Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Anya’s sharp woof cuts through the quiet, sudden and insistent.

Ilya huffs a soft laugh under his breath. “I think Anya needs attention.”

“And a bath,” Shane adds, eyes still closed, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Ilya glances over at him, something warm flickering across his face. “Yes, solnyshko. I’ll give her a bath. No mud on your precious floors,” he teases lightly.

“Good,” Shane murmurs, already relaxing further, like the problem is handled simply because Ilya said it is.

Then Ilya looks over at Luca. “You good here?”

Luca nods. “Yeah.”

Ilya studies him for half a second longer, like he’s checking, really checking, then gives a small nod of his own. He stands, rinsing off quickly before stepping out of the tub. He grabs a towel, drying himself, then pulls on a pair of sweats.

Anya lets out another impatient bark from somewhere down the hall.

“Coming,” Ilya calls, voice easy, before glancing back once more at the two of them. Then he disappears, footsteps fading as he goes to deal with her.

Once Ilya is out of earshot, Luca shifts slightly, his voice dropping without him really meaning to.

“What do you mean,” he asks quietly, not wanting to break the softness of the moment, “these scenes take a lot out of him?”

Shane shifts slightly against him, warm and damp, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he settles more comfortably..

“It’s… not just the scene,” Shane says after a second, voice a little rough, a little thoughtful. “When we first started, it was hard. For both of us.”

Luca stays quiet, letting him talk.

“I’d been a leader everywhere I played,” Shane continues, a small huff of a laugh in his voice. “Captain, alternate, whatever. Always the one in control. So the idea of giving that up…” He trails off, shrugging a little. “That took time.”

Luca understands, knows how Shane is on the ice, a natural leader confident.

“But I think it was harder on Ilya,” he adds.

Luca’s grip on his waist tightens just a fraction, not interrupting.

“He’s so… kind,” Shane says, softer now. “Like, genuinely. And his dad was…” He pauses, jaw tightening briefly. “Harsh. On his mom. On him. Just mean.”

Luca swallows. Shane’s version of mean feels… edited, softened at the edges. He has a quiet sense it was something much more horrific, something worse than what Shane is willing to say out loud.

“And Ilya’s always worried he’s turning into him,” Shane continues. “That if he lets himself go too far, if he stops holding back, he’s going to become that.”

Luca swallows, something in his chest pulling tight.

“It’s better now,” Shane says quickly, like he wants to reassure him. “Way better. He’s… worked on it. A lot.”

He shrugs again, smaller this time, like he doesn’t quite know how to explain the rest. The hours, the effort, the way Ilya has shaped himself into someone safe, not just for Shane but for a future that actually feels possible.

Luca just nods.

He gets it, or at least enough of it.

Shane turns his head slightly, looking at him now, and smiles. It’s soft and open and so honest it almost catches Luca off guard. He’s only ever really seen that look directed at Ilya.

It’s… a lot.

Luca was a feels himself smiling back before he even realizes it.

And then Shane leans forward, closing the small space between them, pressing a soft, slow kiss to Luca’s lips. Nothing demanding, nothing rushed. Just warm and lingering.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He turns, settling back against Luca’s chest, head resting comfortably on his shoulder like it’s the most natural place in the world.

“Tired,” he murmurs.

“Do you want to get out?” Luca asks.

“No,” Shane says simply, already halfway gone, eyes closing again.

Luca watches him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his breathing gradually slows. He tightens his hold around Shane’s waist, careful, grounding, making sure he doesn’t slip under the water.

And then he just stays like that.

Holding him.

Watching him sleep.

Luca can’t help it, the way his gaze lingers, almost reverent. Up close like this, it’s unfair. Shane’s eyes are closed, his face finally slack and unguarded, all that sharp, electric energy softened into something almost peaceful. Luca has seen this face everywhere, blown up five meters tall on billboards, printed glossy and perfect across magazine covers. He’s stared at it long enough to think he knew it, every line, every angle, like he had it memorized. But this is different.

Here, there’s no airbrushing, no distance. His skin looks impossibly smooth at first glance, but the closer Luca looks, the more he notices the faint scatter of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Soft, warm, real in a way that makes everything else feel slightly unreal by comparison. Like perfection, but lived in. Luca feels almost thrown by it, like he’s been looking at a version of Shane this whole time instead of Shane himself. And somehow, impossibly, he looks even more beautiful like this.

His attention flickers for a second to the vanity beside them, the neat lineup of bottles with labels in Korean, rows and rows of something Luca doesn’t understand but suddenly wants to. Of course Shane would have a system, a routine, something behind all of this. Luca wonders if it would be stupid to ask, if Shane would laugh, if Ilya would.

But then his focus drifts back, pulled in again. The bathroom light catches on the water in the tub, reflecting back in soft, shifting patterns. Little waves of light move across Shane’s face, sliding over the bridge of his nose, catching on his cheekbones, flickering across his closed eyelids. His eyelashes rest long and dark against his cheeks, brushing just above those freckles, and his nose, straight, clean, perfectly balanced, feels almost unfairly precise. The sharpness of his features softened by those scattered freckles makes Luca feel like he’s looking at something he wasn’t meant to see this closely.

He’s spent so long thinking he knew this face, obsessed over every millimeter of it, and still he’s noticing new things. Still looking. Still a little in awe of the fact that this is what Shane actually looks like when no one else is watching

Somewhere between the first lunch and now, something shifted, and Luca can feel it as clearly as anything.

Back then, Shane had been untouchable. Not just beautiful, not just admired, but almost abstract. A three-time Stanley Cup winner. A multi-brand ambassador. The league’s golden boy. Luca’s childhood hero. The kind of person you don’t expect to be real in the same way you are. Someone you watch, not someone who looks back at you.

Even that first lunch, sitting across from him, Luca had felt like he was borrowing space in Shane’s world. Like any second, it would snap back into place and remind him where he actually stood.

But now…

Now Shane is here, eyes closed, completely unguarded, trusting Luca to be in this room, to see him like this, to watch over him. Not the version on billboards or in interviews, not the polished, media-trained answer to every question, but this. Someone who gets overwhelmed. Someone who needs. Someone who lets himself be taken apart and still, afterward, reaches instinctively for Ilya, worrying, checking, making sure he’s okay before anything else.

And that’s the part Luca can’t stop thinking about. Not the accolades, not the contracts, not the way his face looks printed ten feet tall. It’s the way Shane shows up. The way he stays soft even when he doesn’t have to. The way he notices when Luca is floundering and steps in without making it a thing. The way he can mess up, say the wrong thing, push too far, and then come back, earnest and open, and apologize.

It makes something in Luca’s chest ache in a way he doesn’t fully understand yet.

Because this is the real revelation. Not that Shane is more beautiful up close, though he is. Not that he’s kinder than Luca expected, though he is. It’s that he’s real. Fully, messily, impossibly real. Strong in a way that has nothing to do with trophies, and soft in a way that doesn’t make him any less of it.

Somewhere along the way, without Luca even noticing exactly when it happened, Shane stopped being an idea.

And became someone Luca is starting to care about.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he hears Ilya pad back into the bathroom.

The footsteps are soften when he notices Shane’s eyes are closed. He slows without thinking about it, moving carefully through the space.

Luca tenses, just a fraction.

He’s comfortable, he is. Holding Shane like this feels…right, somehow. Easy in a way he didn’t expect. But his body still remembers the punishment from yesterday, the sharp edge of it, the way Ilya had looked at him, the way he’d been held in place under that gaze. The memory lingers somewhere under his skin, instinctive and immediate.

And then it’s gone.

Because Ilya looks at him and smiles.

Bright, open, teeth showing, something so warm and unguarded it almost startles Luca. There’s no edge to it, no weight. Just… trust. Gratitude, maybe. Something soft.

Luca feels himself smiling back before he even realizes it.

Ilya steps closer, slow and deliberate, careful not to jostle Shane. His hand comes up, fingers gentle as they tilt Luca’s head back just slightly, guiding rather than forcing. And then he leans in, pressing a quiet kiss to Luca’s lips.

It’s soft. Brief, but not rushed. Careful in a way that has nothing to do with hesitation and everything to do with Shane, still asleep in Luca’s lap.

When Ilya pulls back, he lingers for just a second, close enough that Luca can feel his breath, before straightening again, his hand brushing lightly away.

The whole thing is so quiet, so easy, that Luca almost forgets to breathe.

Ilya settles at the edge of the tub, hand threading gently through Luca’s hair. A quiet, grounding touch. Permission to let go. That Ilya has him. Has both of them.

They stay like that for what feels like hours, the world narrowing down to warm water, steady breathing, and Ilya’s hand moving slow and absentminded in Luca’s hair. Eventually Shane’s eyes flutter open, panic sparking for just a second before it melts away the moment he realizes where he is, who he’s with.

“Ready to get out?” Ilya asks, voice soft.

Shane nods, and Ilya helps him out, steady and careful, handing him his towel. Then he turns back to Luca, helping him up, wrapping him in warmth.

He towels Luca dry with slow, deliberate movements, like there’s no rush at all. Luca doesn’t resist, just lets himself be taken care of, lets Ilya rub his hair until it’s sticking up everywhere, soft and messy, before smoothing it back down with a gentler pass.

It feels a little like drying off a puppy. It’s a little indulgent, like Ilya can’t help but fuss over him.

He lets Ilya dress him in a pair of boxers, not the ones he showed up in, and a comfy oversized T-shirt he’s not sure who’s clothes he’s wearing but it doesn’t really matter at this point they basically have a Shane and Ilya basically have a joint wardrobe, judging by how often he’s seen them both wearing the same things.

He glances over at Shane, still wrapped in his towel, and watches as Ilya grabs a bag and leads him out of the bathroom.

“He’s going to be a little bit of a baby about this,” Ilya warns Luca.

“Heyyy,” Shane whines, already proving his point.

“Hand over the towel”

Shane whines more about being cold and how he doesn’t need to do this but he hands it over anyways.

Luca watches as Ilya pulls out a tube and steps in close, inspecting every inch of Shane’s skin. He swipes antibacterial cream over all the scratches and cuts with careful fingers, slow and thorough. Shane hisses and whines at each touch, sharp little reactions, and Ilya flicks Luca a look like, see?

Luca can’t help but laugh, because they all know the kind of hits Shane takes on the ice without so much as flinching.

After that, Ilya helps him into sweats and a hoodie.

“Movie?” Ilya offers.

Shane and Luca both nod, and the three of them settle onto the couch in an easy tangle of limbs and warmth. Anya curls up by Ilya’s feet, and his hand drops automatically to scratch behind her ears. She lets out a low, content rumble.

Luca feels it, that small flicker of jealousy, quiet and warm in his chest. He wants that too, wants to be right there at Ilya’s feet, but instead he curls in closer to Shane, pressing into his side.

They stay like that watching the obnoxious action movie Ilya has on drifting in and out of sleep.

At some point in the late afternoon Shane pulls out his laptop, too restless to completely waste the day away.

Ilya grumbles under his breath about being a neglected husband.

Shane just hums, not even looking up. “Go play with your pups.”

Ilya sighs, exaggerated and long-suffering, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth as he stands, reaching for Luca and nudging Anya along. They head out to the backyard, sunlight soft against their skin as they kick a ball around, easy and light.

Shane follows, laptop in hand, settling onto the deck in sunglasses, pretending to work but very obviously not. His gaze keeps drifting, lingering, openly taking in the two of them.

Ilya catches him at it, of course. Teases him for it.

Shane pretends to pout, exaggerated and dramatic, until Ilya walks over, steps in close, and kneels between his legs, hands braced on his thighs.

“Gimme kiss,” he demands.

Shane rolls his eyes, but there’s no real resistance as he leans in, giving him exactly what he wants.

“Okay,” Shane says after, “I’m going to start dinner. Whole wheat spaghetti with the turkey meatballs, okay?”

“Yeah,” Luca calls back easily.

They eat on the couch, tucked back into each other like before. At one point Ilya leans over and licks a smear of sauce from the side of Luca’s mouth, casual and unselfconscious.

Luca flushes instantly, bright and warm.

Ilya just chuckles, soft and pleased, like he expected, and gathers their plates when they’re done, loading the dishwasher like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Once he comes back, Ilya turns to Luca. “Early flight tomorrow. You have to pack, yes?”

It’s as clear a signal as any. Luca’s cue to leave.

He thinks, distantly, that maybe he should feel bad about it. Like he’s being kicked out. But Ilya’s voice is soft, almost regretful, like he’d keep him if he could.

And Luca’s chest feels so full it almost aches.

He’s had mind-blowing sex, sure, but more than that, he’s been taken care of, doted on, held by the two people he used to watch from a distance, larger than life, untouchable.

For a moment, it feels like he doesn’t need anything else. He has this thought almost every time he’s with them, but it hits especially hard now, quiet and certain:

He could die a happy man.

“Text us when you’re home!” Shane calls as Luca slides into the Uber.

The door shuts. The car pulls away.

By the time he gets home, everything is exactly how he left it. Quiet. Clean. Still.
The contrast is almost jarring.

He pulls out his phone, thumbs hovering for a second before he types.

Luca: got home safe

and then, immediately—
Luca: thank you for dinner

and a little later—
Luca: and everything, really

Shane: you don’t have to say that
Shane: we like having you here

Ilya: sleep well :-)

He’s not quite ready to sleep yet, so he puts on New Girl as background noise and pulls out his sketchbook, thinking maybe some mindless doodling will settle him down.

But his hand betrays him.

Freckles scattered across flushed cheeks.

Calloused hands wrapped around a throat.

Nails dragging down the curve of a muscular back.

He stares at the page for a long moment, something warm and complicated curling in his chest, before he exhales softly and sets the sketchbook aside, turns off the lights and lets himself sink into the quiet. Thoughts of Shane and Ilya invading his dreams. 

Once Luca leaves, Shane heads into the bedroom to pack both their bags. They’re going to be on the road for a while, Toronto tomorrow, then San Francisco back to back, then Dallas.

Ilya finishes setting up Anya’s things for doggy daycare before joining him. He stretches out across the bed, watching Shane fold clothes into packing cubes, neat and precise.

“Schedule is bullshit,” Shane mutters, zipping one cube shut a little harder than necessary.

“Mhm. The geniuses at the NHL.”

Shane snorts, reaching for another stack.

“But San Francisco’s not so bad.”

“Excited?”

Shane’s already smiling. “We’re going to make it to that workshop this time, right?”

“Yes. Right after the game.”

“No fighting and getting too injured to go?” Shane asks, because last time Ilya had gotten punched in the face and there was no way they could show up like that.

“No, solnyshko. No picking fights,” he promises. 

Shane relaxes a little. “Okay, good.”

Ilya studies him. “You like it there.”

“Yeah.” Shane shrugs. “It’s just… easier. No one cares.”

“Less boring?”

Shane grins. “That too.”

He folds slower now, attention drifting.

“Dallas is going to suck, though.”

“Dallas always sucks.”

A beat. Shane’s hands pause on the fabric.

“What are you thinking about?” Ilya asks.

“Luca.”

“What about him?”

“The tail thing.”

Understanding settles in. “Ah.”

Shane gestures vaguely with the shirt in his hands. “How do we do it? Just show up with a box and go, ‘surprise, you’re our puppy now?’”

Ilya considers it. “We could.”

Shane laughs. “That’s such a bad plan.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” A beat. “But also… I feel like he’d say yes anyway.”

“Yes.”

Shane’s expression softens. “He gets so excited.”

“Mmh. So eager. Just like you.” Then, quieter, “My kotenok and my shchenok.”

Shane smiles. “I think Anya likes him more than me.”

“That’s because he lets her lick his face.”

“Ew.”

“Remember when you swallowed dirt today?”

Shane shoots him a look.

Another pause settles in.

“I like having him around,” Shane says, softer now.

“Yes. So do I.”

Shane nods, zipping up another packing cube.

“Nothing with him on the road, though. Right?”

“No.”

“Too risky.”

“Yeah, too risky,” Ilya agrees, pushing himself up and patting his lap. “Come here,. Let’s order our pup a tail.”

Shane scrambles over as Ilya  turns on his iPad, deeming it too important a purchase to make on his phone. Shane slides his glasses on, already leaning in close, and Ilya has to take a few slow breaths, steadying himself so they can actually focus.

They fall down the rabbit hole almost immediately, scrolling through what feels like all of Etsy’s listings for puppy tails. Shane insists on reading everything. Reviews, seller descriptions, material breakdowns, sizing notes, even the little blurbs about how each piece is made. He clicks into one listing, then another, then back again, comparing fur textures and attachment styles.

Ilya tries to rush it at first, but Shane keeps pulling him back, pointing out stitching, density, the way some of the tails sit more naturally than others. It turns careful, almost meticulous, the two of them narrowing it down piece by piece.

Eventually, they find a seller who does custom work and can guarantee delivery in five days.

That’s what seals it.

They send over a photo of Luca’s hair so the color can be matched properly, not just close but exact. Then they start building the order. A tail with a small plug, something that will sit comfortably. Matching ears in the same shade and texture, soft enough to blend naturally.

Baby blue collar, to match Luca’s eyes. He specifies the softest leather available, something supple, something that won’t chafe. A delicate ring at the front, not bulky, just enough to clip a leash onto without taking away from how it looks on him.

The leash is baby blue too. Of course it is.

They double check everything before placing the order. When they finally hit purchase, they both sit there for a second, grinning, a little giddy with how excited they are.

They land in Ottawa at 9:00 and check in. Luca’s rooming with Tanner, which is fine by him. Dude’s easy going, doesn’t ask too many questions.

It’s a quick turnaround to get to the Scotiabank Arena for morning skate. Just enough time to drop bags, splash water on his face, and head back out.

Luca’s halfway through changing when Ilya and Shane walk in.

They both look like they’re in pretty good moods. Relaxed. Loose. Shane catches his eye and shoots him a quick smile, easy and familiar, like nothing’s different.

Ilya barely gets his shirt halfway off before the room clocks it.

“You didn’t have that at practice,” Bood says immediately, pointing.

All eyes follow.

The bruises are impossible to miss. Dark, mottled across Ilya’s chest, blooming along his ribs where Shane had elbowed him.

Ilya glances down, then back up, completely unbothered.

If anything, pleased.

“Damn, Bood,” he says lightly, “you want to be my nurse now?”

A couple guys snort.

“Work of my husband,” he adds, easy, like he’s proud of it.

And that shifts the attention.

Because now everyone’s looking at Shane.

Shane’s already halfway through pulling his shirt off, and now there’s nowhere to hide it. Matching damage. Cuts, bruises, the same story written back across his own body.

He freezes for half a second when he realizes.

“Jesus, relax,” he mutters, a little sharper than he means to, reaching for his gear like he can just move past it.

Barrett lets out a low whistle. “What the fuck,” he says. “Are y’all mauling each other as foreplay or some shit?”

A few laughs ripple through the room.

Shane huffs, ducking his head slightly, focused very intently on his gear. “We’re hockey players, we all have bruises.”

“Yeah?” Bood grins, “well we don’t all have bruises from the bedroom.”

That gets a louder reaction.

Shane just shakes his head, cheeks a little flushed now, not engaging, taping his stick like it suddenly requires his full attention.

Ilya, on the other hand, looks delighted. “And outside our bedroom.”

“Ilya, shut the fuck up,” Shane says, shooting him a look that’s half warning, half something else, but with no real bite to it.

Luca keeps his head down, focusing on his stall, on his laces, on anything else.

Because he knows. Exactly when these injuries happened. Exactly how outside the bedroom it was. He remembers helping Ilya hold Shane down.

His brain is not helping.

He reaches for his cup with a level of urgency that would probably be noticeable if anyone was actually looking at him, willing himself not to get hard. At least until the cup is on.

He tells himself to get it together.

He does not get it together.

“Do I need to call the domestic violence hotline?” Dykstra throws in, light, careless.

And Shane turns.

“Don’t.”

It cuts clean through the room.

Dykstra blinks. “I was just—”

“Nope,” Shane says. “It’s not a joke.”

The room shifts. Subtle, but enough. A couple guys look away, attention dropping back to their gear.

Dykstra lifts his hands. “Alright, man. My bad.”

Shane exhales, tension easing just slightly, like he made his point and that’s enough.

Then he glances over.

Ilya’s already looking at him, smiling. Open, warm, like Shane just saved his honor or something.

Shane’s expression softens before he can stop it. A small smile, just for him.

And Luca watches that.

Watches the way it settles between them, easy and unspoken. The way the sharpness disappears as quickly as it came. The way they just understand each other.

And something clicks.

When Shane had said Ilya’s dad was “mean,”

It had definitely been something much worse.

They play the Leafs in Toronto that night.

It’s a good game. Fast. clean. 

Luca comes off a shift late to close out the second, breath a little heavy, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.

That’s when he sees it.

Shane, down near the boards, talking to one of the Leafs rookies.

Luca recognizes him immediately.

Noah Elias.

First overall pick. Ottawa kid. He’s seen his face everywhere for the last year. Interviews, highlights, draft coverage.

Just never like this.

Up close.

Helmet off, hair damp and pushed back, straight and a little tousled from the game. His face is still flushed, features clean, almost soft at first glance.

He’s smiling at something Shane says.

Shane reaches out, taps the back of Noah’s helmet, says something that makes him duck his head with a small smile.

Too comfortable.

Luca looks away.

“Jealous?”

He startles.

Ilya’s leaning beside him, watching him with that knowing look.

“No,” Luca says immediately. “Why would I be jealous?”

Ilya just fixes him with a teasing smile.

Then, casually, “Even more baby than you.”

Luca turns, frowning. “I am not—”

Ilya just raises a brow, looking at him like he’s proven his own point.

Luca huffs and looks back at Noah and Shane.

Noah’s listening to Shane, head tilted slightly, eyes locked in, focused in a way that doesn’t quite match how young he looks.

It shouldn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

“Relax,” Ilya adds lightly. “He is just a kid.”

“I am relaxed,” Luca mutters.

Ilya smiles knowing he’s very much not.

By the third period, the  pace has picked up. Hits land harder. No one’s pulling back anymore.

Luca’s chasing the puck along the boards when he feels it coming.

Too late to avoid it.

Noah steps into him clean.

Shoulder to chest, drives him into the boards with a sharp, controlled hit that knocks the breath out of him for half a second.

Not dirty.

Not soft either.

Luca absorbs it, pushes back, turning immediately, ready to engage.

Noah’s already looking at him.

Up close, the softness doesn’t hold.

And then he...winks.

Then he’s gone, pushing off and chasing the puck the other way.

Luca just stands there for a second.

What the actual fuck.

He shakes it off, jumping back into the play.

Just a rookie trying to get under his skin.

That’s all.

Has to be.

Later, on the bench, Luca glances across the ice without thinking.

Noah’s already looking at him.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

He just smiles.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing

Ottawa wins 4-2

They go out after.

Which, in itself, is a little surprising.

Shane and Ilya don’t always come out, especially not on the road, but tonight they do. Someone suggests a bar, someone else expands the invite, and suddenly there’s a mix of Centaurs and Leafs guys filtering into the same space.

Luca ends up near the edge of it, drink in hand, watching more than participating.

Noah gravitates toward Shane almost immediately.

“I’m serious,” Noah is saying, half laughing. “You came to my school. We all thought it was fake until you walked into the gym.”

Shane groans softly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Don’t remind me. I had to talk to, like, two hundred middle schoolers.”

“You signed my puck,” Noah adds, grinning. “I still have it.”

Shane huffs out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Noah says, a little softer now. “I mean, you were… you know.”

He trails off, like he doesn’t quite want to say it outright.

But it’s obvious anyway.

You were my hero.

“Well,” he says, deflecting a bit, “your name came up later too.”

Noah looks up, surprised. “Yeah?”

“My agent mentioned you,” Shane says. “Said there was this kid out of Ottawa who was going to be a problem in a few years.”

Noah laughs. “That’s insane.”

“It wasn’t wrong,” Shane replies simply.

And Noah beams.

It goes on like this the rest of the night Shane and Ilya being the center of attention and Luca happily nursing a drink watching, listening to stories about how all the young players looked up to Shane and Ilya.

Eventually, Shane taps out.

“I’m heading out,” he says, pushing back from the table. “Need to get some rest before San Francisco.”

There’s immediate groaning from a few guys.

“Boo,” Barrett mutters. “Boring Hollander.”

Ilya is already standing.

“Only I get to call my husband that but yes,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I have to let my husband get his beauty sleep or he will be very cranky tomorrow.”

Shane turns, glaring at him. “I am not—”

But he’s already grabbing Ilya by the sleeve, steering him toward the door.

“Tell the rest of the team to wrap it up,” Shane calls over his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

Ilya twists just enough to look back at the group, completely unbothered.

“No,” he says. “Celebrate the win. Good for morale. Drink for me.”

Shane tightens his grip, dragging him another step. “You all better not be hungover on the flight.”

A couple guys laugh. Someone raises their drink in salute.

Ilya opens his mouth, clearly about to argue again—

But Shane’s already pulling him out the door.

“Okay, okay,” Ilya is saying, voice fading. “You are no fun—”

The door swings shut behind them.

Then Barrett lets out a low laugh. “Damn,” he says. “Hollzy really walks him like a dog.”

A few guys chuckle.

Luca stares down into his drink.

And hopes the bar is dark enough to hide the heat crawling up his neck.

Because they  have no idea.

No idea who actually holds the leash.

And worse how desperately  Luca wants to be on the other end of it.

Noah doesn’t hesitate.

The second Shane and Ilya disappear out the door, he turns.

Right to Luca.

“Hey,” he says, easy. “Good game.”

Luca nods. “You too.”

A beat.

Then Noah tilts his head slightly. “Also… sorry about the hit.”

Luca raises a brow.

Noah smiles, not sorry at all.

“Mostly,” he adds. “You were in a bad spot.”

Luca lets out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah? That what you call it?”

“Hey,” Noah says lightly, hands lifting a little. “Clean hit.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t,” Luca replies.

“Good,” Noah says. “I’d hate to start things off like that.”

There’s something in the way he says it.

Noah steps a little closer, clapping Luca on the back.

His hand lingers a fraction longer than it needs to.

Not enough to call out, but enough to notice and Luca definitely notices.

“Seriously though,” Noah adds, “you’re a beast to play against.”

Luca snorts.

“No seriously man,” Noah says. 

They make eye contact lingering for a second.

Luca looks away first.

They fall into it after that.

Hockey. Systems, matchups, little plays from the game. Easy conversation. Familiar territory.

Noah’s good at it.

Engaged, sharp, but relaxed. Like he’s not trying to prove anything.

Like he already knows he belongs.

And then, inevitably—

Shane.

“Still weird, you know,” Noah says, shaking his head a little. “Playing against him.”

Luca glances at him. “Yeah?”

Noah huffs out a quiet laugh. “I had the biggest crush on him when I was a kid.”

Luca chokes slightly on his drink.

Noah’s head snaps toward him immediately, eyes lighting up.

“Shut up,” he says. “You too?”

Luca flushes. “No, I just—he’s—”

He gestures vaguely.

Noah grins. “Yeah. Exactly.”

A beat.

Then Luca mutters, “He’s married,” Like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world like very commentators don't use the term hockey husbands at least a dozen times per Centaurs game. 

“I know,” Noah says. “I was devastated.”

Luca laughs despite himself.

“But Roz is cool,” Noah adds. “I volunteered at their foundation one summer. They’re… good. Together.”

Luca nods. “Yeah.” Looking away hoping Noah doesn’t see the flush creeping back up as he thinks about just how good they are together. Just how perfectly Shane takes Ilya’s cock.

“What’s your number?” Noah says suddenly

Luca blinks. “What?”

Noah tilts his head. “You have a phone number?”

“…yeah.”

“Okay so give it to me” Noah says, like that answers everything.

Luca hesitates for half a second, then pulls his phone out. “Fine. Give me yours.”

Noah steps closer again, and takes it from his hand without comment.

Types something in.

Hands it back.

“Why?” Luca asks.

Noah shrugs. “I don’t know. Be nice to hang out with someone my age.”

Simple. Reasonable.

Luca nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Noah watches him for a second longer.

Then, just as he starts to step back, "Especially someone so cute.”

And then he’s walking away following his team out the door.

Like he didn’t just say that.

Luca stands there, staring down at his phone.

Heat creeping up his neck again.

What the fuck.

The room is quiet when they get back.

Shane drops his keys on the dresser, toeing off his shoes without much thought, the night finally catching up to him now that they’re out of the noise.

Ilya shuts the door behind them, leaning back against it for a second, watching him.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Ilya breaks the silence, “Noah winked at Luca.”

Shane pauses halfway through pulling his shirt off.

“Yeah?” he says, like it’s nothing.

Ilya lets out a quiet huff. “You saw it.”

Shane shrugs, tossing his shirt onto the chair. “Hard to miss, they were trying not to stare at each other the whole game”

“You think he’s going to hit on him?” he asks.

Shane considers for a second, grabbing a bottle of water off the nightstand.

“Maybe,” he says, “they’d get along, they’re good kids.”

Ilya hums, pushing off the door and crossing the room slowly.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

He stops a few feet away, studying Shane.

“Why?” Shane asks.

Ilya shrugs. “I don’t know. Just… noticed.”

Shane nods, “Would you be upset?”

Ilya doesn’t answer right away.

“No,” he says first.

Then he exhales, shifting his weight.

“I think so,” he admits. “Maybe. If he didn’t want to play with us anymore.”

The honesty sits between them for a second.

“But no,” Ilya adds, softer now, stepping closer. “You’re all I need.”

Shane looks up at him.

Something in his expression softens immediately, open in a way he doesn’t let anyone else see.

“I love you so much”

Ilya’s mouth curves slightly, something fond and warm as he reaches out kissing Shane deep.

Luca has been wonderful, slipping into their lives so easily it almost feels inevitable, like he was always meant to be there. Better than they ever could have imagined.

But Ilya has already found his forever.

He found it in Shane. His happiness, his anchor, the one thing that kept him here when everything else felt impossible.

Shane isn’t just enough.

He’s everything.

Half the team is hungover on the morning flight to San Francisco.

Shane is not pleased.

He’s glaring at everyone as they board, jaw tight, glaring at every pair of sunglasses and every too-loud groan.

“This is exactly what I said would happen,” he mutters, not quietly, as someone stumbles slightly in the aisle.

Ilya, right behind him, looks entirely unbothered.

“It is good for morale,” he says.

“It’s bad for performance,” Shane snaps, shooting him a look. “You encouraged them.”

“I said one drink,” Ilya replies, already smiling.

“You said drink for me,” Shane shoots back.

Luca keeps his head down and moves quickly to his seat.

He has no intention of getting caught in the crossfire.

Shane grumbles all the way through boarding, through takeoff prep, through the safety demonstration, clearly not done being annoyed.

It’s only once they’re cleared for takeoff, the plane leveling out, that something shifts.

Shane exhales.

Then, without a word, he reaches over and takes Ilya’s hand.

Just holds it.

Ilya’s shoulders relax almost immediately.

He leans back into his seat, fingers tightening slightly around Shane’s, eyes closing for a second like he’s grounding himself.

No one says anything.

No one ever does.

The third row from the back is always left open for them.

Shane on the window. Ilya on the aisle.

Shane decided a long time ago it was the safest configuration in a crash, and that was that.

Most of the team passes out within the first hour.

The rest pretend they’re not miserable.

Luca stays quiet, headphones in, occasionally glancing over.

Shane doesn’t let go of Ilya’s hand.

They land in San Francisco to sun and seventy degrees.

Late October, and it feels like summer.

A far cry from the gray, biting thirty degrees they left behind.

It lifts the whole team instantly.

Even Shane looks less an angry kitten as Ilya puts it.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he stops glaring at everyone, which is close enough.

There’s no time for morning skate.

Just a quick hotel check-in, a short strategy meeting, film, adjustments.

Then straight into game-day routines.

Quick naps.

Reset.

The game is electric.

The Sharks aren’t very strong this season. They’ve got a lot of young players and are still rebuilding, and it shows.

Ottawa dominates.

It ends in a shutout.

Ilya thrives on it, feeding off the energy, playing just a little sharper, a little meaner, clearly enjoying disappointing the home crowd.

Still, it’s a fun arena. Loud. Engaged. Easy to get into.

Shane and Ilya are out of the locker room fast after.

Faster than usual.

Ilya is already talking before they even hit the hallway.

“We have date night,” he says delightedly. 

Shane just shakes his head, but there’s a smile there.

They’d told Luca earlier.

A shibari workshop, private event.

Luca had nodded, committing the word to memory immediately.

Something to look up later.

He watches them disappear down the hall together, easy and close, like they always are.

Then turns back to the rest of the team, the excitement is infectious.

At this point, they’re very much established as the league’s token gay team, and if there’s one thing they’re going to do in San Francisco it’s go out in the Castro.

They unsurprisingly end up at a gay bar.

Luca gets embarrassingly drunk, way too quickly.

Men keep buying him fruity drinks, bright colors and sugared rims, the kind that go down too easy.

Luca hates them.

Not sweets, not really. He’ll demolish a chocolate bar without thinking about it, doesn’t even pretend to have restraint when it comes to dessert. But sweet drinks are different. There’s something about them that sits wrong, the syrupy coating they leave behind, the way the sugar clings to his teeth and makes his mouth feel… off.

He wants something clean. Bitter. Simple.

But every time someone presses another drink into his hand, smiling, already turning away before he can say anything, he just takes it.

“Thanks,” he says automatically.

He doesn’t want to make it a thing. Doesn’t want to be difficult. Doesn’t want the pause, the oh, sorry, the shift in energy.

So he drinks it.

And they’re strong.

Stronger than they taste, the sugar masking everything underneath, the alcohol slipping in quiet and easy. By the time he realizes it, he’s already warm, already loose, the edges of the room softening in a way that feels just manageable enough to ignore.

He tells himself he’ll switch to something else after this one.

So when the next one shows up, he takes that too.

By the time someone pulls him onto the dance floor, he’s warm, loose, a little unsteady.

By the time someone pulls him onto the dance floor, he’s warm, loose, a little unsteady.

The man is bigger than him.

Broader. Taller. Solid in a way that feels immediately familiar.

It hits him, hazy through the alcohol, that before Shane and Ilya pulled him into their orbit, all of his hookups, all of his make-out sessions, had been with women. Women who were smaller than him. Women who expected him to lead.

This is different.

The man settles in behind him, hands firm on his hips, guiding him easily with the music.

Luca lets it happen.

Lets himself be moved, pressed into the rhythm, into the closeness.

And it feels familiar. The weight of hands. The certainty of being guided. The way he doesn’t have to think.

But it’s not the same.

There’s no pause. No check. No quiet, deliberate control.

Just an assumption. Momentum.

A bad mimicry of Ilya’s control, still close enough that his body recognizes it.

He leans back into it.

Lets himself be held there, lets the man move him, lets the music drown everything out.

Fragments surface anyway.

you can have other partners

The words slip in, out of nowhere.

The man’s grip shifts, pulling him back into the beat.

you should

Luca exhales, something in his chest tightening for a second before it fades again.

you’re so young

A flash of them across from him. The way they’d been looking at him.

deserve to find what we have

The man presses closer, guiding his hips again, and Luca follows without thinking.

Another fragment 

do you want to know

He’d asked that.

we would like to know

That part wasn’t a suggestion.

It was something they  expected 

The man leans in, says something against his ear.

Something about getting out of here.

Calling him an Uber.

Luca nods, slow and easy.

The man’s hand leaves him for a second, pulling out his phone, tapping the screen.

Booking it.

That’s when Luca remembers.

Right.

Tell them.

He fumbles for his own phone, nearly dropping it before he gets a grip.

He sees another text from Noah, but he’s too drunk to respond, it takes him a second to find the right chat.

He squints at the screen, thumbs clumsy.

“im going home w domeonr”

By the time he looks up again, the man is already guiding him off the floor, hand back at his hip, steering him through the crowd.

Out of the bar.

Cool air hits him too fast, too sharp.

An Uber pulls up.

He’s ushered inside without much thought.

The door shuts.

The city blurs past outside the window.

The man is right there beside him, groping him getting bolder now that Luca’s not surrounded by his teammates, Luca lets him.

Somewhere in the back of Luca’s mind, a thought flickers.

He doesn’t know the man’s name.

It should matter.

It doesn’t.

He’s too far gone to care.

The door barely clicks shut before the man is on him.

Hands, mouth, pressure, immediate, overwhelming. Luca stumbles back a half step, caught off guard, trying to match the rhythm, to respond the way he’s supposed to.

It’s kind of like when Ilya pulls him in for a kiss at the door before a scene.

Similar in the way plastic tries to pass for leather, convincing until you actually feel it. 

But it isn’t the same.

There’s no warmth under it. No pause, no moment where Luca is seen, where someone checks in, lets him settle. This is just momentum, just expectation.

Luca kisses back anyway.

Because that’s what you do. Because this is what he came here for.

It’s fine. It’s just kissing.

“I just—” he manages, pulling back slightly, words slow and clumsy. “I just figured out I’m… I haven’t really done anything. Like— not that. Not with a guy.”

The man looks at him, expression barely shifting, like Luca didn’t just say something that feels huge.

“Do you want to?” he asks, almost absentmindedly, like it’s nothing.

Luca swallows, the question settling somewhere heavy in his chest. He thinks about it, about how easy it would be to just say yes and let it happen, to not make this complicated, to not turn it into something bigger than it has to be. People don’t make that big a deal about this, right? He could just go along with it, make it simple, let the man fuck him. He wants to not disrupt the moment, wants to make the man happy, wants to be good, easy, compliant.

The word sticks.

Because Ilya likes that. Likes when he’s soft, when he follows, when he’s compliant. It’s familiar, grounding in a way that makes this feel almost manageable, like he knows how to do this, how to be this version of himself.

He could just say yes.

But underneath it, louder, cutting clean through the alcohol, is fear. Immediate and sharp, rising up before he can push it down, before he can rationalize it away.

He shakes his head.

“No.”

It comes out quieter than he means it to, his gaze dropping like if he looks up he might waver, might be pulled back into it. He hopes the man doesn’t ask again, doesn’t push, because he knows himself well enough to know he’ll give in just to smooth it over, just to keep things easy, just to not make it awkward.

But the man doesn’t.

He just shrugs.

Easy. Dismissive.

Like it never mattered in the first place.

“You can still suck me off, right?”

Luca doesn’t think he wants to, but he doesn’t really know what he wants. His thoughts feel foggy, disconnected from his body. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something hesitates, but it’s quiet, easy to ignore.

He nods.

He doesn’t know why.

Maybe because it feels easier than explaining. Maybe because he already got in the Uber, already came up here, already let this go too far to back out without making it a whole thing.

The man guides him down.

Hands on his shoulders, firm, impersonal. Steering, not asking.

Luca’s knees hit the floor. The carpet scratches faintly through his jeans. He swallows, trying to remember what Shane had shown him. Slow. Patient. Smiling kindly when Luca had been too careful, guiding him through it.

Luca tries to start like that. Careful. Unsure, but trying.

The man doesn’t wait.

A hand tangles in his hair, tight and sudden. Shane’s hand had been there too, supportive, never pushing. But this man grips hard, not giving him an inch, thrusting in deep.

Luca makes a startled sound, choking on the abruptness of it, trying to adjust, to keep up, but the pace is wrong, the control gone before he ever had it. His hands come up automatically, pressing weakly, not even pushing, just… there.

“W—” he tries, but it comes out broken, swallowed.
It doesn’t matter.

For a second, panic sparks, sharp and electric.
And then nothing.

It’s not a decision. It’s not even really a thought.
It’s like something inside him just… shuts off.

His arms go heavy. His hands lose strength. The instinct to push, to stop this, to do anything flickers and then disappears, like a light going out.

He goes still.
Not because he wants to.
Because he can’t seem to do anything else.

His body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. He knows this is wrong. Knows he doesn’t like it. Knows he should stop it.

But the thought doesn’t turn into action.

It would be so easy, objectively. Just push back. Just move. He’s a professional athlete, sure the man may be bigger than him but  Luca could push him off without trying.
But his muscles don’t listen.
His mind doesn’t connect.

And underneath it, quieter but stronger, something else takes over.
Familiar. Automatic.

Be good.

Even now. Even here.
Even for someone who doesn’t deserve it.

His eyes sting. Tears slip down, unnoticed at first.

The world narrows to pressure and the overwhelming sense that something is wrong, wrong, wrong, but the reaction doesn’t follow. It just sits there, trapped inside him.

His body tries to catch up eventually, breath hitching, something in him finally pushing back, but it’s delayed, out of sync.

By the time it comes, it’s too much.

He jerks back too late, coughing, choking, and then he’s throwing up, sudden and uncontrollable.

Everything stops.

The man pulls away sharply. “What the fuck?”

Luca barely registers the words. He’s folded in on himself, shaking, wiping at his mouth with trembling hands, breath coming in broken gasps. His chest feels tight, like he can’t get enough air.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out immediately, instinctive. “I’m sorry, I didn’t— I’m sorry—”

Fuck. Luca really is sorry. He didn’t mean it — it’s just that he’d zoned out, and the man had pushed too far.

He’d only been trying to be good. Compliant. To take what he was given, even when he didn’t want to. Not make it a whole thing. Just let the man have control of his body, because that’s what being good meant. That’s what was easier.

And now the man is clearly angry with him.

Luca’s mind scrambles, searching for anything that might fix it, anything that might smooth it over, make him easier to deal with, better—

“I can—” he starts, the words tumbling out before he can really think about them, before he can stop himself. “You can fuck me.”

The man’s voice is sharp, irritated. “Jesus. Seriously?”

There’s so much disgust in it.

Like Luca hadn’t just offered up his virginity like a bargaining chip. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t something fragile and desperate and real.

Like Luca was something vile, not just a boy trying his best.

Luca flinches hard, shoulders curling inward.

“I didn’t mean— I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter now, smaller, like if he says it enough it might fix something.

The crying doesn’t stop.

He pulls in on himself, arms wrapped tight around his middle, trying to take up less space. His body still feels distant, like it hasn’t fully come back yet. Like he’s watching this from somewhere just outside himself.

He doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t move unless he has to.

Just waits.

Because that’s easier too.

Because somewhere along the way, his body decided the safest thing to do was disappear, and it hasn’t quite figured out how to come back yet.

The door opens fast.

“Yeah, you need to go,” the man is saying, voice sharp, agitated. “I can’t—this is—my carpet, man. My deposit—”

Luca barely processes the words. He’s still shaky, still half-folded in on himself, hands trembling as he wipes at his face, his mouth, anything he can reach.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, automatically.

The man doesn’t really respond to that. Just ushers him out, impatient, like he’s a problem that needs to be removed.

The door shuts.

And that’s it.

Luca stands there for a second, staring at the closed door like it might open again.

It doesn’t.

Outside, the air hits him all at once.

Cold.

Not just cold, the kind that sneaks in under your clothes and settles deep into your bones.

The marine layer has rolled in thick, fog swallowing the streetlights whole, turning everything dim and distant. The air is damp, heavy, clinging to his skin, seeping through fabric like it’s nothing. It’s barely in the low fifties, but the wind off the water makes it feel brutal, sharp and insistent, like it’s trying to carve its way in.

It cuts right through him.

Each gust slips under his collar, down his spine, wraps around his ribs and sits there, unrelenting. His fingers ache with it, stiff and slow, breath fogging in front of him in uneven bursts. The cold doesn’t just touch him, it settles, lingers, makes a home in his chest.

Luca shivers hard.

He hadn’t thought about a jacket. Hadn’t thought about anything, really.

He pulls out his phone with stiff fingers, the screen flaring too bright against the dark, fog-dulled night. He squints, eyes struggling to adjust, and tries to focus.

He opens Google Maps, thumbs clumsy as he types in the hotel, letters blurring together. Then he switches to Uber.

The screen flickers.

Then goes black.

“No, no—” he presses the button again, once, twice. Nothing. Dead.

For a second, he just stands there, staring at the blank screen, like if he waits long enough it might come back.

It doesn’t.

A car passes. Someone laughs somewhere down the block. The city keeps moving like nothing’s happened.

Luca exhales shakily, breath visible in the cold air.

Okay.

It’s fine.

He’s good with directions.

All those backpacking trips with his dad. Maps, landmarks, figuring it out without a phone. It sticks, even now.

He picks a direction. Starts walking.

At first it’s automatic. One foot in front of the other. Hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. The cold bites through his shirt, but it helps. Keeps him in his body.

Then everything else starts creeping back in.

The memory of it.

His throat tightens. He keeps walking.

The streets get worse before he fully registers where he is. People lingering on corners, voices off, something sharp in the air. It makes his skin prickle.

He keeps his head down. Walks faster.

He’s big. Usually that’s enough.

Not tonight.

The thin shirt doesn’t help. It clings, makes him feel exposed in a way he can’t shake. Like people are looking too long. Like they can see something.

He swallows it down. Keeps moving.

The hills hit next. Steep out of nowhere, legs already shaky. His breath catches, thighs burning as he climbs. He takes a wrong turn, then another. Has to double back.

“Fuck,” he mutters, quieter than he means to.

He stops. Forces himself to look around. Find the grid again.

He can do this.

It just takes longer than it should.

By the time he’s back on track, his hands are numb, jaw tight, whole body tired in a way that has nothing to do with the walk.

He keeps going.

He wraps his arms around himself tighter.

There’s a moment where it hits him, sharp and sudden:

He could have just said no.

He knows that, logically.

His chest aches.

He keeps walking.

His nose is running from the cold. His eyes sting, and he tells himself it’s just the wind, just the temperature drop, just the way the fog clings to everything.

Not anything else.

He focuses on small things instead.

The slope of the sidewalk. The rhythm of his steps. The way the city grid starts to look more familiar the further he goes.

He is good with directions.

He just has to keep moving.

He doesn’t remember the last few blocks clearly.

He pushes through the doors too fast, breath hitching, head down. The lobby is warm and bright in a way that makes his eyes ache. He avoids looking at anyone, keeps moving, like if he slows down someone might stop him, might see him.

The elevator ride feels endless.

His reflection in the mirrored wall is wrong. Smudged, disheveled, something off in his expression that he doesn’t quite recognize. He looks away almost immediately.

The doors open.

He fumbles with his keycard, hands still shaking, misses the slot once, twice, before it finally clicks green.

Thankfully the room is dark and empty. Tanner’s not there.

He steps inside, lets the door swing shut behind him, doesn’t even bother turning on the lights.

He makes it a few steps in before everything just… gives.

The bed catches him hard, face-down, the impact knocking the breath out of him in a soft, startled exhale. For a second he just lies there, cheek pressed into the mattress, heart pounding too fast.

He knows he should shower, the acrid smell of his vomit filling his nostrils. 

The thought surfaces weakly—you should get up, you should clean yourself off, you can’t just—but it doesn’t stick. It slides right off, like everything else has been all night.

His body feels too heavy.

Like gravity’s been turned up just for him.

He tries, maybe, for a second—shifts his arm, like he might push himself up—but it doesn’t go anywhere. The effort fizzles out before it can turn into action.

His face presses further into the bed instead.

The fabric is cool against his skin.

That helps.

His breathing starts to slow, uneven at first, then gradually deeper. The tension in his shoulders loosens in small, incremental ways, like something in him is finally giving up.

He’s out almost instantly.

They’d first gotten into shibari when Shane’s dad had offered Ilya his old sailboat. Shane had spent way too long watching the way Ilya’s hands worked, steady and precise, as he tied bowlines and hitches to rig it up.

Ilya bought Shane a beautiful red jute. He’d been restraining Shane for years, but this was different. They started with simple, double columns, basic harnesses, and Ilya got into it fast, drawn to the process, the quiet focus of it. The way he could build something intricate, deliberate, just to see how pretty Shane looked in it.

They spent so many evenings like that, Shane a willing rope bunny while Ilya practiced.

But like everything they did, they pushed. Shane wanted more. He wanted to fly.

Ilya hesitated. He wasn’t willing to compromise Shane’s safety by attempting suspension without proper instruction. That’s how they found the workshops, structured and deliberate, focused on suspension work in shibari.

Today, they’d worked up to a partial suspension.

It had been controlled, careful, the facilitator moved around them, adjusting tension here and there, reminding Ilya where to check for circulation, how to read the body. Even partial, it had been intense. It always was, especially when the rope bunny looked like Shane. Two hundred pounds of solid muscle didn’t make anything easier. It made everything heavier. Riskier.

They still drew attention, even here. Not because they were hockey players. There wasn’t much overlap between the San Francisco kink community and hockey fans, and Shane liked that. He didn’t want to be Shane Hollander number 24 here. He just wanted to be Ilya’s. But their bodies gave them away anyway, all that muscle, all that precision, impossible to miss.

Ilya had lowered him carefully at the end, slow and deliberate, holding him close as he came down from it. He worked the tension out of Shane’s muscles with his hands, grounding him.

Even so, Shane was a little unsteady when they left the rope floor, heading toward the locker room.

Ilya helped him dress, guiding his arms through his shirt. When Shane winced, he pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder..

They were both still riding that quiet, heavy afterglow.

It lasted right up until Ilya reached his locker.

The event had a no phones policy. That was the only reason they’d gone. Guaranteed privacy, no cameras, no bullshit. Their things were exactly where they left them, tucked away.

Ilya grabbed his phone and unlocked it as he leaned back against the bench.

Notifications flooded in immediately.

Team group chat. A few missed calls. A message from Yuna, congrats on the win, a couple of teasing comments. Something from one of the coaches.

Normal.

He scrolled lazily at first, still half in that softened headspace.

Then Luca.

There was only one message, but it was enough. The spelling off. The tone wrong. Slurred, even through text.

Ilya’s stomach dropped.

Hard.

All the warmth drained out of him in an instant, replaced by something cold and sharp and immediate. His posture straightened, the loose ease gone like it had never been there.

Ilya doesn’t say anything at first. He doesn’t want to pull Shane out of it, out of that soft, floaty headspace they’re both still in.

But Shane knows him too well.

It’s subtle. Just a slight pause in the scrolling, a brief tightening in his shoulders, barely there. Shane catches it anyway.

“What?” he asks, too quick.

“Nothing,” Ilya says, not looking up.

He calls Luca.

It rings. And rings.

Then cuts.

He tries again.

Straight to voicemail.

“Ilya.”

“He texted,” Ilya says finally.

Shane is sitting up straighter now, the last of the haze burning off. “What did he say?”

Ilya turns the phone so he can see.

im going home w domeonr

The spelling is off. The tone is off. It’s Luca, but not quite.

Shane’s stomach drops. “He was drunk.”

“Yes.”

“And now he’s not answering?”

“No.”

Shane pushes himself fully upright, the aftereffects of the scene gone in an instant. “Okay. Okay. Call someone who saw him. Bood was there, right?”

Ilya is already dialing.

“Yeah?” Bood picks up, music bleeding through the line.

“Luca,” Ilya says. “Where is he?”

“He left,” Bood says immediately. “With some guy.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, man. Just some dude. He was pretty gone though.”

“How long ago?” Ilya asks.

There’s a pause.

“Uh… like an hour? Maybe two?”

Shane goes still.

Ilya’s grip tightens slightly on the phone.

“That long?” Shane says under his breath.

“Yeah,” Bood says. “We figured he was just, you know, going home with him.”

Ilya doesn’t respond to that.

“Call me if you see him again,” he says instead, already pulling the phone away.

“Yeah, sure—”

He hangs up.

Shane is already moving, pacing half a step, adrenaline kicking in. “Okay. He texted you he was going home with someone. That’s normal. That’s what we said, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says, but his voice is tight.

“Call Tanner.”

Ilya nods and dials.

This time it takes longer to pick up.

“Yeah?” Tanner answers, distracted.

“Is Luca there?” Ilya asks.

“I don’t know, I’m out,” Tanner says. “Why?”

“You have not seen him?”

“I’m kinda busy right now—” He’s cut off by the sound of a girl in the background.

“Call me if you hear from him,” Ilya cuts in.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Tanner says quickly. “He’s probably fine though, right? Just out.”

Ilya doesn’t answer.

He hangs up.

Silence settles between them, heavy and wrong.

Shane exhales, trying to steady it, trying to make it make sense. “Okay. He’s drunk. He hooked up with someone. He hasn’t checked his phone. That’s plausible.”

“Yes.”

But Ilya is already reaching for his jacket.

Shane watches him for half a second, something tightening in his chest.

“You don’t believe that,” he says.

Ilya doesn’t look at him.

“No.”

Ilya calls the Uber and offers the driver a hundred if he can get them back to the hotel faster. The man takes it immediately, weaving through traffic. They don’t talk on the ride. There isn’t anything to say that doesn’t make it worse. By the time they reach the hotel, both of them are already moving before the car fully stops.

The elevator is too slow. The hallway feels longer than it should.

Ilya knocks first. Hard.

“Luca.”

Nothing.

He knocks again, sharper this time, the sound carrying down the hall.

“Luca.”

Still nothing.

Shane exhales once, tight, already turning. “Stay here. I’ll get a key.”

Ilya nods, eyes fixed on the door, every second stretching thin.

Shane doesn’t even have to argue at the front desk. One look, a quick explanation, and they hand over a keycard without hesitation. Golden boy perks, useful for once.

The room is dark when they step inside. 

Luca is face down on the bed, shoes still on, one arm pinned awkwardly under him, the other hanging off the side like he just collapsed there and never moved again.

“Fuck,” Shane breathes.

Ilya is already crossing the room.

“Luca?” he says, quieter now, controlled.

He approaches carefully, not wanting to startle him, though the stillness already feels wrong in a way that settles cold in his chest. His hand comes to Luca’s shoulder, light at first.

“Luca.”

No response.

Not even a shift.

Ilya presses a little firmer, thumb dragging over the fabric of his shirt. “Hey. Luca.”

Nothing.

Shane closes the door behind them, softer now, the click loud in the quiet.

“Is he out?” he asks, voice low.

Ilya doesn’t answer. His hand slides down Luca’s arm, giving a small, careful shake. “Luca.”

This time there’s something.

Barely there. Not a word, just a faint, broken exhale.

Ilya stills for half a second, then nods to himself, grounding.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to steady his own thoughts than anything else.

He shifts his grip, one hand bracing Luca’s shoulder, the other at his hip, and rolls him over slowly, controlled, keeping him supported the whole way.

The moment Luca turns, Shane goes quiet.

There’s dried vomit on his shirt, along his collar, faint at the corner of his mouth. His face is streaked with tears, eyes swollen, lashes clumped together like he cried until there was nothing left and then just shut down.

“Jesus,” Shane says under his breath.

Ilya doesn’t react outwardly, but something in him locks into place. He moves closer without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup Luca’s face, gentle despite the tension running through him.

“Luca,” he says again, softer now. “Hey.”

Luca’s eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused. It takes him a second to even find Ilya, like the effort of it is too much.

“I’m here,” Ilya says quietly, thumb brushing under his eye. “What happened?”

Luca tries. His lips part, his throat moves, but nothing forms. The attempt falls apart halfway through, replaced by a small, exhausted collapse of his expression as his eyes fill again.

A tear slips down. Then another.

Ilya’s response is immediate. He shifts closer, pulling Luca up before he can fold back into himself, steadying him against his chest.

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and even.

Luca doesn’t resist. He doesn’t really help either. He just leans, his weight settling fully into Ilya like holding himself together isn’t something he can manage anymore. His head drops against Ilya’s chest, his hands loose and uncoordinated where they rest.

His breathing stutters, uneven, and the tears keep coming, silent, with no explanation behind them.

Shane moves closer, crouching in front of them, his voice softer now, stripped of anything but concern. “Luca. Can you tell me what happened?”

Nothing.

Luca doesn’t even look at him. He just presses closer into Ilya, like that’s the only place that feels remotely solid.

Ilya’s arm tightens automatically, his hand coming up to the back of Luca’s head, holding him there, steady and contained.

He looks up at Shane over Luca’s shoulder.

Worried. Focused. Already thinking ahead.

Shane meets his eyes and understands immediately.

They’re not leaving him here.

He nods once and pushes to his feet. “I’ll grab his stuff.”

He moves quickly, collecting Luca’s bag, his phone, dead, and the charger from the nightstand.

By the time he turns back, Ilya already has Luca sitting upright, one arm firm around his back, keeping him from tipping.

“Come,” Ilya says quietly. “We go to our room, yes?”

Luca doesn’t answer, but he lets himself be moved, unsteady on his feet, most of his weight leaning into Ilya as they stand.

“That’s it,” Ilya murmurs, guiding him toward the door. “I have you.”

Shane is already there, opening it just enough to check the hallway.

Clear.

“Go.”

They move quickly, controlled but urgent. Ilya keeps Luca close, tucked into his side, not giving him any space to drift or stumble. Luca’s head stays down, pressed in, hidden.

No one stops them. No one asks.

Their door opens.

Then shuts behind them.

And Luca is inside.

Ilya gets Luca into the bathroom on instinct alone, guiding him by the shoulders, steady and careful.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, grounding. “We’re going to clean you up, okay?”

Luca doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t really react.

He just lets himself be moved, steps uneven, weight leaning into Ilya like he’s forgotten how to hold himself up on his own.

Shane hovers in the doorway for a second, watching something tight in his chest.

“Luca,” he tries, softer now. “We’re just gonna get you cleaned up.”

Nothing.

Ilya reaches for the edge of Luca’s shirt, hesitates. “Can I take this off?” he asks gently.

Luca’s hands come up weakly, catching at the fabric.

Ilya stills.

“Okay,” he says immediately. “Okay.”

He adjusts instead, turning on the shower, testing the water until it’s warm and then guiding Luca forward under it, fully clothed.

The water hits them both at once.

Luca flinches faintly at the first contact, breath hitching, but then… nothing.

Ilya stays with him, stepping in too, not bothering with his own clothes. One arm stays firm around Luca’s back, keeping him steady as the water soaks through everything.

For a moment, Luca stands.

Then his legs give out.

He slides down the tile, back hitting the wall, knees drawing in without meaning to.

Ilya goes with him immediately. He doesn’t try to stop it, just follows him down, controlling the movement so Luca doesn’t hit hard, easing them both onto the floor beneath the spray.

“Easy,” he murmurs, one hand braced against the wall, the other firm around Luca, keeping him upright.

The water is still running.

It soaks through everything almost instantly. Their shirts cling, heavy and cold at first before the heat of the water catches up, steam curling faintly around them. Luca doesn’t react to it. He barely seems to feel it.

He curls in on himself anyway, forehead dipping forward, water running down his face, catching in his lashes, sliding along the same tracks as his tears.

They don’t stop.

They just keep coming, silent and constant, like his body doesn’t know how to do anything else.

Ilya shifts closer, pulling him in more securely, letting Luca fold against him fully. His hand moves slowly up and down Luca’s back through the soaked fabric, steady, grounding, the only rhythm in the room that isn’t falling apart.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re okay. I have you.”

Luca doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t speak.

He just leans harder into Ilya, head dropping against his shoulder, body heavy, unresisting. Even in the warmth of the water, there’s a faint tremor running through him, something deeper than cold.

Shane stays just outside the spray at first, pacing once, twice, restless energy with nowhere to land. His hands drag through his hair, then fall, then lift again before he forces himself still.

Then he steps in.

The water soaks him just as quickly, clothes clinging, but he doesn’t hesitate. He crouches down beside them, close enough now to reach, one hand coming to Luca’s back, rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

Luca doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t acknowledge it.

He just presses closer into Ilya, like that’s the only anchor he has left, shaking faintly now despite the heat pouring over all of them.

The water keeps running.

It pools around them, loud against the tile, filling the space where Luca can’t.

Time stretches.

Too long.

Ilya’s hand stills for a moment against Luca’s back, his jaw tightening slightly as he takes in the tremor, the silence, the way Luca isn’t coming back up from it.

He makes a decision.

“This is enough,” he says quietly.

He shifts, turning off the water, the sudden absence of sound making the room feel sharper, colder.

“Luca,” he says gently. “We need to get you dry, yes?”

A weak sound. Not quite agreement. Not quite refusal.

His hands come up again when Ilya reaches for his shirt.

“Hey,” Ilya murmurs, catching his wrists gently but firmly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Luca shakes his head, small, instinctive. “No…”

But there’s no strength behind it.

No real resistance.

Just… reflex.

Ilya doesn’t rush it.

“Just the wet clothes,” he says softly. “You’ll feel better. I promise.”

It takes a second.

Then Luca’s hands fall.

Ilya moves quickly after that, efficient and careful. He peels off the soaked fabric with steady hands, keeping everything contained, not giving Luca time to pull away or sink further into himself.

Shane is already there with towels. The second the clothes are off, he wraps one around Luca, another around his shoulders, hands gentler now, focused on warmth, on getting him out of the cold.

Between them, they dry him as quickly as they can. No lingering, just enough to take care of what matters.

Clean clothes come next. Soft, warm, easy to move through. Ilya guides Luca’s arms through the sleeves while Shane pulls the fabric into place, both of them working in quiet coordination, practiced without ever having to say it out loud.

Luca doesn’t help.

But he doesn’t resist either.

He just lets it happen.

They get him back into the room and onto the bed. Ilya sits first and pulls Luca down with him, keeping him close until he’s steady enough to lie back without folding in on himself again.

The tears have stopped.

Not because he’s okay.

Just because there’s nothing left.

His eyes stay open, unfocused, fixed somewhere past the ceiling. Distant. Not really here.

Shane lingers at the edge of the bed, chest tight, looking between Luca and Ilya.

“He still hasn’t said anything,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

Ilya’s hand comes up to Luca’s face again, thumb brushing lightly along his cheek.

“Luca,” he says, softer than anything else he’s used all night. “Can you look at me?”

It takes a moment.

Then Luca’s eyes shift.

Ilya holds his gaze, steady, grounding.

“You’re safe.”

Luca doesn’t answer.

But something flickers in his expression. Small. Fragile.

Shane exhales slowly, running a hand over Luca’s arm. Their eyes meet over Luca’s head, the same thought passing between them without needing words.

Luca’s breathing evens out, deep and slow. Not rest, not really. More like his body finally giving out.

Shane watches it happen, something in his chest tightening.

“…he’s out,” he says quietly.

Ilya nods once. He doesn’t move right away, just keeps Luca held close, one arm secure around him, his hand at the back of Luca’s head, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes through his hair.

Making sure he’s settled. Making sure he stays that way.

Only when Luca’s breathing remains steady does Ilya shift. Carefully, he eases him down onto the pillows, slow and controlled, keeping a hand on him the whole time.

Luca doesn’t stir.

Ilya pulls the blankets up over them.

They stay there long after, the room quiet around them, neither of them willing to sleep, both of them watching, waiting, making sure he keeps breathing steady through the night.

Morning comes in gray and quiet, the kind that makes everything feel a little muted.

Ilya’s already awake, lying still, one arm loosely around Luca. Shane’s behind him, half draped over Luca, still asleep.

His phone buzzes.

bood: you hear from luca? just checking

Ilya stares at it for a second, then types back before he can think too much about it.

yeah. he texted me. stayed out with the guy

Send.

A lie.

He locks his phone and looks down at Luca again. He looks better than last night, clean, warm, breathing steady, but there’s still something off about him, even in sleep. Something tight.

Ilya slips out of bed carefully, slow enough not to wake either of them, though Shane stirs anyway.

“Where—”

“Be right back”

Shane nods, already drifting again.

Ilya moves through the room, water, electrolytes, Tylenol, anti-nausea, something small to eat. Lines everything up on the nightstand without thinking.

Then he waits.

Luca wakes slowly. 

Ilya’s there immediately.

“Hey.”

Luca’s eyes open, unfocused at first, then settle on him.

“…hey,” he says, voice rough.

“Drink,” Ilya says gently, handing him the bottle.

Luca drinks because he’s told to. Stops when Ilya tells him to.

Shane is awake now too, propped up on one elbow behind him, watching.

“Luca,” Shane says softly. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Luca goes still.

His fingers curl tighter into the blanket, like he needs something to hold onto.

“I—” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard.

“I could’ve said no,” he says instead.

Shane’s expression tightens immediately. “Hey—”

“I could’ve left,” Luca keeps going, a little faster now, like if he doesn’t say it all at once he won’t be able to say any of it. “He didn’t—like—he wasn’t—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated with the lack of words. “I just went with him.”

His voice thins.

“I said yes.”

Silence settles, heavy.

“I don’t know why,” he adds, quieter.

Ilya doesn’t interrupt. He just watches him, still, focused, taking in every word.

“I told him I didn’t want—like, not that,” Luca says. “He said fine. And I just—”

His hands start to shake.

“I said yes anyway.”

Shane shifts beside him, like he wants to step in, stop this spiral before it gets worse, but Ilya’s hand moves just slightly, stopping him.

Wait.

“I tried,” Luca says, voice dropping. “Like—how you showed me.”

Shane’s breath catches, sharp and quiet.

“But he didn’t wait,” Luca continues. “He just—”

He cuts himself off, like even thinking it is too much.

“I tried to push him,” he says, frustration bleeding through now, directed entirely at himself. “I think. But it was like—” he flexes his fingers weakly, staring at them like they betrayed him. “Nothing worked.”

His voice drops to almost nothing.

“I just… stopped.”

The room goes very quiet.

“I should’ve done something,” Luca says, more to himself than to them. “It wasn’t like—he wasn’t forcing me, I just—”

He swallows again, harder this time.

“I threw up,” he adds, softer. “And like—he freaked out. About his carpet.”

There’s a small, broken huff of breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but isn’t.

“I think I offered to pay,” he says. “And he just—told me to go.”

The words come out in pieces, disjointed, like he’s pulling them up from somewhere he doesn’t want to look too closely at.

Shane’s face has gone pale, something pained and helpless settling in his expression as the fragments start to line up.

Ilya doesn’t look away from Luca.

But something in him changes.

His body goes completely still, all that controlled steadiness sharpening into something colder. His jaw tightens, eyes dark, focused, every piece clicking into place.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t soften it.

He just listens.

And understands.

Too well.

He stands too fast, fist connecting with the wall beside him. The crack splits through the room.

Luca startles. Shane flinches. 

“Hey—” Shane starts, but Ilya doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t trust himself to.

He drags in a sharp breath and looks at Shane.

A question.

Permission.

Shane sees it immediately, sees how close he is, and nods.

Ilya turns and steps out onto the balcony, the door sliding shut behind him.

The cold air hits hard. He grips the railing, breath uneven, shoulders locked like he’s holding himself together.

God, he needs a cigarette.

He hasn’t in years. Doesn’t matter.

His grip tightens instead.

All he can see is Luca.

Small. Quiet. Trying.

Saying yes when he didn’t want to. Not fighting back, not because he didn’t know how, but because he couldn’t.

Something twists in his chest, familiar in a way he hates.

His mother, trying to push his father off. Voice breaking, hands useless against someone stronger. Him standing there, too small to do anything.

Same helplessness.

Same hollow, sick feeling.

Luca, stumbling through the streets alone, covered in his own vomit.

Because they told him to go. Told him it was fine.

And then gave him no way to reach them when it wasn’t.

Ilya’s jaw tightens.

Because someone saw Luca like that and took advantage of it. Didn’t wait. Didn’t care.

And then kicked him out.

That’s the part that sticks.

Kicked him out.

Like Luca was the problem. The inconvenience.

Ilya exhales sharply through his nose, grip tightening.

He can see it too clearly. Luca trying to do it right, trying to follow what he was taught, and this man just pushing past it, forcing him through it like none of it mattered.

He remembers the first time Luca tried with him. Careful. Soft. Looking up for approval.

Needing patience.

And this man gave him none.

Something in Ilya’s chest locks tight.

He wants to find him.

The thought lands clean.

He wants to hurt him.

Badly.

It sits there, heavy and simple.

Then shifts.

His mother again. The way she would tense, then go still when she realized she couldn’t win.

Ilya’s grip tightens further.

He remembers trying to step in. Getting shoved aside like he didn’t matter.

Helpless.

The same feeling floods his chest now.

Because it happened again.

Different room. Different person.

Same thing.

Luca trying to push him away. Saying no to one thing and not knowing how to say no to the rest. Freezing when his body wouldn’t respond.

And Ilya wasn’t there.

His hand curls into a fist.

For a second he just stands there, breathing hard, the pressure building.

He lifts his hand, hesitates. He knows Shane will worry. Knows what it’ll do to his knuckles.

Then he hits the brick anyway.

Pain shoots up his arm. He exhales through it, something breaking loose.

Good.

He deserves it.

Because all he can see now is Luca last night.

Stumbling through the streets.

Cold. Sick. Alone.

Ilya presses his forehead briefly against the cold brick, eyes closing as he forces his breathing to slow.

He encouraged it. Didn’t think it through. Didn’t make sure Luca had a way back.

Just told him to go.

And trusted the world to be kind.

He inhales slowly.

Exhales.

Again.

The anger doesn’t go away.

It sharpens. Settles into something controlled.

The way it always has to be.

When he opens his eyes, his breathing is steadier.

Not calm.

But contained.

Contained enough.

He straightens, flexes his hand once, then turns back toward the door.

Ilya walks in to find Shane talking to Luca, voices soft, Shane soothing him. 

Hey both look up at him worry in their eyes, and Ilya thinks he’s going to be sick again.

How did he end up with two of the kindest people in his life worried about him, worried about him when Luca is the one hurting, and he’s just had an unwarranted meltdown like a child?

He tries to hide his bloodied knuckles, but they both clock them anyway. Shane shoots him a look that’s a mix of worry and disappointment, and Ilya hates himself even more. He knew punching the wall would upset Shane. He knew it, and he still did it anyway.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Shane sighs and waves it off, motioning him closer.

Ilya hesitates, wondering why they even want him there when all he does is freak out and break things. But he goes anyway, settling on the edge of the bed, keeping some space, until Luca reaches for his shirt and pulls him closer.

And Ilya is weak against the pull, shuffling in without resistance.

Luca’s face is wrecked, red, tear-streaked, snot still clinging, and Ilya reaches up, wiping it away with his shirt almost automatically.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do. The only thought in his head is asking Luca for the motherfucker’s name so he can go kill him.

But he knows that’s not the right thing to say.

So he stays silent.

Finally, Shane breaks it.

“Luca…” A soft sigh. “Do you want to press charges?”

Luca shakes his head.

Shane just nods. They both know how this plays out. If Luca even tried, the courts and the press would tear him apart, ruin his career. The headlines would read something like:

“Hockey Tough Guy ‘Overpowered’ in Gay Encounter Gone Wrong — Star Rookie’s Story Raises Eyebrows.”

“Locker Room Alpha or Victim? Questions Swirl After NHL Player Claims Assault.”

Shane’s jaw tightens slightly, but his voice stays steady.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.”

And for once, Luca just lets out a shaky breath instead of trying to insist it was his fault.

Ilya does the only thing he can think to do. He can’t change what happened. He can’t fix it, can’t make Luca feel better. The only thing he can do is take care of him now.

“Drink,” he says, pressing the glass into Luca’s hand.

Luca obeys.

Ilya crouches in front of him, careful, deliberate in a way that feels completely different from the man who walked in five minutes ago with bloodied fists. He dabs gently at Luca’s face, cleaning what he missed earlier, thumbs brushing under his eyes.

Later, when Luca’s breathing evens out, when his body finally stops bracing like something else is about to happen, the practical things start creeping in.

Ilya is the one who says it.

“We have to sneak you out”

Luca blinks at him, still a little hazy. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“I told Bood you stayed over with the guy,” Ilya adds, voice even. “So they already think—” he gestures vaguely “—that.”

“Ok” luca says trusting them to handle it.

The airport is loud and the team is already there, clustered near the gate, bags at their feet, voices overlapping.

“Haasy!” Bood calls the second he spots him. “Look who decided to show up.”

Dykstra grins. “Heard you had a busy night.”

“Finally getting some, huh?” someone else adds.

Luca lets out a small laugh and shrugs like it is nothing, like this is exactly how it is supposed to go. And it is. This is normal. This is what they do. Chirp the rookie, make it a thing, drag it out until someone else becomes the target.

It should roll off him.

But Ilya is watching, and he catches it anyway. The slight tightening in Luca’s shoulders. The way his smile doesn’t quite settle. The faint tremor in his bottom lip before he presses it flat.

“Enough,” Ilya says.

It comes out sharper than he means it to, cutting across the noise just enough to make a few of them pause. Not silence. Just a shift.

Dykstra snorts. “Relax, we’re just chirping.”

“Yeah,” Bood adds, easy grin still in place. “What are you, his babysitter now?”

A couple of the guys laugh, nudging each other. “Gotta chirp the rookie, come on, Cap.”

And that is the problem.

This is routine. This is expected. Ilya is usually right in the middle of it, starting it, escalating it, making it worse just to see who cracks first. There is nothing here, on the surface, that is out of line.

So when he exhales and says, quieter this time, “Drop it,” it does not land the way it normally would.

Because they do not read it as serious.

They keep going, lighter now, almost reflexive. Not cruel, not really. Just the same rhythm they always fall into.

“C’mon, he’ll survive.”

“Built like that, he better.”

More laughter, already fading into something else.

Ilya’s jaw tightens. He does not push harder. He cannot, not without making it something bigger, not without drawing attention he cannot explain. So he lets it sit there, unresolved, irritation settling low in his chest as the conversation carries on around them.

And then it fades.

Not because of him.

Ilya glances up.

Shane is standing a few feet away, not saying anything, not moving closer, just watching.

It is not a glare, not really. Nothing obvious. Just steady.

But Bood is the first to look away, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly remembered something else he needed to do. Dykstra mutters something and shifts the conversation. Within seconds, it is gone.

Like it never happened.

Ilya watches it happen, something quiet settling in his chest. People always think he is the loud one, the one who can command a room by force, by volume, by sheer presence.

And he can.

But they underestimate Shane.

How effective he is without ever raising his voice. How easily he can redirect the room without making it a scene.

Ilya shoots him a brief glance, something like thanks in it.

Shane does not acknowledge it. Just looks away like it does not matter.

Ilya turns back to Luca, voice low enough that no one else can hear.

“You’re good,” he says. “We’re right here.”

Luca nods.

On the flight, they fall into something that looks like routine.

Ilya takes the aisle seat, eyes closed before they have even finished taxiing, like he can force sleep if he just commits hard enough. Shane sits beside him with a book open, posture relaxed, one hand loosely wrapped around Ilya’s. He reads one-handed, flipping pages carefully so he does not have to let go, his thumb brushing over Ilya’s knuckles every so often, absent, grounding, familiar.

Dallas hits all at once.

The doors open, the heat, the movement, the expectation that they keep going. Off the plane, onto the bus, into the hotel lobby where everything is already in motion, staff waiting, keys ready, someone directing them toward a private dining room before they have even properly checked in.

There is no gap in it.

No moment to slow down.

Dinner is loud, scattered, the team spreading out across tables, conversations overlapping, the usual rhythm settling in like nothing has changed. Shane ends up across from Luca for a few minutes, just long enough to ask something neutral, something safe, before someone taps his shoulder and pulls him away again. Ilya sits at the edge of the table, engaged in a conversation about matchups, nodding, responding, slipping easily into captain mode like it is second nature.

Neither of them lingers.

Neither of them can.

Coach Wiebe calls curfew at ten, firm and non-negotiable, and the moment dinner breaks, the whole group starts funneling toward the elevators, splitting into assigned rooms. Luca gets swept along with Tanner without question. 

As they pass, Shane’s eyes flick to him for a fraction of a second.

Ilya does the same.

They are both trying to read something in his face without making it obvious that they are looking.

Luca gives them very little.

He is quieter than usual, but not enough to stand out, not enough for anyone else to pick at. Just a little more subdued, a little more inward, his expression flattened into something that could pass for tired.

Nothing alarming.

Nothing anyone would call out.

Except that it is not right.

Except that it is not him.

But then the elevator doors close, and he is gone.

Morning skate is sloppy, but the whole team is off after the night out. Luca, Shane, and Ilya are worse than the rest.

He blows the whistle and calls them in, irritation sharp in his voice as he looks between them. “Did you all forget  how to skate, you three especially,” he says, not bothering to lower it. “Figure it out before tonight or you are going to cost us the game.”

After that, they get pulled in different directions again.

Shane is intercepted before he even makes it out of the locker room, someone from PR already waiting with a schedule, a camera crew setting up down the hall. He slips into it easily, answering questions, smiling on cue, saying all the right things while something in him stays just slightly out of reach.

Ilya gets called into Weibe’s office, the door shutting behind him as they start talking systems, responsibilities, adjustments. He contributes, leads, nods at the right moments, but part of his attention keeps drifting, catching on the same thought over and over again before he forces it back into place.

Luca leaves without being stopped.

Back in his room, the quiet settles in too quickly.

He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, not doing anything, then reaches for his sketchbook like he always does when he needs something to ground himself. The motion is automatic, familiar, the weight of it in his hands usually enough to pull him back into something steady.

He flips it open.

Stares at the page.

Nothing comes.

Not even a line.

The emptiness is not loud or overwhelming. It is not panic. It is not fear.

It is just… absence.

Like whatever part of him that usually fills the space is not there.

After a while, he closes it again and sets it aside, the decision made without much thought. He lies back on the bed, still fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling for a few seconds before his eyes close.

If he cannot feel anything, he might as well sleep.

He barely registers Tanner coming in.

A door opening, some movement, the low murmur of a voice, then quiet again.

Luca shifts onto his side and sinks back under before anything can fully surface.

The next time he sees them is the locker room before the game.

Everything is sharper now, more focused, the familiar pregame energy settling over the room as guys tape sticks, adjust gear, move through their routines.

Shane and Ilya are already there.

They both look at him.

And Luca tries.

He lifts his head and gives them a small smile, something easy, something meant to reassure, to tell them without words that he is fine, that they do not need to worry.

He knows immediately it does not work.

They see through it.

Of course they do.

But neither of them says anything.

They cannot.

The game unravels slowly, then all at once.

It starts with small things. Missed passes, bad reads, moments where timing slips just enough to disrupt the play. Then it compounds, the lack of connection spreading, feeding into itself.

A Dallas player chirps at Ilya, something cheap it shouldn’t get a rise out of him. It does.

Ilya drops his gloves before anyone really processes it, the fight quick and messy, over almost as soon as it begins. By the time he is in the penalty box, his right knuckles are already bleeding, the skin across his knuckles split open again, dark red seeping through.

Split open from when he’d punched the brick yesterday.

Shane catches it immediately, something tight and worried flickering across his face as he looks at him through the glass.

It is not like him anymore.

It used to be. Back in Boston, he would fight over nothing, over anything. But he has not been that player in a long time. 

Not since Shane.

Shane cannot pull it together either.

He’s forcing every play, missing shots he would normally make without thinking, frustration bleeding into everything he does.

And Luca is barely in the game at all.

When the hit comes, it is clean. Not even particularly hard.

But he does not see it.

Does not brace.

The impact takes him completely, sends him down harder than it should, the breath knocked out of him as the world tilts for a second too long.

Weibe pulls him, benching him for the rest of the game with a  “son you need to get your head in the game”

Luca goes without argument.

They lose 2–1.

First loss of the season.

The locker room afterward is subdued, the usual noise replaced by something heavier. Weibe addresses them, voice sharp at first, then steadier, talking about discipline, about focus, about keeping their heads in the game. It softens by the end, turning into something more constructive, but it does not erase the frustration sitting in the room.

Back in Ottawa, the team filters out toward the parking lot, breaking apart into smaller groups, then individuals, everyone heading home, the tension of the loss still lingering but already starting to settle.

Luca heads toward his car.

He almost makes it.

Ilya catches the strap of his backpack and pulls him back just enough to stop him, the movement small, controlled, easy to miss.

“You’re coming home with us,” he says, voice low.

Luca turns, blinking at him. “No, you don’t have to, I can just—”

Shane looks at him.

That is all it takes.

Luca stops.

“Wait,” Ilya adds quietly. “Let them clear out.”

They stand there for a moment longer as the rest of the team disperses, Ilya offering a few quiet goodbyes, a couple words of encouragement, slipping seamlessly back into that role like nothing else is happening.

And then, when the lot has thinned enough, they move to Shane’s car.

He had driven that morning since they had to drop Anya off, Luca slides into the backseat.

The car ride is quiet.

Not tense, not exactly. Just… quiet in that heavy way, like no one quite knows where to start.

The city passes in familiar blurs outside the windows, streetlights streaking across the glass, the low hum of the engine filling the space where conversation should be.

Shane breaks first.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t talk in Dallas.”

His voice is soft, careful, like he is trying not to press too hard on something already fragile.

Luca hums in response.

It is the only thing he has in him.

He understands.

Of course he does.

This has to stay secret. It always has. Shane and Ilya have a million things pulling at them, obligations he can barely keep track of, expectations that do not leave room for… this.

For him.

He is just a rookie they brought home.

A complication.

The thought settles in his chest, dull and familiar, and he has to swallow around it.

He is a surprised they haven’t kicked in out like the man kicked him out in San Francisco.

He takes in a slow, shaky breath, trying to keep it steady, trying to keep his face neutral, to not let any of it show.

There’s a large package by the front door, the box covered in paw prints. Ilya picks it up wordlessly. Shane looks at him. They both know what it is, and God, they wish the circumstances were different, wish Luca hadn’t gone through what he did in San Francisco, wish they could have their pup.

Ilya sets the box down, and Shane locks the door behind them, drops his keys into the bowl by habit, and turns back toward Luca.

“Do you want to sleep,” he asks gently, “or talk?”

Luca doesn’t hesitate.

“Sleep.”

It comes out quiet, a little rough.

Shane nods immediately, like that was the right answer.

“Okay.”

Ilya is already moving, pulling the blankets back, shifting pillows, making space in the middle without making a big deal out of it. He glances at Luca, something lighter flickering across his face for a second.

“Stay here,” he says, nudging the mattress. “You are a flight risk.”

It is clearly a joke.

Luca gives him half a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Shane disappears into the bathroom.

A moment later, the shower turns on.

Luca lies back, staring up at the ceiling, not really thinking, not really feeling anything specific, just… drifting.

“He doesn’t like the plane air on him,” Ilya says after a beat, like an explanation.

Luca hums.

The water runs for a while.

Long enough that Luca starts to lose track of time again, the sound of it steady, almost hypnotic.

When Shane comes back, his hair is damp, skin warm, that faint clean glow Luca remembers from before, from the last time he had been here, when everything had been… simpler. There is something soft about him again, something reset.

He climbs into bed without a word.

Ilya reaches over and flicks the light off.

The room settles into darkness.

Luca ends up between them without really noticing how, one of Shane’s arms draped loosely across his waist, Ilya’s leg hooked over his, the weight of them surrounding him on both sides.

It is grounding in a way he does not have to think about.

His body finally lets go.

Sleep takes him quickly.

When he wakes, the light has shifted.

Shane is gone.

Ilya is propped up against the headboard, phone in hand, scrolling, expression neutral until he notices Luca moving.

Then it changes.

Softens.

He reaches out automatically, running a hand through Luca’s hair, pushing it back from his face.

There is something in his eyes Luca cannot quite name.

Something that looks a little too much like pity.

“I’m fine,” Luca says quickly.

Too quickly.

Ilya nods like he doesn’t believe him, but doesn’t say anything about it.

“Shane should be back soon,” he says instead. “He went for a run.”

A small pause.

“Then we should talk, probably.”

Luca nods.

The pit in his stomach drops immediately, heavy and certain.

Of course.

This is the part where they say it.

That he is too much, it takes everything in him to blink back tears. 

Eventually Ilya nudges Luca up, leading him into the kitchen. He motions for him to sit at the barstool and hands him a glass of water, the cool condensation pressing into Luca’s palm, grounding in a way he didn’t realize he needed. Then he moves further into the kitchen as he gets started on breakfast. He whips up some eggs for the two of them and blends Shane his smoothie, finishing just as Shane comes back in.

“Thanks,” Shane mutters.

He looks unfairly good for having just run. Not like Luca, who always gets all splotchy, overheated, a little too obvious in his body.

Luca almost misses the look Shane gives him. It’s quick, like he didn’t mean for it to linger.

It matches the one Ilya had given him when he woke up.

Pity.

Luca’s stomach drops.

He looks down at his glass, watching the water shift slightly with the tremor in his hands, and sighs, bracing for the inevitable break up, if you can even call it that. He’s so delusional to think of it that way, like this was ever something stable enough to lose.

“Luca, we have to talk about what happened,” Shane says, breaking him out of his spiral.

Luca just nods, throat tight, like anything more might come out wrong.

“Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

Luca sighs again, a little shakier this time.

“Take your time,” Shane encourages.

So Luca tells them the story.

And distantly, Shane thinks that maybe the fact they couldn’t talk about this in Dallas was actually a silver lining. Ilya still looks murderous when he hears the details about how the man was more worried about his rent deposit, something dark flashing across his face before he reins it back in, but he doesn’t punch any walls.

And Luca, it’s not easy for him, of course not, but he doesn’t hyperventilate, and he can actually get full sentences out, even if they come slower, even if his voice catches on certain parts.

Once he finishes walking them through the entire interaction, the room feels too quiet.

Shane sighs,“This is why I tell you guys not to drink.”

Ilya shoots him a look.

“Sorry, sorry,” Shane says quickly. “I know, not the time.”

He goes quiet, then turns slightly toward Ilya, expecting him to take over. 

Ilya looks back at Luca.

“Luca,” he says, voice steady, controlled in a way that feels more deliberate now, “why do you think you didn’t tell him no?”

Luca looks down, fingers tightening slightly around the glass, thinking for a second longer than he wants to. They both watch him, expectant, but don’t prompt him again.

Luca takes a deep breath.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just… I think I wanted to be good, I guess.”