Archive of Our Own

Svetlana  

“Shlyukha.”  

Svetlana paused at the closet, not intending to listen in, but the harsh word in such a gentle tone made her pause.  

Her flight had gotten in from Moscow in the late afternoon; she had eaten the dinner Shane had ready for them when they’d gotten back from the airport and promptly gone to bed, the jetlag hitting her hard. She had woken up in the middle of the night, confused about what had woken her up, when she heard a soft thump from the room next door.  

“My fucking whore,” Ilya whispered in English, his voice reverent.  

Svetlana grabbed a sweater from the closet as she listened to the moans get louder, the loud, wet sucking sounds impossible to miss.  

“Ya tvoya,” Shane mumbled, barely intelligible through the wall.  

Svetlana was familiar with Ilya during sex; they’d spent years fucking each other when there was no one else around, or they were bored, or just because. She'd felt him, watched his face intently as she had made him come. She knew what he looked like when he made someone else come, flushing with pride and happiness. She'd seen him have sex with other women, and one time, even seen him and Sasha fucking when they had all gotten fucked up on cocaine at a party.  

She had passed out and woken up to Ilya pounding into Sasha six inches away from her in the same bed, seen him smack Sasha in the face and grip his chin harshly, demanding he beg for him, telling him to tell Ilya how good he felt, fucking him harder and more intense than he had ever fucked her. She had locked eyes with Sasha and felt jealousy course through her as Sasha moaned Ilya’s name and smirked at her, knowing that Sasha was giving Ilya something she couldn’t, but she had never understood what it was.  

But she knew Ilya and sex intimately. But Svetlana had always been curious about Shane.  

Shane was lovely. He was the most talented hockey player in the league, the only player on a worldwide level as good as Ilya, and he was undeniably beautiful. Big brown doe eyes, and plush, soft red lips. One of the best bodies she had ever seen on a man. Svetlana herself had been jealous when she had put the pieces together and realised Shane Hollander was the Jane Ilya had been obsessed with for years, eager to ask Ilya all about how this had happened.  

But she had never quite understood what the appeal was for Ilya outside of their hockey rivalry. Shane had always come across as...kind of boring.  

“Glubzhe,” Ilya said, muffled through the wall. “Bol'she, Shane, come on.”  

Svetlana listened as Shane gagged, raising an eyebrow when she heard a hard slap.  

“Khoroshiy mal'chik,” Ilya cooed. “Perfect boy.”  

Shane keened. Svetlana bit her lip; Ilya used to tap her ass sometimes during sex, and sometimes when they were drunk at the club for a laugh, but they had never done anything like that. He'd never had her choke on his dick and slapped her in the face. Their sex had been fun and comfortable and satisfying, but they hadn’t necessarily been experimental or kinky with one another. Svetlana would never admit it, but she had never been able to keep up with Ilya. He was insatiable in a way she had never seen in another person.  

Svetlana had certainly never heard him sound like this before.  

High on power. Fuck drunk. Desperate. So openly needy and demanding.  

She had spent years thinking that they were compatible sexually, but the evidence in front of her suggested otherwise, suggested something Ilya knew all along, that she ignored.  

She listened through the wall as they shuffled around, guessing Shane pulled his mouth away if his coughing and sputtering was anything to go by.  

“Takoy mokryy,” Ilya murmured.  

“For you,” Shane said. “Snova. Please.”  

Svetlana raised an eyebrow. Ilya had mentioned that he was teaching Shane all the bad words in Russian, but she had really thought he was joking. Hearing Shane understand Ilya calling him a slut, calling him wet, hearing Shane beg for Ilya to make him choke again in Russian... He really was Ilya’s match.  

She edged closer to the wall, pressing her ear against it, curious to hear more.  

“No. Vverkh,” Ilya demanded. She listened to footsteps and sheets rustling and heavy breathing while they moved around.  

Svetlana could just go back to sleep, just stop eavesdropping. Pretend that she couldn’t hear anything.  

But she was curious.  

She hadn’t totally understood what Ilya had seen in Shane Hollander outside of hockey. He was gorgeous, but he had this robotic quality to him. He was calculated, anxious...sexless. Beautiful, obviously. She had seen his many modelling campaigns. It was as if someone had taken photos of a beautiful man and labelled him sexy, but she had never felt the sexiness.  

She remembered how Ilya had come back to Moscow after his first Prospect Cup in Canada, grabbed Svetlana and his fake ID, and demanded they go out not even two hours after he’d gotten off the plane. Svetlana had watched as he had hunted down a beautiful Asian girl with dark eyes in the club, with red lips and freckles and black hair, and fucked her against the back wall, moaning desperately into her mouth as he stared at her, watching her get off on his dick over and over, absolutely no regard for the people around them that were watching them, and no regard for his own orgasm.  

Svetlana hadn’t put the pieces together until she had moved to Boston a few years after Ilya and spent more time watching him properly. Until she had noticed that he watched every Montreal game, until she saw him smile to himself every time Jane texted him. Until she saw the way his eyes caught on the screen any time Shane was talking to the press, licking his lips like he was suddenly starving. Until she had caught him watching a documentary about Shane off the ice, watching him stare at the television with an obvious erection, barely breathing.  

So, she figured there had to be something about Shane. She just didn’t know what.  

Svetlana was starting to get it, though.  

Listening through the wall, she could hear Shane begging for Ilya, in Russian, begging for his cock, for Ilya to fuck him, to feel him. Ilya was just as demanding in return, begging in his own way for Shane to spread his legs, to touch him, to take him. To tell him how good he felt, how much he needed him, only him, to tell him that he loved him.  

Alexei had given Svetlana cocaine for the first time when she was fourteen. Ilya hadn’t come home from hockey practise yet, but Svetlana had had a fight with her father and gone to his house to wait for him. Alexei had probably been trying to fuck her, because Ilya loved her, or fuck with her, because Ilya loved her, and gotten her high to make it easier. They had laid on the rug in the sitting room and talked about Ilya, and Alexei had said something that she had never forgotten. Something that had made her see Ilya differently ever since.  

Ilyusha is a bottomless pit of need, Svetochka. He needs too much from people. Mama was the same. Ilyusha is like a baby, even now as he is supposed to be a man. So soft. He needs, he needs toomuch. Nobody can give him what he needs. He's like Mama, Svetochka. He'll die like Mama, because he needs too much and he will never get it. He's not like you and me. He can’t accept life for what it is. I’m smarter. I figured out before him how to accept life. I'm not weak like them. You’re going to try, Svetochka, and you’re going to fail. You're not going to be enough. You can’t save him. You need to let him go. It’s easier once you let him go.  

It had made her sick at the time, and for years afterwards, when she had realised that Alexei was right. Part of it was jealousy that Alexei knew Ilya better than she did, just like Sasha did; two people who had no love or respect for Ilya that knew him better than her somehow, that were able to contextualise things for her that she hadn’t even begun to understand at such a young age, but most of it was fear. Fear that nobody would ever need Ilya as much as he needed them. He had too much love in his heart and nobody to give it to. She had begun to accept that Alexei might be right, that she would probably lose Ilya long before she was ready to.  

She hadn’t understood how beautiful, robotic Shane Hollander could be the one to need Ilya enough that it could possibly satisfy him. Enough to keep him alive for her. Even when she had come to hang out and visit with them, even when they had been lovely and soft and sweet in front of her, she hadn’t quite made sense of it. How this polite, sweet man who cared about nothing but hockey could keep Ilya tethered here when not even she could.  

But now, hearing the way Ilya was making demand after demand, hearing the way Shane scrambled to follow them, hearing them whisper to each other in Russian, hearing sweet words she had never heard come out of Ilya’s mouth before, hearing the way Shane begged for Ilya, for more of him, hearing Ilya rush to comply –  

It finally made sense.  

Svetlana listened as Ilya fucked Shane, calling him beautiful and perfect in a thousand different ways, listened as Shane told Ilya that he was his, that he was Ilya’s, that Ilya could use him, could do whatever he wanted to him, listened as Ilya called him his perfect fucking slut over and over, listened as Ilya gasped and moaned, as Shane cried out, as they came together. She listened as Shane whined as footsteps sounded within the room, as Ilya cooed at him and talked about cleaning up.  

She took a chance and opened her bedroom door, slinking down the hallway and into the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before she sat on the couch in the dark, checking her phone for any missed messages as she thought about it.  

Shane was needy. Shane was desperate. Shane begged and cried and moaned and lived and breathed for Ilya, and for the first time in more than ten years, she thought about Ilya fucking that girl against a wall in a club in Moscow, staring at her face, strikingly similar to Shane's now that she thought about it, thinking about the way Ilya had held her face, watching her intently as he got her off two, three, six times in front of everyone, something happening in his brain that she couldn’t understand, desperate and public and needy and pathetic and beautiful that she hadn’t seen again until she had seen him with Shane.  

Svetlana thought about how much sense everything made now. She thought about the way he had held Sasha down by the back of his neck, making Sasha whimper in pain, fucking him like he was punishing him for not being the man he wanted to fuck. She thought about the way he would fuck her on her hands and knees more and more over the years, wanting to see her face less and less. She thought about how he never really seemed to care about anyone that he had slept with, focused on getting them off before his face clouded over, something sad settling back in over his features.  

Something had happened between Ilya and Shane that seventeen year old Ilya hadn’t been able to express or explain, clearly. Something chemical, something fundamental, something too deep to name. Svetlana wondered how many people he had fucked, imagining that it was Shane. How many times he had been inside her, wishing he was inside Shane. Knowing, even as a teenager, that he needed Shane, and Shane needed him.  

How had Ilya even known that back then?  

She jumped as the bedroom door opened, turning to see Ilya switch on the light and move into the kitchen. Svetlana was silent as Ilya filled up a cold glass of water, his eyes lighting up when he saw her.  

“Did we wake you up?” he asked, low and slow in Russian. He seemed a little spacey as he walked over to her, naked save for his tight black boxer briefs.  

Svetlana let herself look at him; for so long, he had been hers. Or so she had thought. She hadn’t realised this whole time that he had really been Shane’s. She'd never seen this look in his eyes before – the glassy, drunken, satisfied look, like he was floating. She blithely wondered if he had ever really enjoyed sex with her the way he did with Shane.  

“No,” she said lied. “I woke up thirsty.”  

“I can make something,” he offered. Ilya was flushed, red and sweaty, the veins in his neck clearly still throbbing. Svetlana chanced a look past Ilya to the bedroom, the door ajar. She couldn’t see anything except for an elbow and an ankle sprawled over the bed.  

“I’m okay,” Svetlana tried to smile.  

“Ilya,” Shane called, sounding even more spacey and fucked out from the bedroom.  

Ilya didn’t even look at her as he turned his back on her and rushed back to Shane, shutting the door behind them, leaving Svetlana and the light on behind him.  

Shane needed Ilya as much as Ilya needed him. Shane begged Ilya to call him a fucking slut and choke him and fuck him and use him, and Ilya was happy. Sated, needed. Whole. Svetlana had never seen him so at peace before.  

She sat on the couch until the black sky began to turn a soft navy, warning her that the sun was coming.  

>>>  

“I heard you last night,” Svetlana said lowly in Russian.  

Shane was in the home gym working out, so Svetlana didn’t feel as guilty speaking to Ilya in Russian. It wasn’t a conversations she wanted to have in English, anyway.  

“You did?” Ilya said, puffing out his chest proudly. “Jealous?” he winked. “He’s perfect, and he’s mine.”  

Svetlana looked at him closely; he really was happy. Healthier. He wasn’t drinking as much as he used to, and she hadn’t even seen him reach for a cigarette since she’d arrived. There were scratch marks on his back and his arms that he didn’t care about showing off in the tank top that he was wearing, and she had even seen bruises on his hips when he had leaned up to grab something from the top kitchen cabinets. Ilya had always loved evidence of a job well done, but this felt like something else altogether.  

Shane was leaving his mark on Ilya, claiming him. Svetlana could tell that it was something else for Ilya – evidence that someone wanted him as much as he wanted them. That he was needed as much as he needed Shane. Pride, maybe, that he found someone like him.  

She thought about Alexei, and how he had said that Ilya would never be enough for someone, how nobody could ever need him as much as he needed to be needed. How he wasn’t meant to be here for long. She thought about Shane, a man who was cleaning up a mess that he didn’t create, not even realising what he was doing.  

“I’m happy for you,” Svetlana said instead. “He is perfect for you.”  

She looked at Ilya, who looked down into his coffee, clearly pleased with himself.  

“I didn’t know,” Svetlana said quietly. “All these years, I didn’t realise this is why you were so unhappy.”  

Ilya frowned. “I wasn’t unhappy.”  

She raised an eyebrow at him. She didn’t like being lied to.  

“I was as happy as I could be,” he corrected. “It’s just better with him. More.”  

Svetlana nodded. “I can see that.”  

Ilya shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee as he sank back into the couch cushions. “He’s easy to be with.”  

Somehow, Svetlana wasn’t sure anyone but Ilya would say this. Just like she was sure nobody but Shane would have settled into a life with Ilya as well as he did.  

“I’ve never heard you like that.”  

Ilya took a moment to understand her. “We had good times,” he said softly.  

"Sure,” she smiled sadly. “Nothing like that, though.”  

“It’s different with him,” he smiled apologetically at her. “With you, it was something. But with him, it’s everything.”  

Svetlana tried not to be offended; she understood. She really did.  She just hated that even fifteen years ago, Alexei was right about her not being enough for Ilya. She had thought at some point that she could be. She had hoped.  

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Very hot,” she added, diffusing the tension that she was sure only she felt. “I listened for a while.”  

Ilya lit up and sat forward, his face lighting up, ever the exhibitionist. “Did you hear him?”  

“Both of you.”  

“Doesn’t he sound beautiful?”  

“You both do,” Svetlana said softly. It wasn’t jealousy coursing through her, not exactly. Disappointment, maybe. “You really are teaching him Russian?”  

“Sveta,” Ilya breathed. “The things that come out of his mouth for me, you wouldn’t believe.”  

Svetlana could believe it. “I heard some. I believe it.”  

Ilya looked smug as he sat back against the couch cushions, smirking.  

Svetlana watched them over the weekend throughout her visit, the way the two of them were always away of where the other one was, somehow feeling each other without seeing. The way their bodies were always so attuned to each other, the way they spoke to each other with their eyes, barely ever needing to speak.  

Once upon a time, Svetlana had thought that had been her and Ilya.  

Cliff  

Cliff laid on the hotel bed, dressed in his nice jeans and pressed shirt, listening to the moaning through the wall.  

Fucking Rozanov.  

Rozy had never been subtle; he’d always kept secrets, keeping plenty to himself. But it had been different lately. Rozy had been different lately. Cliff had been curious and started poking around. And now all he could hear was moaning.  

So much fucking moaning. If Cliff didn’t know any better, he’d think somebody was being murdered in the next room.  

Rozy had been the first to sign up to a charity match that Scott Hunter had put together to raise funds for foster kids. Cliff had put his hand up straight after, getting an approving wink from Rozy.  

Cliff didn’t know all the details about Rozy’s life back in Moscow, but he knew he was an orphan. He knew that last summer, he only went back for two weeks to close out his dad’s estate and sign over his apartment to his brother. He knew he sold his motorbike and his sports cars, all aside from one, that he gifted to Svetlana.  

He knew something was up with Rozy. He'd been more focused this season, even though he was more glued to his phone than ever. He'd promised that he was going to do everything in his power to win them another cup, spending more time training than ever before.  

Cliff knew something was up. He figured out pretty quickly that it had something to do with Jane, but it had taken him a lot longer to put the whole puzzle together.  

Rozy had stopped going out with the team even before they made the playoffs last season. Cliff had chalked it up to grief after losing his father, figuring that maybe Rozy just didn’t have it in him to pretend to be okay the way he normally did, but he never started back up. And Cliff was used to the waves; sometimes Rozy would be so high energy, so hard to keep up with, so loud and brave and bold. Other times, he was quiet, lost in his own thoughts. The team had gotten used to it, and they’d realised early on that Rozy didn’t even know it was noticeable. They picked up the slack for him when he got like that, making sure that he didn’t have to pretend so much.  

But the last nine months had been something else entirely.  

They'd gotten serious.  

Cliff never thought he’d see the day Rozy went monogamous. He figured maybe after his career was over Rozy might slow down, but he didn’t have money on the guy bowing out of the clubs completely before forty, let alone before thirty. He was excited for him, mostly. Jane had to be one hell of a woman to get Rozy to settle down.  

He wasn’t a total fucking idiot. Cliff knew that there was a Jane in the picture, and he was smart enough to realise that last year, when Rozy went weeks glued to gossip websites, smoking a pack a day while somehow training for twice as long, they’d obviously broken up. And he’d put two and two together when they’d gotten back together, watching Rozy bounce around happier than he’d ever seen him.  

So he’d also noticed when Jane went from Jane in Rozy’s contacts to Jane <3.  

He’d noticed the whispers from management when there was one player due to resign that wasn’t signing their contract, too.  

And he’d noticed Rozy was looking up real estate in Ottawa on their lunch breaks, sending links to Jane and asking if she liked the kitchen and was the shower in the master bedroom big enough.  

He’d put the pieces together, and decided to just enjoy he had left with Rozy and not dwell on what the Raiders or Boston would look like next season without him.  

So Cliff put his hand up too to play hockey for orphans or whatever the fuck they were doing. He figured he’d do everything he could to spend as much time with Rozy while he still could. If Rozy had noticed, he hadn’t said anything, just did that thing with his eyebrows that Cliff had worked out after a couple of years that meant he approved.  

Cliff had hoped that they’d be able to go out after the game and have a couple of drinks, maybe even go to that upscale steak place Hunter had told him about where a piece of meat cost four hundred dollars. Guy stuff that didn’t involve Rozy having to come up with a lie to get out of it.  

They'd played their charity match, did some light interviews, and headed back to the hotel. It had been a fun game; a bunch of players from different teams came out to support Hunter’s cause. Rozy had been a riot all day, acting like he was having the best day of his life, chirping everyone in his eyeline and joking with Cliff as they played on opposing teams. 

Cliff had fleetingly thought about how much it reminded him of when his parents had told him that they had to make the weekend before Easter the best of their dog’s life, since he was sick and they were putting him down on Monday morning.  

He'd opened the door to his hotel room, excited to knock on Rozy’s door in the room next to him and offer to shout steak for dinner when he’d caught Shane Hollander rushing down the hall. Rozy’s door was open, and Cliff caught the way his hand landed on Hollander’s hip, hands reaching into Hollander’s pants before the door even shut properly behind them. 

Now Cliff was listening to the unmistakable and familiar sound of Rozy having sex.  

With Shane Hollander.  

It weirdly made...a lot of sense. Cliff would be lying to himself if he said he’d never noticed the way Rozy noticed men. The way he never balked or flinched when men approached him in clubs. The way he never shied away from men staring at him. The way he’d almost kind of checked Cliff out the first time they hooked up with a pair of girls together, looking at his dick with appreciation. The way he talked to men and women in the same way, and undercurrent of flirting in every interaction.  

Cliff noticed. He just never really cared.  

Mostly, he thought that it was a European thing.  

He'd figured out long ago that if Rozy had something to share, he would share it on his own terms. He wasn’t the kind of guy that had to be broken down and coerced to share his feelings; he wore his heart on his sleeve and narrated every thought as it popped into his head.  

But Cliff noticed the things that Rozy kept to himself.  

Angry phone calls in Russian over the years that had stopped completely once his dad died. The pretty girl with supermodel legs that was the only person who ever sat in Rozy’s dedicated seats.  

Jane.  

Shane.  

Cliff laughed to himself, flinching at a particularly loud cry from the next room. The sound of skin on skin was ridiculous, punctured by loud shouts and –  

A slap. Definitely a slap. Two, three, Cliff flinched as they became louder and meaner. The noise stopped for a long moment, only the sound of muffled mumbling audible before the noise started up again.  

Shane Hollander was Montreal Jane.  

Cliff laughed to himself, hardly able to believe it.  

Rozy was an idiot. He was sure Rozy came up with that alias; Hollander would have come up with a smarter system. He wondered what Rozy was saved as in Hollander’s phone; Cliff figured the guy had some sort of anagram or something, maybe something even more complex, some sort of alphabet Cliff hasn’t even heard of to hide Rozy’s identity to his own family and friends.  

It was scary how much sense everything made now.  

The way Rozy played against Hollander, stalking him down the ice like a man possessed. The impending move to Canada. The way he’d been steadily selling off his sports cars, even giving his motorbike to Cliff last month saying he was over it. Even the way he’d cut back on smoking, most days going an entire day of training without stepping outside to have even one cigarette.  

Shane Hollander had tamed Ilya fucking Rozanov.  

Cliff couldn’t believe it.  

He flinched as Hollander cried out, the muffled sounds of Rozy panting and groaning bleeding through the cheap, uninsulated plaster between the rooms. It had been over an hour with no signs of slowing down.  

He should probably go and get dinner on his own.  

>>>  

Cliff thanked Vaughn as he put a fresh pitcher of beer on the table. He'd run into him and Hunter in the lobby, and they’d invited him to some bar Hunter’s boyfriend spent a lot of time at. Cliff had said yes in a heartbeat, because knowing Rozy, he’d need to kill at least four hours before going back and having any chance of catching someone sleep.  

The Kingfisher was cool. Dingy and dark with a solid beer selection, televisions playing hockey and football on every screen. Exactly Cliff’s kind of place.  

“This is great,” Cliff said.  

Hunter lit up. “Yeah, Kip and his friends practically live here.”  

“How long have you guys been together?” Cliff asked, pouring himself a beer.  

“That’s – uh, kind of complicated,” Hunter grimaced. “We met a few years ago and gave it a go, but with hockey and shit, it wasn’t really something that I could commit to.”  

“With travel?”  

“No,” Hunter said, looking uncomfortable. Vaughn looked sympathetic as Hunter shifted in his seat. “I mean, the whole gay thing. It hasn’t exactly been a picnic since coming out.”  

“Yeah, professional sports being homophobic, who would have thought,” Vaughn shook his head.  

“It was brave, what you did,” Cliff said. He realised with a start that he’d never said anything to Hunter or anyone else about how cool what he did was. He liked a bunch of posts at the time about Hunter kissing his pocket sized boyfriend on the ice, but he hadn’t actually come out and been supportive of it with his own words.  

Hunter smiled at least. “Thanks.”  

“I think – I hope maybe it makes it easier for the next guy,” Cliff nodded.  

Hunter looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “You know, Marleau, if you ever wanna talk –”  

“Oh, not me,” Cliff shook his head. “But someone I know. I think.”  

“Ah, he’s an ally!” Vaughn smiled.  

“I mean, I hope I am,” Cliff tried to smile back. “How do I do that?”  

“Just be there,” Vaughn said. “Shut down shitty stuff when you hear it. Saying nothing is the same as saying something. Be open. I think you’ll be okay. Everybody knows you’re a big softie, Marleau.”  

Cliff laughed, looking at Hunter. “Is that all?”  

“Stuff like today helps,” Hunter said. “Supporting people who maybe can’t support themselves.”  

Cliff tried not to feel guilty about only coming to do the charity match because Rozy signed up first. He was here, that was what mattered. Next time, he’d make sure his hand went up to help because it was the right thing to do, and not because someone else put their hand up first. He'd shut shit down in the locker rooms the way Rozy did without so much as a second thought, refusing to tolerate racism or sexism or homophobia in a way that came so naturally to him.  

He could do better.  

Maybe his silence over the years was why Rozy hadn’t said anything about Jane. Sometimes, when they were really drunk or high, Cliff would push it and ask questions. He’d learned bits and pieces over the years, like that Jane had the best mouth Rozy had ever felt, how she was wild, how he’d never fucked anyone like her.  

But he’d kept the important parts to himself. Rozy had kept the relationship part secret. When all their teammates were shacking up and getting married, Rozy was planning secret moves to Canada to be with a man that would cause the entire hockey world to burn to the ground if they found out was Jane.  

He'd kept the thing that had made him happier than ever to himself.  

Cliff was going to be better.  

He watched Hunter and Vaughn laugh at something across the booth, finding himself missing Rozy already.  

>>>  

Cliff stopped outside his door, patting down his pockets for his room key. He was sure he had put it in his shirt pocket.  

“Stay,” he heard Rozy’s voice, muffled and low through the wall a couple feet away from him.  

“I gotta go back to my room,” Hollander’s voice floated through the silence.  

“Nooo,” Rozy whined. “Don’t leave me.”  

“Come on, we have early flights,” Hollander chided.  

Cliff listened, hearing Rozy huff. He could perfectly picture his face, churlish and pouty, trying to get Hollander to cave to his demands.  

“You don’t love me,” Rozy complained.  

“Yes, that must be it,” Hollander said flatly. “It’s got nothing to do with me needing to be up at five a.m.”  

“Can you believe this,” Rozy said.  

“Who are you talking to?’ Hollander said.  

“Whatever’s up there.”  

“Jesus Christ.”  

“Maybe,” Rozy said.  

Cliff heard shuffling getting closer to the door. He should go inside, he knew, but he was curious.  

“I do love you,” Hollander murmured.  

Cliff tried not to listen to the wet sounds of kissing, his hand on the doorknob, ready to go into his room.  

“I don’t sleep as good without you,” Rozy said.  

It was too intimate, too personal. Cliff knew Rozy wasn’t the best sleeper, but he hadn’t considered how lonely he might be. It put all his extra training into perspective; he was sure to be trying to tire himself out so he could sleep.  

“Me either,” Hollander whispered.  

“So stayyy,” Rozanov whined.  

Cliff hated how familiar he was with that childish, whiny voice of Rozy’s. Judging by the soft laughter he could make out, it seemed like Hollander was equally familiar.  

Cliff didn’t know Hollander too well, only really exchanging pleasantries on the ice over the years, and reaching out to him last year after he’d lost his rhythm and wiped the kid clean out.  

Fuck, Cliff had almost forgotten all about that. That night was interesting, to say the least. Rozy had gone dead quiet after the hit, barely looking at anyone until the game was over. He'd rushed out of the arena and disappeared until the next day and barely made the team bus back to the plane, settling into his seat and not saying a word to Cliff for days.  

Cliff had reached out to Hollander and apologised. Hollander had told him not to worry about it and had even joked that with the size of him, he was lucky that Cliff hadn’t broken more than just his collarbone. He'd forgiven him quicker than Rozy had.  

He found his keycard in his back pocket, reaching for the lock on his door as Rozy’s door opened. Cliff looked reflexively, smiling politely as Rozy poked his head out into the hallway, freezing for half a second when he saw Cliff. Now that he was looking, the way Rozy schooled himself into looking relaxed was obvious.  

“Marley!” Rozy greeted.  

Cliff smiled at him, choosing to ignore the way his hair was damp with sweat or the way he was standing there in just his underwear. He absolutely chose to ignore whatever what currently smeared across his hipbone.  

“Good night, Rozy?” Cliff smirked.  

Rozy couldn’t help but smirk back. Hollander must have been behind the door in Rozy’s eyesight, because he schooled his face, looking appalled. “I don’t know what you mean, I am having responsible early night tonight.”  

Cliff hummed, unlocking his door and checking the hallway. “Coast is clear,” he said before he shut the door behind him. He listened at the door as someone shuffled quickly down the hallway, listening as the footsteps finally went silent.  

He fell asleep quickly that night, silence filling his room as he wondered how Rozy and Hollander did it all these years.  

>>>  

“Hungover?”  

Cliff scoffed as Rozy dropped his plate at his table, sitting across from him. He looked brighter than usual; lighter somehow, more present.  

It had to be Hollander, Cliff realised. It was exactly how Rozy looked after they played Montreal, or after Rozy had gotten back from his summer vacation. He must have spent it with Hollander somewhere.  

“Too young to be hungover from three beers,” Cliff lied. His eyes did hurt a little bit.  

“Not as old as dinosaur Scott Hunter, this is true,” Rozy winked. “Was fun yesterday.”  

“Yeah,” Cliff agreed as Rozy dug into his eggs from the breakfast buffet. “Cool that we could do something for those kids.”  

Rozy nodded eagerly. “Yes, the charity is very good. Might start my own.”  

Cliff raised an eyebrow at that. “Really?”  

Rozy shrugged, his eyes still down on his plate. “Mental health for kids maybe.”  

“Huh,” Cliff said, processing that. It was one of those things that suddenly made a lot of sense if he stopped and thought about it. “That’s a really good idea.”  

Rozy hummed. “Would be nice if I had rich friends with long summers who come and volunteer to help,” he said, looking up at Cliff and winking.  

“Count me in, whatever it is you’re doing,” Cliff promised.  

Rozy smiled at him before he looked passed him and nodding to the empty seat at the table. “Hollander. Come eat with us.”  

Cliff kept himself carefully composed as Hollander sat in the spare seat between them, smiling but looking a little too twitchy to be relaxed. Shit, had the two of them ever even really been together in public before? Besides the All Stars games or awards shows, Cliff couldn’t think of a single time.  

“Marleau, Rozanov,” Hollander greeted. “Good game yesterday.”  

“Was fun,” Rozy agreed.  

Cliff watched them closely as the three of them ate breakfast together. Rozanov was perfectly relaxed, but Hollander looked very on edge, very conscious of the fact that he was in public with Rozy. When Rozy stretched out and rested his hand on the back of Hollander’s chair, Cliff saw Hollander’s cheeks turn a little pink.  

He wondered if this was the first time they’d ever eaten breakfast together in public before. He wondered if they’d ever been grocery shopping together, or if anyone knew about them. He wondered if Hollander knew all about the linen closet where Rozy hid his imported cigarettes and the good vodka that he never shared with anyone.  

“I was telling Marley about the foundation,” Rozy said, raising an eyebrow at Hollander.  

Hollander looked surprised, his eyebrows lifting to his hairline. “You were?”  

Rozy nodded, looking at Cliff. “Me and Shane are gonna start it together.”  

Shane. That was new. Neither of them seemed to notice the slip.  

It was Cliff’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Really?”  

Rozy nodded, looking perfectly at ease.  

“That makes sense,” Cliff nodded. “It’ll give you something to do when you move to Canada.”  

Cliff could have heard a pin drop. Hollander went so still it looked like he was rebooting, but Rozy looked...proud.  

“Exactly,” Rozy nodded. “Won’t have so much time when I make it to the playoffs and with the cup, but Hollander will have plenty of time when he gets knocked out in the first round.” 

Hollander rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, I’m sure the Cens are making it to the cup,” he scoffed. 

“The Cens?” Cliff laughed. “Oh man, you’ll be retired before they make it to the playoffs.”  

Rozy laughed, his eyes sparkling. “We’ll see. I think I’ll have another cup in five years.”  

Hollander and Cliff both snorted. Cliff watched Rozy and Hollander exchange a look, surprised by how tender the two of them looked. They reminded him of his parents a little; the affectionate bickering, the looks that contained an entire conversation the rest of the world would never be privy to.  

He supposed if he was going to lose Rozy to anyone, he was glad it was Hollander. 

Yuna  

She was still getting used to it.  

Her son with Ilya Rozanov.  

Yuna had been so blind for so long. Every time she had said something negative about Ilya, Shane had stayed silent. He had refused to say anything nasty back, instead defending his plays and his skills. Every time she had made a comment about his lack of sportsmanship, Shane was quick to point out he was reacting to something the other player had done to one of his teammates earlier in the game, that he never once started a fight on the ice, only ever finishing them.  

Every time she had commented on Ilya leaving a club with a girl on his arm, Shane had tensed and shut down, refusing to look over at her phone screen.  

The worst part was how much sense it made.  

She and David had never seen Shane happier than when he was with Ilya.  

They just fit. Ilya was known for being so loud and boisterous and obnoxious, but in private he was calm and introspective, so much quieter than Yuna ever would have guessed. He was so much more like Shane than she realised. He was patient, and unlike anyone else she knew, even her and David, he could read Shane with just a look.  

Ilya could see Shane. See him for who he was, could see right through him. He kept the lights low and warm and made his coffees the way he liked and wore t shirts in material that was soft and cosy so that Shane would curl up to him and stay there, comfortable and relaxed.  

And Shane loved Ilya, Yuna could see it. The way he looked at Ilya like he was sunshine itself, warm and nurturing, like he came alive when Ilya was watching him.  

It was a little overwhelming. Ilya was...aggressive when it came to Shane. He touched him like Shane was his, like he wasn’t Yuna and David’s. He watched Shane like it was his job, preempting anything he needed. Just a touch of his hand was enough to soothe Shane.  

She hadn’t been able to soothe Shane since he was a baby.  

Yuna hadn’t realised how alone her son was until she had seen him with Ilya. She hadn’t realised how lonely he had been all these years.  

David had tried to tell her. He had tried to tell her over the years that she was pushing Shane too hard, that she was putting too much pressure on him, that he was going to crack under the weight of her expectations. Yuna had done so much better than her own parents, she really thought she had gone easy on Shane.  

But then Shane had stood in her living room, flooded with anxiety that left him barely able to speak, staring at the floor instead of looking her in the eyes and telling her that he was gay, apologising for never telling her.  

She had been a horrible mother. David had told her that she was an amazing mother, and Shane had reassured her that she did good and that he loved her, but Yuna had seen the flash of disappointment in Ilya’s eyes whenever her and Shane had a discussion about his future, his contracts, his career.  

She hadn’t been brave enough to ask him what it was about. Yuna had a feeling that unlike her husband or her son, Ilya Rozanov wouldn’t be pulling any punches about how he felt about her behaviour towards Shane. And she had a feeling she wasn’t ready to hear it.  

It was a strange feeling, to see someone so clearly love Shane as much as she and David did. Ilya was so fierce in his love, so protective, so dangerous when it came to Shane. David had commented, when they had left their house for the first time, that it was the first time he had felt like Shane was going to be okay.  

Yuna still wasn’t so sure.  

Shane still struggled. Being with Ilya wasn’t perfect – they bickered sometimes. They struggled with the distance, with their schedules. Ilya was struggling to adjust to life in Canada, and Shane was so focused on appearing okay that he didn’t realise how not okay he was.  

Yuna sometimes wondered if their relationship was putting more pressure on Shane than anything else.  

>>>  

Yuna looked up when she heard Shane huff. He and Ilya were on the couch in front of the television, not moving. She turned back to her tea, whipping around when she heard another huff.  

Ilya had his hand up Shane’s shirt, kissing his stomach. Shane was trying not to laugh, trying to push Ilya off.  

“Stop,” she heard Shane whisper. “Not in my parents house.”  

Ilya muttered something that she couldn’t hear, and Shane laughed again. Yuna watched as Shane successfully pushed Ilya off of him before he laid down on the couch, pulling Ilya to lay on top of him.  

They looked so peaceful, cuddled up together. Shane threaded his fingers through Ilya’s hair, scratching patterns she would never see into his scalp as Ilya held him tighter.  

She couldn’t remember the last time Shane had reached out and touched her.  

>>>  

“Fuck.”  

Yuna sat up in bed, confusion flooding her senses as she tried to wake herself up.  

David was in Toronto for work. It took her a few seconds to remember that Shane and Ilya were staying with her for the weekend, posted up in Shane’s childhood bedroom next door. 

“Fuck,” she heard Shane say again.  

Yuna climbed out of bed, ready to go and talk to him and calm him down from whatever was upsetting him when she heard the deep rumbling of Ilya’s voice.  

“Malysh.”  

She sat down on the edge of her bed. Yuna had heard Ilya call Shane that before; she had no idea what it meant. The last time she had asked what nickname she had overheard Ilya call him, Shane had laughed and said pillow case, the dimples under his eyes taking over his face. Yuna didn’t really understand them at all.  

And it wasn’t her job to rush to Shane’s side anymore; she wasn’t the one he turned to for comfort.  

That was Ilya’s job now, apparently.  

“I’m fine,” she heard Shane say tersely.  

Yuna listened to the shuffling through the wall, familiar with the sound of Shane pacing. She wondered why Ilya wasn’t doing anything, was leaving Shane to spiral in his own thoughts like this –  

“Malysh,” Ilya said, so loud and clear that Yuna would have sworn he was in the room with her. “Sit.”  

Yuna frowned at his tone. It was more demanding than she would have liked to hear someone speak to her son.  

“Malysh,” he said again, much softer. “Talk to me.”  

“She wants me resign for another five years with Speedo,” she heard Shane mumble.  

Ilya hummed. Yuna wondered if the walls had always been this thin, if Shane was really this upset by the email she had forwarded him right before she had fallen asleep or if this was about something else.  

“You don’t want to?” Ilya asked.  

Yuna strained to hear Shane’s answer, but it was silent.  

She hated this; she hated being boxed out of her son’s life like this. She had worked so hard to give him every opportunity, to make sure his world was much bigger than hers, to make sure he was creating generational wealth for his future, for his children. Children that she had assumed he would have.  

Did Shane want children? Did Ilya? She had no idea.  

“She never asks me,” Shane’s voice cut through her thoughts. “I don’t wanna fucking do it. I don’t wanna be in my fucking underwear for everyone to see.”  

Yuna's heart sank.  

She never asked him.  

She hadn’t asked him about the deal in the first place when they approached her. She never asked him about Rolex or Calvin Klein or Reebok.  

She never asked him.  

“I get no fucking time off from hockey, and the second I have a day to myself, she books me with these fucking ads,” Shane said, his voice getting tighter, his breathing shallow. “She doesn’t think that maybe I wanna try and spend time with you, or fuck, just like, sleep or something. Not whoring myself out for some fucking brands I don’t care about. We have enough money.”  

Yuna felt sick. Shane was right; she’d never thought about it like that. She hadn’t considered that a day off from hockey wasn’t simply a day to be filled with other work obligations. She hadn’t realised that she was stealing from his time with Ilya.  

“Yes, only I should be seeing you in your underwear,” Ilya said lightly.  

She heard Shane huff before she heard rustling, the pacing finally stopping.  

“You should talk to her,” Ilya said, his low voice soft and melodic. Yuna had noticed that about him, that he sometimes pitched his voice in a deep, almost singsong sort of way to keep Shane engaged and soothe him.  

“She won’t listen,” Shane said flatly. “She’ll talk me into it and make me feel like shit for not wanting to do it. Like I’m lazy or something.”  

There was a beat of silence before Ilya said, “I don’t know that side of you.”  

Yuna heard nothing but silence for a long moment. She stood, pressing her ear to the wall by her bed, hoping they would keep talking.  

“She loves you,” Ilya said. “I think she would listen to you if you told her this. Maybe less bad words though.”  

“She doesn’t listen to me,” Shane said flatly.  

"I think she will if you tell her the truth,” Ilya said.  

Yuna could hear sheets rustling. She wondered if they were sitting up in bed, against the old blue headboard Shane had picked out when he was thirteen.  

“What’s the truth?” Shane asked.  

“That you’re tired,” Ilya said, so quiet she could barely make it out.  

It was silent for a moment until she heard a loud sniffle. Yuna felt sick, listening to her child cry and not being able to comfort him.  

She felt even worse when she realised she had caused these tears.  

Her own eyes welled up as Ilya started murmuring in Russian, unintelligible to her, but Shane laughed. Did he understand Russian? There were so many things about her son that Yuna didn’t know. He'dgone from her baby to a stranger, and she hadn’t noticed.  

She hadn’t even noticed he was gay. What sort of mother was she? What else did she not know about her own child?  

“I don’t make any of my own choices,” Shane said, his tone hot. “Everything is fucking decided for me. Hockey, my parents, whether we can be together. Fuck. Fuck, Ilya.” 

"Hey, it’s okay.”  

“It’s not,” Shane said, his voice breathy, the way it got when he started to panic. “Hockey could be taken away from us. You don’t have your Visa. What if Russia takes you back?”  

“Russia will not want me,” Ilya snorted. “Russia never wanted me.”  

Yuna had suspected that Ilya had a complicated relationship with Russia, and she suspected that this was only scratching the surface, but her heart ached for him. Did he really have nothing except hockey and Shane?  

“Besides, Svetlana will marry me.”  

She heard a soft slap through the wall, followed by Ilya’s laugh.  

“Not funny,” Shane mumbled, his voice thin. “You don’t marry anyone but me.”  

Marriage. Yuna had known they were serious, but hearing marriage come out of Shane’s mouth was shocking. They had gone from zero to a million so fast; she and David didn’t even know he was dating someone, and now he was in the next room talking about marriage.  

“Moya sladkaya lyubov',” Ilya cooed. “Moya storozhevaya sobaka.”  

“Your – dog?” Shane asked.  

Yuna flinched. She didn’t like anyone calling her child a dog.  

“Like, guard dog,” Ilya laughed softly. Yuna relaxed at that. “So protective. We could talk to her together.”  

“No,” Shane said sharply. “She’s my problem. I'll deal with her.”  

Problem. Yuna was his problem. She sat back down on the bed, tears spilling over as she thought about what she had done to Shane over the years. The pressure to perform, the deals, the travel, the interviews. All her doing.  

“I love her. I just wanna make my own choices,” Shane mumbled.  

“I think sometimes you like being told what to do,” she heard Ilya say, his tone taking on an edge that made Yuna feel uncomfortable.  

There was a small thump against the wall, and then Ilya’s voice rumbled low through the wall.  

“Come here.”  

Yuna blinked at the authoritative tone, frowning when she heard the sheets rustle again. Why had they positioned the bed heads against the same wall? She would have to make sure David moved the bed in Shane’s room before the boys came to stay again.  

“Suck.”  

Yuna pushed off from the wall in a panic, wet sounds hitting her ears before she could make it to her ensuite bathroom, shutting the door quietly as silence rang through her ears loudly. She didn’t need to hear what was sure to follow. She didn’t need to hear anything else Shane had to say.  

She sat in the ensuite for a long time, thinking about every decision she had made on behalf of Shane, wondering how long ago he decided it was easier to simply give into her rather than try to argue with her.  

>>>  

Yuna snuck out of her bedroom after an hour in the ensuite, flinching at the soft breaths she could still hear from the next room. She hadn’t ever taken Shane to be quite so adventurous, but she supposed there was a lot she didn’t know about her son.  

She made herself a cup of tea and sat by the bay window next to the kitchen, staring up at the stars.  

“Oh.”  

Yuna whipped around, grimacing when she saw Ilya in only his underwear hovering by the kitchen door. He looked – frankly, debauched. His eyes were glassy, his face and chest were bright red, and his hair was sticking out in every direction.  

“Sorry,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “Just need water.”  

She smiled and nodded, her breath hitching when he turned to get a glass from the cabinet against the wall and saw the scratch marks across Ilya’s back.  

Yuna refused to think about how that happened as she watched Ilya pour two large glasses of water.  

“Is Shane okay?”  

Ilya’s eyes cut to her, suddenly sharp and clear as the water ran. Yuna noted that he didn’t say anything, her spine straightening under his gaze.  

It was unnerving, how attuned to everything around him Ilya was. She had the odd sense that he was two steps ahead at all times, able to see straight through people with just a look. More than once, Yuna had wondered if those blue eyes could read minds.  

Not many people made Yuna nervous, but Ilya Rozanov unsettled her. It unsettled her to know that for years, he was the one person that had captured and held her son’s attention. It unsettled her to watch her son defer to Ilya where he would once defer to her. It unsettled her to watch Shane look at someone with so much love in his eyes, it looked like he was going to burst with it.  

It unsettled her that this man, mostly naked in her kitchen, knew Shane better than she probably ever would. Than she ever had.  

“I just wanted him to have the best future he could,” Yuna justified quietly.  

“We know.”  

We.  

She looked Rozanov over, impressed by his boldness. He looked completely comfortable taking up space in her house, standing practically naked, still coming down from having sex with her son under her roof. He had absolutely no shame, felt no need to shrink himself down and make himself smaller.  

He was everything Shane wasn’t.  

If David or her own parents had even so much as inferred that she and David were having sex under their rooves, Yuna would have run away and never returned. She didn’t think she and David had ever even deigned to do that. She had been nervous to even tell her mother she was pregnant three years after she had married David.  

“Sleep,” Ilya said. “You and Shane can talk in the morning. Everything will be fine.”  

“Will it?” Yuna questioned softly.  

“Yes,” Ilya said surely, taking the glasses and padding out of the kitchen carefully without looking back at her. “You are still here to talk to him.”  

Yuna sat in silence as the house turned silent again.  

>>>  

She barely slept.  

Yuna stared at the ceiling for most of the night, thinking about all the choices she had made for Shane over the years. By dawn, she was sitting against her headboard, making lists of all of Shane’s obligations on her laptop with contract terms and end dates, trying to work out how much free time she could swing him over the next six years.  

She heard the boys wake up in the next room around eight, soft whispers and the sound of kissing and soft panting forcing her out of her room fifteen minutes later.  

Yuna might not know how to tackle all the changes in Shane’s life now, but maybe she didn’t have to. That was for Shane to decide now.  

She got started on breakfast, relieved that David would be home later that day. Yuna smiled as Shane silently joined her in the kitchen, fresh from a shower, looking relaxed and young. They moved in practiced silence, years of cooking family breakfast like muscle memory by now.  

It was comforting, after feeling like she had lost Shane over the last few months.  

It wasn’t until Ilya came into the kitchen and Shane lit up that Yuna remembered her place, slipping down the list of Shane’s favourite people.  

She tried to remember the last time Shane lit up when he saw her, but she couldn’t think of it. Maybe grade school.  

“Do you want my yolks?” Shane asked Ilya.  

Yuna watched as Ilya made a face and nodded, frowning slightly.  

“I’ll have one if you have the other three,” Shane said quietly.  

Ilya smiled and nodded. Shane looked pleased that Ilya looked pleased, which was...interesting.  

Yuna lifted her brows in surprise; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Shane eat an egg yolk.  

Ilya set the table while Yuna and Shane finished cooking, loading up three plates and sitting at the bay window. It was comfortably silent until Yuna’s phone pinged with a new email from Speedo.  

Shane must have caught the grimace on her face, because he sighed and put his fork down.  

“Mom, about the endorsements,” he started.  

Yuna waited, trying to school her face when she saw Shane’s eyes flick to Ilya. Ilya smiled encouragingly as he shovelled more eggs into his mouth, perhaps signalling that he would stay silent.  

“I wanna review any renewals as they come up,” Shane said diplomatically. “I’m happy to do endorsements that are low effort, but I can’t waste time in the next few years on stuff that’s gonna take me away from hockey and – the charity.”  

Yuna nodded. He didn’t mention Ilya, but that was okay. He didn’t have to justify himself.  

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Yuna said. “I was thinking, maybe we pivot away from luxury brands over the next couple of years. You’re getting older, maybe we choose brands that reflect that lifestyle change. Maybe we go towards more sport and lifestyle brands, companies we can work out sponsorship deals with for the foundation. You know, you take less money in exchange for donations to the foundation, something like that.”  

Shane lit up at that. “Oh! That – yeah. That's cool.”  

“Adidas,” Ilya chimed in.  

Shane rolled his eyes. “No.”  

"Would be good,” Ilya argued playfully. “Get them to donate to the camp, we can dress the children like tiny Russians.”  

“Oh, that’s what we need, an army of mini Rozanovs,” Shane muttered.  

Yuna smiled as Ilya caught her eye and winked at her.  

It was a strange feeling, feeling like she had earned Ilya’s approval. It should be the other way around. Yuna remembered the first time he had been in their cottage by the lake, how patient and calm and small Ilya had made himself. Earning their approval.  

But now, she was looking to him to see if she was doing a good enough job with her son.  

It made her head spin.  

But maybe this was what Yuna needed to do to fix things with Shane. Maybe she could do better, do it right moving forward.  

Maybe it would be a little easier now that she had Ilya to let her know she was on the right track.  

Troy  

When Rozanov had commented that he’d be needing earplugs that night, Troy had really thought he was joking.  

As he listened to the noise in the room next to him, he thought about what Marleau had said after one of their games earlier in the month.  

Rozy talks a lot of shit, but he doesn’t tell lies. Good luck with him, Barrett.  

He hadn’t been lying when he told Troy that he was celebrating their win that night and that he’d need earplugs.  

Rozanov was maybe the most interesting player in the league, as far as Troy was concerned. He was by far the best captain he’d ever had. Even after only a few months with them, Troy felt like Rozanov was the glue that held them together. He was magnetic and bold and so talented.  

He was also unbelievably and incredibly strange.  

Troy had known perceptive people over the course of his life, but Rozanov was on a different level. He had the uncanny ability to unravel someone with just a look, his Slavic stare absolutely legendary in the league. He seemed to know a lot about everyone just from observing them.  

And he was calm. So much calmer than Troy had ever suspected he would be. He was the first one to pump up the team in the locker room, but he was much less chaotic than Troy expected him to be.  

He was a agent of surprisingly quiet and controlled chaos. Troy noticed the way Rozanov would bide his time, watching and waiting for the perfect time to drop a bomb in the middle of a conversation and watch everybody scramble, beaming at the mess he’d created.  

He was sneaky. Troy noticed. He couldn’t stop noticing the way Rozanov played everyone around him like a fiddle for his own entertainment.  

But it was never cruel. Barrett noticed that too. He noticed how more often than not, it was a diversionary tactic, a way to keep people focused on each other and not look too closely at him. Because Troy noticed that Rozanov didn’t want people noticing whatever he was hiding.  

He noticed the way Rozanov was practically glued to his hand. He noticed the way Rozanov was always the first one ready to leave, even if he did wait for everyone to go first. He noticed the way he sometimes got on the highway to Montreal instead of turning off towards his house in Ottawa after practice when he didn’t realise Troy was driving the same way as him, and the way he seemed tired some mornings for their 9am practice.  

He noticed when Rozanov had bruises in the shape of fingerprints all over his hips and his ass; not that Troy was looking, but he noticed. The locker rooms were a small space, and there wasn’t much to look at in the showers. Not that Rozanov would have discouraged it.  

He noticed the scratches on Rozanov’s back and shoulders; noticed the time he’d had a bite mark on the inside of his thigh. Troy had even noticed the time he had bruises on his wrists that looked suspiciously like he’d been tied up. At least that time, he wasn’t the only one.  

It was hard not to. Everybody had noticed those bruises. Hazy had asked Rozanov if he’d had a good night, and Rozanov had smiled brightly and said Jane had won a bet they had going and he’d been ridden for hours and hours as a punishment, but he had really won in the end, and doesn’t anybody else regularly use edging as a game with their partners, because if not they should really try it.  

Troy had blushed, but a couple of the boys asked Rozanov how he’d talked his missus into it. Rozanov had looked confused and reiterated that Jane had won their bet and that she’d chosen her reward and then chirped them for being such boring husbands that their wives didn’t bother rewarding them in kind.  

Troy admired his lack of shame most of the time, he really did. Rozanov was totally at ease with himself, totally free and didn’t care about what anyone thought of him.  

He had told Troy that he was bisexual earlier in the year. Rozanov had announced it proudly, lighting up when he shared it, even hinting that he was currently in a relationship with a man. It had made him think of his last relationship, about how maybe if he’d had a little less shame, he could have made Adrian stay. How if Troy was more honest and exciting and brave, Adrian wouldn’t have cheated on him. How if he was more perceptive, he would have noticed Adrian slowly leaving him over the last year they were together.  

Troy might not be anywhere near a savvy or perceptive as Rozanov, but he had his guesses as to who he was with.  

Especially considering how deep the moans from both participants were through the shitty hotel walls.  

“Fuck, Ilya, right there.”  

Troy had watched more than enough post game footage over the last ten years to know Shane Hollander’s voice. He sighed, screwing his eyes shut and turning to look at the alarm clock on the hotel nightstand.  

It had been hours. They'd been fucking for hours without coming up for air.  

It was torture. Troy had had a small crush on Hollander; nothing too crazy. He'd just trip over himself a little whenever they played Montreal, and made sure to always watch his interviews. Kept up with his games every season. Maybe he had a secret folder on his phone of all his underwear photos that he masturbated to on a lonely night. Nothing serious.  

Listening to him have sex with someone in the next room was killing him, just a little bit. Listening to him begging Rozanov for more, deeper, harder, rougher, more, was going to drive him completely insane.  

They'd played Montreal that afternoon. Rozanov had gone out with the team for dinner and a couple of drinks, but he’d begged off early, saying he had a phone call with his family in Russia that he couldn’tmiss. Troy had thought that Rozanov didn’t have any family left there, but maybe he had a friend or a distant cousin that he still spoke to. The boys had waved Rozanov off, and Troy had stopped himself at two beers and made his way to his own room, not realising what he was listening to until he was much too late.  

He had suspected there was something going on when he had made a comment to Rozanov about asking for Hollander’s number. Rozanov had looked positively deadly as he looked at Troy and told him that that wouldn’t be happening. Troy was sure Rozanov didn’t breathe the entire interaction, his eyes almost murderous as he said that he didn’t think he was Hollander’s type. Troy had been curious and asked Rozanov what Hollander’s type was, and he’d just said not hockey players.  

At the time, Troy hadn’t considered why Rozanov had been so protective of Hollander. He'd figured that Rozanov might just be protective of his friends or something, but over time things didn’t quite add up. 

So he’d started to wonder.  

He'd seen the texts from Jane constantly pop up on his phone. He'd noticed the soft smile Rozanov had whenever one of the boys on the team mentioned her.  

He'd noticed that Jane and Shane sounded kind of similar, especially in Rozanov’s accent.  

But Troy really didn’t think about it too hard, never putting the pieces together until tonight; hearing Rozanov and Hollander clearly fucking right up against the wall, Rozanov moaning fuck, Shane so loudly Troy could have sworn they were right in his ear. It was so obvious. They were so obvious.  

“Harder,” Hollander begged.  

“Fuck, Shane,” Rozanov’s voice came through the wall, so clear that Troy looked around to make sure that he hadn’t wandered into their room by accident. “My good fucking slut. Taking me so good.”  

Troy closed his eyes, wondering whether he should go back down to the bar and hang out with the boys instead of lying here and listening in to something he shouldn’t. He'd figured two light beers and an early night was the responsible choice, but now, laying on his bed with his cock thickening in his pants while he listened to his captain fuck his crush...  

Troy listened to the heavy pants, the rhythmic slapping of skin on skin echoing through the room, his breathing picking up as the sounds got louder. He cupped a hand around his cock, indulging his thoughts for a moment.  

It was obvious from what he was overhearing that Rozanov was the one fucking Hollander tonight. He'd seen Rozanov in the showers and...he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t impressed. He would never admit it, but he let himself sneak a peak here and there. He’d noticed Rozanov’s body, broad and muscular, dotted with freckles and moles. He'd noticed the expanse of golden skin, prominent veins trailing down his arms.  

He'd noticed his curly brown hair, usually tamped down with sweat during practices and games. He wondered whether Rozanov sweat more during hockey or sex; from the sounds of it, he was working even harder in the bedroom than on the ice, which seemed impossible. He could picture Rozanov right now, his muscles tense and overworked, sweat making his curls even tighter, his mouth red andswollen as he gasped, just like he did after too many pull ups, rigid and firm as he fucked Hollander.  

Troy wondered what Hollander looked like, taking it. He bet he looked so good bent over for Rozanov, probably red and panting like he sometimes did on the ice during a particularly tight game, his short hair plastered to his forehead. He wondered what his freckles looked like when he was flushed from sex, if his chest flushed as much as his cheeks did in the rink when he exerted himself. He wondered if Rozanov ever held him down and forced him to take it. If they role played with rough sex sometimes, if they were into that sort of thing.  

He'd called Hollander a slut. And Hollander had loved it, if the ensuing moans were anything to go by.  

Oh shit. Rozanov had said that Jane had handcuffed him to the bed and ridden him for hours. Troy’s cock twitched at the thought of the two of them, stamina unmatched with everyone but each other, playing sex games like that for hours and hours.  

They were definitely into some rough stuff. Maybe even some freaky stuff. It didn’t necessarily surprise him that Rozanov would be into that, but...Hollander?  

He wondered if they switched things up. He and Adrian had switched, depending on who was in the mood for what, or if he was too tired after a game. Troy wondered what Hollander and Rozanov’s dynamic was. He never liked to assume, but...he had his assumptions based on what he knew about Rozanov. There was something so dominant about him, that he couldn’t imagine him in a position of submission in any capacity. He had a feeling that even tied up, even having lost a bet, that Rozanov was the one calling the shots, bossing Hollander around, telling him what to do and how to please him.  

Troy let his hand wander to his zipper as he considered what was happening in the next room.  

Rozanov was clearly fucking Hollander. Hollander, who was begging for it, needing harder and faster. Hollander, who, from what Troy could hear, was crying. Hollander, who liked being called a slut.  

The idea of Hollander being so desperate, for Rozanov, made Troy’s head spin.  

He was jealous, Troy realised somewhere in the back of his mind. Of who, he wasn’t sure. Maybe both of them. Maybe he wanted Rozanov to fuck him and he wanted to fuck Hollander. Maybe he wanted to fuck Rozanov and have Hollander fuck him. Maybe he wanted to be the one to cry please, more and have someone give him what he needed, have someone take care of him. Maybe he wanted to have someone that trusted him enough to take care of them, who deferred to him, who would listen to him. Who wouldn’t walk away from him.  

Troy unzipped his jeans, his breath hitching at the sound of movement from the next room. He let himself wrap his hand around the base of his cock –  

The sound of a hard slap made him freeze.  

Hollander cried out, needy and high and begging for another one. Troy flinched at the sound of another slap, frowning at how rough it sounded.  

Maybe he should have pegged Rozanov for the type of guy that would have rough sex from the jump. Maybe he should have assumed that a guy like that, that had fucked every woman across North American and Eastern Europe, and who knows how many men, would be into some less than vanilla type of stuff in bed.  

But Hollander surprised him.  

Troy could hear him beg for more, harder and more through the walls. Whatever the two of them had...  

He flinched at another hard sound, followed by a loud cry. Troy couldn’t help it when his cock twitched, listening to the frantic moans and sweet nothings coming through the wall.  

It was a lot. They were a lot.  

Troy was lonely.  

He thought about Adrian, and how happy he thought he’d been with him. Troy thought about how nice the sex had been, how happy he had been with their life in the bedroom. How he had thought it was normal to feel nice during and after sex, and how he’d wondered if that frantic, set on fire feeling was only a thing in the movies.  

Hearing the frantic, desperate passion from next door, Troy felt like a fucking idiot.  

Nice. Fine.  

He'd settled for fine because he thought being a closeted athlete would hinder his sex life, and he’d settled for the first guy that looked at him because he hadn’t thought there was more out there.  

But there had to be more. Rozanov and Hollander had found each other, and they were clearly on the same sexual wavelength. Even with so much working against them, they’d found each other.  

Rozanov's moans punctuated his thoughts, loud and guttural. Troy's hand smoothed over his cock before he finally took hold of himself, just wrapping his hand around the base and waiting.  

Maybe he could have this, Troy thought, listening to Rozanov and Hollander gasp and moan and bicker through the wall. He could find someone that made him feel like that one day. He could make someone that made his eyes light up the way Rozanov’s did when Jane messaged him.  

Troy stroked himself slowly, listening to the noise become more frantic, less controlled. He could hear them both losing themselves, losing control. His hand sped up as Hollander came loudly, a loud thud sounding against the wall as he cried out over and over. Troy came as Rozanov moaned loudly, his orgasm ripping through him with a wave of shame at having come listening to his captain fuck his boyfriend through the wall of a shitty hotel.  

He listened as the sounds from the next room all but stopped, looking down at himself, his t shirt covered with come.  

He was gross. He had listened in on a private moment – or private hour – and gotten off on it.  

Troy was a shitty teammate. He was a shitty friend.  

He stood up gingerly and went straight to the bathroom, flicking on the shower and stripping off his shirt, tossing it into the sink and soaking it straight away.  

He liked that shirt. He hoped he could get the come stains out.  

>>>  

Troy’s shame extended far enough that he left the hotel after his shower, heading down to the convenience store across the street and buying a can of coke and some snacks. He wasn’t sure if Rozanov and Hollander were going to go for round two, but he didn’t want to find out.  

He ambled up to his hotel room slowly, pausing outside the door and relaxing a little when he heard silence from Rozanov’s room.  

Troy headed into his own room, throwing himself down on the bed and opening his snacks, playing some terrible Stallone movie with explosions and a plot that made no sense while he thought about Adrian.  

>>>  

Rozanov was in a great fucking mood.  

Troy watched him the next morning closely, rounding up the boys onto the bus and practically bouncing around with excitement at being back home with Anya.  

It was sweet. Or, it would have been sweet if Troy hadn’t heard exactly what had put him in such a good mood last night. If he hadn’t seen the scratches on Rozanov’s lower back as he bent down to toss his duffel bag into the luggage compartment under the bus.  

Troy averted his eyes and tried not to feel warm at the sight. He'd never be able to look at Rozanov or Hollander the same way ever again knowing what he knew now.  

Rozanov couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he chatted to the boys on the drive back to Ottawa. Troy stayed in his window seat near the front of the bus, curling up and watching the cars pass them as they hurtled down the highway, thinking about how he was going from an empty hotel room to an empty apartment.  

He blinked when someone threw themselves down in the seat next to him, raising an eyebrow when he saw Rozanov.  

“What’s wrong with you?” Rozanov asked.  

Troy spoke before he could stop himself. “Didn’t sleep last night.”  

“Oh?”  

“Loud neighbours,” Troy said, looking at him pointedly.  

Rozanov didn’t even bother to look contrite or ashamed of himself. He just smirked proudly and elbowed him in the side. “They sound fun. You learn a thing or two?”  

Troy scoffed, not trusting himself to lie and say that he didn’t. He shook his head as he looked back out the window.  

“What’s wrong?” Rozanov asked, quieter.  

Troy shrugged. “Nothing.”  

Rozanov frowned slightly, sitting closer. “Are you okay?”  

“Fine,” Troy said.  

Rozanov didn’t seem convinced, staring right through to his soul. Troy felt like Rozanov was reading his mind as his eyes narrowed just a little, like he was seeing well past whatever Troy was trying to tell him. Like he could see his heart, still broken up about Adrian. Like he could see how lonely he was.  

Rozanov stared for a long moment before he stood, clapping Troy on the shoulder and making his way to the back of the bus to loudly demand the rookies attention.  

Troy wondered if he’d ever feel like how Rozanov and Hollander made each other feel. If he’d ever find someone that made him feel as present and alive as Rozanov looked today.  

David  

Anya was a bed hog.  

David had loved staying at Shane and Ilya’s house for the last three days. He and Yuna were getting their floors redone after too many years of putting it off, and Ilya had offered for them to stay with them for the two weeks.  

Yuna had accepted, eager to see the two of them in their natural habitat. David would have been happy to go and spend the time at their own cottage or even in a hotel room, but having Anya follow him from room to room was an unexpected perk.  

She was a great dog. She was calm and patient and still had that new puppy energy, full of play, but Ilya had done a wonderful job training her. She didn’t bark or bite or jump. She was delightfully cuddly, so unaware of her own size, sure she was still a puppy that could fit onto everybody’s laps. She was as placid as her owner, gazing around peacefully and sitting in stoic silence much of the time.  

Yuna had said she was surprised at exactly how placid was on their first morning there, eating breakfast with David and watching Ilya chase her around the backyard before he’d so much had a sip of coffee.  

“He riles her up,” Yuna had commented, watching Ilya roll around on the ground with Anya, pretending to tackle her.  

“This is their morning routine,” Shane had said, pouring them coffee and sitting at the table with them. “Their night time routine to get her to sleep is even more elaborate. She only gets to jump around like this when he’s home, no one tired her out like he does.”  

It had been nice to watch Shane and Ilya over the last few days. They had such an easy, practised rhythm to them, two people who had clearly been together for such a long time that it came so natural.  

Ilya would cook while Shane chopped the vegetables. Ilya would circle around Shane, who moved easily, knowing what he was reaching for, without even looking. They made each others coffees or cups of tea without asking, handing them off to each other without so much as a word or a look.  

It struck David, sometimes, just how much Shane had kept himself hidden. From the world, from his parents. David tried to show them how much he supported them, how much their love was truly something worth celebrating, but he got the sense that they wouldn’t believe it while their relationship was still a secret.  

But they were a team. Solid, strong, true. Something David could rely on Shane having for the rest of his life when he and Yuna were no longer around.  

David wasn’t surprised to be kicked awake by Anya, snuffling against him in between him and Yuna. Yuna was peacefully asleep, but Anya was staring at him.  

“You have your own bed,” David whispered to her.  

Anya didn’t even blink, just staring him down. She really was so much like Ilya.  

“Anya, down,” he tried.  

She just looked at him blankly. David sighed, sitting up and climbing out of bed. He’d go into the kitchen and lure her out of the bed with treats, he decided. The best thing about being a grandparent was being able to break their sons no treat after dinner rules.  

David walked quietly down the hallway, not wanting to wake the house up, when he heard a scoff and Shane’s voice cut through the silence.  

“Don’t fucking give me that.”  

Shane and Ilya were talking.  

Arguing, more like.  

Ilya was sat at the dining table, jaw tense, eyes locked on Shane, who was pacing in front of the sliding door. David hung back in the hallway, staying out of sight and wondering whether he should waitthem out for a moment or go back to bed when Shane kept talking.  

“Because you don’t fucking care,” Shane muttered.  

“I didn’t say this,” Ilya said, his voice low and dangerous. “I did not say I didn’t care.”  

“You said it didn’t matter,” Shane said, his voice equally low and frustrated.  

“I said it doesn’t matter how I feel about it,” Ilya corrected. “It matters how you feel.”  

His tone was careful, low and calm, but David recognised it. It was the tone of a man doing his best not to snap and yell. A man who knew all too well how easy it would be to shout and throw something for effect.  

It was the tone David had spent most of his twenties perfecting, before he realised in his thirties that he no longer felt the instinct to yell, that the gentle, careful tone was just how he really sounded. The tone of a man who made sure his father’s voice wasn’t coming out of his mouth.  

“Because it doesn’t affect you?” Shane asked.  

Ilya sighed. David leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the boys, grimacing when he saw how tense Ilya’s shoulders were.  

Ilya was in his underwear, and Shane looked like he had just haphazardly thrown on whatever shorts were lying around. David got the sense they had gotten out of bed just to fight, both of their hair messy and their faces a little flushed.  

He was intruding, he knew. They were in Shane and Ilya’s house, and this was not a conversation he was supposed to be privy to. But, he was curious. There was so much about Shane’s relationship that he and Yuna didn’t know, or didn’t understand. Yuna had made a couple of comments about Shane deferring to Ilya and implied something odd there that had niggled at the back of David’s mind, but he’drefused to think about it. It wasn’t his business.  

So he just wanted to see how they argued. Whether Shane would defer to Ilya, a man that David knew was renowned for his stubbornness and hard headedness. Whether Ilya would expect that of him, demand it.  

“Shane, it’s your team,” Ilya said. “You are there with them. Doesn't matter what I think. How do you feel?”  

Shane scoffed. David raised an eyebrow; so far, Ilya seemed reasonable and Shane seemed...less so. He’d always been like his mother like that; trying to apply logic to situations where his feelings were screaming for attention, doing his best to ignore them because he thought they were useless.  

“I don’t know if I’m overreacting,” Shane said, his voice unsure.  

David watched him pace, bare feet padding against the hardwood floor. At least tonight wasn’t cold; he was surprised Shane wasn’t wearing the slides Ilya insisted he wore in the house.  

“Shane,” Ilya called, his voice a little terser. David heard the footsteps stop. “You have been in the room with them for ten years. You know better than me.”  

It was odd; their voices had the cadence of an argument about to break out, but the discussion itself was...not an argument. At least not from the sounds of it. David wondered if it was a tenuous standstill, or if he had just read it completely wrong.  

“No I don’t,” Shane said, the pacing starting back up. “I don’t know what the fuck they’re thinking. They don’t fucking talk to me.”  

David's heart hurt for him. Shane had come out to his team before Christmas, and it had been difficult for him. Shane hadn’t said outright, but David could tell by the way the team played on the ice that the chemistry was different now.  

A few of the guys hovered closer to Shane, more protective of him than ever, but a few of the guys acted like he wasn’t even there. Like there was a gap on the ice where Shane was. David had been at the Montreal/Toronto game where Dallas Kent had gotten in Shane’s face. He had watched Comeau and Drapeau skate away when Kent shoved Shane, pretending that they didn’t see their captain getting pushed around.  

He could see that it had been weighing Shane down. That while a part of him was glad that he could be a little more himself, that it had come with a cost he and Yuna would never truly be able to understand.  

“Has Hayden said anything? JJ?” Ilya asked.  

“Kind of,” Shane said. His voice sounded strained, like he was trying not to show Ilya how upset he was. David was sure Ilya could feel it. “They, you know. They're good about me being gay, I think. But I think, the team as a whole, I've like, lost their respect.”  

David sighed quietly to himself. He had known that this was a risk. It was the reason Shane had been hiding who he was all this time.  

He had asked, once. Shane had just shrugged and said that nothing had changed in the locker room, that his team was still his team. That he didn’t regret coming out, that it was the right choice.  

David used to be better at spotting Shane’s lies. He had wondered, when Shane had told them about him and Ilya, how many lies Shane had told to protect himself that David hadn’t even noticed. He had wondered when Shane had become so good at lying.  

He wondered when he’d started accepting the lies instead of paying attention to Shane, instead of trying to dig a little deeper.  

Ilya was different, David had noted early on. He saw through every lie or bluff Shane tried to make. He didn’t just see it – he called Shane out on it, curious, always so confused as to why Shane just wouldn’t tell the truth. David wasn’t sure if it was a cultural thing, but whatever it was about Ilya, it was a perfect match for Shane.  

David admired Ilya’s lack of shame. It had helped him understand exactly why Ilya was the way that he was, why he was so fierce, so unashamed in who he was. It had helped David see how it had rubbed off on Shane, making him unapologetic and brave, too.  

“You think you lost their respect for being yourself?” Ilya asked.  

"Wouldn’t you lose your teams’ respect if you came out?” Shane asked.  

“In Boston? I don’t think so, no,” Ilya said thoughtfully. “Boston team never cared who did what. As long as we tried to play well, everybody was fine. Was good people there.”  

Not for the first time, David wondered how much Ilya had given up for a new life in Ottawa with Shane.  

Shane made a face, pacing again. “What about Ottawa?”  

“I do not think I am the only one like us in Ottawa,” Ilya said cryptically.  

David raised an eyebrow at that.  

“Really?” Shane asked. “Who? No, sorry, don’t answer that. But, really?”  

Ilya hummed. David chanced another look in on them. Ilya’s posture had relaxed, but he was still watching Shane like a hawk. Shane had moved from pacing along the doors to the backyard to circling the couch, his face shuttered. David could see Ilya’s eyes tracking him carefully.  

“I think this is just a Montreal problem,” Ilya said, eyebrow raised.  

“Oh, so my shitty leadership all these years has made us such a shitty team?” Shane said.  

David grimaced. That was the tension he had felt, waiting to spill over. He watched curiously as Shane came to a dead stop, his face thunderous, while Ilya smiled, sinking into the chair and spreading his arms like a predator that had just caught their prey.  

It was masterful. If David weren’t watching from the outside, he wouldn’t have even noticed how easily Ilya had led Shane into his trap to start a fight. He'd given Shane more than one chance to acknowledge that the team was responsible for their own behaviour, but Shane kept pushing back.  

Ilya had mentioned once that all Shane needed sometimes was a lightning rod, something to focus on when he was wound up like this.  

David hadn’t realised Ilya was the rod.  

“Here you go again, making things up I didn’t say,” Ilya said. David could have sworn Ilya looked like the cat that caught the cream.  

He was enjoying antagonising Shane. It was interesting to watch. Shane looked furious, his eyes narrowing at Ilya.  

“You didn’t have to,” Shane muttered.  

“Doesn’t matter what I say, you don’t listen to me anyways,” Ilya said, still poking at Shane.  

“Don’t start,” Shane said tersely.  

“Putting words in my mouth.”  

“I’m reading between the lines.”  

“You’re hearing what you want to hear,” Ilya said, his face passively blank.  

Shane scoffed. David watched as Shane’s cheeks and neck turned red, clearly frustrated with Ilya. Ilya, for his part, didn’t even look bothered in the slightest.  

“You said you didn’t care,” Shane said.  

“I said that how you feel is more important than how I feel,” Ilya said. “If it were up to me, I would break every single Metro’s face on the ice next time we play.”  

Shane scoffed, but David could see the tension in his neck easing up a little.  

“You have to be with them every day,” Ilya continued. “Not me. Doesn't matter how I feel. I care about how you feel. But you want to pretend you are fine.”  

Shane looked down at his feet. David could see that Ilya was starting to get through to him.  

“Your team is failing you, Shane.”  

Shane looked stricken. “And whose fault is that.”  

David watched as Ilya stayed impassive, sitting there silently for a long moment, assessing him. “You think the team being homophobic is your fault?”  

“Well,” Shane shrugged. “You know how they talk in locker rooms. On the ice. I should have been shutting it down more. Forcing them to be better.”  

“Shane,” Ilya said, his voice intense. “You cannot make people better if they do not want to be better. They are adults. They choose who they want to be.”  

David leaned against the wall as he watched them. Ilya was right; these men were making the conscious choice to treat Shane badly. To ignore him on the ice, to box him out during plays. To leave him on his own when other players tried to pick fights with him.  

“Boston would never act like that,” Shane repeated.  

“Boston were good people before I got there,” Ilya said. “Ottawa are good people before me. Only so much one man can do as captain.”  

“Well, hasn’t your life just been perfect,” Shane muttered.  

David caught the way Ilya’s eyes tightened, his face finally betraying some emotion. He knew Shane didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but he could see the way Ilya was trying his hardest not to react to it.  

“So perfect,” Ilya deadpanned.  

Shane stopped, flinching when he realised what he’d said. “Sorry.”  

Ilya hummed, still watching Shane, his eyes a little colder.  

“I didn’t mean that.”  

“I know,” Ilya said, his jaw tense.  

“I just feel like I made a mistake,” Shane said, his voice quiet.  

Ilya sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You think you shouldn’t have come out?”  

Shane made his way over to the table, sitting next to Ilya. He sighed as he shook his head. “No. I don’t know. I mean, no, I’m glad I told them I’m gay. I just wish I was better prepared for the reaction.”  

David watched as Ilya reached over to brush Shane’s hair out of his face. Shane dropped his head onto the table as Ilya scratched his head, soothing him.  

“It’s just like, fuck. I was right to be so paranoid all this time, you know?” Shane said.  

“I know,” Ilya said quietly.  

“I wish it was different,” Shane said in a voice so small David wasn’t totally sure he heard him right.  

“How?” Ilya asked. David noticed he was still, barely breathing as he waited for Shane to say something.  

“I don’t wanna be on a team with guys who treat people the way they treat me,” Shane said. “I don’t wanna play hockey if I’m playing for guys like that.”  

David's heart broke for him. Shane had been adamant to him and Yuna that the team were fine with him being gay; supportive, even.  

Another lie. Another lie that Shane had told to keep other people happy. Another lie David and Yuna had simply accepted, even though he should have known better.  

All of this fighting for his spot in the league, in history, and now Shane didn’t even find refuge in playing.  

“So you quit,” Ilya said. “No more Metros. Come play with me.”  

Shane sat up, looking incredulously at Ilya.  

“We drive to training together, be on same schedule. Could be fun,” Ilya smiled. “How fast you think we win a cup with us on the same team?”  

Shane scoffed, but it made David smile. He wondered if there was any world where that was possible. He thought about the All Stars game where they’d been on the same team for the first time. Seeing them on the same line had been so incredible it had made David question why anyone else even bothered playing hockey.  

“You’d be my captain,” Shane said, eyebrow raised.  

Ilya hummed, sitting closer. “Yes. You'd have to follow my orders.”  

“I don’t like being told what to do,” Shane scoffed.  

David watched as Ilya moved fast, grabbing Shane’s chin and holding his face steady. “No. You love being told what to do.”  

Shane made a soft noise. David grimaced, catching the way Ilya’s thumb brushed Shane’s mouth.  

“Open for me,” Ilya said.  

He pushed off from the wall and turned back down the hallway, eager to get back into the bedroom and not hear anything else.  

“Suck,” Ilya commanded.  

David made it back to the room as he heard – wet sounds – from the kitchen. He closed the door quietly and climbed into the small section of the mattress Anya had left for him, thinking about what Yuna had said about Shane deferring to Ilya.  

>>>  

Watching Shane orbit Ilya with the light of deference illuminating them made their relationship snap into focus for David. There was so much he had missed about Shane and Ilya before that was absolutely mind blowing.  

Now, there was no way for David to miss the way that Ilya cut Shane with a sharp look to finish the food on his plate. Now, David couldn’t miss the way Ilya would tap four counts into Shane’s thigh when he was getting stressed and not breathing properly. Now, he couldn’t miss the way Shane would look to Ilya for approval whenever he did something, and the way Ilya would always give it to him, smiling brightly.  

He waited until they were back in their own home to bring it up to Yuna.  

“That was an interesting few days,” David tried to say.  

Yuna smiled and nodded. “They’re a lot more peaceful than I would have expected.”  

“Well, I think I kind of walked into an almost argument the other night,” David said.  

Yuna looked interested, waiting for him to go on.  

“They have such an interesting relationship,” David said, unsure of how to continue.  

“They do.”  

“Very...intense.”  

Yuna hummed, sitting on the couch and watching him. “Intense is a good word for it.”  

David sat next to her. “Should we be worried?”  

Yuna bit her lip. “I don’t think so? I mean, they’re very – intense, about one another. But it’s all very protective, I think. I think it’s all about taking care of each other.”  

That made sense. David nodded, relaxing back into the cushions. “Do you think it’s healthy?”  

“I think it’s what they both need, somehow,” Yuna considered.  

David sighed. Ilya was taking care of his son. Whatever David and Yuna had been doing for the last thirty years clearly wasn’t cutting it, and whatever Ilya was doing was working. Shane was thriving with Ilya.  

“I think you’re right,” he agreed.  

Hayden  

JJ and his missus having a destination wedding was fucking genius.  

Hayden watched as Jackie did shots with the other WAGS, laughing as she downed the straight tequila without so much as a flinch. He thought about the night they’d met, where she’d dragged him to the bar and done a shot with him, saying that she needed to see if he was tough enough to take her out on a date.  

He'd never been to Portugal before. He'd never been to Europe before, really. They were staying about twenty minutes from the city centre in a resort that specialised in hosted events. Holly had told Jackie that with JJ busy with work for so much of the year, she didn’t want to plan a wedding alone, and that she only really cared about the actual marriage part. She'd figured a destination wedding was easier and would be more fun for everyone, having a long weekend that was basically just one big party while they did their paperwork the week before at city hall in Montreal with Hayden and Jackie as their witnesses.  

“All we have to do is pick the colours and my wedding dress!” Holly had smiled brightly over dinner one night, telling them the plan.  

Hayden thought it was a great choice. They would only have to leave the kids for five days, which was maybe pushing it, but his parents had insisted that they’d be happy to have the kids. Jackie had suggested that they treat it like a mini honeymoon for themselves, and Hayden thought that was brilliant.  

Portugal was beautiful, and the resort was fucking amazing. JJ had asked him and Shane to be his ushers, which was an honour Hayden didn’t take lightly. The ceremony was short and lovely, and the reception was raucous. It was perfect.  

“Pike!” Vaughn shouted. “Shots!”  

Hayden made his way over to the boys at the bar, smiling as Hunter handed him a shot. He toasted with the rest of the boys before they all slammed their shots. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rozanov knock back his own shot before he quickly switched glasses with Shane, downing the second shot. Shane held the empty glass with his mouth before he smacked it down on the table like the rest of the boys, acting like he’d just downed it.  

Hayden tried not to laugh. Shane wasn’t a big drinker on the best of occasions, and he’d already had a few. It looked like he and Rozanov were practised at this, though. The hand off, the pretending. Hayden wondered how many drinks Rozanov would drink for Shane over the course of his life.  

He'd been uncertain when he’d first learned about Shane and Rozanov. All he’d really known about Rozanov was that he was a beast on the ice, and kind of an asshole about it. Nobody outchirped Rozanov on the ice. Hayden had never really gotten used to it, the way he so effortlessly teased and annoyed everyone.  

And he couldn’t understand how Shane had liked that. Shane was such a good guy, that him being with an asshole didn’t make any sense.  

At least, until Rozanov had remarked that Shane was kind of an asshole himself. Hayden had been ready to defend his friend but...Shane was kind of an asshole. In an endearing way, to be sure, but still an asshole. He'd rolled his eyes every time Hayden told him they were having another baby, and he didn’t even remember Amber’s name for a solid six months.  

So maybe they were the perfect match.  

And for his part, Rozanov was way less of a dick than Hayden had assumed since he’d joined the league. Everyone may have had a story about how annoying Rozanov was, but nobody actually had an issue with him. He was actually, Hayden learned, really popular and well liked. Loved, even.  

By no one more so than Shane. Shane adored Rozanov. Every time Rozanov opened his mouth, Shane would listen with rapt attention. Every time Rozanov moved, Shane’s eyes were raking over his body. Every time Rozanov looked at him, Shane melted.  

And it went both ways. Rozanov was just as obsessed with Shane. He was a little more obvious about it, but Hayden knew Shane well enough to see that he was even more obsessed with Rozanov than he was with hockey.  

It was a lot, sometimes. Hayden watched as Shane turned his head to Rozanov’s, grabbing his chin and pulling him in for a kiss. He grimaced when he saw both of their tongues, looking away. He locked eyes with Hunter, who smirked at him.  

“Weddings make everyone horny,” Hunter muttered.  

Rozanov must have heard him, because he flipped him off before pulling away from Shane. 

“Just be glad you’re not in hotel room next to us this time, hey, Hunter?”  

Shane guffawed as Hunter blanched.  

“I don’t think I’d survive that twice,” Hunter said.  

“Yeah, and we didn’t even fuck properly that night,” Shane chimed in.  

Rozanov laughed loudly as Hunter stared at them incredulously.  

“Then why were you so loud?” he asked.  

“First time I fucked Shane with my fingers,” Rozanov said, matter of fact.  

Shane blushed violently as Vaughn laughed. Hayden just looked incredulously at Hunter, hardly able to believe his ears.  

>>>  

“Don’t be mad,” Jackie said, her bright eyes staring up at him, pleading. “I’ve gotta go with the girls.”  

Hayden frowned, confused. “But you’re my wife. We have a room.”  

He was drunk. Too drunk. Jackie laughed, taking his hand in hers.  

“Maddie and Alex had a fight. He's crashing with Matt tonight. Maddie needs her girls,” she said.  

She was swaying. Or maybe he was swaying.  

“We’re both swaying,” Jackie said.  

That was what Hayden loved about her; it was like she could read his mind.  

“Baby, you’re talking,” Jackie laughed.  

“I don’t think so,” Hayden frowned.  

“God, you’re so drunk,” she said.  

“You’re drunk.”  

“No, I'm not, you’re the lightweight.”  

Hayden scoffed.  

“You’re on your own tonight, baby,” Jackie said.  

Hayden tried not to pout. “But I can’t sleep without you,” he said.  

“Hayd, you’re drunk enough that I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”  

“But I wanna fuck you,” Hayden sulked.  

Jackie shook her head. “I think you drank too much for that, baby.”  

Hayden frowned. That was ridiculous. No amount of alcohol could stop him from getting it up for Jackie.  

“Okay, well, tomorrow I'm all yours,” she promised.  

Hayden smiled as she leaned him and kissed him, just a little bit too much tongue to be appropriate in public. He frowned as she went back to the table where Maddie was currently in tears, being comforted by a bunch of WAGs.  

The party was still going, but looking out at the dancefloor, Hayden could tell it was winding down. He could see a few of the boys he knew scattered around the room, but he was starting to feel the alcohol going to his head. He thought about going to tell JJ and Holly that he was leaving, but one look at them on the dancefloor told him that they wouldn’t care.  

He slunk off quietly, tapping his pants pocket for his keycard and double checking his room number.  

37  

He loved how small this resort was. It was pretty much just the entire wedding party and an older couple here on vacation. Hayden wandered out of the function room and into the main part of the resort, looking for the hallway to his hotel room.  

Maybe Jackie was right and he was drunk. He reached out to place his hand on the wall, steadying himself before he found his hallways and started heading down. He rounded the corner, stopping when he saw –  

Shane. And Rozanov.  

Kissing.  

Hayden blinked; it was more like they were trying to eat each other. Rozanov had Shane pressed up against a door, his hands untucking his shirt and reaching down to unbuckle his belt. Shane wasn’t even trying to stop him, blindly reaching behind himself to swipe his card against the lock.  

“Wait,” Shane breathed.  

Rozanov just kissed him harder, reaching inside Shane’s pants –  

Hayden shouldn’t be watching this. They shouldn’t be doing that in a public hallway. They shouldn’t be making those noises in public.  

He sighed with relief as Shane finally got the door open, dragging Rozanov inside with a sharp pull of his hair. Rozanov laughed as he followed, kicking the door shut behind them. Hayden finally stepped into the hallway, looking for room 37 and smiling when he found it.  

He was inside, kicking off his shoes, when he heard the first moan.  

Hayden frowned, looking around the room.  

He was definitely in the right place. Jackie's shoes were next to his by the door, and the sheets were still rumpled from the sex they’d had that morning. Hayden even checked the bathroom, confused as to where the sound was coming from.  

He stripped off his suit and rinsed off quickly, barely bothering to dry off before he threw himself onto the bed. Hayden closed his eyes, missing Jackie, when he heard another moan.  

He sat up confused.  

“Oh fuck,” he heard.  

Hayden pressed his ear to the wall behind the headboard, laughing to himself when he realised he could hear through the wall.  

“Oh my god,” the voice said again. “Ilya.”  

Ilya.  

Rozanov.  

Hayden rolled his eyes, sinking down into the bed. He hadn’t even noticed their hotel rooms were next to each other. They'd only flown in yesterday, and Jackie and Hayden had met them at the hotel bar for dinner. Shane and Rozanov had gone to a bar afterwards, and this morning, he’d met Shane in JJ’s room to get ready together.  

Hayden realised that he’d heard them have sex last night, too. And this morning.  

But they were louder now. They sounded desperate. Drunk.  

Hayden closed his eyes as Shane moaned again, grimacing as he listened to his best friend beg.  

Ilya, please, I need it, give it to me.  

Hayden tried to ignore it, but he could hear Rozanov talking back, calling Shane pretty, lovely, telling him how perfect he was, how he’d give him anything he asked for. It was almost sweet, Hayden thought, until he heard loud, wet noises. His brain stuttered for a second before he realised what he was listening to.  

He sighed loudly, hoping that maybe they could hear how annoyed he was in the room next door and that they would quiet down.  

No such luck.  

Hayden listened as the sounds became something else, Rozanov moaning loudly and panting Shane’s name, before Shane was the one moaning. By the time the wet, slick sounds of fucking started up, Hayden was relieved.  

The sooner they started, the sooner it would be over.  

>>>  

Hour three.  

Shane and Rozanov were on hour three of having sex.  

Hayden didn’t understand it. Rozanov had drank twice as much as he had, easily. Shane had definitely had a few drinks, because Hayden was sure he wouldn’t risk being so loud in public without being even a little bit drunk. But Rozanov seemed to be going three hours with a hard dick and no orgasm.  

Hayden had heard Shane four times already. He didn’t even know men could come that many times in such a short period of time.  

But he was learning all sorts of new things tonight.  

He was learning that nobody in the next room seemed to have a gag reflex. He learned that his best friend had stamina that would rival a porn star’s, coming and crying and coming and crying for more over and over and over. He learned that Rozanov could rattle a headboard so violently Hayden could feel it in the next room.  

He learned that neither of them seemed to experience whiskey dick like Hayden did. Or vodka dick. Or tequila dick, or whatever the fuck was keeping Hayden fuzzy and soft. He learned that Shane and Rozanov said I love you a lot during sex.  

Hayden flinched when he heard a loud noise, his ears pricking as he looked up from his phone, the sound new. He listened again, flinching at the repeated sound and the ensuing cry.  

“Again,” Shane begged.  

“Your pretty face,” Rozanov cooed from the next room before the slapping resumed.  

Hayden knew too much. Way too much about Shane. And Rozanov. But he didn’t really care about Rozanov so much.  

He didn’t need to know that Shane was the one taking it. He didn’t need to know that Shane could take it for hours. He didn’t need to know that Shane begged. He didn’t need to know that Rozanov liked to slap around his best friend, or that he got off on making him cry.  

Hayden missed Jackie. He thought about roughing her up during sex and felt his stomach roil.  

He just didn’t understand the appeal. Were Shane and Rozanov conditioned to like violence in some form after all these years playing hockey? Did this have anything to do with their rivalry on the ice? Was this just a sex thing? Were the two of them okay? Was this a way for them to fight somehow? Could you really love someone and want to hurt them like that?  

Hayden had a lot of questions, but he wasn’t sure he wanted the answers.  

>>>  

“Jesus, Hayd, you look like you haven’t slept.”  

Hayden looked up through his sunglasses, barely able to crack a smile as Shane sat at his table. He looked fine, Hayden thought with relief, looking him over. He didn’t look hurt or injured or tired.  

“Seriously, are you okay?” he asked.  

“Yeah,” Hayden tried to smile. “Just hungover.”  

“How much did you drink last night?” Shane asked, pouring himself some water from the bottle on the table and taking a long sip.  

“I honestly lost track around the fifth round of shots,” Hayden said.  

Shane laughed softly. “Yeah, you guys were really getting into the open bar.”  

“You look not hungover,” Hayden said accusatorily.  

“I didn’t drink that much,” Shane shrugged. “Just got tipsy.”  

Hayden hummed, stabbing at the pancakes on his plate. The resort had a fantastic breakfast bar that he’d been taking advantage of every morning, and he was furious at himself for being too hungover to enjoy it today.  

“Smart. How's Rozanov faring?”  

“Pike!” Rozanov’s booming voice sounded as he sat next to Shane, loudly dropping two plates on the table. Hayden winced at the high pitched clattering, frowning when he saw how fresh Rozanov looked.  

He looked like he’d woken up fresh as a daisy on game day.  

Hayden's eyes dropped to Rozanov’s hands. He couldn’t think about what those hands had done to Shane last night. Whether they’d hurt him.  

“Hungover?” Rozanov asked.  

Hayden watched as he passed a plate to Shane, nodding for him to eat. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Rozanov give Shane the go ahead like that. Was Shane waiting for Rozanov to allow him to eat?  

Things were looking stranger and stranger.  

“Tired,” Hayden corrected. “The couple in the room next to me were going at it until five in the morning.”  

Shane didn’t react, but Hayden could tell that Rozanov clocked him immediately.  

“Ah, so you maybe learned a thing or two?” Rozanov winked.  

Hayden shoved a piece of pancake into his mouth instead of answering, grateful that he was wearing sunglasses and didn’t have to meet anybody’s eyes.  

They talked about JJ’s ceremony yesterday. Hayden watched in disbelief as Shane ate everything off of his plate and even stole some fruit off of Rozanov’s.  

He’d never seen Shane eat so much in his life.  

>>>  

“Can I ask you kind of a weird question?”  

Shane nodded, looking curious.  

“If – if Jackie asked me to slap her during sex, should I be worried?” Hayden asked. “Like, is it a red flag that she wants me to hurt her?”  

Shane looked shocked, his mouth dropping open.  

“Have you asked her about it? About – why?” Shane asked.  

“No. It’s more of a suggestion at this point,” Hayden lied. “I’m trying to like, prepare.”  

“Oh,” Shane mumbled.  

He looked wide eyed and stressed out. Maybe this was the wrong way to go about it. Maybe Hayden shouldn’t have brought it –  

“Um, there’s probably a discussion to be had about the reasons behind it more than the actual slap,” Shane said, his voice monotone. “Like, does she like the feeling? Does she like being punished for something? Does she like having someone else take control of her body?”  

“Control?” Something about that word stuck out to Hayden, but Shane just shrugged.  

“Well, Jackie has four kids, she’s the boss of your family. So many people rely on her,” Shane said, looking down at his shoes. “Does she just wanna give up control for a little while and have someone take care of her?”  

Hayden tried not to let his mouth drop as he stared at Shane. “Oh. Maybe that’s it,” he said. “Is that – would that help?”  

Shane shrugged again. “It can. Like, you feel like you’re failing or something, so you take your punishment and then you earn forgiveness, or a reward.”  

Hayden nodded dumbly. He hadn’t even considered the pressure that Shane was under all these years. He hadn’t considered that the way he and Rozanov had sex was their way of taking care of each other. He and Jackie had only ever had sex to feel good.  

“That’s helpful,” Hayden said. “Thanks, Shane.”  

Shane nodded, moving into the kitchen to grab a drink. Hayden stood there silently, dumbstruck about how little he knew about Shane, once again.  

Luca  

It was so hard not to stare.  

Ilya Rozanov was his hero growing up. He was the player that Luca had modelled himself after. Luca had followed his career so closely since he was a child, tracking every statistic and watching every interview over and over and over. And now they were on the same team. He was Luca’s captain.  

And he was so unbelievably beautiful.  

Luca had had a crush on Ilya since he was a kid. Ilya Rozanov had the most intimidatingly beautiful face Luca had ever seen; devastating ocean blue eyes, curly brown hair that somehow looked even better when he was drenched in sweat. His lips, always so red, the cupid’s bow so defined. And he was so big. He was so imposing, so broad and so obvious in every room he walked into.  

But the worst part was how nice he was. Ilya was easily one of the kindest, gentlest people Luca had ever met. He was always paying attention to his teammates, always checking in, always looking after them.  

And he was utterly obsessed with Shane Hollander.  

Shane was his other hero; he was the only other player in the league anywhere close to being on Ilya’s level. It was unfathomable to Luca that he was even on a team with them, let alone that they were on a line together.  

And Shane was beautiful, too. Big brown eyes, luscious lips, freckles dusted across his face.  

Being around the two of them was excruciating. If Luca was obsessed with Ilya, then Ilya was unable to breathe without Shane. He was so many hundreds of levels passed obsessed that Luca didn’t think there was a word that could describe it.  

They were in love. It was so unbelievably clear how in love they were. Luca couldn’t fathom how they had hidden it. How there was any way people could have seen them together, even talk about each other, and not known.  

They had the strangest undercurrent to their relationship that had Luca completely captivated. It was like every interaction he watched had some sort of hidden meaning that nobody else was privy to. Like everything they said had a second meaning, like they were speaking another language right in front of everyone.  

Luca couldn’t help but watch them. It was uncanny, the way Ilya could be turned away from a door and somehow sense when Shane walked in. The way his body turned to him automatically, relaxing in his presence. And Shane was no better. Shane was equally attuned, always pressing their feet together under the table, always smiling at him when they were chasing each other on the ice, always reaching out for him when he thought nobody was watching.  

They were so in love, it made Luca’s heart ache. It made him ache to see how rare it was.  

Everybody commented on it.  

Never seen anything like those two. They have such a special connection. They're soulmates.  

So Luca watched, because it was all he could do. He watched the man he had a desperate, pathetic crush on follow his husband around like a puppy dog, watched every stolen touch, every wink at each other in the showers when they thought nobody was looking.  

He watched and wondered if he would ever have something like what Shane and Ilya had.  

>>>  

It wasn’t a great game.  

Ottawa had scored two goals, but it still wasn’t enough to win. Luca could tell that Shane was beating himself up over it, commenting that he’d missed a shot earlier that could have tied the game and sendthem into overtime. Ilya had broken their ‘no contact at work’ rule and grabbed him by the back of the neck in the middle of the locker room, forcing him to look Ilya in the eyes, and he’d told them that it wasn’t his fault. That they had tried their best as a team, and learned some lessons tonight that they would use to improve moving forward.  

Luca hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of them. The way Ilya’s eyes had looked, so intense and firm; the way Shane had melted into his touch, his lips parted and his eyes soft and glassy.  

It was too much for the locker room, even though it wasn’t inherently sexual. Ilya grabbed the guys on the team all the time, and not once had it ever looked like that.  

But there was something about the way they looked at each other. Like it was sexual.  

None of the other guys seemed to notice, stripping and making their way into the showers. Luca seemed to be the only one watching them, watching the way Ilya murmured something in Russian into Shane’s ear, watching the way Shane swayed against him.  

Luca couldn't’ stay, and he couldn’t strip and go into the showers. Not right now, when his dick wasn’t completely soft, thanks to the display in front of him. He slunk out of the locker room quietly, stealing off to the equipment room, pretending to grab a new stick. He moved all the way to the back of the room and leaned against the half wall, trying to catch his breath.  

Everything about Ilya was so commanding, so pornographically sexy, so strong. It made Luca’s head spin to watch him be so...bossy.  

It made Luca wonder what he didn’t see.  

He let himself get lost in his thoughts for a long moment, jumping when the door to the equipment room opened. Luca shook himself off, ready to step out and let whoever it was know he was there, but he froze when he heard Shane’s voice.  

“We’re at work,” he hissed.  

“Shut up,” Ilya said.  

Luca screwed his eyes shut, hoping that what he suspected was about to happen wasn’t going to –  

They were kissing. Luca could hear them kissing. Ilya was moaning and Shane was whimpering and Luca’s dick was getting harder and this was a nightmare come to life.  

He should make some noise, let them know he was here. He should just laugh it off and leave them to do whatever Ilya dragged Shane in here to do and pretend he never heard anything.  

“Shane,” Ilya whispered in a low, sexy voice.  

Luca frowned; he couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like hearing his own name in that tone.  

“Shane,” Ilya cooed. “You played well tonight.”  

Shane scoffed. Luca didn’t need to see his face to know that he was probably on the verge of tears, his jaw tense, his shoulders so tight they’d give him a headache.  

“As your captain, I’m proud of you,” Ilya said lowly.  

This time, Shane whimpered.  

Luca listened as there was shuffling, the sound of clothes rustling and something hitting the floor –  

“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane grit out.  

Luca was confused for all of three seconds before the wet sounds of someone sucking something filled the room.  

Fuck this stupid half wall. Fuck whoever that designed the rink that thought rooms needed more dividers, that it wasn’t enough to have the rooms that they had. Fuck himself for coming in here in an effort to hide from the two people who were currently having sex two metres away from him.  

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbled. “Oh, god, Ilya, fuck.”  

Luca bit his lip, listening as Ilya swallowed Shane down. His breathing sounded laboured, like he had Shane so far down his throat he could barely breathe.  

Luca hadn’t experienced anything like it himself. He'd had a couple of kissed with some sweet girls in his class in high school, but he’d never had sex with anyone. He'd certainly never been with a man. Outside of pornography, which Luca knew was fake, he’d never heard noises like that before.  

He didn’t even know it was possible for someone to do whatever it sounded like Ilya was doing to Shane right now.  

“I’m gonna come,” Shane moaned quietly.  

There was a wet sound and a gasp, and Shane whimpering. Luca heard more rustling before he heard what he was sure was kissing again.  

So Ilya had sucked Shane off and then kissed him. Was Shane not bothered by his own taste on Ilya’s lips? Luca hadn’t really thought about it before, but the idea of it made his stomach twist a little bit.  

“You should come,” Ilya said. Luca could hear Shane whimper.  

“I don’t want to.”  

That made Luca frown. Why wouldn’t Shane want his husband to get him off? If Luca was the one married to Ilya, he would probably quit hockey so he could do that with Ilya all day, every day.  

“But I want you to make you come,” Ilya said. He sounded whiny. Desperate.  

“I don’t deserve it,” Shane whispered.  

Luca could have heard a pin drop.  

“Why not?” Ilya asked softly.  

His tone was so delicate, so sweet. It made Luca even harder to hear it.  

“I lost the game,” Shane said. “I was terrible on the ice tonight. And only good boys can come.”  

Luca's brain stuttered at what Shane just said.  

“Moy mal'chik,” Ilya cooed. “Moy ideal'nyy mal'chik. You are the most perfect good boy.”  

Shane whimpered desperately. Ilya must be moving, because Luca could hear skin against skin.  

“You’ve been a good boy since you the first time we met,” Ilya said.  

Shane’s breathing hitched. Luca was pressed against the wall, listening to them both breathe faster.  

“First time, you remember?” Ilya asked. “You were so nervous and sweet. Shook my hand twice. So eager to please me.”  

Shane gasped.  

“Always pleasing me,” Ilya whispered. “That first time, in the showers. I wanted you to look. And you did. You were so good.”  

Luca’s dick twitched in his pants as he listened intently.  

“I was?” Shane asked dreamily.  

“And that night,” Ilya whispered. “You dropped to your knees so fast for me. Even all those years ago, I knew there would be nobody better than you.”  

Luca blinked rapidly. All those years ago? How many years exactly was that?  

“Really?” Shane whispered back.  

“All these years, you’ve been my good boy,” Ilya murmured.  

Shane came with a soft cry. Luca heard Ilya move, flinching at the sounds of sucking again. He was swallowing Shane down, swallowing his release, taking everything Shane to offer him.  

His good boy. Luca's head was spinning with everything he had overheard. It was too much. He had intruded beyond what was acceptable, but it answered so many questions he had.  

Ilya's dominance was even more intense than Luca had ever suspected. And Shane was so lovely, so perfect for Ilya. They were like puzzle pieces that fit each other perfectly. Like they were made for just each other.  

Luca listened as they kissed again, Ilya murmuring sweet affirmations into Shane’s mouth before he opened the door and led them back out, presumably to the locker room. Luca stayed where he was until the noises from the arena were practically all gone.  

>>>  

It was worse now. If Luca thought he had a staring problem before, it was much, much worse.  

Every interaction Ilya and Shane had now was so much more loaded. The undercurrent that Luca hadn’t been able to work out before was clear now.  

It was sex.  

Every look, every touch, every joke. Every time they skated together. Every word they exchanged, it was sex.  

Luca wondered how it took him so long to see it. He wondered how he had missed it before. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had sex himself? He wasn’t sure. But it was so clear now.  

Every time Ilya checked Shane into the boards, it was sex. Every time Ilya out extra food on Shane’s plate and stared at him, daring him to eat, it was sex. Every time Ilya told Shane he scored a great goal, it was sex.  

It was all sex.  

Luca had no idea how they managed to stay away from each other as much as they did.  

+ Ilya  

Ilya was exhausted. His body ached, his eyes were tired, and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and curl up around Shane. Be inside Shane. Make Shane whimper and cry and moan his name. Make Shane need him as much as Ilya needed Shane back.  

All he needed was Shane.  

That was what he repeated to himself like a mantra all day. It was what he had been repeating to himself for years.  

Just get through it. Then you get to get back to Shane.  

At some point over the years, it had become get home to Shane. It was the only thing that ever really got him through days like this.  

He'd been roped into a full day of promotion for the Centaurs, hour after hour of interviews wearing a suit that felt too tight and shoes that pinched. Ilya kicked his shoes off the second he got in the front door, slipping on his slides and dropping his blazer onto the floor. Shane would tell him off about it later, but Ilya couldn’t bring himself to care right now.  

Shane could admonish him all he wanted if it meant Ilya got to stare at Shane while he did it.  

Ilya walked through the house, unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way into the kitchen. He could see Anya asleep out in the afternoon sun, splayed out on her back with her paws kicked up in the air. Ilya smiled, leaving her to sleep as he moved towards the bedroom.  

He stopped when he heard a moan.  

Ilya was careful to inch to the bedroom silently, listening for Shane. They had barely talked all day; Shane was a team player, always leaving Ilya to work when he had to. But Ilya had missed him. He had texted him at lunch to tell him that, and Shane had simply sent back a heart.  

A single red heart.  

“Fuck,” he could hear Shane breathing through the closed door.  

Ilya smiled, wondering what Shane was thinking about. He wondered if Shane was like him, if every time he touched himself he was thinking about his husband. Ilya couldn’t remember a time in the last ten years where he wasn’t thinking about Shane. Even when he was on the ice, or with other women, he was always thinking about Shane.  

He listened for a moment, smiling when Shane moaned again, deep and desperate.  

“Ilya.”  

Ilya opened the door before he could stop himself. Shane gasped from where he was lying on his back over the covers, but he didn’t stop. Ilya watched Shane finger himself open as he stripped naked, climbing onto the bed without any preamble.  

Shane whimpered as Ilya grabbed his wrist and removed his fingers slowly, settling between his spread legs and pressing the tip of his cock to Shane’s swollen, stretched out hole. Ilya moaned as he slowly pushed his way inside. Shane cried out as Ilya fucked him deep and fast, giving Shane exactly what he wanted.  

Taking exactly what he needed.  

Shane wrapped his arms around him, burying his hands in Ilya’s hair. Pulling the curls, holding him closer. Ilya touched him everywhere his hands could reach; squeezing his hips, grabbing his round ass, groping his chest. Pulling his silky black hair, yanking him closer so he could kiss him.  

It was filthy and pathetic, how much they needed each other. Ilya had always thought he was too needy. Alexei used to tell him that, that he was like a baby, that he acted like a child, that he was too much. As he got older, Ilya had realised how true it was. How nobody could ever really satisfy him, nobody ever needed him enough. Nobody could ever give him what he needed.  

Until Shane.  

Shane was the only person Ilya had ever met who needed as much as he did. Who needed him the right way. Who let Ilya take everything he needed, and still had more to give.  

It was like Shane was made for him. Ilya could spend hours taking and taking and taking from Shane, and Shane would thank him and still offer him more. He always had more to give Ilya.  

Ilya kissed Shane with a whimper, his hips moving faster as he wrapped a hand around Shane’s cock, stroking him slowly as Shane cried out loudly.  

They were both so close, Ilya could feel it. His balls drew tight as Shane writhed beneath him, arching up into his hand and trying to grind down onto his cock all at once. Ilya gripped Shane tighter, jerking him in time with his thrusts as –  

Shane yelled loudly as he came, scratching his nails down Ilya’s back, spurring his orgasm on even harder. Ilya buried his head in the crook of Shane’s neck, grinding into Shane’s hole, filling him up. Ilya wasn’t sure he was breathing as he slumped down over Shane, sighing as Shane ran his hands gently down his back. He closed his eyes as Shane caressed him, scratching his scalp sweetly before drifting down his back, and up again.  

Ilya let himself let out a soft, happy noise, smiling when Shane held him tighter in response. 

Just get through it, he had repeated to himself all day. Then you get to come home to this.  

>>>  

They hadn’t said a word to each other since Ilya had gotten home. He had fucked Shane, showered with him, and curled up on the couch with him with a cup of coffee that Shane swore was regular, but Ilya could taste was decaf.  

It was nice, sometimes, to not speak. To not have to. To orbit the person he loved the most, and know what he was thinking and feeling. To not have to verbalise anything. To have someone do the same for him, to be read and felt and known.  

Ilya smiled as Shane took his mug, placing it on the coffee table and patting his lap. Ilya laid down, resting his head in Shane’s lap.  

They were quiet for the rest of the night as they watched the Admirals vs Metros game, Shane’s hands never leaving his hair.  

You get to come home to this, Ilya thought. Every night. They were on the same team now; they worked together and got to come home together. More often than not, they lived their lives inside the same four walls.  

Ilya hadn’t ever thought it was possible. Five, ten years ago, he would have laughed at the idea that he could have this life. That instead of pushing through work and training and interviews with the promise of dancing and drinking and sex and drugs, that he would get to come home to Shane. That Alexei was wrong about him.  

You get to come home to this.