Archive of Our Own

Ilya stood at the entrance to the Metros locker room, keeping his face carefully blank as he pushed through the door. The dull noise of morons conversing immediately stilled, and nearly every stare was unfriendly as he made his way to Shane’s stall.

They would be even more so if they had any idea who was controlling Shane’s body. He had no intention of blowing up Shane’s life, but he could admit to being curious. Shane had very reluctantly admitted to him that he’d lost the room after telling his team he was gay, but he’d refused to elaborate further.

Hayden Pike nudged him forward and he took the last few steps to the stall, sitting on the bench. 

Boizeau sat on his other side. The men at either shoulder were silent, but he could feel them bristling as the stares continued.

Ilya glanced up, finding the Montreal goalie glaring at him in obvious disgust. As their eyes met, the other man sneered and then spat at the ground, before turning to say something to the defenseman beside him. Drapeau and Comeau, Ilya noted. Top of his fucking hit list.

The training was an illuminating experience. Shane had told him in halting, stilted sentences how the Montreal training usually ran. What his role was. The types of drills he would run and what he would say to certain players. 

He’d made Ilya promise not to rock the boat.

Until he had some idea of what exactly he was dealing with, he would keep that promise. For now, he would watch, he would wait.

But he wasn’t loving what he was seeing. 

Insubordination was the least of it. Most of the team refused to listen to a word he said, apart from a few rookies, although they looked nervously towards the others whenever he offered advice. 

Pike still passed to him like normal, but his other liney barely acknowledged his existence, instead hogging the puck in drills and making idiotic mistakes rather than pass to Ilya. He knew that had to be grinding Shane’s gears. 

The defensemen were the worst. They seemed to fight over who was playing against his line, and then they took a sick amount of pleasure in pulling every underhanded trick they could to shove, check and board him, almost like they were trying to injure him.

Perhaps they were. They clearly didn’t want Shane on their team anymore, if the constant stream of both homophobic and racist slurs were any indication.

But the worst of it, the bit that really stuck in Ilya’s craw, was that the Montreal staff turned a blind eye to all of it. He was slammed into the boards directly in front of Theriault, the defenseman loudly using a slur as he shoved off and skated away, and the coach just gave him a distasteful look, telling him to shake it off.

Shane hadn’t just lost the room, he’d lost the fucking plot. This was only one single training. He’d been putting up with this bullshit for weeks. Why hadn’t he made an official complaint? Why was he tolerating this abuse?

Ilya ground his teeth together, waiting off to the side as most of the team made their way off the ice. Shane always stayed after training to work a bit longer, so it wouldn’t be unusual for him to avoid the locker room until the team had left.

Hayden skated over to him, his expression sympathetic.

“You alright?”

“Pike.”

Hayden’s eyebrows rose, realizing instantly what had happened. “Wait, again?” he asked.

Ilya hummed in response. “Yes. Again. Explain this to me, this bullshit with the team. Is this normal?”

He watched as Hayden’s face went tight and angry. 

“I don’t know about normal,” he said darkly, “but it is usual, yes. They’re all bring pricks. And Shane won’t let us do anything about it.”

Ilya nodded. “Well, I think it is past time for something to be done. Have you been keeping any kind of records?”

At this, a smile finally graced Hayden’s lips. It was almost feral in its intensity. “Jackie and I made a spreadsheet.”

***

Ilya’s team was not what Shane had expected. Ilya had told him that they were nice, that he was enjoying himself, but he hadn’t really understood what he meant until now.

Harris, the team’s social media manager, decked head to toe in a blinding amount of pride pins, was beaming at Boodram and Barrett as they answered his question of the day. He had a little microphone attached to the end of a hockey stick, and he alternated between holding up to each of their faces as they responded.

It was ridiculous.

It was morning skate the day of Ottawa’s evening game against New York, a home game that they were slated to lose. But the team was buoyant, all joking and grins and jostling around the room.

Shane thought of his own room. The glares. The snide taunts. The way his gear kept conveniently going missing, only to later reappear damaged. He hadn’t heard a genuine laugh there in weeks, just jeers.

It was a stark contrast.

He donned Ilya’s gear, dodging Harris on his way out to the ice. Harris gave him a concerned look but turned to Haas instead, getting his response, and Shane was grateful. His brain was way too messy just then to try and put on a performance. He just wanted to skate.

Coach Wiebe was already down by the bench, and he gave him a long look as Shane approached. 

“Roz,” he said, holding up a tablet, “come here for a sec.”

Shane trudged over, twirling Ilya’s stick nervously in his hands. “Coach,” he nodded.

Wiebe gave him a funny look but passed him the tablet. Shane watched the New York power play against Boston from the day before. Scott had scored from a sweet pass from Vaughn that had slipped between the skates of two defensemen. He’d buried the puck right over the goalie’s shoulder in a textbook play.

Shane frowned. He rewound the play, going back slightly further and watching it again. Then once more.

Scott’s other liney had skated through the middle of the offensive zone like a bowling ball, and it had disrupted the defensemen enough that Vaughn had been able to slip that pass through.

“Interesting tactic,” he said thoughtfully. Shane thought for a few moments about Ilya’s team. He’d watched every game so far this season, so he had a pretty good read on how they all moved, how they thought. “We should try switching out Chouinard for Boyle. He’s a touch quicker to readjust and he’s more physical.”

Wiebe hummed thoughtfully. “Good point. We’ll try it out. Run that play with Barrett and Haas, with Barrett trying to disrupt the d-men and we’ll see how Boyle goes.”

“Yes, coach,” Shane nodded. 

Again, Wiebe frowned. “You alright, Roz?”

Right. He was Ilya, not Shane. This was Ottawa, not Montreal. 

He gave a lazy shrug. “You know me,” he drawled. “I’m always fine.” The saucy wink probably wasn’t necessary, but it stopped Ilya’s coach from looking at him like a bug under a microscope, so Shane counted it as a win.

Skating onto the ice, he followed Ilya’s usual warm-up routine. It wasn’t that different to his own, just with a bit more joking around with his team-mates. He’d watched Ilya do it enough times both from the other side of the red line and on television that it was easy to emulate, just as Ilya’s playstyle was second nature to him now.

He pulled Barrett and Haas to the side afterwards, grabbing a tablet from the bench to show them the play and discuss what he wanted from them. Then he did the same with Boyle and Dykstra. 

They ran the play until Wiebe was satisfied that they could disrupt New York’s power play, before moving on to other drills.

***

Ilya stood in front of the mirror in Shane’s gym, clad in only a pair of those black briefs he favored. He was cataloguing every bruise, every scratch, every minor injury, doing his own personal scouting report on Shane’s body.

He could feel every twinge and ache of sore, tired muscles, the sharp pain of bruised or potentially even fractured ribs, the click in Shane’s right knee. 

How much of this damage had been caused by Shane’s own team?

Hayden had sent him the spreadsheet, and Ilya had been disgusted to read it. He’d already sent out emails to set up a meeting with Shane’s agent, Farah, and his mother. There was no way Yuna was aware of all this. She would be enraged.

Using Shane’s phone, Ilya took photos of each injury, sending them to Hayden before deleting the history of the texts from Shane’s phone.

Hayden: Jesus, dude.

Ilya deleted that, too.

Shane had been playing injured. It made Ilya angry, that Shane had not told him about any of this, that he had been pretending to be fine while his body looked like a minefield.

He knew that their communication had not been the best, lately. He’d been hiding how much them keeping their relationship secret was hurting him, how desperately he wanted to love Shane openly. He’d been hiding that he’d been seeing Galina, that he’d been trying to deal with his depression in healthier ways.

And he’d been hiding how hard it was, losing every night after being a legend. How disappointed he was that he couldn’t drag his team up with him swiftly enough to be anything other than the league’s laughing stock.

But he wouldn’t ever hide something like this. They were doing this so that they could both still play hockey. It was the whole fucking point.

If Shane wasn’t careful, his shitty team would injure him for real. It hadn’t escaped Ilya’s notice that this seemed to be their goal. The only reason Shane had likely made it this far into the season was that he was too fast to be caught.

But he was slowing down, with the injuries stacking up. It felt like a matter of time until he’d be on the IR list.

Ilya wouldn’t let that happen. 

So, he would tell Farah and Yuna. From there, he would dismantle Montreal from the inside, performing psychological warfare until every last one of these bastards who had hurt his Shane were bleeding on the ice.

But first, Shane’s body needed fuel in order to heal. He ordered groceries, filling Shane’s fridge with real food, throwing out anything he couldn’t pronounce. His love was far too skinny for this point in the season, and he was determined to make him fill out a bit before he gave his body back.

There would be no kisses until all of this was resolved to his satisfaction. His team. His injuries. His diet.

If Shane wouldn’t look after himself, well, Ilya would do it for him. And back in Ottawa, he knew Shane would be in good hands with his team. They would look after him, show him what a supportive locker room was meant to look like. They were good guys.

He went back into Shane’s room and flopped onto the bed, breathing in that familiar scent, pulling it into his lungs and holding it there. 

At the end of the day, all of this would mean nothing if he couldn’t convince Shane to leave his team. Of course, he hoped Shane would come play in Ottawa, with him, but at this stage he wasn’t picky. But he couldn’t stay with Montreal. That was for certain.

***

Shane stood at the red line, idly playing with a puck and watching impassively as Scott Hunter skated towards him.

“Rozanov,” he said warily, nodding at him.

Shane nodded back. “Hunter.”

Silence fell between them as they studied each other. “What?” Hunter said. “No chirps?”

He sighed. “Something, something, dinosaur, something something, ancient. Retire already, blah, blah, blah,” he grumbled. 

Hunter’s eyebrows rose. “Losing your touch, Roz?”

“Just tired,” Shane admitted. “Not too tired to beat your team, of course. It's just been a long season.”

Hunter shot him a concerned look. “Sure,” he said, ignoring the weak chirp. “Want to get a beer after the game?”

He knew Ilya went to the bar Hunter had purchased with his friend Eric Bennett after games in New York. He didn’t realize it was also reciprocated in Ottawa as well.

“Okay, why not?” he said. “I’ll text you.”

With one last searching look, Hunter skated back to his team, and Shane turned away, finishing the rest of his warm-up.

The game itself is an exercise in frustration. Ilya’s team was good, very good, but their lack of belief in their plays and their team-mates cost them opportunities that any other team would be capitalizing on. 

Ilya often complained about how slow Tanner Dillon was, and Shane was now experiencing it for himself. Dillon was even slower than Hayden was, and he struggled to keep up with him and Barrett. He wished that he could steal Haas from the second line, but he was a good back-up center, and he couldn’t disrupt their line to make his own a bit faster.

But as yet another missed pass occurred, he couldn’t help the shake of his head as he skated back to the bench to swap with Haas, muttering under his breath in Russian.

On the bench, Bood nudged him. “Keep at it, Rozy,” he said cheerfully. “The chances will come.”

He nodded at him, squirting water into his mouth to save himself from replying.

Guilt was churning in his gut. He’d made Ilya leave Boston for this second-rate team. He deserved better than this.

So, he would do what he could to lift them up. He’d run skating drills with Dillon until he puked. He’d work with Haas on his playmaking and his confidence. Anything it took to lift this team out of the bottom of the league.

His one vindication was that whenever New York got on the power play, they didn’t once score using their bowling ball play. Ottawa still lost the game, but Shane held that small victory close to his chest, letting it warm him.

***

Ilya stood in Shane’s kitchen, putting the finishing touches on his meal prep for the week. They were set to have a few home games in a row, so he’d done one big cook-up of nutritionally dense, protein-rich meals that were actually edible, alongside enough snacks to feed a whole team. 

He’d already worked out that morning, and Yuna would be there any minute, so mostly he was stacking food into containers to keep himself distracted from what would likely be a very tough meeting. Shane, he knew, would be busy getting ready to play New York, after which Hunter would probably drag him out for a few drinks.

It had been a deliberate choice, setting up this meeting for when Shane would be too busy to be suspicious about his radio silence. He would tell him afterwards, once he and Yuna and Farah had a plan.

There was a light knock at the door and then it opened, Yuna bustling in with a suitcase that Ilya swiftly relinquished from her, letting her pull him into a hug.

“Shane,” she said, her smile dropping a little as she pulled back, looking at him properly. “You’re looking a little peaky. Are you okay?”

“Hi mum,” Ilya said, ducking away from her concerned look to carry her suitcase to the guest room Shane’s parents had claimed. “I’m fine.”

She followed him into the room, setting down her handbag on the bedside table. Her brow was furrowed still as he turned, avoiding her gaze.

Shane was going to be very angry with him, for bringing her into this. But he knew it would be worth it, in the end.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “Shane, what’s going on?”

He gave a deep sigh. 

“Everything is okay with Ilya, right?” she asked sharply. “You two aren’t fighting?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Ilya said, reassuring her. 

He took her hand, and she looked, if anything, significantly more worried.

“I told my team at the start of the season,” he said haltingly. “About me, I mean. Being gay. Not about who I’m with, of course. But…” he trailed off, and Yuna’s expression darkened.

“It didn’t go well,” she guessed.

He shook his head. 

“No,” he said simply. “It’s bad, mum.”

“Show me.”

So, he did. He showed her the marks, dispassionately pointing out every bruise and injury. He brought her over to Shane’s laptop, logging into it to show her the spreadsheet Hayden and Jackie Pike had made. And he told her about every comment and action he’d witnessed at training the past few days, explaining that it had been escalating since it was clear the staff had no intention of stopping any of it.

“They’re trying to injure me.” He looked down at his clenched fists. “Three cups. I’ve given them three fucking cups. And they want to end my career over this.”

“Fuck them,” Yuna said, her voice colder than Ilya had ever heard it before. “Let’s get Farah on the phone and figure out how to fucking destroy them.”

***

Shane stepped into the bar, quickly spotting Hunter and Vaughn relaxing in a booth, beers already placed in front of them. He ordered a drink at the bar, some vodka he knew Ilya favored, and walked over to join them.

They both gave friendly greetings as he flopped into the chair, which he returned.

Hunter studied him. “You don’t seem like your usual self, Roz,” he noted, once the pleasantries were over and an awkward silence had fallen.

Shane shrugged in response. “You played well,” he noted. “Those rookies are starting to gel.”

Vaughn glanced at Hunter and then back at him. “Yeah,” he agreed, giving him an odd look.

And well, Shane knew he was absolutely failing at pretending to be Ilya. He didn’t really have it in him to put on his cocky, upbeat demeanor. He was too worried about Ilya suffering at the hands of Montreal, of him seeing what Shane had been hiding from him for weeks now.

The radio silence the past day or so spoke volumes, and Shane was scared to be the one to breach it. He knew Ilya would be angry. He was probably right to be. Shane’s team was a fucking mess, and no matter what he did or said, he couldn’t win them back. He’d fucking tried, he’d tried to be perfect, to keep scoring them goals and keep grinding them wins, but he was just… tired. He was so tired.

Even being in Ilya’s body couldn’t fix it. This weariness was soul deep.

“How is Kip?” he asked Hunter instead, relief filling him as his face lit up and he immediately started gushing about his boyfriend. It was bittersweet, but it was better than having their eyes resting on him, or of them noticing the way that despite bringing his glass to his lips multiple times, the amount of liquid in it never actually changed.

Eventually, Shane made himself pay attention to their conversation, actually contributing and even at points laughing a little. It was nice to just be around a few other hockey players and not feel like they were going to turn around and spit on him. Hunter was gay, and he knew that Vaughn supported his friend and teammate, and that he’d also been happy to come along and watch Shane’s friend Joe skate at Sochi.

So, it was safe, to just rest here, to let a bit of the tension go, and talk about hockey and a sip or two of admittedly decent vodka, and just be… well, not himself. He was Ilya right now, after all. 

But he could be a bit silly and a bit snarky, and the guys would just laugh.

And it was nice.

***

Ilya sat back while Farah and Yuna spoke over a video call, going through Shane’s contract with a fine-tooth comb. Farah had been equally as incensed as Yuna had been by the spreadsheet and the injuries, and was typing on her computer with furious speed, actively scowling.

In the few years since Farah had also become his own agent, he’d never seen anything but a wide, friendly smile on her face. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

It didn’t seem like either of them wanted any of his input anymore, so he drifted back to the kitchen, packaging up the last of the meals and sorting them between the fridge and Shane’s enormous freezer.

Then, he made himself a cup of coffee and retreated out to the back porch, sitting on the couch and staring unseeingly out towards the small pond Shane had had installed the previous year. He claimed he liked listening to the sound of the water bubbling when he was meditating.

It was nice, he supposed. Calming. Though he’d never understood meditation. He could never shut up his brain for long enough to manage it, and was generally too restless to stay still for long enough.

Shane’s body responded well to it, though, and he soon found himself closing his eyes, breathing deeply and evenly, his mind going quiet.

It startled him, a while later, when the back door opened.

He blinked his eyes open, and found Yuna approaching him, her expression steely.

“Are you ready to hear the options?” she asked.

Ilya considered this. On the one hand, he did want to know. He wanted to get Shane the fuck away from this pathetic team, as soon as possible.

But he also knew that this would be Shane’s choice, at the end of the day. He could force his hand a little, but he couldn’t do this without him.

“No,” he said. “I think I want to wait until Ilya can hear it, too.”

Yuna’s gaze softened. “That’s fair,” she agreed. “I know he’s been worried about you.”

That was true. While he’d been hiding his own issues from Shane, that didn’t mean he hadn’t been noticing how withdrawn his boyfriend had been. And Ilya had been seeing Shane’s parents more than Shane had, and definitely more than they’d been seeing each other.

“I know,” he said with a sigh. “He knows what's been going on.”

“I’m glad you told him,” Yuna said. “And me, and Farah. I know how hard it must have been for you.”

Ilya grimaced. So hard, in fact, that Shane hadn’t even done it. Fate had once again forced their hands.

And for that, he would be thanking his lucky stars it had intervened before Shane had been badly hurt.

***

“Hello?” Shane called, letting himself in through the front door. “Anybody home?”

“In here,” his dad called out from the kitchen.

Shane followed the sound of his voice, finding him stirring something that smelled incredible at the stove.

“Hi, Ilya,” he said, turning to beam at him. “Just me, today, I’m afraid. Yuna drove up to Montreal to hang out with Shane for a few days.”

“Oh?” Shane replied warily.

His dad looked surprised. “Shane didn’t tell you?”

Dread made his stomach sink like a stone. “We haven’t spoken,” he admitted. “I got home late after the game last night.”

A sympathetic look appeared on his father’s face. “That was a tough loss,” he said. “The team had some positive signs, though. A few good penalty kills.”

Shane nodded absent-mindedly. God, Ilya had called his mother, hadn’t he? Fuck.

If Ilya knew, and his mother knew, well, then it would be a matter of time until she told his father. It would be better, he knew, if it came from him. Even if he wouldn’t know as much.

“I have to tell you something,” he said quietly.

His father frowned. “This sounds serious.”

Shane gave a sigh. “Yeah.” He sat himself down in one of the stools and looked down at his hands. “Things are not good,” he admitted, “in Montreal.”

“How so?”

“He would not tell me,” Shane continued. “I mean, he kind of hinted that things were bad, but he would not explain. But I think his team, his coaches, everyone at Montreal, they are all trying to hurt him, very badly.”

It hurt like a bitch to admit it. He’d barely even begun to accept it, in his own mind. But now that he knew Ilya was being subjected to the treatment he’d been receiving, it felt different, somehow. It was like, by considering it happening to his boyfriend, instead of him, it made it more real.

More dangerous.

He glanced up to find his dad staring at him, a very uncharacteristically angry look on his face. “They want to hurt him?”

“He told the team he was gay,” Shane continued, dropping his gaze again, feeling tears stinging at his eyes. “And now they spit on him, and they call him slurs, and they try every training to injure him, and God, they are getting so close to it. The coaches don’t care, they’re basically encouraging it. And I can tell he is so tired.”

“That’s why Shane asked Yuna to visit, I assume?”

Shane shrugged. “Probably, I think so, yes.”

“Good,” his dad said, sounding distinctly satisfied. “She’ll give them hell.”

Yeah. That was kinda what Shane was worried about.

***

Ilya sat beside Yuna on the couch as she rang David. He knew it was time to face the music. Shane would be at his parent’s house by now, probably finding out that Yuna wasn’t there, and realizing what he had done.

Before he could worry for too long, the video call connected, showing David and Shane, in Ilya’s body, sitting at their dining table. Shane had a bowl of ice cream in front of him, which he was looking down at with a complicated look on his face.

Despite his concern, Ilya bit back a smile at that. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Shane give into eating any ice cream, let alone the amount David had stacked inside the bowl. 

When Shane looked up, his own eyes stared back at him, lit with faint irritation as he spotted Ilya’s amusement.

“Hi sweetheart,” Yuna said warmly. 

Yuna and David exchanged greetings and made small talk for a moment, while Ilya and Shane just gazed at each other. He could see Shane’s guilt, how low his shoulders had sunken in. No wonder David had given four whole scoops. Misery wafted off of him, even through the small screen.

“Hi,” Shane said in a small voice. 

Ilya gave a tight nod of acknowledgement. He was upset with Shane, as he knew Shane was likely upset with him. He knew they would need to talk about it, and soon.

But that conversation didn’t need to happen in front of Shane’s parents.

“Has Ilya caught you up?” Yuna asked David suddenly, drawing their attention back.

“He has,” David agreed. “I can only assume we have a plan already?”

Yuna glanced at Ilya. “Shane wanted to wait for you, Ilya. But yes, I’ve spoken to Farah. We have a few options.”

Ilya looked at Shane, who sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, resigned, he stuck a spoon into the bowl and shoved some ice cream into his mouth.

His eyes fluttered closed. Ilya hid a smirk behind his hand.

Cookies and cream was his favorite flavor, too.

“Okay, hit us with it,” David said, putting on a pair of glasses that resembled the pair Shane wore, a notebook already open in front of him, his pen poised.

Yuna talked them through it, carefully explaining the likely repercussions of each choice, but it essentially boiled down to Shane making an official complaint and waiting to see if Montreal made any positive changes, making a complaint and waiving his no-trade clause and leaving, making no complaint and leaving anyway, or, the option Shane had been employing to absolutely no effect, doing and saying nothing and just suffering silently until one of his teammates actually managed to injure him.

Yuna made it very clear what her thoughts were on the last, shooting Ilya a fierce look. He kept his eyes carefully averted. 

“Shane’s contract is up at the end of the year anyway,” Shane said. “Is it a good idea to waive his no-trade clause and end up who knows where, when he has more choice when he’s a free agent?”

Ah, Ilya thought darkly. So that was what his plan had been. Just get through to the end of the season and hope it would all be okay.

Never mind that the season was not even half over yet, and he was already at his limit.

“No,” Yuna said firmly. “I understand why you’d ask that, Ilya, but from what I have seen and discussed with Shane, that’s definitely not an option. I know you know that as well.”

Shane looked suitably cowed by that, only giving a tight nod and dropping his gaze.

“When does Farah need to know?” Ilya asked quietly.

Yuna turned to face him. “You can take a day or two,” she said. “You have an optional skate tomorrow, which you’re opting out of-”

Ilya noticed Shane wince from the corner of his eyes, but studiously ignored it. He agreed with her, after all.

“-and then, it's a rest day before the team flies to Detroit for their next game.”

“You don’t intend for me to be on that plane,” Ilya noted.

Her face tightened. “No, I do not.”

He heard Shane sigh. 

Ilya nodded. “I will think about it,” he promised.

***

Shane stared at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom, his stomach churning. Had he really played his last game for Montreal? With Hayden and JJ? Was he ready for that to be true?

He wasn’t sure, but he knew that his parents and Ilya were right, he couldn’t go on like this.

Rolling over, he grabbed Ilya’s phone, which had a few texts from Hayden on it, who had apparently realized much more quickly this time that Ilya was in his body.

Pike: Shane, you okay bud?

Pike: Ring anytime, you know we’re here for you.

With a deep sigh, he pressed the call button, holding the phone to his ear. It didn’t even ring twice before Hayden answered. 

“Shh, yes, I know. It’s Shane,” he heard Hayden hiss. “Sorry, hey man.”

“Hey,” he said wearily.

“Hi Shane,” he heard Jackie say in the background.

“She knows,” Hayden quickly explained. “You’re fine.”

“Hi Jacks,” he said in Ilya’s distinct Russian accent.

“Okay, that is so weird,” Jackie said with a disbelieving laugh.

“It is,” Shane agreed. “I don’t know why it keeps happening, but here I am. In Ottawa.”

“Better than Boston,” Hayden muttered.

He rolled his eyes. “Boston wasn’t so bad,” he said dismissively. “At least they win games.”

“Ouch,” Hayden laughed. “Ottawa’s that bad?”

“No,” he admitted. “No, they’re really nice, actually. Friendly. It’s weird.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Hayden said after a few long moments of silence. “A team should be a family. Not whatever this bullshit is, man.”

He swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched out. “We love you,” Jackie said eventually. “And Hayden knows, we know… Shane, you can’t stay in Montreal. You know that, right?”

There was a rock on his chest, solid and impossibly heavy, weighing him down, compressing his lungs. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.

But yes, he knew. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” Hayden said, and Shane could hear the tremor in his voice, the anguish, “but I hate seeing them hurt you like this. Ilya… he sent me pictures.”

Shane closed his eyes. 

“Any team would be so lucky to have you, you know? You’re Shane fucking Hollander. You’re a literal legend, the best in the game. Teams will be scrambling to offer you a better locker room,” Hayden continued. “And look, I’m not gonna lie to you, bud. I’m not intending on being here much longer either. Jackie and I have talked about it, and I don’t give a fuck about winning any more cups if it means sitting in a locker room where coaching staff turn a blind eye to this crap. It’s completely unacceptable.”

Shane took in a painful, shuddering breath.

While Hayden’s words hurt, they were helping as well. If Hayden was willing to walk away from Montreal…

Hayden had loved this team. He’d bled red and blue from the moment Shane had met him in his rookie year, when he’d taken him under his wing and enthusiastically shown him the ropes. He’d welcomed Shane into his life with open arms, and when he’d met Jackie, his home as well. 

Shane had been there at the birth of all of his kids, who all called him Uncle Shane and loved him as fiercely as Shane loved them.

If Hayden, who was loyal and kind and funny, was done with Montreal…

Then maybe Shane could be done, too.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Okay.”

“Fuck Montreal,” Jackie cheered.

***

Ilya sat in the passenger seat while Yuna drove, staring listlessly out the window. They’d talked the options to death, and now she was giving him time to think as they returned to Ottawa.

And Ilya was in two minds about what to do next. On the one hand, he could kiss Shane and give his body back, and let him steer the ship into what came next. But on the other hand, he knew how tired Shane was, that he needed a break. But not from hockey. From the bullshit of his stupid, awful team.

Maybe playing a few games for Ottawa would be good for him. Barrett was shaping up much more nicely than Ilya had first expected, and he knew that Bood and Hayes would look after him. Not to mention Haas, who would probably die if he knew he was playing alongside Shane Hollander.

It was almost Christmas, only a few days. Maybe then they could talk properly, then, and figure out what came next. 

He’d turned off Shane’s phone. When he hadn’t arrived at the optional morning skate, something Shane had likely never skipped in his entire career to date, his phone had immediately started blowing up. 

Farah had advised him to let all communication with the team go through her, so he’d turned it off rather than let the incessant buzzing annoy him.

Shane was done with Montreal. Yuna and Farah had prepared the official complaint that would be emailed later that afternoon, once Shane gave him the go ahead. It was brutal in its simplicity. It listed the injuries, the slurs, the players responsible, the staff who were actively encouraging it or willfully ignoring it. 

And it finished by stating, clearly and openly, that Shane would be waiving his no-trade clause, and was willing to hear out any team who would come to the table. His non-negotiable was the locker room. It was stated clearly that he wouldn’t be interested in hearing out anyone with a history of racism or homophobia in their rooms.

That last part, Ilya knew, would make Shane balk. It didn’t outright state his orientation, but it certainly implied it.

Anyone with half a brain could read between the lines.

Ilya was willing to gamble that most teams wouldn’t give a shit. He wasn’t sure if Shane was, though.

He knew what he was hoping for. Which team he wanted to take him in. 

More than anything, he wished he could talk to Wiebe about it. From what he had seen in the past season, he was a good man, and one who cared a lot more than most coaches about a good locker room.

He’d be good for Shane.

They were almost to Ottawa, but instead of turning off towards the Hollander’s house, Yuna drove deeper into the city.

“Where are we going?” Ilya asked. It was the first time he’d spoken in over an hour.

“To the stadium,” she said simply. “Ilya should be nearly done with training. We’ll pop in and pick him up.”

“Oh,” Ilya said.

Shane would be panicking right now, he knew. But Ilya was just happy. After suffering through Montreal’s locker room, he was badly missing his team. It would be nice to see them, even if it wouldn’t be as himself.

Perhaps he would be able to talk to Wiebe after all.

***

Shane skated idly behind the net. There was a bit of down time between two drills, and Wyatt Hayes was muttering under his breath, something about a superhero comic he’d been reading. He seemed distracted, but Shane had just watched him block fifteen straight shots in their power play drill, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“Good moves, Hayes,” he said, tapping his legs with his stick.

Hayes blinked out of his daze, glancing at him. “Oh, yeah, thanks Roz.”

Shane nodded and meandered over to Troy Barrett, who was resting against the boards, his gaze turned over towards the bench, where the social media guy was fiddling with a camera.

He’d noticed that Barrett spent a lot of time trailing after Harris. 

And Shane was oblivious about most things, but even to him, it was clear that Barrett was interested in him.

“Ask him out already,” he said, skating into his side and elbowing him. 

Barrett let out an oof and turned to glare at him. “You fucking scared me, Roz,” he hissed. “The fuck?”

Shane rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t be such a baby,” he drawled.

Barrett scowled but didn’t say anything more, so Shane looked out at the ice. 

“Holy shit,” Barrett breathed, elbowing his side. “Hollander.”

The fuck?

“Huh?” he asked, his heart racing in his chest.

“Look,” Barrett said, gesturing over to the bench, where Ilya now stood with his mother and Coach Wiebe.

“Oh,” Shane said. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or terrified. He’d thought Barrett had clocked him. Was it better or worse that Ilya was here in his body? He had no idea.

Pushing off from the boards, he slowly crossed the ice, Barrett trailing after him.

“Hello Shane, Yuna,” he said mildly. “This is a surprise.”

Wiebe shot him another strange look, glancing between the two of them. At his side, Barrett just looked amused. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Barrett asked, and fuck, but his elbows were sharp.

Shane frowned at him. “Introduce you? You already know him, fuckhead. He’s Shane Hollander.”

Barrett ignored him, palming off a glove and offering his hand to Ilya. “Nice to meet you,” he said. His voice was weird.

Ilya just looked amused, reaching over to shake his teammate’s hand.

“Hello Barrett,” he said in Shane’s polite media voice. 

“What are you doing here, man?” Barrett asked, reluctantly dropping Ilya’s hand.

Ilya shrugged, glancing at Shane. “We’re in town for foundation business. We thought we’d steal your captain for a little while, once practice is over.”

“Take him,” Barrett said, nodding eagerly.

Bood, skating by, chuckled at this. “You don’t even have to give him back.”

“Oi,” Shane snapped, turning to curse at Boodram in Russian.

When he turned back, Ilya looked amused. “We’ll wait until you guys are done here, Roz. Finish your practice.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “You know they’re all just going to show off, now.”

Ilya smirked. It was slightly disconcerting, seeing such an Ilya expression on his own face. “I’d expect nothing less.”

With a shake of his head, Shane pushed away from the boards to corral Ilya’s team-mates into something that at least vaguely resembled a drill.

He dragged Barrett with him, who turned to him once they were a few meters away, his expression a little dazed. “He's so fucking hot up close, holy shit.”

Shane blinked after him, utterly perplexed.

Behind him, he heard Ilya snort.

***

Ilya glanced at Yuna, who, correctly reading his expression, took David's arm and retreated a small distance away in the stands, leaving him with Wiebe.

“I’ve been hearing some interesting rumors, the past couple of days,” Wiebe said, looking out at the ice.

Ilya shoved his hands into his pockets, moving to stand alongside him. On the ice, his team were fanning out into a power play drill, Shane barking orders. He sighed.

“They're true,” he admitted.

Wiebe’s eyebrows rose. “All of them?”

Ilya shot him a look, faintly amused. “I suppose that depends on what you’ve heard.”

Wiebe's lips twitched up. He studied Ilya from the corner of his eye, but Ilya ignored him in favor of watching Shane with his team, a powerful longing and hope clutching at his chest. He wanted this, but for real, with Shane in his own body.

He’d do anything to make it real.

“Do you think there could be a place for me here?” he asked quietly.

Wiebe snorted. “You're already captain here, dickhead.”

Ilya snorted. Of course Wiebe had clocked them.

“Shut up,” he grumbled. “You know what I mean. Can we keep him?” He nodded out to where Shane was skating, a glint of life in his eyes that had been missing for weeks now.

“I’m not sure,” Wiebe admitted. “Depends on what Montreal wants for him, I suppose. But Roz, of course we want him. He's Shane fucking Hollander.”

Roz nodded slowly. “Yes. I think Montreal has made him forget that, a bit. They have hurt him very badly.”

“Is that why you swapped?” Wiebe asked curiously.

“Probably, yes,” he said. “Is not first time it has happened. Before, I think it was me. This time, it is me protecting him.”

Wiebe hummed thoughtfully but didn't interrupt.

“He clocked my depression within the first few hours,” he said with a sigh. “Took my body straight to a doctor and got me a prescription.”

He glanced at Wiebe, who didn't look surprised. “Your medical files list all of your medications,” he pointed out gently.

Ilya nodded. “Yes,” he said simply. 

“So, what's the plan here?” Wiebe asked.

“I need you to babysit Shane while I fuck over his team and get him traded,” he admitted. “Hopefully here, but I don't think Shane cares where he goes at this stage. He just wants out.”

“He's on board?” Wiebe checked.

“Even if he wasn't,” Ilya said, glancing back to where Yuna was watching them like a hawk, “I do not think Yuna would let him stay.”

Wiebe smirked. “You got his mum involved, huh?”

“Hollander isn't the only one who can play dirty,” he said with a faint smile.

“Canada's Golden Boy plays dirty?” Wiebe looked intrigued by this.

Ilya gave a long, drawn out sigh. “Shane Hollander is an asshole,” he told him. “No one ever believes me, but underneath that hockey robot persona is a very snarky, prissy man who curses like a sailor.”

Wiebe smiled at that. “I can't wait to meet him.”

They both looked back out to the ice, where Shane was tapping the back of Dillon’s legs with his stick, berating him in a mixture of English and Russian.

“I want this team for him,” Ilya said after a few moments. “I think he needs them.”

Wiebe turned towards him, holding out a hand for him to shake. “I’ll do my best, son.”

Ilya smiled at him, letting the hope bloom in his chest.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

***

Shane stripped off and showered in record time, shoving his things into Ilya’s bag while most of the team were still loitering in the locker room, talking shit. A few chirped at him about Ilya and his parents being there, but it wasn’t nasty… more curious than anything else. They didn’t seem to know what to make of it.

He brushed their comments aside, told them to be on time for their game, and then booked it out to where Ilya was waiting.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly, pushing Ilya’s damp curls away from his face.

Ilya winked at him, and Yuna stepped forward to give him a tight hug.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she said warmly. “I hope you don’t mind us popping into the stadium to pick you up.”

“Not at all,” he told her honestly.

He knew that if they were in their own bodies, Ilya would have been thrilled at the three of them turning up for him like this. And, well, it was good to see them. He was still reeling a little at how normal Ilya’s team were, how laid-back and fun. He wasn’t quite ready to think about what that meant.

Although time was definitely running out on that front.

David drove, with Yuna beside him and the two of them sitting in the backseat. Ilya had immediately taken his hand, and Shane had squeezed it gratefully. 

He wanted nothing more than to scoot over and rest his head on Ilya’s shoulder, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And he hated that, suddenly, more than he’d ever hated anything. What was the point of all of this secrecy if it made them both so miserable?

Shane was so sick of feeling like this. So tired and scared and sad.

He could tell, too, that not all of that sadness was his own. Every touch Ilya granted him sent his whole body into a shiver, like he was so touch-starved that the lightest brush of his shoulder against his own was enough to send an electric shock through his nervous system.

When they got home, he wanted Ilya to lie on him like a blanket for at least three hours.

“You good?” Ilya murmured to him, his thumb rubbing over the back of Shane’s hand.

He gave a tight nod, and Ilya smiled at him, though there was a tinge of sadness to it.

The food was nice, though Shane felt like he barely tasted it. He was too aware of the curious looks they were getting, conscious of exactly how close he and Ilya were sitting, and getting tense anytime he saw a phone in someone’s hands.

They probably weren’t even taking a photo of them, but it was enough to have him on edge.

It pissed him off. Why did it matter? Hadn’t that been the whole fucking point of this foundation in the first place, to give them a plausible reason to be seen in public together? Why then, was he freaking out about it so much?

Beside him, Ilya was shooting him concerned looks, though he also looked tense.

His hand kept rubbing over the front of his chest, and Shane bit back a grimace. His anxiety often made his chest feel tight, like an iron band wrapped around his ribs, compressing them. In Ilya’s body, it felt different, more like a restless buzzing under his skin, like he needed to move.

“Do you want to go and watch Ilya’s game?” Yuna asked as David went to take care of the check.

“Won’t that look weird?” Ilya asked, glancing at Shane.

Yuna smirked. “I don’t know if I care about how it looks,” she said. “It will make Montreal sweat.”

Ilya shot a questioning look at him, and Shane shrugged. 

“Sure, why not,” Ilya said, turning to Yuna and offering her a tight smile. “Fuck Montreal, right?”

Shane rolled his eyes.

“Exactly,” Yuna said, and she started tapping at her phone, presumably to organize said tickets. Shane glanced at Ilya, who was frowning at him, gesturing to his mum.

“Oh,” Shane said. “Yuna, no, you are not purchasing tickets to my game. I will get them for you, of course. You can sit in the family section.”

Ilya nodded approvingly. Yuna looked surprised.

“Are you sure, sweetie?” she asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Definitely,” Shane said firmly.

Fuck Montreal, and fuck his anxiety. It was time to let all of it go. 

And he wanted Ilya there to watch him and his team win for a change.

***

David dropped him and Shane back at the stadium and left them there, and Shane led him over to Ilya’s car, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Ilya’s eyebrows rose as he slipped into the passenger seat, shocked but pleased to see Shane driving his Porsche.

“I expected you to take the SUV,” he said.

Shane bit back a smirk, putting his arm around the back of Ilya’s seat as he reversed cleanly.

“Just because I drive a normal car doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate fast ones,” he admitted.

Ilya gave a delighted laugh, throwing his head back.

“Even after all these years, Shane Hollander, you still find ways to surprise me,” he said gleefully.

Shane just smiled at him, navigating the car easily out of the parking lot. Ilya just watched him, ignoring the scenery in favor of studying his own face.

It was weird, still, looking at himself like this, studying his micro-expressions from the outside. There was still something of Shane in the slight furrow of his brow, in the determined grit of his jaw, but it was otherwise that same face he usually saw in the mirror every day.

“Admiring yourself?” Shane asked, sounding bemused.

“Of course,” he said easily. “I am very handsome. I can see why you’re so obsessed with me.”

Shane rolled his eyes and didn’t respond, concentrating on the road.

Ilya watched him a bit longer. “Have you thought about it?” he asked eventually.

“Yeah,” Shane sighed. “I read the complaint Farah sent through.”

“And?” Ilya pressed.

Shane’s lips twisted. “You know I don’t like that last bit.”

“I figured,” he said. “I think you should send it anyway.”

“And get laughed out of the league?” Shane asked with a scowl. “I still actually want to play hockey, Ilya.”

“You will,” Ilya said confidently. “You are forgetting, I think, who you are.”

“Right now, I’m Ilya Rozanov,” he pointed out wryly.

Ilya snorted. “True enough,” he said. “And I am Shane Hollander. Best hockey player in the league, winner of three Stanley Cups and a Conn Smythe, not to mention a Silver Olympic medal.”

He turned and looked at Shane very seriously, who had pulled into Ilya’s driveway and parked in the garage, staring down at his hands on the steering wheel. 

“And,” Ilya continued, “every team in the league is going to be tripping over themselves trying to get me on their team, and benefit from Montreal’s idiot mistakes.”

“You don’t know that,” Shane snapped.

“Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “At the moment, there are only rumors of you wanting to leave your team, and social media is fucking exploding. Farah texted me earlier to say she has four teams calling her with offers already, even though she hasn’t officially confirmed anything.”

Shane stared at him, stunned. “What?”

“Shane Hollander is a pretty big deal,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t know how you always manage to forget this. You have a big trophy room with all of your accomplishments. Maybe sometime soon I need to fuck you in it, remind you who you are.”

He watched his own face flush bright red.

Oh, perhaps Russians did blush after all.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying,” Shane said, unbuckling his seatbelt and shoving his way out of the car. 

Ilya trailed after him, secretly pleased at how flustered Shane was, despite his dismay.

***

Shane laid in the middle of Ilya’s bed, feeling tension bleed out of him as Ilya’s weight held him in place. He ran his hands lazily up and down Ilya’s spine, his eyes closed in pure bliss, perfectly content to just stay there forever.

As the buzzy feeling slowly faded, though, his mind started turning instead, and he thought, really thought, about everything that had happened the past few months.

Ilya was quiet, his face tucked into Shane’s neck, his hands wriggled underneath him behind Shane’s back, probably going numb with their combined weight. 

He longed for this to be normal, for them not to have to snatch moments of time together and hoard every touch like they didn’t know when the next one was coming. He wanted to be greedy, for this to be so normal and commonplace that he could bloat himself on it.

And, well, he liked Ilya’s team. There was no nastiness, no glares or scoffs every time he did something. Even when he was being an ass, goading them at training, chirping them, pushing them, they all just embraced it with cheerful smiles. Not even bag skates were enough to have them complaining, when Wiebe had taken offence at some of their pranking in the locker room, wanting them to focus up.

When Ilya had turned up at training in his body, the team had been elated. They’d thrown friendly chirps at him as they’d skated past the bench, and laughed and skated hard in their drills to show off for him.

He imagined, for a moment, how Montreal would have reacted if the situation had been reversed. If Ilya had turned up at one of their training sessions…

He somehow knew that it would have ended in some kind of bloodshed.

Even before they knew he was gay, most of the interactions with Montreal had still had this edge of negativity to them, all criticism and showboating and jealousy. Shane had brushed it off, used to players who weren’t as good at him needling at him, targeting him. He was faster, better, he was different, and others never seemed to like that.

It was why he had to be perfect, to push himself faster, to stay on the ice longer, to score the most goals. If he was perfect, then no one could complain that he wasn’t pulling his weight. 

No one had to fight for their place like that in Ottawa. From Ilya right down to the rookie, Haas, everyone got their time, everyone worked hard, and no one was nasty.

He could see himself actually maybe enjoying hockey again, playing for a team like that. He couldn’t remember the last time hockey had been fun… Maybe that All Stars game with Ilya…

What would it be like for hockey to be that fun every night? To leave every practice sore but pleased with everyone’s effort? To drive home with Ilya beside him, getting into the same bed every night?

To not be covered in bruises from his own team trying to hurt him.

To not hear slurs spat at him at every turn.

To not have his gear shredded every day.

To have supportive coaching staff, who had a kind word for him every now and again.

Shane sighed. Yeah, maybe he’d let things go a bit far.

“Would Ottawa even want me?” he asked in a small voice.

Ilya wiggled his hands free and pushed up onto his elbows, looking down at him.

“I know they do,” he said. “Wiebe told me as much.”

Shane blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

It couldn’t be that simple, surely.

Ilya nodded. “Send the email,” he said, “and tell Farah you want Ottawa.”

He took a shaky breath, his heart racing in his chest. 

Then, finally, he nodded.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll do it.”

***

Ilya sat in the family section with Shane’s parents on either side of him, pride shining in his chest as he watched his team weave around on the ice. Just behind him was Cassie Boodram and Lisa Hayes, who were happily chatting away. They’d been politely confused when Ilya had joined them, but welcoming, and it had made his heart happy, to see the wives and girlfriends of his teammates treating his Shane like part of the Centaurs family so easily.

He and Shane had talked for awhile before he’d sent the email, and they had a rough plan for coming out, for telling the team about them. Farah had called and told them that things would happen quickly, that likely Shane would be with his new team perhaps as soon as after Christmas, and he’d had to end the phone call quickly as Shane had started to panic a bit at that.

But it gave him hope, to see Shane lazily skating around his teammates, tapping a helmet here, nudging an arm there. He’d fit right in, Ilya knew. After spending the past few games and practices with Ottawa, he was already settling in nicely, like he’d always been there.

Ottawa was hosting Nashville, and it was an interesting game. Very fast paced, with the puck slicing up the ice cleanly on Shane’s stick. Every check was finished with a percussive thud, shaking the glass, and his team were playing with an uncharacteristic focus, locked in in a way that Ilya had always known they were capable of.

Barrett was lethal on Shane’s wing. Hayes was batting aside every puck like it was child’s play. Bood was everywhere, checking his opponents fiercely.

The defense was tight, the offence dangerous.

“They’re playing well,” Yuna noted. Now that she knew Ottawa was the most likely team to scoop Shane up, she was assessing them with that eagle-eye of hers. “Lots of potential here.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “They’re a better team than people give them credit for. Ilya has worked hard with them.”

“They have all the pieces they need,” Yuna said. She glanced slyly at him. “Well, almost.”

Behind him, he heard Cassie smother a gasp.

Ilya snorted. “Mum,” he scolded, though there was no heat to it. Yuna just gave him a faux innocent look, smiling at him as he rolled his eyes.

She was very funny.

“They haven’t even made an offer yet,” he pointed out. 

“They will,” she said. 

She squeezed his hand. Below them, the whistle signaling the end of the period blew, and Ilya excused himself, making his way down to the locker room. He was allowed in with a warm smile from security, and he stood on the outside of the team as Wiebe spoke in the center of the room.

Shane spotted him immediately, and his eyes lit up, sending a salacious wink his way. 

Ilya smiled back, crossing his arms and turning his attention to Wiebe, who had also spotted him, giving him a nod and a tight smile.

“Some great signs out there, boys,” he said. “We’re finishing our checks, we’re controlling the puck, great zone entries. Keep at them and the opportunities will come.”

The boys all cheered, and Ilya smiled fondly, watching them.

They were brilliant. They would be brilliant. He was sure of it.

Wiebe patted Bood on the back and slipped through the crowd to stand beside him.

“What do you think?” he asked Ilya quietly.

“This is our game, no question,” Ilya said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “They look sharp out there.”

Wiebe looked pleased. 

“Just one more piece, hmm?” he murmured, giving Ilya a smirk as he slapped him on the back and walked away.

Ilya ducked his face to hide his answering smile.

***

Shane took a deep, calming breath, his eyes down, his body coiled tight, ready to strike like a viper. Twenty seconds left. The score was tied. Shane had scored a goal, assisted by Bood, and the other goal for Nashville had been scored by an unlucky turnover in the second half, landing almost perfectly on the stick of a scared rookie who’d basically tripped and sent it sliding past Hayes.

They had the face-off in Nashville’s zone, and Barrett was behind him. They’d locked eyes moments before Shane crouched down over the circle.

The ref tensed, the puck fell. And Shane muscled the puck behind him effortlessly, hitting Barrett’s tape. He spun around Nashville’s center, pushing off with an impossibly fast stutter step, ready and waiting as Barrett reared his stick back and swung it full force, rocketing the puck towards the net.

Shane angled his stick just so, and it tipped the puck just to the side, wobbling over the goalie’s shoulder and whooshing into the back of the net.

The crowd erupted, jumping and screaming, and Barrett crashed into him, with Dillon and Bood and Chouinard only moments behind him, dogpiling him towards the boards, all patting his helmet and laughing as he grinned back at them, elated.

He glanced over Bood’s shoulder to the family section, where Ilya was beaming down at him, his parents both cheering loudly next to him. 

“Great fucking goal, Roz,” Bood said, punching his arm. “That’s our cap.”

He nodded and skated over to the bench, high fiving his way down the line before drifting back to center ice.

He glanced up at the scoreboard. Seven seconds.

The Nashville center scowled as he crouched in front of him. “Seven seconds,” Shane said with a wide grin. “What do you think O’Reilly? Is enough time for me to get a hat trick?”

“Fuck off, Roz,” he snarled back.

He let out a dark chuckle, grinning down at the ice. 

He won the face-off, batting the puck to Dillon, who knocked it up into the air over the closest defender.

Shane sprinted, breaking through, his eyes on the prize, wind whistling past his ears, his thighs straining with effort.

There were two defenders barreling after him, one going for the puck, one trying to body him, but he was too quick for both of them, the puck clattering onto his tape. He feinted right and then threw his body left, tripping over the skate of the nearest defender as he shot blindly at the net.

He went careening into the ice, sliding back towards the boards, watching with glee as the puck hit bar down, sliding over the red line behind the goalie.

The siren sounded, and the roof blew off the TD Place Arena. Hats rained down on the ice around him, and Shane threw his head back and laughed.

“You’re fucking insane,” Barrett said, shaking his head as he leaned down to grasp his wrist, helping to haul him up to his feet.

“I feel insane,” Shane agreed. Barrett just grinned at him, knocking their helmets together.

Moments later, the rest of their team descended upon them, and Shane was swallowed by the crowd, his chest full.

He’d won three Stanley Cups. The Conn Smythe. A Silver Olympic Medal. But it felt like nothing compared to this. 

***

Ilya waited outside the locker room. The team deserved their time to celebrate, and he was happy to leave them to it, even as he longed to be in there with them.

He’d rejoin them soon. 

Watching Shane out there tonight, playing with that fire back inside of him, it was clear he was ready. 

He’d never felt more proud of him, more desperately in love with him. He couldn’t imagine it anymore, life without him in it. In his life, in his home, in this team. Shane belonged there, the better half of his soul.

Ilya was itching to move onto the next chapter with him.

He couldn’t wait to give Shane his Christmas gift.

The door opened, and slowly his teammates started to make their way out. They all had a nod or a kind word for him on the way out as he congratulated them on their win. They were ecstatic, and it filled his heart with warmth to see that belief in their eyes.

Barrett was one of the last ones out, and he studied Shane for a few long moments, his lips quirked up.

“So,” he said, “there’s this rumor going around...”

Ilya winked at him.

Barrett’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing more, looking inordinately pleased as he continued down the corridor.

Finally, Shane walked out, freshly showered and overflowing with radiant joy.

“Hello, moya lyubov,” Ilya said warmly.

“Hi,” Shane said. 

“You were incredible,” he told him.

“I chirped O’Reilly,” Shane said proudly. “Did you see me?”

“I did,” he chuckled, falling into step beside Shane as they made their way out of the arena. “He looked very cross. What did you say to him?”

Shane smirked. “I asked him if he thought there was enough time to score a hat trick.”

Ilya laughed.

“Oh, you really are starting to sound like me,” he teased. “Next thing you know you will be dropping gloves in center ice.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Of course not,” he said disapprovingly. “You know I don’t fight.”

“That’s okay,” Ilya said, nudging his side. “I will fight on your behalf.”

Shane gave him a soft smile. “I know you will,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Ilya felt his throat tighten, and he nodded, giving himself a moment to breathe.

“Let’s go home,” he said, glancing back up at Shane.

“Yeah,” Shane agreed. “That sounds perfect.”

***

It was Christmas morning. Downstairs, he could hear the quiet murmur of his parents voices, jingles playing over the radio accompanying their laughter and chatter. 

On his laptop, there was a digital contract from Ottawa, an official offer. Montreal had agreed to let him go quietly with the threat of his complaint hanging over their heads, and he’d signed the paperwork the morning before, at the table with Ilya and his parents watching on.

Well, Ilya had signed it, with Shane’s permission.

Hayden had been happy for him, even though he’d been disappointed that Shane was officially gone from the team. The Montreal fans had been rioting on social media, screaming for Thierault’s head, and Ottawa fans had basically been throwing a parade, ecstatic at pulling Shane Hollander to their team.

They still hadn’t changed back just yet. Something in Shane had been waiting. Though he wasn’t sure what exactly it was that had him hesitating.

He stared up at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom. His back was warm where Ilya was cuddled into him, his arm draped over his chest, their legs entangled. He could feel him starting to stir, and smiled, leaning back as his arm tightened and pulled him closer.

“Morning,” Ilya mumbled, pressing his lips to his shoulder.

Shane rolled in his arms, and Ilya smiled at him sleepily, his dark eyes warm as they swept over Shane’s face.

“Good morning,” Shane said, cupping his cheek gently. “How did you sleep?”

“Mmm, like a log,” Ilya hummed. “You?”

“Better than I have in a long time,” he admitted. “I feel so… I don’t know. Unshackled? Free?”

“That’s good,” Ilya said, turning his head to kiss his palm. “That is all I wanted for you.”

“I can’t believe I’m a Centaur now,” he said. “I’m gonna be playing in front of my home crowd every night. It’s like a dream come true.”

Ilya was quiet for a few moments, studying him. He looked happy, though there was something in his eyes, some strange light that Shane couldn’t quite translate.

“What is it?”

"I have something for you," Ilya said.

Slowly, he sat up and slipped out of the bed, and Shane tracked him across the room as he walked to the desk where his luggage was sitting.

He unzipped it and pulled something from inside, keeping it behind his back as he returned to Shane’s side.

Shane sat up as well, and Ilya knelt down between his legs, looking up at him. It was still weird, to be staring down at his own face, but it wasn’t as jarring as it once was. He could see Ilya’s spirit shining so clearly through his own eyes, that he barely even noticed it now.

“Shane,” Ilya said in a serious voice. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said automatically, reaching for Ilya and gently encircling his arms around his neck.

Ilya smiled. “I know. It is my greatest accomplishment and honor in life, to have you love me. I am so blessed to have found you, to have seen that strange, beautiful boy in Saskatchewan all those years ago and spent a decade chasing him on and off the ice.”

Shane went very still. It almost sounded like… No, surely not…

“Ilya?”

“Let me finish,” he whispered, and oh, those were tears clinging to his lashes. Shane’s heart started pounding in his chest.

“Holy shit,” he gasped.

“It has been hard, loving you so much and not being able to show it, to show you off, this beautiful, bossy, amazing, impossible man that I love,” he continued, looking tearfully up at him. “But I have done it anyway, because I could not imagine a world in which you were not right there beside me. You have been my greatest rival, and my greatest love, and I cannot wait to stand beside you for many, many years to come.”

It was Shane’s turn to blink back tears, his vision blurring as Ilya brought his hand around to the front, clutching a small, red velvet box in the palm.

Slowly, he opened it, showing a beautiful gold band.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya whispered, his voice cracking. “Please, moya lyubov, will you marry me?”

His hands shook as he reached to take the ring from Ilya’s hands.

Ilya watched him as he examined the ring, his lips quirking up. “I already know it fits,” he said teasingly, wiggling the fingers of Shane’s left hand at him.

“Of course you do,” he said with a watery laugh. “Oh my fucking God, of course I’ll marry you, Ilya.”

Ilya burst into tears, and Shane wrenched him up into his arms, burying his own tears in Ilya’s neck, clinging to him tightly.

“I love you so much,” he whispered. “You have no idea.”

Shane pulled back, but only far enough to cradle his own face in his hands, kissing Ilya soundly on the lips.

Light flashed. The world span.

And Ilya was pulling back, grinning and crying as he fished the ring out of the box, sliding it onto Shane’s ring finger.

It fit perfectly.