her off. His blood felt icy in his wrists and chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, surprised to feel his eyelashes were wet. He wanted to crawl under the bed and stay there until Rose stopped being here, listening to him.
"It's okay, Shane." She said softly. Her hand wrapped around his wrist, and he swallowed. "You're allowed to like men."
He shakes his head.
"Not in hockey."
"Is hockey that important?" She asked, but she sounded like she already knew the answer. He nodded. She sighed sadly. "Yeah."
"Yeah." Shane said. Rose squeezed his arm, then let go.
"Will you tell me who Lily is?" She asked again. Shane hesitated, but shook his head again.
"Not my secret to tell." He said quietly, and Rose understood.
"Lily's a guy." She guessed, nodding when he didn't answer. "Why did you hide in my bathtub?"
Shane let out an involuntary laugh, something a little humorless and humiliated.
"We… broke up." Shane said. "It's just… weird."
"Ah."
She didn't question him further, she just brushed his hair back off his face a little.
"Did you just dump me?" Shane asked, to be sure. She laughed.
"Yes, I did. Sorry."
"I deserve it." He sighed. She tipped his chin up.
"You don't." She said firmly. "You did nothing wrong, you were a great boyfriend. We're just… not compatible. Nothing wrong with that."
Shane huffed.
"Alright."
She drew him into her arms for a tight squeeze. He blinked away tears while she couldn't see his face.
"You can talk to me." She said. "About boys. About… whatever. Okay?"
"Okay." Shane said automatically. She pulled back, still clasping his arms.
"I mean it! Okay? Text me, please. Tell me everything. I'll text you too. We'll be best friends."
"You don't have to."
"I know I don't have to. I want to." Rose said. She cupped his cheek in one hand, and Shane smiled.
"Okay." He said again, meaning it a little more this time.
They got breakfast together, as friends.
They could go wherever they liked together, and the media and the fans loved it. It was horribly easy, with her.
Alone in bed that night, Shane's stomach dropped, because his phone chimed with a new text. Then another right after.
He'd set a special text tone for Lily's contact.
It was in Russian. Shane copied the text over to English. It didn't make more sense this way.
Lily: Nothing to lose your shit over, just
Lily: Never sent that text to you. Do whatever you want with it.
Shane stared at the screen until it went blurry, then went dark.
Ilya was home.
It was a huge, almost impersonal penthouse apartment.
There was plenty to eat in the refrigerator, and a big, comfortable bed, and a big, luxurious shower. He went there first as soon as Cliff dropped him off. Cliff was a good friend. Ilya wondered if he was always a good friend, or if he was now because Ilya needed someone. Anyone.
With that thought, Ilya turned out all the lights in the bathroom and turned the water as hot as it would go, filling the bathroom with steam. He hissed when he stepped into the shower, and quickly turned down the heat.
All he did was stand there… for a while, until he was a little dizzy in space, disoriented in the steamy darkness. He shut off the water, dried off, and went to bed naked. There was a single hoop earring sitting on one nightstand. He wondered who it belonged to, if she knew it was missing. Maybe he hadn't even learned her name, or maybe she'd been one of the women he'd texted a club name and nothing else. Maybe he could text a picture of it to each one and see who replied. It wasn't a particularly special earring, but missing one earring was annoying, probably. Maybe whoever it was would come get it, and he could see another face before the team got back in two days. She wouldn't speak Russian, though.
He opened his messages to Jane, the unsent text. He rolled his eyes at himself. Just send it.
He didn't bother translating to English. She probably wouldn't even read it. He sent it, followed with another, reasonably aloof text. He stared at the screen a while longer, watching for little dots to appear, if she'll respond. She didn't.
No one else texted him. He'd seen the rest of his team on the flight back to Boston, and they'd all been friendly, but he didn't know them anymore. He was team captain, but it was passed to another guy while Ilya was out of commission. Ilya barely remembered the man's face now, let alone his name. Everything they said was in English, and the translator app got confused.
Ilya tried to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, he did, but his head was spinning trying to keep up with everything moving so fast around him, leaving him behind in the dust, not knowing what happened.
He flipped through the apps on his phone, the new translator app Cliff had put on there, and the older one he'd apparently used for select words here and there, because he used to speak English.
He recognized the Instagram logo, and opened it.
His photos were random, seemingly meaningless, never captioned. A receipt from the grocery store. A dusty drill sitting on a gleaming granite countertop. The view of a Vegas skyline in which his reflection was visible, and wearing half a tuxedo. That one had a lot of likes.
He followed quite a few accounts. Men he now recognized as his teammates. Some of their wives or family members. Lots of beautiful women. Three brands that felt familiar. He looked at their profiles and found pictures of himself amongst the posts.
He looked through posts he'd been tagged in, surprised to see a lot were shared with another man. Shane Hollander, the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs. Ilya had just played Montreal. Shane Hollander must've been there.
Without thinking, Ilya went to Shane Hollander's profile, followed him, and opened a new message to him (in Russian):
ilyarozanov: So how did the game go?
He left it there, curious to see how his 'arch-rival' might react to being messaged by a player injured in their game. The other captain being injured, and by one of Hollander's guys.
Unsurprisingly, Hollander didn't respond all night. Ilya looked at all of Hollander's photos, which took about ten minutes. Mostly brand deals, a couple reposts of the official team's photos. Hollander was very striking, with big dark eyes usually carrying a bit of a flat expression and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He looked young, younger than he apparently was, if he was a rookie at nineteen, the way Ilya was. It looked like they entered the league at the same time. Ilya wondered if they spoke, or if they hated each other as much as all these posts indicated.
Morning came at last. Real morning, when people other than Ilya were awake. He woke up around noon, surprised to find three texts on his phone.
Ryan Carmichael: Get better so we can beat some ass 🙏
Cliff: Missing our lead shit talker
Message from shanehollanderofficial
Ilya opened Instagram first. A message, in English, from Hollander:
shanehollanderofficial: How are you doing?
What a boring, nothing text. Ilya closed Instagram, switching to text his teammates back. He was maybe slightly less lonely than he was last night. It still ached to know his team is out there, playing without him. He was told to stay off the ice even for practice for a while.
Ilya let Shane Hollander stew for a little bit, making himself breakfast and wondering if he and Hollander gave each other shit in the media, or if the whole thing was cooked up by the media to begin with.
As he ate, he opened his message thread with Jane again. She hadn't sent anything back since he'd texted her last night.
He returned to Instagram, looking at Hollander's profile picture. It was so boring, just a boring, expressionless headshot of him looking into the middle distance with his hair in a boring flop over his forehead, wearing a boring black shirt. Ilya wanted to mess him up a little bit, just to see what would happen.
shanehollanderofficial: How are you doing?
ilyarozanov: 😵💫😵💫😵💫
shanehollanderofficial: The press said you have amnesia.
ilyarozanov: True.
shanehollanderofficial: How much do you remember?
ilyarozanov: I don't know
ilyarozanov: because of the amnesia.
shanehollanderofficial: Obviously. I meant… obviously you still know how to use a phone.
ilyarozanov: I remember how to walk and eat as well
shanehollanderofficial: You're impossible.
ilyarozanov: I don't remember how much I need to shit talk you
ilyarozanov: If I should hold a press conference to tell everyone it's your fault
shanehollanderofficial: It wasn't my fault.
ilyarozanov: Who was it then?
shanehollanderofficial: One of my guys.
shanehollanderofficial: Actually, that's not true. It was your fault.
ilyarozanov: Sure.
shanehollanderofficial: Not fucking with you. Watch the videos of it.
ilyarozanov: Where?
shanehollanderofficial: Here
Hollander had sent a link, and Ilya opened the video on YouTube. The commentary was in English, but he watched himself, the jersey with his name on it, as he aggressively plowed his way through the Montreal team. Slammed Hollander into the boards like he'd insulted his mother. He winced when he saw the hit from Boiziau. It was his fault. Why had he done that?
Cliff told him he was playing differently. Ilya looked up other videos of himself playing to see how he normally played. Another clip against Montreal came up first, and he watched himself and Hollander bend over the face-off circle, his lips moving, Hollander glaring at the ice. What had he said? Even if Ilya could lip-read, he'd been speaking in English to Hollander.
shanehollanderofficial: Did you watch it?
Ilya returned to Instagram.
ilyarozanov: No.
shanehollanderofficial: How badly are you injured?
shanehollanderofficial: JJ wants to know
ilyarozanov: Not that bad. Concussion, bruises
ilyarozanov: I don't know why I'm talking to you. Bored, I guess.
shanehollanderofficial: I'm not too boring?
ilyarozanov: You are too boring. But I will be more bored if I stop
shanehollanderofficial: Sounds familiar
ilyarozanov: What does?
shanehollanderofficial: Nothing.
shanehollanderofficial: How long are you off the ice?
ilyarozanov: I don't know yet. Team had to leave today, and I'm waiting for them to get back.
shanehollanderofficial: Any idea if you'll be at the ASG this year?
ilyarozanov: ASG?
shanehollanderofficial: All-Star Game
ilyarozanov: No. I don't know yet
shanehollanderofficial: I hope you can.
ilyarozanov: Hoping to finish what Boiziau started?
shanehollanderofficial: Definitely not.
shanehollanderofficial: Have you heard from your dad/brother?
Ilya frowned. No, he hadn't. He didn't know he had a dad or a brother. Had they, like Jane, ignored the news? Did they not watch his games?
shanehollanderofficial: Sorry. You don't have to tell me.
ilyarozanov: Where are they?
shanehollanderofficial: Moscow. Where you're from.
ilyarozanov: I know I'm from Moscow.
shanehollanderofficial: Well, they're both still there.
Ilya stopped messaging Hollander to go through his texts again, looking for a Russian name. He scrolled very far back before finding one, though not the one he was looking for.
Ilya: 🪩🕺🪩🕺🪩🕺?
Svetlana: Have fun 😘
Ilya: 😭
He frowned. Kept scrolling.
Andrei: It didn't appear in Father's account. Resend to mine.
He read back over the older texts.
Ilya: YOU have to do it. I didn't hire a stranger to take care of our father. ASSHOLE.
Andrei: Come back and do it yourself
Ilya: Give me back the money and I will.
Andrei: He keeps asking for you. Call him
Older,
Ilya: Why is he calling me
Andrei: Win something and he'll stop
Older,
Andrei: Pregnant.
Ilya: Your wife or one of the mistresses
Older…
No wonder Ilya's brother hadn't called. He'd probably get all of Ilya's money if he died. Ilya should make a will. Who would he give his money to?
shanehollanderofficial: Are you okay?
He swiped the notification away, but after a moment, went back to Instagram. His texts were too sad.
ilyarozanov: Do you care?
shanehollanderofficial: Yes.
shanehollanderofficial: A lot.
shanehollanderofficial: Don't tell anyone.
ilyarozanov: I will hold a press conference.
shanehollanderofficial: Please don't.
ilyarozanov: Ask me nicely
shanehollanderofficial: Please, Ilya. Don't. I'm serious.
Oh, that did something to him.
ilyarozanov: Ask me nicer.
shanehollanderofficial: I don't know how.
shanehollanderofficial: I am actually serious. Don't tell anyone we're talking.
ilyarozanov: Why, will they combust?
shanehollanderofficial: Yeah.
ilyarozanov: I have much to catch up on
shanehollanderofficial: Yes. Will your amnesia go away?
ilyarozanov: We don't know yet.
shanehollanderofficial: Okay.
ilyarozanov: What do I say to you on the ice
shanehollanderofficial: You talk a lot of shit.
ilyarozanov: To you?
shanehollanderofficial: To everyone.
ilyarozanov: What do I say to YOU?
shanehollanderofficial: Fuck. I don't know. A lot of things. I don't remember.
ilyarozanov: Try.
shanehollanderofficial: I need to go.
ilyarozanov: Boring.
Hollander stopped replying. Just when he was getting fun to play with. Ilya stared at his screen for a while. He looked at the photos of Shane Hollander again. So boring. Why was he so boring? He was so pretty to look at. Ilya closed Instagram. Opened his photos app. Ilya had many more interesting photos of himself. He looked through them all, scrolling back through photos with his team, interspersed with the same random type of photos he posted on his Instagram. The waistband of a pair of boxers he didn't own. A glass of what must be vodka, a half-smoked cigarette in it. A weird amount of photos from a construction site spread over a few years. Six decorative pillows piled on the floor.
And then he found a folder of photos named 'Boring.' He frowned, opening it.
It was him with Hollander. Six nearly identical selfies, both of them in tuxedos. They were much younger and on a stage with bright lights reflected in their eyes. Hollander looked a bit pissed off. Ilya looked fairly pleased with himself. He also looked slightly off in a way he couldn't define. Ilya frowned, because he'd seen that tuxedo before. The photos were much older than anything else on Ilya's phone.
Opening Instagram again, he scrolled back on his profile to his reflection in the window of a Vegas hotel. Yes, same shirt. Same hair. Same night. Why were these six selfies in their own folder, and why was the folder named 'Boring'? And–
Ilya scrolled back in his messages with Hollander:
ilyarozanov: I don't know why I'm talking to you. Bored, I guess.
shanehollanderofficial: I'm not too boring?
ilyarozanov: You are too boring. But I will be more bored if I stop
shanehollanderofficial: Sounds familiar
ilyarozanov: What does?
shanehollanderofficial: Nothing.
shanehollanderofficial: How long are you off the ice?
Ilya messaged Hollander again. Just one of the selfies, the one where Hollander looked the most pissed off, and Ilya looked the most pleased with himself.
He didn't say anything with it, and watched for the message to say seen. Hollander opened it almost immediately.
He began typing… he kept typing forever, for minutes on end, and Ilya moved to do other things while he waited, because Hollander was boring.
shanehollanderofficial: You still have those?
ilyarozanov: Twenty minutes to say that
shanehollanderofficial: I didn't know those were real.
ilyarozanov: Clearly they are.
ilyarozanov: Do I call you boring a lot?
shanehollanderofficial: It's your favorite thing to call me, I think.
ilyarozanov: This is not a good insult.
shanehollanderofficial: No, it's not.
ilyarozanov: What else do I call you?
shanehollanderofficial: Hollander. Mostly.
ilyarozanov: And not mostly?
Another long, long pause before Hollander replied.
shanehollanderofficial: One time you called me Shane.
ilyarozanov: Creative.
shanehollanderofficial: Yeah.
Ilya looked at Hollander's stupid pretty face with its pretty little freckles and he thought about licking them.
shanehollanderofficial: I should have visited you in the hospital.
ilyarozanov: I would not have visited you.
shanehollanderofficial: Wow.
ilyarozanov: I do not care if you have a concussion. I will win even easier than before.
ilyarozanov: Boston beat Montreal.
shanehollanderofficial: Barely.
ilyarozanov: 3-1 is not barely
shanehollanderofficial: Just barely barely
ilyarozanov: That did not translate
shanehollanderofficial: You're using translate on texts?
ilyarozanov: Yes.
shanehollanderofficial: How bad was the concussion?
shanehollanderofficial: You don't normally.
ilyarozanov: I normally text you?
Hollander unsent the previous message. And the two above it.
ilyarozanov: Hollander.
shanehollanderofficial: Sorry.
ilyarozanov: Shane.
shanehollanderofficial: Jesus fucking Christ Ilya.
Hollander unsent that one too. Ilya was shocked to watch Hollander suddenly block Ilya. His mouth fell open, staring at the blank page that used to hold their texts only from today.
He'd said you don't normally. He'd said Jesus fucking Christ Ilya, and one time you called me Shane. He hadn't once called Ilya Rozanov, like nearly everyone else had since Ilya woke up in the hospital.
Ilya was so fed up with not knowing anything. He created a new account. Blank, no pictures anywhere, just to message Hollander again.
notilyarozanov: What the fuck??
shanehollanderofficial: FUCKING CHRIST ROZANOV.
shanehollanderofficial: Did you make a new account??
notilyarozanov: Why the fuck did you BLOCK ME?
shanehollanderofficial: I'm freaking out I don't know what to do
notilyarozanov: Why the fuck are you freaking out?
shanehollanderofficial: I can't tell you.
shanehollanderofficial: Which is part of why I'm freaking out.
notilyarozanov: Boring boring boring boring boring. Fuck you. Unblock me.
shanehollanderofficial: Fine!
Ilya changed accounts, just to be sure Hollander had unblocked him. He didn't delete the new account, just in case Hollander blocked him again.
ilyarozanov: Where are you?
shanehollanderofficial: Home.
ilyarozanov: Call me.
Ilya sent his phone number. A call chimed on his phone, but it was through the app, not the actual phone.
ilyarozanov: Call me on the phone like an adult.
shanehollanderofficial: Can't. Pick up, asshole.
Another call came through Instagram, this time Ilya answered, holding the phone up to see Hollander's stupid face with his stupid freckles covered by stupid glasses.
"You wear glasses." Ilya said. Hollander looked blankly at him. Oh, he didn't know Russian either. It was all translated by Ilya's phone.
Hollander said something. Ilya ran a hand over his face, grinding his teeth in frustration, he couldn't understand a word Hollander was saying, even though he was speaking slow enough for Ilya to hear each word clearly.
Ilya hung up the call.
shanehollanderofficial: What happened to your English?
Ilya stared at the words in Cyrillic for a minute. He changed his phone's language back to English. He put it back to Russian.
Instead of responding, Ilya resent the link Hollander had sent him of the hit he took in the game.
shanehollanderofficial: Will you go to the All-Star Game even if you can't play?
ilyarozanov: No. Why would I?
shanehollanderofficial: I need to see you.
ilyarozanov: Come to Boston. I don't have plans.
shanehollanderofficial: I can't.
shanehollanderofficial: I have games, and even if I didn't, we can't be seen together off-ice.
ilyarozanov: Why not?
shanehollanderofficial: We're rivals. It's a whole media thing.
ilyarozanov: That is stupid. We don't have to do that off-ice.
shanehollanderofficial: God I hate this.
ilyarozanov: Come to Boston.
shanehollanderofficial: I want to.
Ilya sent him the address to his penthouse.
shanehollanderofficial: Even if I did, we don't speak the same language anymore.
ilyarozanov: There is an app that Cliff uses.
shanehollanderofficial: Marlow?
ilyarozanov: Probably.
shanehollanderofficial: Okay.
shanehollanderofficial: What is it called?
Ilya sent him the link. Then called him again. Hollander picked up, still in his glasses which reflected his screen so his eyes were hard to see until he shifted again and the glare slid away. They sat silently, looking at each other. Ilya tapped his temple, indicating the glasses. Hollander rolled his eyes, and peeled them off his face.
"No, no!" Ilya cried. "Put them back!"
Hollander must have understood enough to obey. Ilya rested his cheek on his palm, just looking at Hollander through the screen.
"Come to Boston." He said again, knowing Hollander wouldn't understand. Hollander looked so sad. Ilya didn't understand what they were to each other and why nobody knew. Hollander did, and he wasn't telling.
Hollander said something else. There was longing in his voice. Ilya didn't understand. He didn't know anything, he just knew that Hollander should have visited Ilya in the hospital, he should've been there when Ilya woke up, because someone that looked at Ilya the way Hollander did should matter more than some girl that never texted him back. Or a brother trying to bleed him dry.
Cliff didn't even know Ilya and Hollander spoke outside games. It was a secret from everyone. Cliff said Ilya is private. Cliff knew about Jane, he knew more about Ilya than apparently anyone else, but he didn't know about Hollander.
Ilya made the video window smaller to text Hollander without ending the call.
ilyarozanov: Why did you not visit me in the hospital?
The message surprised Hollander, and his video shifted as he held his phone to text back. Ilya watched his face crumple as he read it.
shanehollanderofficial: I freaked out.
ilyarozanov: For a whole day
ilyarozanov: Where did we text each other? Not on here.
Hollander looked a little panicked for a second. He ended the call abruptly.
shanehollanderofficial: I promise I'll tell you everything.
shanehollanderofficial: You have to go to the All-Star Game if you can physically get there.
shanehollanderofficial: And you have to delete everything on this message thread. Unfollow me.
ilyarozanov: This is insane.
shanehollanderofficial: I know.
ilyarozanov: Fine.
ilyarozanov: You have my phone number.
ilyarozanov: But you had it already, didn't you.
Hollander didn't respond, but Ilya hadn't expected him to.
He had a suspicion. Something stupid. But it sounded like they'd been very stupid, maybe since they met.
Shane was sweating bullets.
It was Tampa, but it was January, and Shane shouldn't have been sweating that much.
Ilya was there… somewhere. Shane was loitering in the resort bar waiting for him to make an appearance. He'd get his room number, and they'd go there, and use the app to talk to each other, and it would be upsetting, maybe, but either Ilya would be understandably angry that Shane abandoned him, or… Shane couldn't come up with another option. Ilya would be angry. And he deserved to be.
And then Shane spotted him, Ilya, in a bright red floral shirt unbuttoned down to his stomach, crucifix glinting on his chest. Shane felt like an idiot for ever thinking Ilya could mean nothing to him.
Ilya would be playing, Shane knew. Maybe not for the real season, but for this game, it was less pressure, and less risky for Ilya to be injured again.
Ilya would be playing on Shane's team.
He wanted to play on a line with Ilya so badly it made his teeth ache.
Ilya spotted him, but didn't come any closer. They kept looking at each other, interrupted by people passing between them, and Ilya's face was the same as it had been on their silent video call. Ilya broke eye contact first, tapping his phone.
Shane's pocket buzzed. He pulled it out, realizing after it was in his hand that Ilya hadn't messaged him. He was calling.
Lily was calling. And Shane had given himself away. He looked up, finding Ilya already watching him, face set.
And he watched as Ilya turned and walked away.
Shane's chest squeezed so hard he couldn't breathe. He folded his arms on the bartop, letting his forehead down on them.
He stayed there forever. Until his phone buzzed again. His head snapped up, and he saw a text notification.
Lily: 1217
It was good Ilya had left several minutes ago, because Shane dashed out after him in a way that would have been obvious if anyone was watching.
He took the stairs, because the elevator was taking too long to arrive.
Finally, he found Ilya's room. He knocked, and the door clicked open. Shane pushed inside, and found Ilya leaning against a wall, arms crossed, looking very Russian. Shane wanted to touch him so badly he was ready to crawl out of his skin, or worse, beg for it.
"Ilya." Shane said, pulling out his phone. Ilya held up a hand.
"I have been learning again." He said quietly, his accent exactly as Shane remembered it, but uncertain in his words like he had been years ago.
"I'm so sorry." Shane said, watching Ilya warily cross the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Shane dared to move closer. "I—we had to keep everything secret, or else I would have–"
"You are dating Rose Landry." Ilya said, like he'd practiced those words in that order. Shane shook his head.
"No. I'm not. Not anymore." He said. Ilya watched him with those sharp eyes.
"Since when?"
"Since you called me. The first time." Shane said.
"Why." Ilya asked, which Shane took to mean why are you not dating anymore?
"I'm—I think I might be gay." Shane stammered. Ilya frowned, tilting his head.
"You might be." He repeated. He looked at his phone, typing something in before looking up at Shane questioningly.
"I know you're… you like women too." Shane said, wishing his English was better so Ilya could follow easier. "I'm not like that. I only like men."
Ilya typed something into his phone again before saying,
"You broke up with her? Or she broke up with you?"
Shane sighed.
"She broke up with me. She figured it out."
Ilya pointed at Shane, and Shane nodded.
"Not…" He gestured between them. "Just about me."
Ilya nodded.
"I have had a lot of time to think. And watch videos playing hockey with you. I used to love playing hockey with you."
It sounded like Ilya had planned out what he wanted to say. Shane missed his voice so much.
"I have been a bad hockey player since you started dating Rose Landry." Ilya continued. "Because of how jealous I was. What gave me the right to be so jealous of Rose Landry, Hollander?"
Shane didn't know how to answer. He sat in the chair facing the bed, folding his hands between his knees. Ilya continued watching him without much expression.
"We were…"
Fucking? Together? Lovers? Ew, no.
"We had a thing." Shane said. Ilya shook his head.
"A 'thing.'" He said. He held up a photo on his phone, a whole crate of Canada Dry sitting on his countertop where he'd once laid Shane out and rimmed him until he was wet enough to fuck.
"Why did you buy that much ginger ale?" Shane said faintly. He thought he knew why. It felt presumptuous and cocky. "You hate ginger ale."
"Is from Canada. Montreal." Ilya said softly. "Because you do not like Boston Canada Dry. You said in interview last year. Is bad soda, I do not like it."
"Ilya." Shane breathed. He'd cry, he'd start crying if he kept looking at Ilya's face.
"You text me during Sochi Olympics." Ilya continued. "And you left your underwear at my house."
"Sorry."
"So, Hollander. What is 'thing?' It was some little thing, yes? Not important? Six years of not-important little thing? Is why you left me for Rose Landry?"
"Fuck, Ilya, it–"
"What happened in November?" Ilya interrupted. Shane swallowed.
"You called me Shane." He said, as if it explained anything. Ilya continued watching him.
"Shane." He said.
"And I freaked out. And left. And we didn't speak again until…" Shane sighed. "You messaged me."
"You do this often, 'freaked out.'" Ilya said. Shane huffed out half a laugh.
"Yes."
"You are doing now?"
"A little, yeah."
Ilya tossed his phone aside, moving up the bed, pausing only to kick off his shoes before leaning back against the pillows. He patted the bed beside him. Shane was there in seconds.
"Ilya."
"Shane." Ilya said, still watching him, his head tipped back against the headboard. "Why did you leave me alone?"
Shane shook his head, shutting his eyes.
"I… I thought it would be better." He said, almost inaudibly. Ilya was looking at his lips, maybe to help him understand what words Shane said, but maybe… not. "Because… because we'd already broken up, kind of–"
"You left me." Ilya said, and Shane swallowed, looking down at his hands. "Keep going."
"It had been a while since we were… together. We always meant to stop at some point anyway, we just couldn't stay away from each other." Shane said. "And it felt like a good time to finally do it. Because only I would remember it ever happened, and I thought… I thought that would be easier for you."
"Was not easier." Ilya said. He drew his knees up to rest his arms on them, hooking his thumbs together.
"I got so anxious I kept puking. Before you messaged me on Instagram. I didn't know if you were hurt really badly." Shane admitted. Ilya looked at him with his head tilted, and Shane mimed throwing up. Ilya's mouth forms a silent ah.
"You are not freaked out now." Ilya said, before, "Well, you are not leaving."
Shane looked at him.
"Shane." Ilya said, emphatically, like he was trying to prove something, looking straight into Shane's eyes. "It does not scare you now."
"Oh." Shane said. "You scared me worse when you got hit. So. It doesn't feel so… crazy, now."
Ilya nodded for a moment, looking at the wall facing the bed.
"I left in November because it was too… real." Shane said loud enough to be heard, but barely. "On your couch in your apartment in your lap. I liked being with you too much. I never wanted it to end."
It took Ilya a moment to respond. He didn't look at Shane when he spoke.
"Why should it end?"
"Because we can't stay hidden away in your apartment forever. We have to go out, we have to come here and be with everyone else while we play hockey."
"Why I cannot play hockey and like you together? I am not good at doing two things together?"
"Um." Shane said. "Homophobia."
"I know of homophobia, Shane." Ilya said dryly. "We can be friends. We can talk when we are not playing."
"No, because we have–"
"Rivalry, yes? Stupid fucking press rivalry that you and me don't care about?" Ilya said. Shane started to speak, but Ilya continued. "Who the fuck cares if they find out we are not enemies?"
"We do." Shane hissed. "Because if they know we don't hate each other, they'll figure out we're–"
He stopped, because he still didn't have a word for what they were to each other. He knew what they weren't.
"How many friends you have in league?" Ilya asked. "If you have one, you can have two. We play on same team here, we prove to everyone that we can be friends."
"Ilya."
"Shane." Ilya returned, staring back at him. It's quiet a moment. "I come here with brain injury from your team. Is not crazy for us to have conversation."
"No. I guess not."
Shane's head fell back against the headboard. He could feel Ilya watching him.
"I want to kiss you so bad." He said.
"Thank God." Ilya murmured, and took Shane's jaw in hand to tip his face up. He hovered an inch away from Shane's mouth. "Is what you want?"
Shane closed the space between them, and Ilya kissed him, Shane pushed him back, climbed into his lap, tangling his fingers in Ilya's curls like he was touching them for the first time. So gentle, knowing Ilya's still injured.
"Fuck, Shane." Ilya breathed into Shane's mouth. "How can you leave me without this?"
"God." Shane said, horrified to see tears on Ilya's cheeks. He kissed them away. Ilya hauled Shane even closer, nosing across his jaw and kissing, licking, and biting Shane's neck. He gasped, pushing into Ilya's hands. "I want you to remember everything we did together."
"Tell me." Ilya growled into Shane's ear, and continued sucking lightly on Shane's shoulder. Shane's head fell back.
"Fuck. I can't. I can't, I don't–"
"What did we do for six years, Shane?"
"Eight." Shane hissed as Ilya bit him. "We didn't text at first. It was just when we saw each other."
Ilya sat back slightly to look darkly into Shane's face, one eyebrow raised.
"I had you for eight years and you thought I would not miss you?"
"I'm an idiot." Shane said, and Ilya made a noise of agreement before kissing him again. "How's your head?"
"Is fine. My cock is problem." Ilya said, grinding up against Shane's ass. Shane kissed him.
"Will you be my right wing for the game?"
"Yes." Ilya hissed as he fumbled Shane's shorts open. Shane did the same with Ilya's jeans, and Ilya wrapped his hand around them both. Shane groaned loudly, and Ilya muffled it with his mouth. "Just this once."
"What?"
"You have to learn wing so I can be center." Ilya said with a grin. Shane scoffed.
"I can play wing."
"Not as good as me."
"Fuck off."
"Ah, so you will play wing tomorrow then? Prove to me how good you are?"
Shane kissed the smug smirk off his stupid face. Ilya laughed softly when Shane moved back, yanking Ilya's pants down so he could get Ilya's cock in his mouth. Ilya's fingers threaded lightly through Shane's hair, not applying any pressure.
"Shane…" Ilya murmured, and switched to Russian as he watched Shane suck him off, petting his hair, grabbing at his shoulders and arms as he got closer. Shane had tried for years to forget this, with Ilya, and how good it was every single time, even when they were furious with each other. Nothing had ever made it not feel good to be together.
How Shane could ever have deluded himself into thinking it was only physical between them was baffling. From the first brush of Ilya's fingers over Shane's wrist, Shane had wanted him. He didn't know when it started for Ilya, because they specifically didn't talk about that kind of thing, except to embarrass each other a little bit. And then kiss it better if it stopped being funny.
Ilya's thighs tensed around Shane's shoulders, his hips lifting slightly as he sucked in a breath.
He continued in Russian, head tipped back, eyes closed as Shane took him deep and swallowed before lifting almost all the way off of him, then back down. Ilya let out a strained noise that turned into a moan as he came, and Shane stayed where he was instead of moving out of the way like he normally did. Ilya always swallowed.
"Fuck." Ilya panted, fingers tightening in Shane's hair, pulling him back up to keep kissing. "God, I missed you."
Shane felt insane, that English had been knocked out of Ilya's head, but Shane stayed there. That Ilya hadn't gone more than a day without speaking to him, and that he knew everything they were to each other just from what Shane hadn't been able to take with him when he ran from Ilya's apartment.
"I can't pretend to hate you anymore." Shane murmured into Ilya's mouth. "Everyone will know it's fake."
It was also terrifying, how much evidence was left behind when they were so careful to keep this hidden.
"I think is okay." Ilya said, a little lazily, his head tipped back to gaze up at Shane. "We will tell everyone of our secret friendship affair, ah?"
Shane laughed, stretching out beside him. Ilya gave Shane's cock a few slow pulls before holding his hand in front of Shane's mouth. He said a word in Russian, and Shane spat into his hand. It seemed to be what Ilya asked him for.
"Should we tell them we were enemies until you were so scared when I was in hospital?" Ilya asked, lips against Shane's temple. "Or that we have been talking for years, talking shit even when no one was watching?"
"I can't really think clearly about a PR strategy right now." Shane muttered, squeezing Ilya's forearm as he got closer, feeling the tendons flex and shift as he moved. Ilya hummed.
"Maybe we say you ask me for advice." Ilya said smoothly, and Shane smacked him. Ilya laughed. "You want to know how I handle my stick so well."
"I can't believe you're already doing innuendo on, what, day five of speaking English?"
"Mm… what is innuendo?" Ilya asked. Shane gasped as Ilya jerked him off faster. "I already spoke English, I just forgot."
Ilya pulled himself away from Shane, and Shane made an embarrassing sound of betrayal when Ilya's hand dropped his cock. He didn't have to wait long for Ilya to slide down the bed and suck Shane down to the root. Shane moaned, thrusting up into his mouth. He bit his knuckles so anyone passing wouldn't hear him begging for Rozanov to finish him off.
He'd almost forgotten how good Ilya is with his tongue. Almost. But it had been months without it, and as much as he loved Rose, sex with her was a poor substitute. He also didn't want to be thinking about Rose when he finally came down Ilya's throat.
With a passing kiss to Shane's inner thigh, Ilya moved back up to sprawl out next to Shane, arm over Shane's stomach.
"Was good?" Ilya asked, as if he didn't know. Shane laughed breathlessly, and grabbed the back of his neck to pull Ilya in for another kiss. Ilya winced, fingers finding Shane's to loosen Shane's grip. "Ah–"
"Sorry!"
"Is okay. Is just bruises." Ilya told him, and leaned in. He kissed Shane very tenderly. When they separated, Shane leaned his forehead against Ilya's.
"Are you sure you can play tomorrow?"
"What, you want me to watch you show off?" Ilya said softly, the playful glimmer back in his eyes. Shane grinned. "You want me to be, what, WAG for you now? You want a fan?"
"No." Shane laughed, fingers creeping up Ilya's back under his shirt. "I want you to recover properly so I can fuck you more."
"I like that." Ilya said, rolling over onto his elbows above Shane, his crucifix dangling in the space between them. "But no. I am okay, doctor said I could play as long as I don't fight too much."
"You think you can keep yourself from mouthing off the whole game?"
"Mm, no…" Ilya bent for another kiss. Shane smiled, keeping his eyes closed when Ilya lifted. "But maybe someone will have to fight them for me."
"I'm not going to do that." Shane laughed, looking up at him. Ilya pretended to be offended.
"No? So you do hate me?"
"You're the worst." Shane said, and sat up enough to kiss him again. Ilya hummed.
"You love it." He said, so close to the truth. Shane smiled too widely.
"Yeah. I do."