Archive of Our Own

Shane wants to make it very clear: he loves his parents equally.

It's just a fact however that Mom knew how to handle difficult situations better than Dad. 

Take fourteen, for example. The year Shane got arrested at a junior league party gone wrong. 

Without even hesitating, Shane had punched in his mom's phone number. His voice, when she picked up, had been tiny and reedy between sobs, and the crying only got worse when his mom threatened to "literally kill" him. 

He knew the parental ass-reaming would be a million times scarier than if he called Dad. But only Yuna could show up less than thirty minutes later, skidding menacingly into the parking lot in her Toyota Highlander, and bully the entire precinct into wiping the arrest from his record. 

So, a divide formed. The difficult things they bothered to tell Dad, versus not. 

It wasn't like he and Mom went out of their way to keep stuff from him. 

But Shane knew that she… simplified things for Dad sometimes. 

Simplification was never a luxury Yuna ever afforded Shane. She made sure, the second he started skating, that he understood one very hard fact: every action he took on the rink had a consequence. Seeing these consequences before they happened would be the difference between being great, and getting beaten. 

Think, Shane. Output before input. Mind to muscle. The three deceptively simple phrases behind his supposedly brilliant hockey IQ. 

Yuna warned him as a kid that other people would have trouble keeping up with him. It's not your fault, she would say. People like you and me, we are just too smart for our own good. And hearing this would always comfort Shane, because he always felt like his brain moved too fast, but he never felt the need to slow himself down around his mom. 

Rose made a joke once that hurt his feelings. She had been ranting about her friend's "loser fiancé" for the past twenty minutes to an unblinking audience of one virtually present Shane Hollander. 

"He never helps her with anything! Like, he actually needs her to do everything for him, and Shane I mean everything. I'm like, genuinely shocked he can even wipe his own ass." She shook her head, angry. It was 5 a.m. in Milan, and Shane didn't know whether she woke up early, or if she just never went to bed. 

She didn't take a break to finish chewing her cereal before she continued ranting. "Worst part is, if she doesn't do everything exactly right, he'll bitch and moan at her for every little fuckup! It's actually relentless." Rose snapped. 

"But you know, I hate to say it. I literally warned her so many times." She stabbed her spoon particularly hard into her bowl. "That's what she gets for marrying a fucking mommy's boy. The husband and his family turn you into their fucking servant." 

Shane frowned. "I'm close to my mom," he said, defensive. Rose barked out a laugh, and not a particularly nice one. 

"Yeah, I know you are." 

Shane wondered if his mom would've liked Rose, if he had deluded himself hard enough into dating then marrying her. 

Rose didn't take anything but her career seriously, so probably not. 

Shane knew his mom loved Ilya though, and his mom didn't love a lot of people. 

Sure, like Shane, she was decent at pretending she did. But Ilya—anytime she got wind that Shane invited him over for dinner, her entire face lit up. 

Whenever it was time for an "Ilya dinner," the food would get actually ridiculous. Shane would often arrive at his parents' bewildered to find a full-on New York Times Cooking trade show on the kitchen table. Even with three mains already set up, Dad would still be humming, a towel thrown over his shoulder, frying enthusiastically over the wok. 

Then, showtime. Ilya would come crashing through the door, friendly and loud, and before he could even kick off his shoes, Yuna would start dragging him toward the kitchen, the two of them talking each other's ears off. 

It was really sweet that they liked each other. 

Back in his early twenties, Shane would regularly have intense, vivid nightmares where his mom would be able to see Ilya on him somehow. 

The dream always took place at a really nice restaurant. It would be just the two of them, no Dad to mediate. Shane would look over, make eye contact with his mom by accident, and find that she had been staring at him the entire time, face frozen in horror. 

In these dreams, against his best efforts, she saw it all. His addiction, his hunger, his weakness, splattered all over his front, his face. The dreams always ended with her screaming. The dream always ended with her saying she'd never forgive him. 

It was nice to go from that to Yuna and Ilya scream-laughing while they murdered David and Shane at charades. 

Would Yuna have been as welcoming to Rose if he brought her home? He wondered sometimes. 

The truth was, she probably wouldn't. 

Shane's been dating Ilya for three years now. If he'd been dating Rose for three years, they probably would've been married. Most likely with kids on the way.

She would be his wife. There were certain standards that came with that title. 

So sure, Yuna loved Ilya. 

But maybe he was easy to love because she didn't expect anything out of him. 

"I had doubts," Ilya had said once, earlier in their relationship. It had been the third, or maybe the fourth time Ilya had dinner at his parents' house. Afterwards, the two of them squirreled away in Shane's childhood bedroom. "First introduction? I admit. Not my best work. But now?" he turned to Shane with a self-satisfied smirk. "Your parents fucking love me man." 

Shane scoffed. "They like you a normal amount." 

"No," Ilya said. Shane watched with vested interest as he quickly unbuttoned the crisp, black shirt he wore to dinner. His nice shirt—one of the few button-downs he had that didn't look like they were meant to get someone's attention in a nightclub. Shane stared as the loosened collar revealed his boyfriend's chest. 

"They are like their son," he murmured. He took one step, and crowded Shane against his childhood bedroom wall. "They can't fucking resist me." 

Shane gave into Ilya immediately. He didn't feel like making Ilya work for it—his boyfriend looked ridiculously handsome tonight, and he behaved really well for Shane's parents. It made Shane want to devour him. Shane practically threw himself at Ilya, linking his arms around his neck, hooking his right thigh around his waist to reel him in closer. 

Like a well-choreographed dance, Ilya grabbed him, lifting him up into the air. Shane gasped delightedly. Apparently, Ilya wanted to show off even more than he already did tonight, because he swung him around just to shove him back against the wall, like Shane was so fucking light, even as Ilya's arms strained under his weight. To stay upright, Shane had to wrap his legs around Ilya's waist tighter, rubbing up against him more urgently. 

"Shane Hollander's childhood bedroom." Ilya muttered against his lips, as he grinded against Shane with hungry abandon. He puffed the suggestion of a laugh into Shane's eager mouth. "I want to know what Canada's golden boy jerked off to when he was a teenager." 

"None of—" Shane whined, desperately seeking more contact. "None of your—" he could barely speak, he was trying too hard to undo his belt one-handed, his left arm still clinging to Ilya's neck, "None of your business—"

It felt like Ilya was about to drop him, but instead of admitting defeat, Ilya swung him around again, using the momentum to carry and then pin him to the bed, "Did you watch porn?" Ilya hissed, as he climbed on top of him. He sounded too eager to know the answer. 

"What did I just say—" Shane tried to snap, but then—"oh Ilya!" he gasped, as Ilya did what Shane couldn't and undid his belt one-handed, pushing his pants down, just enough to reveal how hard Shane and—Jesus fuck, so embarrassing—how wet he already was. Ilya palmed him hard in his boxers. "None—" Shane whined, thrusting up harder into Ilya's hand, "None of your business—" 

"You used to have hockey heroes on your wall?" Ilya continued, his words slurring together, "You think about them forcing you down on your knees, begging for their cock?" 

Fuck. Shane choked out a loud, pained noise. "No," Shane moaned, as Ilya's hand grew particularly insistent. "No I—mmph!" 

"Shh," Ilya pressed a firm hand over Shane's mouth. "Your parents will hear us." 

Shane's eyes widened. Then, Ilya's hand over his mouth barely muffled the repetitive, desperate moaning as Shane rutted senselessly into Ilya's hand. "Huh," Ilya laughed. His blue eyes kept crowding Shane in. They danced at the sight of Shane underneath him. "You liked that." 

Shane made a protesting noise that got cut off when Ilya pulled his dick out of underwear and started jerking him off. Shane practically screamed underneath Ilya's hand, and it seemed that was still too loud for Ilya because he then forced the left side of Shane's face into the mattress. 

"I know what little Shane Hollander liked," Ilya said, breathing getting heavier, "You thought of your big, strong hockey heroes, slamming you into the boards. They hurt you so bad you can't move, and they just take you there, right on center ice, for everyone to see, right?"

"Mmph…Mmph." Shane tried to communicate to Ilya with his eyes—he needed Ilya to fuck him. He felt glassy and unfocused. Every time Ilya roughly moved his fist, up and down, Shane felt a wounded moan punch its way up his throat, over and over. He couldn't stop gasping Ilya's name.

"No, I'm not done," Ilya groaned. He started to pump Shane harder. Shane whined, keening and loud in protest. Shane was about to come, and he couldn't even say anything to stop Ilya because Ilya shoved his mouth into the mattress, so he couldn't make a sound. 

"You think about me too, Shane?" his voice went dark, "I slam you into the boards? I humiliate you in front of your Montreal fans," Ilya leaned in, panting into Shane's ear. "And while they boo I bend you over, rip your gear off, and I fuck you right there, in front of everyone. I fuck Metros captain, make him show entire world how I make him beg—Do you—Shit! Shane—" Ilya gasped. 

Shane, with a wild and sudden moan, came in hard spurts, over Ilya's hand. 

Shane whimpered as he finished. He couldn't move, because Ilya still had him pinned to the bed with cum all over his stomach. Splayed out underneath him, Ilya took the sight of him in with delirious eyes.

"Jesus fuck," Ilya mumbled. He cursed violently, and pushed his pants down with a jerking motion, desperate to get his dick out. Shane whined, squirming, when Ilya, without much preamble, shoved two fingers into him.

"Mmph!"

"Hurts?" Ilya breathed.  

Shane just gazed up at him, eyes watering. Ilya's face hardened with resolve. Chest heaving, he fucked Shane open with his fingers a few more times, not caring about how the momentum made Shane cry out behind Ilya's hand. 

Ilya then pulled his fingers out. He wrapped the hand around his dick, smearing Shane's wetness all over him. He then lined himself up, and sank into Shane with a low, delirious laugh. 

He went into him bare. Even though Shane would've preferred he wear a condom, especially at his parents' house, it lit him up inside that he couldn't stop Ilya from just taking what he wanted. Ilya still hadn't let up, shoving Shane's face into the mattress, covering his mouth, shutting him up. He couldn't tell Ilya that it hurt a little, that he felt oversensitive. It made him moan, keening and desperate, and his dick twitched enthusiastically. 

"Fuck," Ilya groaned. "Fuck, you look fucking insane."

Shane let Ilya throw his legs behind his shoulders, bending him in half. He let Ilya press their foreheads together, so Shane couldn't look away from the depth of hunger in Ilya's eyes. He whined, over and over, as Ilya shoved himself into Shane, only needing a dozen or so thrusts before he came, filling Shane up, wetness immediately dripping down his thighs.

"Shane," Ilya mumbled. Without warning, he dropped down on top of him, smothering him with his body. "Fuck—"

Even though he felt boneless and fucked out, Shane yanked Ilya up, so he could grab and pet at his curls. He shoved Ilya's head into the crook of his shoulder, letting the sweetness of Ilya's smell envelop him. The same with sex, Shane had become addicted to Ilya's eyelids flitted and lowered into bliss whenever Shane played with his hair. It gave him something to do too, something to watch, while he caught his breath. 

The two of them cleaned up. A while later, they returned, tangled together in the same position. Ilya let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a purr when Shane returned to stroking his hair. Shane noticed that the random glow-in-the-dark stickers he stuck up on the ceiling as a kid still faintly buzzed with light. 

"Well," Shane says, breaking the silence. "Seems only fair. What did you jerk off too as a teenager?" 

Ilya looked up at him. His blue eyes, from this angle, also glowed in the dark. "I don't remember. If I wanted sex I went out and got it." 

If this was back when they were just hooking up, Ilya would've followed up this statement with a cocky, showboaty grin, as if to show Shane look how badly everyone wants me. But there was nothing sardonic in his expression. Just honesty, just sharing a fact about himself in the dark. 

"Fuck you, dude," Shane nudges him anyway, just because what Ilya said felt so ridiculous. "I'm being serious. Like, come on, what were you doing when you were like, thirteen, and it was like, late on a school night, and you couldn't sleep?" 

Ilya blinked. "I'd sneak out," he said, simply.

Shane looked down, eyes wide. He wasn't judging, but he wasn't sure if Ilya could see that. He nudged Ilya's head up more by yanking a little on his curls. "You were having sex at thirteen?" he said, trying not to sound like a total virgin, yet failing. 

Ilya shrugged. "I was curious," he said. "In my school boys always talking about how badly they wanted to fuck girls but did nothing about it. So instead of being chicken like them I just found someone I liked and I fucked them." 

This made Shane fall quiet. 

Back when they meant nothing to each other, they were never big on pillow talk. Ilya or Shane would launch themselves out of bed like the mattress would absorb them like quicksand if they stayed for too long. The details they had offered to each other about their lives were few and far between.

Since dating Ilya however, pillow talk became a sacred and well-practiced tradition after sex. Because of this, Shane frequently found himself in situations where Ilya would say something about himself, or his past, and it would become glaringly obvious that Ilya lived ten million lives before he met Shane. 

Shane, on the other hand, felt like his life didn't really begin until he met Ilya. 

He had fallen quiet. This was another thing that happened with increasing frequency. Ilya would drop some bomb, and Shane would find he had literally nothing to say in response. 

Shane tried to find something good to say then, maybe something suave, but his brain kept coming back to the same, embarrassing comment. 

It was a simple truth: "You're so cool," Shane blurted out, with genuine awe.

Ilya jerked his head up properly this time, narrowing his eyes at him. He seemed thrown off by the sincerity of this comment. He squeezed his arm, teasingly. "You making fun of me?" 

"No," Shane shook his head, "you're just—" Shane is unable to stop the wonder struck expression that spreads across his face. "You're just so you. You're so cool," he repeated, dumbly. "Why am I dating someone so cool?" 

Ilya still looked at Shane, a touch suspicious. That was okay. Let him think Shane was taking the piss. That way Shane still had some protection, some ironic distance, from giving everything he had to Ilya on a silver platter. 

Ilya shook his head. He called Shane something in Russian, eyes fond. "Doesn't matter anyway," Ilya said. "Is ancient history. Since we met my jerk off numbers shoot up like big spike on a graph," Ilya laughed. 

Shane smiled. "Yeah? You touch yourself thinking of me Rozanov?" 

"Of course," But then the smarmy grin fell off his face. "Is you," Ilya had gotten serious again, "You are all that mattered." 

The two of them stayed wrapped in Shane's childhood blankets, cocooned by the walls he grew up in. They talked until the sun almost rose. Shane must've been mid-sentence, confessing something to Ilya—he didn't even know what—because in the end, he fell asleep. 

****

Last year, after a horrible argument (Shane broke a lamp), Ilya confessed he had been absolutely miserable in Ottawa. 

He hated it there so much that his team doctor thought he required psychiatric evaluation. 

Ilya's betrayal was compounded by the fact that Shane had spent that entire year giddy to the point of delusion. 

He thought he had landed himself the perfect relationship. Shane had bested truly dogshit odds, and managed to find happiness and love. There really was hope for anyone in this world. 

As if things couldn't get any better, Ilya suggested they take a week-long vacation in the South of France, once the season ended. So now not only did Shane have the perfect relationship, he literally had paradise waiting for him as a reward. 

The entire time Shane had floated through life on a besotted, lovesick cloud, Ilya spent the entire year, right under Shane's nose, clinically suicidal. 

In his preliminary research to get The Irina Foundation off the ground, a lot of literature was quick to reassure that a person's "mental health" couldn't be any one person's responsibility—except themselves. But Shane never really understood that. Ilya made him feel happy. Mom made him feel focused. Dad made him feel safe. If any one of these people changed how they treated him, Shane felt his mental state would change with them. 

More importantly, Shane felt it was indisputable that Ilya being miserable was entirely his fault. 

Shane couldn't look the Ottawa dilemma in the eye without sinking into the worst of his self-hatred. It was just so unflinching—Shane did this to him. All because Shane had thought they were on the same page. He had been so fucking stupid. 

Dating Ilya made him forget that no one was ever on the same page as him. Most people weren't even on the same fucking planet as him. It was as his mom said. He would spend his entire life running too far ahead of others. 

You took a talented player and you destroyed him. He's never going to forgive you. Even worse, he's going to leave you. 

How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this? How are you going to fix this—

As if things couldn't get even better, when it came to the mental stuff, Shane seemed to suck shit at comforting Ilya the right way. 

This, Shane didn't feel particularly bad about, however. Ilya sucked shit at being comforted. He approached Shane's any attempt at remedying his situation with, at best, resentment, and at worst, vitriolic anger. Shane would never voice this out loud, because it was such a cruel and pointless thought, but he felt a lot of the time Ilya got off on the idea of his own sadness. Because of it, Ilya never seemed that motivated to actually try and fix the many things in his control that would actually help him feel better. 

Shane, on the other hand, had a problem he caused, with no viable solution. This was not good, because while Shane knew he could be dense sometimes, even he could tell—

—if he didn't handle Ottawa exactly the right way, Ilya was going to leave him. 

And if Shane lost Ilya, he'd never forgive himself. 

If he lost Ilya, he'd never be able to survive the heartbreak. 

So, he did what he always did when he was in a difficult situation. 

He's not proud of it, but the second he gets back from France, and he has a moment alone, he calls his mom. 

"Hey, party boy," his mom sings when she picks up. "How was Monaco?"

She's talking about the photos circulating of Shane clubbing with Ilya's friends. Shane rolls his eyes. It is Shane's deeply held belief that tabloids need to stop passing off Instagram screenshots of an influencer's public profile as groundbreaking journalism. Also, Shane finds it hard to be that embarrassed or paranoid about the photos when he objectively looks really cool in all of them. 

Anyway, Shane ignores his mom's attempt to bring it up. 

He has much bigger issues to worry about right now. 

Without letting her get another word in, he pops like an overinflated balloon. He tells her everything that's been going on with Ilya. Every painful detail—Ilya's mood swings, his anger, his resentment. Not the erectile dysfunction, because, well, for obvious reasons. He does all of this knowing that he didn't get Ilya's permission to tell other people, knowing that Yuna was the last person Ilya would've wanted to look weak in front of. 

But he needs to tell someone. He just—he can't fix this by himself, and Ilya doesn't seem to want to help him. 

"Oh and you absolutely cannot tell Dad," Shane says quickly. He knows with a cold certainty that Ilya will never come back to the Hollander household if every single person sitting at the table stared at him like he was some kind of sad, mentally unstable orphan. 

Dad has to stay ignorant for the sake of peace. 

"Of course, honey," his mom says, easily. 

So Shane takes another deep breath, and continues another round of pure, unfiltered word vomit. 

"... and the medication right now doesn't even work that well because the psychiatrist just gave him the pills after listening to him for like ten minutes and I read online that patient volume is so high that they just prescribe anyone who says they're sad antidepressants without even looking closer at the deeper reasons as to why they might be sad just so they can get as many patients out the door but even if by some miracle we find the perfection combination of doctors that give him the right medication and the right kind of therapy and the right kind of words and the right kind of everything it doesn't change the fact that he hates Ottawa and I made him move there and his parents are dead and his brother hates him and Ilya hates him right back but I can tell he misses him and he misses his family and most of all he misses Russia so what that means is he has no one but me and I know he hates me for it because his team sucks shit and he hates me for how lonely I made him and that I ruined his life and what if the only way he can actually get better is if he goes far far away from me and never comes back but if that happens I will actually die like I will literally die of heartbreak which is so selfish but it's just the facts so he has to stay he like actually has to stay and I have to figure out how to make him stay but I don't know what to do—" 

"Shane," his mom says, sharply, cutting him off. Shane instantly falls quiet. "Enough. Focus. Ignore everything else for a second. These issues all come back to the same thing."

She pauses, prompting him. Even when Shane was a kid, she never told him the answer directly. He always had to figure it out by himself first. 

"... Me?" Shane says, in a wobbly voice. He feels his eyes start to burn with tears.

His mom sighs. "No, honey. They all come back to the fact that he's lonely." 

Shane sniffs, trying to blink away the blurriness in his vision. But all that accomplishes is fat, watery droplets falling without his permission. "Yeah, but I made him that way," Shane says, despondent. "So I'm in no position to help him." 

"Stop," his mom orders, again, and just like that, Shane stops crying, as if on command. He even pulls his back up straighter. "What did we say about self-pity?" his mom says, bluntly not unkindly. 

"... That it's unhelpful?"

"It's a waste of time," his mom supplies. "You're right in that we can find him the best psychiatrist, the best psychologist in the world, it wouldn't change the fact that his surroundings, his upbringing, and the specificity of what he went through are isolating him."

The horrific guilt only deepens itself further into Shane's sternum. "Mom, is this supposed to make me feel better?" 

His mom ignores him. "Has he tried group?" 

Shane frowns. "Group? Group what?" 

His mom stays patient. "Group therapy. Group recovery." 

"Like, alcoholics anonymous?" 

"There's programs for different issues," she continues, matter-of-fact. "You know, I've never even told your dad this, but I went to a group for grief counseling for a really long time, after your grandparents died," she hums, thoughtfully. "I was a little younger than Ilya, I think. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. It helped. He could do something similar." 

Shane stops. 

He didn't know this about Mom, and he thought he knew everything about her. 

But upon reflection, how could he ever? Mom never talked about her childhood. She never talked about his grandparents. Dad just mentioned once that they died sometime before he was born. He doesn't even know where in Japan they were from.

She was so young when they died. "I'm so sorry, Mom," he says, because it is the only thing he can say.

"Why? You didn't kill them," she responds. She pauses for a second. "Maybe you guys considered it already and are worried about the privacy angle. I know a pretty good list of groups that are athlete-focused that could be good for someone like Ilya. Or if he'd prefer to be culturally aligned instead we could do that too. If you guys need more protection, I could look into some that require an NDA."

But in an uncharacteristic move, her voice seems to tighten unpleasantly when the term NDA leaves her lips. His mom loves NDAs. 

She sighs, tired. "But honestly, Shane, a lot of these groups, they are just people in a lot of pain. People in pain tend to be worse in a lot of ways, but more decent in others. You don't need to… threaten them to respect your privacy." 

Shane hums. He doesn't know if he likes this idea, or how helpful it would be. Ilya sucks at talking about his feelings. Also, while Ilya has his issues with how Shane handles their relationship, they both agree that the less opportunities they give the public to turn their personal life into a multimedia shitshow, the better. 

However, his mom has a point. Ilya is a social creature. Shane understands this now, especially after Ottawa. He really doesn't handle isolation well. Ilya's biggest problem with his current therapist is that he makes Ilya feel like a zoo animal. Being locked in a room with a doctor he doesn't even know or trust, all while he's subjected to a one-on-one conversation about all the most painful moments in his life—all of this would definitely make Ilya feel threatened. 

Ilya talking to someone, or multiple someones who can actually prove they've experienced the pain they went through—that, Ilya would trust a lot more. 

Maybe there is room for an in-between. 

"Doesn't hurt to try," Shane says, ultimately. "He fucking hates his therapist right now." 

"Shit," Yuna says, "did he get them through the league?" 

"Yeah. Apparently the psychologist worked with a lot of professional athletes before. Ilya thinks he's totally useless though." 

"Oh yeah?" His mom says. It sounds like she's smiling a little. "How was he useless?"

"Ilya says he doesn't know how to talk to him without feeling like a circus freak," Shane says. "He says it doesn't help that he's been doing all his sessions in English." 

"No wonder he hates his therapist," she says, barking out a horrified laugh. "If I had to tell a medical professional about my messed up brain entirely in Japanese… I'd rather kill myself." 

That was such a horrible thing to say. Shane can't help sputtering out a shocked, gleeful laugh in return. 

"Don't compare Ilya's English to your Japanese," Shane smiles, vicious. "That's so insulting." 

His mom huffs. "Ha! Asshole." She then launches into a semi-fluent diatribe against him. Shane only recognizes four words. Son. Disrespect. and whatever the Japanese equivalent of “evil twerp” is. 

"Thank you, Mother… I like your… good words?" Shane says back, in Japanese. His pronunciation is unbelievably horrible, so this only made Yuna's laughing fit intensify. 

Their laughter downgrades into companionable chuckles, which then peters out into a comfortable silence. 

Shane misses this. This easiness he had with his mom. Somewhere along the way, between meeting Ilya and realizing he was gay, they'd lost that closeness they used to have when Shane was a teenager—shame forcing what felt like an alien amount of distance away from her. 

Shane grips the phone hard, knowing he needs to hang up, but for some reason finds himself delaying the inevitable.

His mom clears her throat. "Shaney," she says, affectionately. "It's late. I should let you go." 

He checks his watch. It is getting late. Ilya is also probably wondering where he went. So even though he wants to stay on the phone with her longer, he gives her another smile that she can't see. "Thanks, Mom," he says, with as much appreciation he can voice. "Seriously. I feel a lot better." 

"Good," Yuna says. There's a pause. Shane thinks she's about to hang up until he hears her suck in a hard breath. 

"Shane," she sounds serious. "I will always be on your side. Do you understand?" 

"Mom, of course I know that—" 

"No," his mom insists. "Shane, really. It doesn't matter what, or who." The last word she places particular emphasis on. "You can tell me anything, and I will find a way to help you. Anything, okay?" 

Shane fiddles with the hem of his shirt, suddenly uncomfortable with the sincerity of his mom's words. He wonders if she's overcompensating because she still feels guilty about the gay thing. He really hopes not, because she shouldn't. 

"Of course. Take care, Mom. I love you."

His mom is quiet for a minute. There's a note of some unreadable emotion in her voice when she signs off. "I love you too, honey." 

****

Last year, Shane won his fourth Stanley Cup, one of two back-to-back victories that no one in the industry had been able to accomplish. Because of it, the Hollander name had become an institution. 

Last season, he cemented himself as the best hockey player in recent history. 

This year, the best hockey player in recent history bashes his head in during the Winter Classic. 

The game was a mess to begin with. The unusually warm New Year's Day delayed the game for over five hours, as heat turned snow into sleet and then pouring rain. 

At 3 p.m., over 70,000 fans packed an open-air Pittsburgh stadium, with raincoats and makeshift umbrellas pulled over their faces. At 6 p.m., not a single person moved, even as water filled their shoes, their bags, their clothes. At 7 p.m., Shane played online Scrabble against Ilya, fully geared up while he waited for higher forces than him to make up their minds as to whether or not he would play tonight.

At 8 p.m., the rain stopped. Shane screenshotted and sent Ilya the definition of "quixotic" before shutting his phone off. At 8:30 p.m., the Metros skated onto the ice, phenom Shane Hollander lining up at the face-off circle against Pittsburgh's rising star center. The New Year's crowd erupted into thunderous cheers. 

The rain might've stopped, but the wind did not. For the first period, howling gusts buffeted The Metros every move, as wet heat cast a semi-permanent fog over Shane's eyes. 

Officials swore up and down that the ice was safe to play, that the twelve hours of pouring sleet would not affect rink conditions. 

As one of the fastest skaters in the MLH, Shane knew what speed on the ice was supposed to feel like.

The desperate, out-of-control skidding from players trying to gain traction on wet ice was decidedly not "normal rink conditions." 

Yet, Shane played through these premonitions. He slid toward free ice, knowing if he left Hayden with the puck for too long, Pittsburgh was going to kill his left-wing and eat his skin for dinner. 

Shane tried to play past bad premonitions—but they caught up to him anyway. 

Shane checked Pittsburgh's center out of his way, and the speed in which his shoulder collided into the kid's chest sent his opponent spinning into the board with a sickening crack. Shane didn't even give him a second look, as Hayden passed the puck too wide. No matter. As he did, Shane dashed for the puck, his vision narrowing into a single, black pinprick on white ice. 

The shoulder of Pittsburgh's left defenseman cracks against his forehead. 

The speed. The wet ice. The downwind. They all turn to sheer velocity as Pittsburgh's 118 kilogram wall of muscle slams into Shane and sends him toppling to the ground. 

He doesn't white out the way he did three years ago in Boston, which is a good sign. But the second he makes impact with the ice, his head transforms one giant reservoir of pain, spilling and leeching acid into every muscle and bone in his body. The agony has its own gravity, pushing him flat onto the ice. 

Shane feels unbelievably angry at himself for being this stupid. This is a good sign, because it means he hasn't been hurt enough to succumb to pain. He latches onto his anger with a bullheaded determination. 

Get up. Get the fuck up. 

Distant pity in the commentators' voices, panicked yelling from his teammates, they all float, omnipresent, above him. 

The only thing that stays is always the pain. 

I miss Ilya. 

This last thought, so unflinchingly pathetic in its want, is what it finally takes for Shane to push himself up. First by bending his right knee forward. Then pressing his left arm to the ice. The entire ground feels like it is liquidating underneath him. Shocked gasps, and applause echoes through half the Pittsburgh stadium. 

J.J. and Hayden skid over, helping him up with hovering hands while Shane, wordlessly, waves medics off the ice. 

He skates to the box. His head is spinning. He feels like he is teleporting every meter he moves. One second, he is being examined by the team trainers. The next, he feels someone clap his back, hard. Pleased noises sound like he is cleared to continue playing. 

Within ten minutes, Shane Hollander starts on the first shift of the third period. He hits 12 more minutes of on ice time. 

Despite Shane's perseverance, The Metros lose 2-1. 

When they head home, Shane knows something's off. The lightheadedness does not disappear. He can't turn the light on in his hotel room without wanting to throw up. Ilya calls him, and the entire time his boyfriend is being more annoying than usual to cover up what clearly sounds like concern in his voice. 

"They should attach car camera to your head," Ilya chirps. "Like Tesla. So you look where you are going for once." 

Shane makes some noise that he hopes sounds like agreement. However, whatever came out might not have been entirely mentally cogent, because there's a long bout of silence.

"Shane," Ilya says, serious. He sounds tense. "The team cleared you to play?" 

They did. The entire process didn't take longer than ten minutes. 

"Yeah. Sure. Hey," Shane pulls together, and having to string the words together feels as hard as getting up on the ice was. "See you, okay? My parents want to congratulate me on the win." 

At this, the silence only grows. The quiet takes on teeth. It makes Shane uncomfortable enough that he decides if Ilya isn't going to talk, he'll take that as his cue to hang up. 

"Hey, I love you okay—" 

Ilya cuts him off. "Shane, you lost the game," Ilya reminds him. Ilya doesn't sound good. His voice is shaking violently. He sounds like he's going to fly apart. "The Metros lost 2-1." 

Shane blinks again. He realizes that Ilya's right. The Metros did lose. Right. "Sorry, I'm like all over the place. Hey, I need to go, okay?" 

Ilya doesn't say anything in response. The silence on the other end of the line is potent in its hurt. Shane just reassures him by saying he'll call back later. He hangs up, unsure of when he'd actually fulfill his promise. 

He thought calling his parents would be a similar nightmare. Except Yuna receives her son with nerves of steel, and David is in full cheerleader mode. 

"We love you!" His dad chimes in the background. "Your grandpa always said it took more than a few hard knocks to take a Hollander down!" 

"Thanks Dad. I love you guys too." 

His mom sniffs. "I'm really proud of you," she says, gentle despite the fierce pride in her voice. "For getting back up. For finishing the game." 

Shane smiles, at last. "Thanks Mom. It's how you guys raised me." 

He wakes up that morning feeling better. So he gets back on the ice. 

They face off against Washington. Even with the near constant throbbing in his head, he leads his team to what is beginning to look like a ridiculous 7-1 home win against their opponents. 

With a sick smile, victory so potent in the air it tastes like blood in his mouth, Shane readies what is about to become a hat trick, his first of the season.

When Washington's center slams him out of the way. 

It's, by all measures, a tame hit. A completely standard check. 

But with his head already throbbing, all it takes is the right amount of pressure. 

This time, there isn't even a moment to visualize the impact. The second Shane's skull hits polyethylene plastic, his vision goes black. 

****

Everything comes to him in flashes. 

Someone lifting him onto a stretcher. 

J.J. speaking to a nurse in careful French, while Hayden yells into his phone in pure panic. 

Ilya. He's crying. Shane's eyes are open, and he tries to say something, anything to make him feel better, anything to wipe that heartbroken expression off Ilya's face. But Ilya won't stop staring at him like he's already dead. 

Then, more darkness. 

Shane can't tell if he is awake or asleep. He doesn't know if what he's experiencing is real or fake. All he knows is, in a hospital room somewhere, Shane grips his mom's hand, unforgiving. His mom, mascara streaked down her cheeks, lurches at the contact. But she recovers within the next second, returning his hold twice as hard. 

He remembers distantly that he's been trying to get her alone. She's the only one who has the stomach to handle what he's about to do to her. 

Not Ilya. Not Dad. Only Mom. 

"I don't want to stop playing," Shane begs, delirious. "You can't let them take that away from me. Please Mom. You have to do whatever it takes." 

She stops crying instantly. She returns his plea with ferocity, as Yuna's eyes blaze with determination. 

"Don't worry, honey.” She strokes his bangs back with her free hand. "I always have your back." 

****

A mild concussion. No one can believe it. Shane can't believe it. Most of his teammates are just surprised he isn't dead.

The team doctor says he should be able to get back on the ice within the month, if recovery goes well.

Shane knows he should be grateful he can play at all, but the uncertainty makes him anxious. He hates it when doctors make a timeline contingent on "recovery going well." It makes him feel like recovery is something he can fuck up. 

His mom keeps disappearing into her office to take phone calls, so he knows the media circus trying to Sherlock the extent of his injuries must be a total shitstorm. 

The company line is that Shane Hollander has a minor concussion, but retains full motor skills. He's already been discharged from McGill, and is currently at home resting. 

He'll be looking forward to getting back on the ice, hopefully within the next three games. 

… If recovery goes well, that is. 

So Shane's grounded in Ottawa for the foreseeable future. Shane supposes this works out well, given that Ilya has a couple days’ break between games, and he hasn't seen his boyfriend in over a month. 

Ilya happily spends his entire weekend at the Hollander household.

"I will kill your stupid coach," he rants. "I will kill your stupid trainers. I will kill team's moron doctors." 

"It's not their fault," Shane responds. With actual medical attention and rest, Shane feels better at least. He feels cogent. "I really thought I was fine." 

"Is fucking insane they let you back on the ice after the first hit," Ilya spits. He's pacing back and forth in Shane's bedroom. "Even more crazy, they let you back over and over after Pittsburgh," Ilya laughs incredulously. "I will make sure everyone involved never works a day in the league again." 

"You played with steel in your ribs," Shane points out. "You got back on the ice with a shattered ankle during qualifiers. I can sit here and list out the crazy injuries you played with all day—"

"None of that was my fucking brain," Ilya cuts in, harshly. 

Shane sighs. "We all know how the league feels about a player sitting out just because they can't handle a bad fall." 

In a heroic attempt to calm down, Ilya takes a deep breath. He squeezes his temples in a tight grip with his right hand. When he looks up, he doesn't look much calmer, but he stops pacing at least. 

Instead, he walks over to join Shane on the bed. 

He sits, perched on the edge of the mattress, hands shoved into his jacket like he's afraid to touch him. The move is so ridiculous to Shane, considering all the depraved sex they've had in this bedroom. So Shane yanks Ilya's hand from his hoodie pocket, and links their fingers together. 

At the contact, Ilya immediately relaxes. His face softens from prickly anger into something very easy to love. Shane smiles, pleased. That's much better.

"I feel fine, okay? I'll be fine." Shane flips Ilya's hand up absentmindedly, and continues to stroke his thumb in small circles across Ilya's upturned palm. Ilya looks up at Shane with lazy eyes, and then glances back down at his hand. "Besides, maybe—"

Suddenly, his body turns cold.

There are horrible words lodged in his throat. 

He was about to say: Maybe it was a good thing I got injured…

…so we could spend more time together. 

The onslaught of guilt, shame, and anger, entirely directed at himself, feels unbearable. He feels like he's going to choke on it. How could he even think of something that fucked up? After everything he gave up? After everything his parents gave up? Everything his body gave up, for him? How could he betray himself like this?

Shane feels short of breath. He feels like he's anticipating a bad hit. One that always slams into him like a bad car crash. "Shane," Ilya says, far away. "Shane, are you okay?"

Shane sees, out of the corner of his eye, Ilya getting scared again. The way he did on the phone after Pittsburgh. The way he did at the hospital. His eyes go wide in fear, like he's seeing something horrific in Shane's face. He jerks his hand out of Shane's, and, "Shane answer me—"

"Sorry, I just—" Shane tries to clear his head. The pain in his temples subsides, and he finds he can finally squish the horrible feeling, the horrible words he was about to utter, down. He turns to Ilya with a smile he hopes reassures him. "Do you want a handjob, or something?"

Ilya looks at him like he's the craziest, most ridiculous person in the world, "Dude, what?" 

Shane needs something to distract himself. He also feels compelled as of late, the need to distract Ilya. Like, if he points at the sky and goes "oh look, a bird!" by grabbing his dick, Ilya will forget that Shane made him move to Ottawa and ruined his life. 

"I asked the doctor, you know," Shane says, snaking his fingers over. They trace up Ilya's thighs, moving toward Ilya's lap. "You can have sex with a concussion. I would just need to go slow," Shane parts, and then licks his lips, enjoying the way Ilya follows the motion, hypnotized. "Nothing that causes too much head pressure." 

Ilya considers Shane for a moment. He glances back down as Shane now starts to lightly trace the outline of his dick through his sweatpants. 

Without another word, Ilya shrugs his jacket off. In another smooth motion, he wraps his arms around him, so he can fold his body over Shane's. Shane's head is cradled in his chest, and Ilya has his hand on the back of his scalp, combing slow, lazy circles through Shane's hair as Shane starts breathing heavier, lips puffing soft breaths the side of Ilya's neck.

Shane whines. He paws, wild, into Ilya's pants, and fishes out his dick.

"I missed you," Shane whispers, against Ilya's neck. Ilya responds to this immediately. Shane knows that Ilya likes feeling needed, and Shane really wants to be someone Ilya likes right now. He starts to slowly jerk Ilya off, and Shane feels Ilya's chest underneath his cheek rise and fall, faster and deeper as Shane picks up the pace. 

"I missed you too," Ilya murmurs. He lets his head fall, pressing his cheek against the top of Shane's head, so there's not a single part of his body that isn't cradling Shane. Shane feels enveloped by him. Fuck he smells so good. Shane's so hard from it already. "Fuck," Ilya continues. "Shane, you fucking scared me—" 

Shane buries himself into Ilya's neck, pressing a kiss there at first, and then sucking when he returns. Not enough to leave a mark, but just enough so Shane can tease the skin with his teeth. Shane is successful in distracting Ilya, and his boyfriend thankfully forgets what he wanted to say. Ilya is too busy moaning, properly now, as Shane feels him get wetter in Shane's hand.  

"I want you to come," Shane pleads, in a small voice. He finally untucks his face from Ilya's neck so he can look up at him. He gasps a little when he sees that Ilya's been staring at Shane the entire, with barely open eyes. The eye contact makes Ilya thrust up a little more insistently in Shane's hand, "Please let me make you come, I need it—please—" 

"Fuck," Ilya groans, and his head falls back against the headboard. Not too loud—he's had sex in Shane's childhood bedroom enough times to know not to knock the bed into the wall. "Jesus fuck—" his hand still cards through Shane's hair. "Shane—Shane—"

He comes. Shane takes care of him as he does, stroking him until he's sure Ilya's completely finished. When Ilya lolls his head forward, panting, Shane lays his head back onto Ilya's chest. 

He closes his eyes. Ilya hugs him close, stroking his shoulder, his arms. 

Ilya takes his hand, buried in Shane's hair, and starts trailing it lower. His thumb first brushes against Shane's lips. Shane can't help but suck, giving his finger a light kiss. Ilya hisses, fishing his thumb out of Shane's mouth so he can then trail it against his nipple. 

This makes Shane gasp, especially as Ilya rubs it a few times under the roll of his thumb. His hand continues down, pulling Shane's boxers back, until he has Shane's dick in a firm grip. Shane whines, over and over, as Ilya jerks him off, Shane not opening his eyes the entire time. 

"Ilya," Shane gasps. Ilya pecks a kiss on his half-parted mouth. "Fuck, Ilya, that feels so good." 

Ilya says nothing. The only way he responds is by jerking him off harder, the way he does when he wants Shane to come. 

He comes all over Ilya's hand. Shane wishes it was always this easy—to know what Ilya wants, to do what Ilya wants. 

Shane's eyes are still closed, as he tries to catch his breath. He feels one of Ilya's thumbs, hooking into the corner of his mouth.

Feeding his own come back to him. 

Shane laps at Ilya's fingers, licks the salt off them, licks them clean. Ilya curses. Shane wonders if they would be able to go again, but instead, Ilya fishes his fingers out of his mouth, and the two of them stay there, wrapped up together. Ilya leaning on the headboard, Shane resting his head against Ilya's body. 

"I will visit every week, maybe two," Ilya says softly. His voice is rough. "If I am not on away games, I will visit every day. Whenever I am free." 

Shane says what he says next as if he's on autopilot. "Oh, Ilya you don't have to—"

Ilya stiffens around him. He grips his arm tighter around Shane. "Do not even joke," Ilya says, leaving no room for argument. "I'm going to be here all the time. Your parents cool with it. You will be sick of me." He lets out a low laugh. His chest shakes underneath Shane's cheek when he does. It makes Shane feel safe. "I will be um. Hollander family member number four." 

The fact that Ilya can make a joke like that without bolting makes Shane's heart feel warm. 

He's family.

You don't leave family. 

"You already are," Shane says, sleepily.

Ilya's face, soft and surprised, is the last thing he sees before he falls asleep. 

****

Against all odds, Shane gets cleared to skate as soon as Week 4.

To celebrate, Ilya is there to surprise him when Shane comes back from his doctors' appointments. His boyfriend wears a big, secretive smile when he swings Shane's duffel bag, full of his hockey gear, into the trunk of his car. Shane turns and his mom is wearing a matching, pleased expression. 

Without more preamble, the three of them load into Ilya's car. His boyfriend drives Shane to his old hockey school in Ottawa, while his mom sits to Ilya's right. Shane can't help but watch the two of them with a fond smile on his face, as Ilya slings an easy arm around the passenger seat headrest, his mom leaning in to point and instruct Ilya as to where he should turn. 

They arrive quickly, and like childhood muscle memory, Shane immediately takes off for the rink with a silly smile on his face, only remembering halfway down the parking lot that he needs to grab his skates from the trunk. He turns to go back to the car, except as it so happens he didn't need to worry, because Ilya apparates by his side with a clank, Shane's duffel slung over his shoulder with a similarly youthful smile on his face. His mom yells at them to slow down, but with Ilya by his side, taking off as fast as he can, Shane doesn't let up even as he bursts through the rink doors. 

He doesn't let up until he quickly laces up his skates and shoulders his pads, and finally, finally, launches for the ice.

Shane takes a couple laps by himself, just gliding across the rink. He savors the first, icy deep breath he takes, letting the wind brush his ears, his cheeks, his lashes. As fun as it was to do dizzy laps around his home and hang out with Ilya, this, right here, out on the ice, is where his life begins.

His mom stays seated in the stands, head turned away. She seems to be busy talking to someone on the phone. Ilya joins him after a couple laps, and Shane's heart sings at the sight of him skating easy circles around him. 

"Wait, Hollander, look, look—" Ilya says, and against all odds, he does a pirouette out on the ice, lifting his left leg almost ninety degrees behind him, like a figure skater. 

"No fucking way!" Shane gasps, except he's cut off with a sharp peel of laughter when Ilya gets two turns in before he quickly loses his balance and eats shit on the ice. 

"Shit!" Ilya curses in Russian, as he crashes ass-first into the rink. Shane nearly loses his balance he's laughing so hard, as he skates over to his boyfriend. When he gets there, Ilya looks up at Shane with a dopey grin on his face. 

"That was really impressive until you fell," Shane says, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice when he extends his hand out. 

Ilya grabs his hand, and pulls himself up. The movement brings them close together. "Damn," Ilya says, still laughing. He hooks an easy arm around Shane's shoulder, as the two of them, tangled together, skate further up the rink. "I was better when I was little." 

Shane looks over. "You used to figure skate?"

Ilya snorts. "No. I watch little girls practice across the rink." He gestures proudly to himself with his free hand. "Self-taught. Self-made." 

After they warm up for a bit, they transition to actual hockey, passing a puck lazily back and forth between each other. 

Shane can't help but smirk at the way Ilya circles him a purposeful radius away. Close enough to rush over to Shane in case he falls over, but far enough that he doesn't seem like he's hovering. 

Shane wonders if Ilya is as easy to read to other people as he is to Shane. 

"How's it been going in Ottawa?" Shane asks, lightly. He kicks the puck over to Ilya. 

Ilya plays dumb. "Bad. My boyfriend is injured," Ilya says, skating forward a little. He shoots Shane a smile. "He sucks at being injured. Always looks like he wants to climb walls."

Shane skates a little faster to catch up to Ilya. "Come on," he wheedles. "I meant with the team." 

As he expected, Ilya's face shutters. "Fine." 

Ottawa is better than they were last season. Shane will give Ilya that. It helps that Ilya looks a lot healthier than last year. More awake. It doubly helps that this year two of Ottawa's rookies are halfway decent players. 

Shane frowns.

The rookies, and the team, aren't good enough to make Ilya want to stay in Ottawa, however. 

What frustrates Shane is, once again, Ilya has the pieces to fix his own problem. Ilya, now a halfway decent captain. Two rookies who show good promise. Players who, once they stop mismanaging their talents, could learn to be decent support for Ilya on the ice. 

But Ilya refuses to put the pieces together. Other things keep taking priority for him.

Like taking care of Shane. 

Shane hits the puck back over to Ilya. "You're too aggressive on Ottawa." 

Ilya doesn't accept the pass. Instead, he lets the puck skid halfway down the ice. The rubber clatters onto the boards behind him.

Ilya's good mood pops like a balloon. His eyes stay on Shane, menacing. "My hockey is none of your business," he snaps. "We agreed." 

Shane holds his ground. "You are at my parents' house almost every week, making sure I sleep enough, making sure I eat enough, making sure I'm taking care of myself so I can get back on the ice. Seems unfair that my hockey is allowed to be entirely your business, but I'm not allowed to have it the other way around."  

Ilya gets up in his face. "You idiot," Ilya spits. "Caring for you is not hockey business."

"It kind of is." 

"I do that because I love you as person."

Shane blinks. "Okay. Same here." 

Ilya stares at Shane for a long time, before he shakes his head, barking out a laugh. "You are fucking impossible," Ilya grits out. Without another word, he skates back, recollects the puck. 

When he turns around, he lines up his club. Then, without warning, he slams his stick as hard as he can, and sends the puck flying back toward Shane. 

A sick grin spreads across Shane's face. It's not a safe hit. If Shane doesn't stop it, it runs the danger of smashing Shane in the leg. It's the most reckless Ilya's been with him in weeks. 

Shane stops the puck in its tracks effortlessly. 

"See what I mean?" Shane says, with a smug smile. "Too aggressive." 

Ilya skates back up to him. His nostrils are flaring. "I have to be aggressive," Ilya crosses his arms. "Ottawa offense too weak otherwise." 

"It worked with Boston because everyone on that team hit like a truck," Shane says. He kicks the puck over with his club again, and Ilya receives it without even looking. "No one has your back like that in Ottawa." 

"My team sucks," Ilya bites. "You do not need to remind me."

"Your new rookies are fast," Shane continues. "Why isn't your coach putting them on your line?" 

"So many questions," Ilya says, narrowing his eyes. He stands up to his full height, propping himself up on his hockey stick. He twirls it lazily. He goes in for the kill. "Where was all these questions when I was losing so bad doctors say I want to kill myself?" 

This finally makes Shane stop. He swallows, unable to navigate around the guilt in his throat. Ilya smiles, almost imperceptible—taking pleasure in watching Shane squirm. Shane feels the need to look away from him. He feels heat rise to his cheeks. "I already said I was sorry Ottawa, for last year," Shane mumbles. "Okay? I'm sorry." 

Shane doesn't know how sorry Ilya wants him to be before he just lets Shane help him. 

Ilya considers him for a second. He doesn't seem moved by Shane's consternation. But his face is no longer pinched in anger, insistent on shoving him away. 

"Play me for it," Ilya says. 

"What?!" 

"You heard me. Play me for my forgiveness," Ilya taunts. 

Shane opens his mouth. Closes it. "They didn't clear me for contact," he reminds him. 

Ilya spins his club around. "Obviously." 

"I'm going to beat you," Shane says, just to state the obvious.

Ilya laughs. "You cannot even stand up until two weeks ago." 

"Yeah," Shane bites. A dark smile that matches Ilya's worms its way across his face. "And yet." 

Ilya scoffs. With a quick turn he skates and grabs the net, dragging it closer. Shane goes and does the same thing. With a smaller playing field established, Ilya and Shane line up, helmets bumping up against each other. Ilya fishes a puck out of his hoodie jacket, and slaps in between the both of them. 

"You aren't even wearing pads," Shane says, just to be difficult. "It's like you want me to win." 

Ilya looks up at him. The ice always made his eyes look unnaturally blue. Shane, despite all his discipline, can't help but get lost in them every single time. "Maybe so," Ilya says. His responding smile, this time, is entirely without mirth. 

Then, with a wink, Ilya takes off with the puck. 

Shane laughs. "Fuck you!" he shouts, and follows close behind. 

No matter what the sport takes from him, Shane always has this—everything righting itself into its proper order. 

He chases after Ilya like it's second nature. 

Of course Ilya scores. Shane's only human after all. But then he tries again.

Ilya Rozanov is a formidable opponent because not only is he a total tank, he has the audacity to be fast as well. When you are up against someone who checks like a fucking truck, who can incapacitate you within a second despite being halfway down the ice, you learn to spot his weaknesses quickly, purely out of survival. 

Rozanov scores almost all of his goals from the same place on the ice every single time—the left face-off circle. 

But it's classic Rozanov. He can do the same thing every time and still throw you off guard. He flies toward the puck with his backhand, and then switches, within the next blink, to his forehand. In doing so, your goalie will be subjected to the scariest slapshot in human history, as Rozanov slams the puck at speeds once measured to hit once over 169 kilometers per hour. It's actually impossible to stop. 

But it should be easy right? Find where the guy scores, and don't let him set up there. Except, especially when Rozanov captained The Raiders, if you tried to tell him where to go, Rozanov and his team would make you fucking sorry for it. His old teammates were willing to risk whatever it took to get Rozanov where he needed to be—if that meant taking unnecessary penalties, risky hits, and shorthanded power plays then so be it. 

Trying to tell Rozanov where he can and cannot go on the ice is like trying to control raging bull that can also fucking fly. 

But, if Shane Hollander was all hockey IQ, Ilya Rozanov was all hockey instinct. 

Ilya always wore his emotions right on his face. Because of this, in the heyday of their rivalry, Shane could see it, every single time, in Rozanov's eyes whether or not he was going to beat him that day. 

When he was sharp, playful, and alive, Shane could try all he wanted. Rozanov always took home the win. 

But the games he doesn't—Jesus. The cut of shoulders, the cloudiness of his eyes—he prophecizes his defeat before he's even lost. 

Rozanov's biggest strength was always his biggest weakness. He's a player entirely ruled by his emotions. 

You push the right buttons, you get him to make bad decisions. 

It's why he's such a terrible player on Ottawa. 

Shane sets up the puck this time, dropping it right in the center. 

"You are too aggressive on Ottawa," Shane says again, as they line up at the face-off circle. "And you're letting weaker players push you around." 

Rozanov glares up at him. "What did I fucking say? I'm not your student," Rozanov snaps. "Beat me before you stick your nose where it doesn't belong." 

Shane smiles. "Just so I have this correct," Shane says, leaning over. "If I win, I not only get your forgiveness, I get your humility?" He glances up at him from the hood of his helmet. "There's a lot riding on this game."  

Rozanov laughs. He spits something at Shane in Russian. Shane thinks the shape of what he's saying is: "Bring it on, bitch." 

Rozanov wins the face-off again. But Shane's ready for it this time. As Rozanov pushes forward with the puck, Shane stays right up in his space, skating backwards in time with him as if they were high-octane waltzing. Rozanov keeps trying to skate out ahead of him, moving out from the side, but Shane stays locked into the rhythm of his movements. 

So when Shane suddenly disrupts the momentum by, in one smooth circle, skidding into forward position, Rozanov has no choice—he's thrown off. And while he is, Shane shoves his club as hard as he can toward the puck. 

After a few seconds of wrestling, Rozanov doggedly trying to keep the puck in his possession, Shane, with one last yank, steals it away from him. 

Shane's delighted laughter echoes throughout the rink, as he then takes off at full-speed in the other direction. 

Rozanov is fast, but not as fast as Shane Hollander. Exhilaration Shane hasn't felt since Rozanov left Boston thrums hot and addicting in his veins as he hears the thunderous clatter of skates gain closer and closer, Rozanov closing in on him just a second too late as Shane skids into position, and without even needing another thought, slaps the puck into Rozanov's goal. 

"Fuck yes!" Shane shouts. 

Rozanov curses. Shane whips around, panting heavily. He likes what he sees when he looks over. Rozanov is all fired up.

 "Game is tied!" Rozanov yells. "Go again!" 

They line back up. 

If this was a real game, and Shane was cornered for an interview after, here's what he would've said. Rozanov gave him a good fight. As center he always knew how to combine power with speed. Multiple times he forced Hollander out of his cover, barreling past him to foil honest attempts to control his movements in the rink. 

It was a close game. It used to always be a close game with the two of them. 

But if Shane were to put it simply, here's what he would've said instead. 

Every time, lining up at that face-off circle, so close that he could feel Rozanov's icy breath against his cheeks—

Shane could see it in his eyes already. The desperation. The frustration. The power, struggling to find its outlet.

Ilya lost the game before he even started. 

They've been chasing each other around the rink for over an hour when Ilya collapses into the ice, panting. 

Shane skates over. He sticks a hand out to help his boyfriend up. 

Ilya looks up at Shane, his blue eyes proud and defiant under a fan of long eyelashes. He glares at Shane's hand. 

There's a moment where Shane truly believes maybe Ilya hates him, a little, for beating him. 

But the look disappears when he stares back up at Shane again. He reaches out, grabs Shane's hand, and lets him pull him up. 

This brings Ilya right up to level with Shane's face. Shane is still giddy from the game, so he can't help the absolutely enamored smile he gives Ilya when he looks into his boyfriend's eyes. 

"I won," Shane says, smugly. 

Ilya, as if feeding off Shane's joy, returns Shane's smile with a lovestruck one of his own. "You did." 

Shane keeps their hands interlinked. "Do you forgive me then?" he asks, playfully, even with so much on the line. Do you forgive me for Ottawa? Do you forgive me for making your life harder? 

Ilya snakes a careful glance around the rink. Yuna is still talking on the phone. There is no one else around them. 

Ilya tilts his head. Shane meets him. "Nothing to forgive," Ilya murmurs, against Shane's lips.

Before he kisses him on the ice. 

Shane lets himself get caught up in a fantasy. Instead of Shane's rinky dink hockey school, they are at the Bell Centre, with 20,000 people in the stands, cameras flashing. In love and victorious, for the entire world to see. 

"Shane—" 

Shane keeps kissing Ilya.

"Shane—"

Shane winds his hand around Ilya's neck, buries it in his curls. 

"Will you two stop acting like teenagers and listen to me for two seconds?!"

Oh shit. That's his mom. Shane breaks away from Ilya, head spinning, face flushed. The cheering fades. All that is left is Yuna, arms crossed in the stands, with an unreadable expression on her face. 

"Sorry Yuna!" Ilya calls out. "I am a good kisser, you son cannot resist."

"Sure thing, Casanova!" Yuna responds, all dry humor despite her frown. 

Shane elbows Ilya hard. "Shut up asshole!" Shane retaliates. Ilya nudges him in the seat of his pants, shoving him towards the edge of the rink. Shane rights himself immediately, flipping Ilya the bird as he does, as he starts making his way toward his mom. 

Except, in a sudden burst of speed, Ilya is skids out in front of him, sticking his tongue out as he passes Shane on the ice. So the only thing for Shane to do is laugh, and try to beat him to the edge of the rink. All this accomplishes is the two of them landing and tackling each other at the wall at the exact same time, wrestling in front of an unimpressed Yuna Hollander. 

"Yuna, tell your son it does not count unless his hand touches the wall—"

"My hand was touching the wall until you shoved me out of the way—"

"Does not matter. Win is win—" 

"Shane," his mom commands. She sounds serious.  "Stop." 

At her tone, Shane stops struggling. Ilya, who's only ever had to hang out with board game night Yuna, lets his hands fall to the side. He looks a little awkward, as if unsure if he should be present for the conversation. 

"Mom, come on, what is it?"

His mom takes a deep breath. There's a difficult expression pinching her face, pressing her lips into a thin line. 

"I was on the phone with Metros management. They want to go public with the news that you've been cleared to skate."

Ilya tenses visibly. Shane blinks. "Oh. That makes sense. The sooner they get me back on the ice the better." 

"They want to have cameras there," his mom continues, unsmiling. "Of you at practice. You haven't been checking the internet for the past few weeks, but," his mom curses, frustrated and angry. "People have been eager, to say the least, for updates on when you'd be able to return for the season. Reporters have begun trying to scoop details of your recovery within corporate and medical. The Metros want you in as soon as possible to quell any rumors that your injuries are more severe than what we've made public." 

Ilya can't hold himself back. "But has barely been four weeks—" Ilya interjects. But both Shane and Yuna silence him with a look. 

Shane turns back to his mom, determined. "How soon do they want me out there?"

His mom's lips are pressed into a grim line. "Monday." 

A loud protest rips out of Ilya at this. Too bad neither Yuna or Shane asked for his opinion. "Let's do it," Shane decides. 

****

The second they get back into the car Yuna has team doctors, PR heads, and management on speakerphone, with Shane sticking his head up from the backseat. Shane jabbers on endlessly, while Yuna interjects whenever she feels Shane missed anything logistically. 

The entire time, Shane watches Ilya out of the corner of his eye. 

His sunglasses shield a lot of his face, but his clenched jaw, his tense shoulders, they give him away—Ilya's upset. Shane tries to ignore him for the most part, but he can't help but sneak longer and more pointed glances in his direction. 

When Ilya's upset, he practically vibrates with it. The longer he holds it in, the more helpless Ilya is to its inevitable implosion. 

They reach home. Ilya files out first. Then Yuna, then Shane. 

The second the door closes, Ilya whirls on both of them. 

"Shane is not ready," Ilya declares. 

Yuna, who was about to retreat into her office, with expectations of Shane to follow, stands in place. She turns around. "Excuse me?" 

"Hey," Shane says. He tries to keep things playful. He places his hands on his hips. "I say the way I kicked your butt out there shows I'm plenty ready to skate come Monday." 

Ilya glares at him. "Is not a joke. You're not ready. Is your job as a player," he jabs a finger at Shane. "To tell the team you are not ready." 

Shane tries to jump in, but to his surprise, his mom speaks up faster. "His doctors cleared him to skate," she says, matter-of-fact.

Ilya stops, a touch hesitant to face off against Yuna. Shane watches as Ilya tries to reign himself in, but his hatred of Montreal overpowers more polite sensibilities. 

Ilya grits his teeth. "The same doctors that cleared him in Pittsburgh?"

"Dude, I told you they did that because I told them I was fine—" Shane tries, but then his mom gets there before him.

"Is there something wrong Ilya?" Yuna hasn't quite started raising her voice yet, but her eyes have grown cold. It's not an expression Shane's ever seen her wear outside of conversations with Shane or Dad. It's definitely not an expression she's ever shown to her favorite charades partner Ilya. 

But Ilya is not easily intimidated. "I think the two of you are making a mistake," Ilya stands his ground. His brave stupid boyfriend stands his ground. "I think is too soon." 

Shane walks over, and seeing Ilya's shaking shoulders he links their hands together, in an attempt to soothe him. "Come on," Shane says, softly. Ilya stiffens further, but he doesn't shake Shane off. "It'll be no different than the skating we did today. I think The Metros just need me to show signs of life, that's all." 

Ilya isn't moved. "It will be very different. I know how to be careful with you," Ilya grits out. "Your vulture team does not." 

The words light a spark of fury in his mom's eyes. "Watch it," she snaps. Shane winces. Never insult The Metros in front of Yuna. Especially if you've played on The Raiders for eight years. "You don't know what you are talking about." 

"Also," Shane pipes up. "'Careful' with me? I am not a princess." 

Ilya shakes loose from Shane's hold. Ilya's eyes have focused entirely on Yuna now, and the hand that used to be cradling Shane's is now tightly clenched into a fist. "No," Ilya hisses. "You don't know what you are talking about." 

The tension in the room hits a level it now can't de-escalate from. 

"Ilya," Shane snaps, warning. "Stop." 

"Really," his mom says, flatly. The more Ilya's voice shakes, the steelier Yuna's gets in return. It's like watching a car crash in slow motion. "Enlighten me then," she says, sarcasm dripping. "Shane and I have been working with The Metros for over ten years. I've been by his side since the draft, the juniors. I drove him to every hockey game he's played between the ages of five and eighteen. I was there in the stands with Shane scoping you out in Regina. But sure," she smiles. "I don't know what I am talking about." 

Ilya smiles back, and it's not one of his nice ones. It's the smile he has before he's about to say something that gets him punched on the ice. "You do not know what you are talking about because the Hollander family is brainwashed by Montreal. They say jump Hollanders say how high. They say play Shane says for how long—" 

Ilya's blue eyes turn to ice, as they fix on Yuna, "They say kill your son on camera you say how's Monday—" 

A horrible noise rips itself out of Yuna, and suddenly Shane sees red. He pushes himself between Ilya and his mom, shielding her from him. He shoves Ilya, hard. "Hey!" he shouts, livid. "What the fuck is wrong with you?! Don't ever talk to my mom that way!" 

"Everyone here saw it!" Ilya's anger explodes out of him now. "Your mom, me, David—everybody!" He whirls on Yuna, who stares at Ilya like he's slapped her. "You saw him! For two days he does not know where he is, he repeats conversations he's already had, he doesn't remember what games he's won and what games he's lost, and he thinks Pittsburgh goalie is someone who retired in 1999!" Ilya pants, face red. "Hospital thinks he might have second impact, hospital thinks he has chance he might not play again, until Metros team doctor comes in and suddenly is 'mild concussion'—"

Yuna finally loses it. "Shane is better!" she yells. It's terrifying. "Shane's better and no one but you sees any reason why he should just sit here and waste away when he's got a perfectly clean bill of health. Sorry you can't keep fooling around with him in his bedroom—" 

Ilya laughs. "I'm not your son's secondary school girlfriend and I tell you right now he goes to practice on Monday you will regret it as long as you live—" 

The front door clicks open, and awesome, now Dad's here. 

David files home, fresh off from work, tie loosened. With a quick flip he shuts the door, Treasury briefcase in one hand, a horrified expression in the other.

"Hey!" As a man who always had to fight to get a word in between his son and his wife, David knew how to silence a room without raising his voice. Everyone stops talking. "What the hell is going on here?" 

No one says anything in response. David, seeing his wife's upset, dashes over to her side to comfort her. Shane continues shielding his mom from Ilya, fire burning in his eyes. 

Shane, David, Yuna on one side. 

Ilya, on the other.

Three-to-one. 

Shane watches Ilya take this in. A bitter, resigned smile stretches across his face as he does. "Nothing," Ilya finally says. "I'm leaving." 

It's Friday. Ilya doesn't need to be at his away game until Sunday. 

Ilya shoulders his duffel bag. He shoots Shane one last look, and he leaves the Hollander home. 

****

Yuna, with angry tears still streaking down her cheeks, buries her face into David's neck. They don't say anything to each other, Dad not asking any more questions either. 

They just hold each other, while Shane looks to them, then the door Ilya left through. 

Ilya yelled at his mom. Ilya yelled at his mom. By most standards in the boyfriend rule book, this is an unforgivable crime. Shane should be happy Ilya left. He should hope that Ilya never comes back. 

Yet, the longer the silence stretches, his mom and dad curled into each other, Shane's heart thuds, desperate and broken. It's like the second he sees Ilya leave, Shane's own rage leaves with him—the same way Ilya is about to, if you don't do something quick. 

Shane looks out the window. He hears Ilya start his car. 

He looks back at his parents, locked in a tight embrace. 

Without a second thought, he stuffs his feet into his sneakers and he chases after his boyfriend. 

Ilya is about to turn out of the driveway when Shane runs out ahead of him, waving his hands. 

Shane reads the Russian words for "Fuck!" and "Shit!" on Ilya's lips as he hurries to slam on the brake. 

The car lets out an unforgiving screech. "Shane!" Ilya shouts through the window. "What the actual fuck?!" 

Shane runs over to the passenger side, and Ilya, bewildered, unlocks the door and lets him in. 

"Sorry—" Shane is breathless when he sits down. "Sorry I don't—I just—" 

"You are insane person," Ilya says. An increasingly common refrain in their relationship. "You are insane person, and you drive me crazy. I could have killed you." 

Shane catches his breath, closes his eyes, counts to ten. Then, without another word, he socks Ilya's right arm as hard as possible.

"Ow! Motherf—" 

"You deserved that and you know it!" Shane says, attempting to remain angry. 

Ilya rubs his arm, still grumbling in Russian, but doesn't protest any further. His eyes are downcast. "Why are you here, Shane?" 

Shane opens, then closes his mouth. He tries again. "I couldn't let you just leave like that," Shane babbles. "Without talking or something—I don't—I don't know—I just couldn't let you leave—"

"You don't hate me for yelling at your mother?" Ilya says, resigned. 

A stronger person would say yes. A better son would say yes.

Shane should say yes. 

But Shane realizes, over and over, especially when it comes to Ilya, that he's never as strong as he thought he was.

"No," Shane says, in a small voice. He doesn't tell Ilya that he would excuse whatever crime Ilya commits against him, just as long as Shane can yell at him about it later, just as long as he stays by Shane's side. He swallows. "Ilya, please just come back inside. Let's just talk this over."  

Ilya shoots him a sad, humorless smile. "If you talked to my mother like that I would've never forgiven you. She would've hated you until the grave."  

Shane gives him a smile back. "That would've never happened. I would've dazzled her with my Canadian charm and she would've handed me the keys to your hockey empire." 

Shane's gotten better about talking about Ilya's family. It's a slow and careful process, yet, after everything, Shane has learned how to navigate it. For example, Shane has found that any hypothetical where Shane meets his mom always makes Ilya smile. 

Just like now. All the difficult emotions slide off Ilya's face, and his boyfriend looks over at Shane with nothing but fondness spilling out of his every pore. That is, until he reaches over and cups Shane's cheek. Until he strokes a reverent hand through the hair on the back of Shane's neck. 

Then his face falls. 

"Shane," Ilya pleads. "Please don't go to practice on Monday." 

Shane looks back at him, helpless. Unable to give him what he wants. So instead he asks—

"Did I really do all that? At the hospital?" 

Ilya traces his thumb once, twice, over his cheekbones before he lets his hand fall. "Yes," Ilya mumbles.

But before Ilya can retreat entirely, Shane catches his hand, and yanks it close to his chest. He presses a soft, reverent kiss to the bridge of Ilya's fingers. Ilya just keeps staring at him, cut open and pained. 

"I'm sorry," Shane whispers. "For scaring you like that. If… if I had known you were there I would've tried harder," Shane looks up. "Tried harder to remember. Tried harder to be normal. Tried harder to be okay." 

"Shane," Ilya's eyes look glassy. "Don't be stupid—" 

"But you know that I'm good now, right?" Shane says, with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Like, whoever you saw back there, that's not the guy who's sitting in front of you now," he plays with Ilya's individual fingers. "And that's not the guy who's going back on the ice on Monday." 

Whatever comfort Shane managed to provide disappears immediately from his boyfriend's face. "Hollander—" Ilya insists, "I am begging you. Delay even for a week. Why does it need to be so soon?" 

But it's like the second the words leave his mouth, Shane can see in his eyes Ilya feels stupid for even asking. They both know the answer. 

"Because I love it out there," Shane says, with a small, rueful smile. "I belong there. And I want to be where I belong as soon as possible." 

Ilya unwinds his fingers from Shane's. He sucks in a painful breath. He buries his face into his hands, rubbing tiredly once, twice, before looking up. 

When he does, it's with pure resignation. "You will text? When you are done?" 

Shane beams. "Of course." 

The car falls into silence. Ilya drums his fingers on the steering wheel for a few seconds before he clears his throat. "I should go back. To my place." 

"You don't have to go," Shane urges. "It…" Shane is about to say the fight wasn't that bad, but stops himself because… it was pretty bad. "My parents are nice people," is what Shane settles on. "They'll get over it." Eventually. 

Ilya laughs. "Yes. Moms very chill with outsiders who say they kill their children." 

"You should not have done that," Shane says, attempting to be serious, and firm. "Actually, never do that again." 

"I will not make it habit to yell at your mother, yes," Ilya says gravely. 

Shane nods. "Then she will eventually understand that you were just looking out for me. And that you were only disrespectful under extenuating circumstances." 

Ilya sighs. He runs a tired, frustrated hand through his curls. "I still do not think I should be here."

Ilya looks out the window, gazing back out to Shane's childhood home. A sad, longing expression crosses his face when he does. He doesn't tear his eyes away from the house the entire time he speaks. "I should give your family space. You have a big day Monday," he says, turning back, shooting Shane a humorless grin. 

Shane's disappointed, but he gets it. "Okay," he fiddles with his thumbs a little. He tries not to sound too needy when he looks back up at Ilya. "Can I get a kiss before you go—" 

Shane barely has a chance to finish his sentence before Ilya lunges over the console. 

Shane doesn't know if he's mentioned this yet, but fuck, Ilya is such a good kisser. He's pretty sure Ilya is the best kisser in the world. The way his hand, big and strong against his neck, reels him in, holds him in place, it makes Shane feel insane. Shane gasps into Ilya's panting mouth, and Ilya doesn't even give him a second to recover before he shoves his tongue in between Shane's lips. Shane wraps both his arms around Ilya's shoulders, yanking at his curls to pull him in closer—closer— 

"Fuck—" Ilya mumbles, and pulls away from Shane. Shane whines, and chases Ilya's lips instinctively. 

"Come back," he pleads, and tries to kiss him again, but Ilya places a hand on his chest. Ilya's short of breath too, as he rests his forehead against Shane's, the two of them panting into each other's mouths. 

"I yell at your mom, then I jerk you off in parents' driveway," Ilya says, laughing against Shane's lips. "I am evil, Satanic boyfriend." 

"You're going to jerk me off?" Shane asks, breathless. He feels crazy. He feels the way teenagers were probably supposed to feel—wild and in love, everything else be damned.

Ilya keeps one hand on the back of his head, so Shane stays cradled in place, cushioned and protected. Then, with a frantic hand, Ilya undoes Shane's pants and does exactly as he promised. Ilya jerks him off, and Shane whines Ilya's name over and over against his lips. 

When Shane comes, he doesn't even give Ilya a moment before he brings his boyfriend's fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. When he does a satisfactory job, he bends over and dives into Ilya's lap, nosing and breathing him in through his sweatpants before tugging him free. He sucks Ilya off right there, folded in half over the console, bobbing up and down while Ilya pets the back of his head, gentle despite him groaning over and over how much he loves fucking his mouth. 

Ilya finishes with a muffled shout, his hand pulling Shane's hair hard despite his restraint. Shane takes in as much as he can, but when he pulls off, he feels a little bit of Ilya's cum dribble out of the corner of his mouth. 

Even though he feels the console digging into his ribs, Shane lays his head against Ilya's thigh, as the two of them attempt to catch their breath. Ilya instinctively starts stroking Shane's hair. Shane wishes he could stay like this forever. 

"Fuck," Ilya groans. The car reeks of sex. "Okay. For real. I am going home." He nudges Shane off, which Shane acquiesces with a huff. Ilya reaches into his car compartment and grabs a handful of fast food napkins and starts aggressively swiping the edge of Shane's mouth. Shane lets himself get scrubbed down, even submitting himself to then Ilya flattening the back of his hair down, so it looked less like Ilya grabbed it in the throes of getting a driver's seat blowjob. 

"When I come back—" Shane starts, but when he opens his mouth Ilya shoves two Trident mints unceremoniously into his mouth. Shane sputters indignantly. "That better not have been your nicotine gum," he accuses. 

"No, is normal gum. I am preparing apology tour for the Hollanders. Step one is making sure their son does not look like he sucked dick in my car," Ilya says cheerily. 

Shane chews around minty citrus thoughtfully. He gives himself another once over in the mirror. "Write this down for your apology tour," Shane orders. "In one week, we are going to have dinner at my parents' again. You will bring my mom a signed Jean Tremblay jersey—that used to be her favorite center from The Metros, back when he played in 1995. You will apologize, you will not say the word 'kill' and 'Montreal' in the same sentence, and more importantly, you are doing all this while bringing a very nice bottle of expensive red, preferably at least ten years past its vintage date." 

Ilya scoffs. But when Shane turns to him, he looks at Shane with nothing but sincerity in his eyes. "If you come back alive on Monday," Ilya says, sincere. "I will do that and more." 

Shane pecks him on the lips. "I'll come back alive on Monday," Shane promises. He opens the car door, trying not to let his stomach sink at the sight of Ilya, separated from him through yet another entry way. "Remember," he says, stabbing a finger in his direction. "Tremblay jersey. Red wine. Apology." 

Ilya smiles, "Of course. Anything for the Hollanders." 

****

Monday comes. 

Shane arrives in Montreal. He is celebrated like a king when he walks through the doors. 

He puts his skates on. He gears up. He confronts the harsh expanse of white he has to tame. 

As he does, a strange, horrid feeling washes over him. 

It's like his body is fighting against his brain. Shane, the brain, wants to skate. He wants to get back into the thick of things. He wants to play hockey. 

Shane, the body, remembers, like a frightened dog, everything the ice threatens to inflict on him. 

Just last weekend, he was working out, he was skating on the ice with Ilya. The doctor recommended no contact just to be careful, but Shane felt like he was operating pretty much back to normal. That's why neither he nor his mom could understand Ilya's Category 5 freakout. 

But then he gets on the ice. 

First, his vertigo returns. His teammates clap him on the back. They call him Hockey Jesus ("Because you always come back from the dead!" Hayden kindly explains), and as Shane laughs with them, he notices the ice pitch forward almost ninety degrees when J.J. slings a companionable arm around his shoulders. 

Another teammate nudges him, friendly in greeting, and the ice pitches 180 degrees in the other direction. 

Coach suggests Shane start by running lines. Metros management and PR, a group of suits sitting on the stands, allow the press to follow him doggedly down the rink as he skates. 

Shane skates lines, but when he turns, suddenly the cameramen blur together in a rapid, exponential mass. Three flashing lights turn quickly into nine, then twenty-seven, then eighty-one, a nauseating kaleidoscope, no matter how hard Shane tries to blink them back into place. 

But he just manages to hold it together when he moves onto puck drills. He forces his body into submission by focusing solely on the contrast of the black puck on the white ice of the rink. 

But, it's as if in trying to fight off the vertigo everything else gets worse. 

The light sensitivity returns. The nausea threatens him, loud and angry, with its presence. The disorientation breeches its hold. The arena lights make him feel like he's at a dentist appointment. 

He struggles to adjust his vision, as sights, colors, sounds blend together into a smoothie in his skull. 

Shane loses his balance, and he finally falls. 

The confusion is the final nail in the coffin. 

The second he hits the ice, Shane realizes he doesn't know where he is. People immediately start rushing toward him, and he doesn't recognize who any of them are. His brain only tells him that they are trying to take something away from him, and if he doesn't move fast he's going to lose, and if he loses he'll—he'll—

"Hollander—" someone shouts. "Hollander—Jesus Christ—" 

There's a blur of a human coming at him, and Shane's fear response turns his spit to pennies in his mouth. He's going to get hurt again. The thought makes him flinch so hard that as he tries to get up, he feels himself meet the floor, hard, one more time. 

"Holy fuck, someone needs to do something he's hurting himself!" 

Get off the ice. Get off the ice. No matter what you do, make it off the ice. 

He follows that directive to the letter, not caring where he goes as long as he stops seeing white, as long as he can just get his skates off. 

"Shane—" 

The confusion only ends when he finally sees his mom, sudden and everywhere, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him off the rink. Off the ice, off the endless expanse of white. 

When he comes back to himself, he turns back around, and surveys the damage. 

His nose is bleeding, and his lip is busted open—he must've hurt himself when he fell. His mom is shouting for someone to get him a towel. When he finally turns to look at his teammates he finds nineteen horrified expressions fixed on him, each more scared than the last. 

The swarm of suits immediately envelops the press. They start damage control, yet Shane can see their shoulders shake, taken aback by everything they'd seen just the last thirty minutes. 

Shane can't meet his mom's eyes. She keeps looking at him the same way she did after Shane came out to her, crying in their backyard. She stares at him like she failed him, and there are too many people around for Shane to shake her shoulders and beg her to understand that this isn't her fault. 

He did this to himself. 

He always pushes himself too hard, and he takes everyone down with him when he fails. 

His family. 

Ilya.

The videos of him losing it on the ice do not become public. 

What does make the wires is the following headline, taken directly from a joint statement released by the Hollander family and the Montreal Metros. 

Shane Hollander out Indefinitely as Concussion Symptoms Return 

**** 

Shane asked his dad once why he stopped playing hockey. 

When he did, he failed to keep the accusation out of his voice. Both Shane and Yuna agreed that the one thing they hated, more than anything else in the world, were quitters. People who don't even have it in them to stay in the fucking game. 

Yet, the one person they loved the most was exactly that—a quitter. 

Shane had still been little then. Twelve, maybe thirteen, but even back then the industry agreed—here was a kid that was going to be great. 

But to David, Shane Hollander was always just Shane Hollander. 

His dad took Shane's accusation with good humor, gently walloping Shane on the back of his head, back when Shane was still shorter than him. 

"Well, if I kept playing hockey," his dad said, lightly, "I wouldn't be able to start the family I wanted to have with your mom." 

"You gave up hockey for Mom?" Shane had asked, a touch disgusted. Dad better not let Mom hear him say that. 

His dad laughed. "No, squirt," he pinched Shane's cheek fondly. "I gave up hockey for you." 

Shane's stomach lurched. Even as a kid Shane greeted guilt like an old friend. "Me? What? Why? I didn't ask you to do that. I wasn't even born yet. If you asked me I would've told you to keep playing." 

His dad slings a companionable arm around Shane's shoulders. "O Shane-o," he sang. "The world can barely handle one great Hollander, much less two." 

"But, Dad," Shane insisted. "Mom said you were good. You could've been great too." 

His dad fell still, especially at the mention of Mom in this context. He took this in. He patted Shane on the shoulder, and when he looked over at Shane again, he got uncharacteristically serious. 

"Kid, if I played hockey that's all it'll be for me. You know how it is. Some guys figured out how to do it—play the game and have the wife and kids and the whole rigamarole, but I couldn't. It was hockey or it was nothing. But then your mom got pregnant with you, and well… I don't know." 

His dad had smiled then, as if recalling a beautiful memory. Moved by a sudden impulse, his dad swerved over to face him. He bent down, so he could bring the two of them at eye-level. 

"Shane, back then, I realized I cared way more about raising a good kid than I cared about being great."

Shane found himself entirely speechless, locked into the sincerity of his dad's conviction. His dad continued. "The idea of the three of us: you, me, your mom, all the great things we could accomplish together," his dad smiled, seeped in nostalgia. "Well, it didn't seem like much of a choice at all." 

****

The great Shane Hollander throws himself a little pity party. 

It had been a week straight of doctors' appointments. It had been a week straight of horrifically demoralizing physical therapy sessions. It had been a week straight of Metros management, terrified and desperate to cover their ass, insisting Shane not go anywhere near a rink, especially their rink, for the foreseeable future. 

So Shane just gives up for the next three days. Who gives a fuck. It's so fucking pointless. An entire month of him pushing himself, proving that he can be good at recovering, and for what? To humiliate himself entirely in front of his team? In front of the people who built his career? 

Yeah, Shane's done with coming up with ideas or plans for his life. For anyone's life. Every single time he does, someone gets hurt, or someone hates him for it, and it all blows up in his face. 

So Shane is going to lock himself in his room, and stay in a place where he can do the least amount of damage to himself and others as possible. 

First, he lets himself sleep for an entire day. Looking at lights makes him unbelievably nauseous, so he decides he will fix that and more by not being conscious for more than 12 hours a day. 

Then, at night, insomnia hits him like a truck. So, to occupy himself, he starts cleaning out his closet trying to see what old, childhood garbage he can entertain himself with. In the hours between 1 AM and 3 AM, he finds and then rebuilds his miniature Lego hockey rink from scratch. It's missing half the pieces, so half the rink suddenly turns into a race car track, because that set stayed unopened. 

In this abomination of a rink, Shane places five lego people on either side, modeling a game. Two construction workers take the place of the missing d-men. 

Then, even though Ilya got unbelievably mad at him for doing this last time, Shane recreates every game Ilya played for Ottawa from recent memory right in his makeshift hockey rink. He gives the Lego guy representing Ilya a little kiss, but then feels deeply embarrassed about it. He gets to work shifting the pieces around, moving forwards and defense wildly around Ilya. As he does, he vows to try and watch a few of Ilya's newer games when he's better, so he can get a more updated picture of how Ottawa's faring. 

That is, if he ever gets better. 

The second that thought floats to the surface, Shane blocks it out with expediency. If he thinks about his indefinite leave for longer than thirty seconds he will fall into an unsalvageable pit of despair. So instead, he decides to put Lego!Ilya down, shoving the rink abomination with a nonzero amount of anger underneath the bed. Then, with great determination, since he's down here anyway, he digs around and fishes out every required reading book he kept from secondary school. 

He rereads The Call of the Wild, and decides the only way he'd be okay with Ilya getting a dog is if the dog is as capable as the dog in the book. 

He rereads Hatchet and, with an itching sense of deja vu, decides that he would be much better than the main character at surviving in the Canadian wilderness. 

He then wonders how everyone in his life would react if he ever tried to test out his hypothesis without warning. He doesn't touch any of his hockey books because rereading them would make him way too sad. 

After not being able to sleep for over 16 hours, Shane finally passes out after playing over 50 rounds of Solitaire using an old card deck he found underneath his desk. 

He proceeds to sleep for an entire day. 

He stays in the black for most of it, except for brief murky instances of consciousness. He thinks he hears his mom whispering to his dad. He thinks he feels one of them brush his hair back. 

He thinks he hears Ilya, above him. 

"...was never raised to speak to someone's mother like that. I behaved horrible the last time I was here," Ilya says. He sounds wrecked. 

"Don't be ridiculous," his mom says, also above him. She sounds like she's been crying. "You were right. Of course you were right. You were just looking out for Shane. I'm the one who should apologize—" 

"No please," Ilya insists. "You are his mother. You apologize for nothing." He hears a wet sniff. "I did not want to be right," Ilya says, smaller. "I want him to be better. I want him to play hockey." 

Shane's consciousness cuts out again, but when he comes to, Ilya and his mom are still talking to each other. 

He hears Mom's voice first. She sounds like she's picking up from a previous conversation Shane didn't catch. 

"... lost my parents when I was young too. Both of them by the time I was eighteen." 

"How did they go?" Ilya asks. 

"Overexertion." 

"... I do not know this word." 

"It's when you are so exhausted you just keel over," she says, blunt. "My dad went first, when I was sixteen. Then my mom, when I was eighteen. They worked themselves until they died." 

"... Jesus." 

"They grew up poor. They suffered a lot. Work was their religion, because work made it so they got to stop being poor. But it was like… even though their circumstances changed, who they were didn't. So even though they didn't even have to, like muscle memory they worked and worked until they worked themselves to death." 

"Yuna," a beat. "That's terrible." 

"I'm not saying this to bum you out. I'm just saying I know how lonely it is." Another pause. "I hated my parents too. I hated who they were. I hated how they raised me. Just like you, I thought I would be happy when my mom finally died." A sigh, shaky and unmoored. "But instead… Jesus… I was just so fucking lonely." 

There's a longer pause, until Ilya breaks the silence again. "They took too much with them," Ilya says. "They took too much and you feel like they took a part of you with them when they went into the ground." 

A sucking breath, as his mom responds. "... And you wonder if you are kidding yourself by continuing to live your life up on the earth, when maybe the real you is supposed to be down there with them." 

"Fuck," Ilya's voice shakes. "Yes." 

More quiet. His mom talks again. "... I never knew how to talk about it with David, because their deaths and their memory just contained so much ugliness, and David, especially at the time, felt like the one thing in my life that didn't feel ugly—" 

There's sudden movement. Maybe two people embracing. 

The last thing he hears before he gets dragged back to unconsciousness, is his mom pleading. 

"No matter what happens. Promise you will look after Shane. Promise you will always be good to him." 

Shane does not stay awake long enough to hear how Ilya responds. 

****

"Fuck!" 

Shane skids, and his fucked up balance sends him flying into the ice.

It's now been two months since he lost his marbles in front of his entire team and he can't even skate a lap around the rink without eating shit. 

Ilya stares at him with an attempted nonchalance. 

Shane rolls so he's lying face-first into the ice. The chill against his skin actually feels kind of nice. Maybe he will just stay here. Maybe frozen in amber in his dinky kiddy hockey school is the closest he's going to get to getting back into the game. 

Ilya nudges him with the toe of his skate. "Get up." 

"No," Shane mumbles. His head is spinning. "It's hopeless," he adds, just to be dramatic. 

"Get up." 

Shane doesn't move. So Ilya grabs his collar, and lifts him up by the scruff of his neck. Shane tries to pretend this display of strength isn't ridiculously hot when he lands back on his skates. 

Face-to-face, Shane glares petulantly at him. 

Ottawa's limping win streak had ended with swiftness, so The Centaurs didn't make the playoffs again. Between that and Ottawa still losing half their games, Ilya has magically a lot of free time to babysit Shane while he flails pathetically across the ice. 

"We are actually so fucking washed," Shane bitches. "I'm never getting better and you are stuck on a losing team that sucks. Everyone is going to forget about us." 

"Don't make me trip you," Ilya says, calmly. "Let's do another lap." 

"No," Shane barks. Ilya raises his eyebrow. 

Shane refuses to accept this. This perpetual cycle of suck. When he invited Ilya to his cottage almost four years ago now, he didn't expect their relationship to turn into their fucking burial ground. 

Shane Hollander, drooling out his mouth, knocked out of the ice just before he even turned thirty—mummified in some suburban cul-de-sac in Ottawa, Ontario.

His rival Ilya Rozanov, losing every single one of his games, playing for a dogshit team for the next six or ten or however many years until he retires, joining Shane in his quest to fade from existence. 

"No," Shane insists again. He shoves Ilya away from him. Instead, he carefully makes his way back to the side of the rink, hopping onto the railing. He then jabs his club in Ilya's direction, like it's his scepter. "We are doing you." 

Ilya scoffs. "Me?"

Yeah. Fuck it. Shane's got nothing but time now, and he refuses to let the Hollander-Rozanov name fizzle out like this. Maybe Shane Hollander will never play again. Maybe this, right here, is how Shane Hollander ends: cut short at his prime.

And, like with everything, Shane will just have to accept it. 

But then that means that the least he can do is focus on the person in front of him that can actually skate. He can make sure the one and only player that's ever been called his equal doesn't die at the bottom of the fucking rankings.

If this is the last the hockey world sees of Shane Hollander, the least they are going to do is compare him to a fucking legend. 

Ilya doesn't have what it takes to make Ottawa good because he can't think long-term for shit. 

Good thing all Shane knows how to do is prophesize about the fucking future. 

"The way you are playing in Ottawa right now, it's like you're trying to bash through a brick fucking wall," Shane barks. 

"Shane—" Ilya warns. But this time, Shane doesn't give a shit if Ilya doesn't want to hear it.

"No. Listen to me. The second pre-season starts up again, you are going to tell your joke of a coach to stop putting rooks who aren't even 170 centimeters tall on defense." 

Ilya drags a bucket of pucks over with his club. "I already tell you," he snipes, not looking in Shane's direction. "How my team runs is none of your business, Metros' captain."  

"I'm not even a coach," Shane bitches, "And even I can tell his formations make no goddamn sense—"

"One rookie is too fucking small for my kind of offense. He tries to push the way Ottawa needs to push he gets checked to death within first ten seconds of play," Ilya snaps. He lines up a puck, and with one careful aim, slapshots it right into the net. "The good one we need for second line center." 

Shane scrutinizes Ilya's form the entire time he's practicing. "So we have two lines that suck, instead of one line that makes sense? No wonder you guys can't win any of your games." 

At this jab, Ilya's shot goes wide and he cusses, loud and angry in Russian. He doesn't face Shane, but Shane understands every other word anyway—something something bitch something something nosy asshole something something doesn't know how to let dead dogs lie. 

But he doesn't translate for Shane in English, which means he doesn't intend for what he said to add to the conversation, so Shane ignores him and barrels on. 

"Aggression only makes sense on a rink if it has a leader who knows how to direct it. That's why you were so good on Boston. They looked to you to know who to hit. It's why The Raiders are falling apart without you now." 

"Hey," Ilya protests. "Marleau is a good captain."

"Yeah, I'm sure he's a great hang," Shane says, snide. "But now that you are on Ottawa, your players are weak, and they have no direction. So for the past two seasons it's just you smashing through five layers of defense, only to be taken out when you finally get to the fucking goal." 

"I'm not a rookie," Ilya smashes another puck into the net. "Stop talking hockey to me like I am a toddler." 

"Aren't you?" Shane taunts. Ilya's shots into the net get more forceful, more aggressive. Predictable. "Stop." He orders. 

Ilya shoots one more puck. The rubber slams into the net. Ilya, panting, whirls toward Shane. "Alright, Hollander," Ilya snarls. "Four-time cup winner. Number fucking one. All I hear is what I am doing wrong. You are so smart, you tell me how you fix this." 

Shane smirks. "I'm so glad you asked." 

The sight of Ilya, worked up and angry on the ice, makes Shane's blood pump hot through his decimated body. He hops off the railing, and he skates toward him. 

"You're a decent deceptive player," Shane says, as he gets low. "So I don't know why you choose to not use any of that kind when you are on Ottawa."

Ilya laughs. "Dipshit teammates can barely make a pass when they know where the puck is going. If I am dancing on the ice like court jester they will be even more fucking clueless." 

"We can fix—"

Ilya raises his eyebrows. "We?"

Shane rolls his eyes. "Whatever. You. You can fix that with the right people on your line. We can deal with that later. Let's just focus on you. When you were in Russia, you trained under Osipov, right?"

At mention of Russia and his old coach, Ilya's entire face shuts down. His entire body stiffens, like he's preparing for a fight.

The first real anger, real resistance, flares in Ilya's eyes. "Hollander," Ilya says. His voice is low, coiled. A warning. "Don't."

Shane doesn't, back off that is. But he gentles his tone. "Ilya. Hear me out—"

"Osipov and the KHL have nothing to teach me," Ilya snarls. "The worst I ever fucking played on Ottawa does not come close to the dogshit lows that shithead coach and that shitfuck Team Russia brought me to." 

Shane braves on. "Everything you learned as a kid, everything you learned from Russia," Shane says, steady and firm. "You bring all that to the ice." 

"You don't know shit about Russia," Ilya spits. "You grow up loved and adored in the same house, the same country, the same team." Resentment, loud and clear, vibrates from Ilya's every pore. "You know nothing about having to change everything about yourself—the way you play, the way you are—"

The same conversation. The same accusation. Following them like an echo, year after year. "I know," Shane says, softly. "I don't. But I… I've loved hockey as early as I can remember." Now I might not even have that. But he doesn't say it out loud, because this isn't about him. This is about Ilya.

"I studied the way hockey's played from Russia to the Czech Republic to Sweden to the goddamn U.S of A to Canada. Every single country, every single athlete, taught me something about the sport I've never thought about before, and every single time I go on the ice I bring all of that with me."

Ilya is still glaring at him, but he's stopped looking at him like he's going to bite his head off. A marked improvement from Shane's previous attempts at engaging with his boyfriend's home country. Encouraged, Shane continues.

"The way you switch between backhand and forehand, you learned that from your old coach, didn't you? Not the hit itself, but the technique?"

Ilya grits his teeth. Shane can tell it hurts him to give another person credit for any part of his prowess. But even he capitulates. "Yes," Ilya grumbles. 

"What if you did that not just for scoring, but for everything?"

"What if I grew wings and just flew the puck to the net?" Ilya grouses.

"Come on. Try it with me right now. Don't just slam yourself forward. Think about where you want your opponent to go. Then where you want the puck to go. Then you move."

Shane gets low, bending his knees, like he's preparing to play a game. Ilya stares at him, flat and angry, for a very long time—not moving, not engaging.

"You eat shit, fall on your face, and your brain kills itself, I am blameless, understand?"

Shane scoffs, smiling despite himself. Ilya lowers himself, face-off position. "Overconfidence," Shane mocks. "Not off to a great start." 

Ilya huffs. He meets Shane at eye-level. "Have it your way, Hollander. Ready—"

Shane grabs the puck. He takes off as fast as he can. "Fuck you!" Ilya shouts, as he chases after Shane.

Shane's delighted laughter rings throughout the rink. "Fucking faster!" he goads. "You slowed all the way down in Ottawa!" 

Ilya calls him a bitch in Russian. He follows that up with calling him a whore. 

This is nothing like the horrific practice with The Metros. Shane feels completely in control. 

Ilya catches up to him suddenly, and without warning he skids, jerks, thudding and pressing against Shane elbow to elbow, wrestling him for the puck. 

Shane shoves him away. "I have a concussion, why is this so hard for you—" 

"Stop running—" Ilya grits out, all in his mother tongue, "Your fucking mouth—" 

He finally yanks the puck from Shane's possession. With a growl he takes off in the other direction, but Shane stays hot on his heels. Ilya tries to push him away, but Shane knows he's holding back because he doesn't want to hurt him.

So Shane doesn't go anywhere. 

When Boston played Montreal, Rozanov loved chasing Shane down. Shane Hollander the player was notoriously agile. So many games Shane would be skating as fast as he can, dodging and swinging past the smallest gaps between the wings, the d-men, only to turn and suddenly find himself thrown against the boards—

Rozanov nailing him in place with glee in his eyes. 

God. The way Rozanov fucked him after games like that. No wonder Shane could never think clearly around him. 

Rozanov is used to a very specific way of handling Shane on the ice.

Today, Shane is going to get him to unlearn everything he remembers. 

"Make me go where you want me to go!" Shane shouts, getting in his face. He doesn't let up. Just like the old days, Shane can see it in Ilya's eyes that he's getting frustrated.  "Don't just push me around. Trick me into going somewhere I don't want to be!"

Ilya uses his body to shield Shane away from the puck. "That your smart fucking idea?! Make me into Shane Hollander clone?!"

"Yeah, like using your brain on the ice makes you my clone," Shane grits out. "Don't just listen to what your body wants you to do. Think about where you want to go on the ice, and how you are going to trick me into getting the fuck out of the way—" 

Ilya suddenly jerks to the left, sweeping the puck with him in a wide arc. Shane laughs delightedly, as he glides in quickly to stay in Ilya's space. 

"Better! With those kinds of moves you might finally squeak out a win against Columbus," Shane mocks. 

"Shut," Ilya growls, "the fuck up." 

Just as Shane's about to curve in, breaching Ilya's shield around the puck, he does it. 

Ilya switches to his backhand. Shane anticipates the switch to the forehand, and grabs the puck, about to take off for the other side of the rink. 

But Shane realizes it too late. Yanking the puck back from Ilya's forehand, Shane leaves his entire right flank unguarded. 

In one movement, Shane gets possession. In a continued momentum, Ilya slams his shoulder into Shane's side.

Shane slides, and then crumples onto the ice. 

The puck flies into the boards. Ilya's club clatters to the ground. 

Ilya skids to his knees, hands grabbing Shane's shoulders. 

He's shouting something that Shane struggles to understand. When Ilya turns Shane over, holding him in his arms, cradling his head, Ilya's face, his blue eyes, his golden curls block out the glare of the lights. 

He clutches at Shane like he's something precious he can't bear to lose.

He's so fucking beautiful.

"Fuck, Shane we need to—I need to—I need to—"

Ilya is freaking out. Ilya's freaking out really badly. He's about to jerk up, as if he's going to try and carry Shane off the ice—such a stupid idea.

So, instead of letting him do that, Shane paps his boyfriend's face with the palm of his hand. The light slap brings Ilya back to reality. 

That and the slow, thunderous build up of Shane's giggling. 

"You did it," Shane laughs, crazed. His head is swimming, but Shane's happy to attribute that to the euphoria of his accomplishment. "Holy shit, I can't believe I actually got you to do it!" 

Ilya's face, gorgeous in its worry, immediately shutters into anger. "Fuck you. Can you stand?" 

Shane can, but he takes a special joy leaning on Ilya more than he needs to to help himself up. "I can't believe I got that to work," Shane continues to crow, joyously. "My first fucking try too!" 

The two of them shuffle off the ice. 

Ilya is completely silent. He doesn't look at Shane once. Shane suspects he might be mad, but Shane is too proud of himself to really care. 

It's one thing to drill Montreal rookies, sanding down their edges so they fit like well-made cogs into Shane Hollander's championship machine.

It's another thing entirely to tame Ilya Rozanov. 

It's a fucking headrush the likes of which Shane has never experienced. Not when he signed Montreal. Not when he won his first cup. Not when he beat Ilya, that last time out in Boston. 

Being the one to force Ilya Rozanov past the limits of what he thought he was capable of—that's a victory Shane's never gotten to taste before.

"We are practicing that again next time we come back here," Shane buzzes. Ilya still isn't meeting his eye. "I have PT three times a week, and then I have to meet with my trainer Thursday Friday. We should come back here Saturday. The summer camp wraps lessons at 3 so at 5 the rink is all ours."

Ilya stays dead silent. His jaw is clenched so tight Shane can see the ball of muscle roll and twitch violently. Shane decides to continue talking. 

"If you are going to play like that you are going to need fast skaters. Your current right wing isn't a bad player, but he's got no speed."

Ilya yanks the laces of his skates loose before he kicks them off. Shane does the same. 

"Maybe your current wing should take second line center. And trade out with the rookie who's actually fast." Shane ponders. "Both have decent presence on the ice."

They pack up. They pile into the car. The dead silence from Ilya continues. Shane's brain pays no mind, as it flies at a million kilometers per hour. 

"And make sure you tell your trainer to focus on core. Not that you are lacking in that department," Shane says, a touch suggestive. Ilya stares straight ahead at the road. "Now, I promise I'm not trying to turn you into a me-clone, but something mindful that also combines core like yoga or pilates would really not be a horrible idea—"

"Are your parents home?" Ilya bites out. He's still not looking at Shane. 

"Uh, I mean I think my dad is probably watching Friday Night Lights on the living room—" 

"We're stopping by my apartment," Ilya announces.

Ilya's car suddenly moves very fast. Shane notices him miss the exit to his parents' house. Shane's heartbeat ticks up hotly. "What? Why?" 

"Because I will fuck you until you scream and we cannot do that with your dad watching TV on the couch." 

"... Oh." 

Ilya turns to him with a smile. "Do not worry. I'll have you back in an hour." 

****

Ilya fucks him like he hates him. 

Shane knows it's fucked up, but he loves it when Ilya's angry. Since he was a teenager, all he wanted was to be something that Ilya could abuse. In the rink, in bed, it never mattered. 

Ilya only ever got truly angry on the ice when Shane was winning. 

So, this is all to say, when Ilya wrenches his face to the side, forcing Shane to look at him, all Shane can do is exactly what he wants. Blink up at him, as much as he can, helpless, with tears in his eyes. 

Maybe he seems like he's enjoying it too much, because then in another burst of strength Ilya pushes him to his side, Shane still completely exposed to him. Ilya grabs his ass, digging hard enough to leave bruises. When Shane whines in protest, telling him to be gentle, Ilya rears his hand back and spanks him hard, forcing a shocked moan out of him. 

"Nothing to say now?" Ilya grunts. Shane thinks Ilya's going to fuck him again, but all Ilya does is shove his fingers between Shane's lips. Shane whines, a little too high-pitched for comfort, as spit begins to pool from the corners of his mouth. "You were so fucking tough before. Telling me what to do, telling me how to play this fucking game." 

Ilya shoves his dick back into Shane unceremoniously, and Shane gasps at the force of it, eyes widening. Cushioned on his side, his right leg bent into the mattress, Ilya's hand gripping the meat of his ass, Shane feels helpless with pleasure. Ilya fucks him again, pressing his back tight to his chest, as if he's cradling him. 

Even when Ilya is trying to punish him, he's still trying to protect him. The thought makes Shane suddenly so hard that he cries out, mouth still stretched open on Ilya's fingers. 

"Fuck," Ilya curses in Russian. "You're going to cum, again?" He grabs onto the headboard, as it bangs against the wall. "All you are—" Ilya cuts himself off with a gasp, "All you are good for?" 

Weakly, Shane looks up at him. Ilya keeps fucking into him, arching Shane into him against Shane's will, as his fingers shove deeper and deeper into his mouth with every thrust. "Touch me," Shane tries to beg, but he can't talk. The more he opens his mouth, the more he chokes on the words before they even leave his lips. 

Shane can't understand Ilya anymore either. He's groaning into Shane's ear, angry and jumbled Russian too frantic for him to make anything out. 

"Ilya please, I need you touch me, I need you to let me come, please let me come," Shane begs, over and over, except it's all muffled around Ilya's fingers, around his repetitive, climbing moans, until Ilya comes in him. 

The shock, the wetness filling him, makes Shane, with a pained cry, follow after him, without Ilya even wrapping a hand around him. 

The two of them stay tangled up in each other, Ilya's softening dick still inside him. Shane wonders if he can live here forever, with Ilya's bedsheets scraping softly against his skin, his boyfriend's warmth cradling him even after hatefucking him into the mattress. 

Shane must've accidentally fallen asleep, because the only thing that brings him back into consciousness is three rapid pings from Ilya's phone, and the realization that the sun had set on them.

"Fuck," Ilya mumbles. He doesn't move otherwise. "Does your dad think you're dead?" 

"You should text him and let him know where I am," Shane says, eyes closing again. "I can't look at screens." 

"Stop using that as excuse to make me do bitch work," Ilya grumbles. Shane laughs.

"Should've thought about that before you fucked me to death," Shane mumbles, about to fall back asleep. Except, with a gasp, Shane feels Ilya slip out of him, slowly. The sensation, along with the feeling of Ilya's cum, sliding out of him, drags him to wakefulness. 

"It's your dad," Ilya grumbles, shielding his eyes from the glare of the phone. He sees something that makes him stand to attention a little more. "Shit, and your mom." 

At the mention of his mom, Shane stiffens, and not in a sexy way. 

It's not like he and his mom are ignoring each other. It's just that both of them seem to be making a marked effort not to be alone in the same room for longer than five minutes. 

"Just tell them I'm alive and I'll be back in like, an hour. And tell them to just eat dinner without me." Jesus Christ. He's literally almost thirty. Why can't he, as someone suffering from multiple post-concussion symptoms, just disappear for six-plus hours to have sex at his boyfriend's place without his parents' threatening to call the Canadian Coast Guard? Shane turns to Ilya, who types diligently into his iPhone. "Unless you wanted to join, of course." 

"No, is okay. I have…" Without even looking up, Ilya waves his hands around. 

After dating him for three—no, now four years (what the fuck), Shane has become somewhat adept at communicating with Ilya without words.  

"Oh," Shane blinks. "Right. You have group tonight." 

Group is in the basement of an Orthodox Church a thirty-minute drive away from downtown—a gathering of mostly recovering drug addicts of Slavic descent. Ilya had clarified to Shane once that he didn't necessarily identify as a drug addict, he just tended to get along with them better than other people. Plus, one of the teenagers, a recovering fent user who hated his parents, always brought really "bomb" varenki, because "is good for soul he replaces addiction with OlgaFlavorFactory.com" 

Shane asked once if he ever got recognized there. Ilya said yes, and he even signed a few autographs. 

The very next question out of Shane's mouth was if he ever talked about Shane during group. 

Shane thought it was an innocuous question, but maybe he said it the wrong way. Maybe he seemed too paranoid, probably because he was, so sue him. Because the next thing Shane knew, Ilya whirled around in anger. 

"Sometimes you are so selfish it disgusts me," Ilya spat. Ilya's insomnia had been especially bad back then, so his eyes were always sunken in an incurable grief. 

That was the last time Shane asked about group.

Last summer, Shane stayed at Ilya's place in Ottawa for an entire month. He was on a mission to set things back on track. He cleared out all his obligations for the off-season. He had missed, for a year, that the love of his life was suicidal. That was truly his bad. So maybe Ilya was suicidal because Shane had neglected him. So, why not make Ilya his number one priority? At least for the summer. Problem solved. 

Before Ilya let him in, Ilya had warned him extensively about what "being so sad I went fucking crazy," did to his apartment. Shane dismissed him vehemently, eager to prove how willing and adaptable he was. 

Ilya opened the door, and yeah, Jesus. 

Ilya had always been surprisingly tidy. He, like Shane, didn't seem to like mess, at least during the season, when he was expected to operate at the top of his game. 

So Shane expected well, maybe there might be like, a little bit of clutter, and Ilya was just being self-conscious. 

He was so stupid. Why would he think that Ilya Rozanov of all people would be self-conscious? 

Shane won't go into it, but it was pretty bad. It was bad in the way that made him realize, all at once, the depth of Ilya's tragedy, and how unequipped he was to handle it. 

That summer, Ilya seeped like an open wound. He swung wildly from being lighthearted and loving, to immobile and grief-stricken, to angry and hurtful at a drop of a hat. The anger always came whenever Ilya felt Shane had gotten too intrusive into the progress of his care. It made following Ilya's attempts at getting better damn near impossible. 

Yet, Shane surprised even himself with how, against all odds, he just learned how to speak Ilya's language. He noticed what Ilya responded well to. He definitely noticed what Ilya didn't. 

Their relationship, the very existence of it, was a freak absurdity. Shane could list at least 100 rare animal mutations more likely to survive than what they promised each other. The expectation always was that either of them wouldn't be able to handle it. Ilya wouldn't be able to handle what Shane demanded out of him. Shane wouldn't be able to handle the weight of Ilya's love. 

Yet, here Shane is, another year later. 

Like a bad habit, Shane opens and inspects Ilya's bathroom cabinet. He meticulously scans everything in there, notes how the inventory has changed. Every few months he looks, the medications are different. Sometimes they triple in quantity, sometimes a few of them disappear. Sometimes they come back, and the dosage is higher. All Shane knows is the collection has grown immensely from the single, measly bottle of antidepressants Ilya had been faring with last summer. 

Shane wishes, all the time, that the story of how Ilya got better had been clearer to him. Because, if it had been easier to understand, and it ever happened again, Shane could repeat the same steps to fix it.

But, like most things in Shane's life, it was entirely out of his control. 

One day, Shane was standing in the bombed-out shell of his boyfriend's apartment, cleaning with Ilya the half-empty glasses of vodka and cigarette butts. 

Then, the next, Ilya, just fine without him. 

All that existed in between were days, that added up into weeks, that then added up into months. 

Shane steps out of Ilya's bathroom. Ilya sits upright in bed, tapping idly at his phone with a relaxed expression on his face. When he looks up, he gives Shane a wry smile. 

"Ready to go back?" Ilya asks. His eyes are clear, alert. Nothing hides behind them. 

Instead of responding, Shane walks over, and gives his boyfriend a deep kiss. 

Shane Hollander might not return to the ice anytime soon. 

But the least he can do is make Ottawa feel like home for Ilya. 

****

Shane gets dropped off, and when he gets back home, his mom once again is conspicuously missing. 

Without the pomp and circumstance of a dinner guest, a Costco Rotisserie chicken, boiled whole wheat pasta, and green beans sit on the kitchen table. His dad pecks at the food while stabbing idly at his iPhone with his pinky.

When Shane walks in, David looks up. 

"Yo! Shane-o. Sorry to hear Ilya couldn't join us." 

Shane shrugs. He joins his dad at the table. He plates himself green beans and rips a chicken leg off for himself. He peels the skin off and dumps it to the side. 

Without a word, his dad picks up and claims what Shane doesn't want for himself. 

"Where's Mom?" Shane asks. 

"Meeting, I think." his dad says, easily. "So it's just you and me tonight, buddy." 

Shane nods. If Shane had asked Mom where she was going, she would've specified to him exactly where, when, and who she was meeting. But since it was just Dad, Mom could just say "meeting," and not feel obligated to give him any further follow-up. 

"Why is Mom avoiding me?" Shane asks, blunt. 

His dad looks up at Shane, still affable and easygoing. He clears away his YouTube video—a thirty-minute tier list of all of Home Hardware's buzzsaws. He shuts down his phone, before raising a quizzical eyebrow up at him. "Why do you think she's avoiding you?" 

"She hasn't been in a room alone with me since I lost my mind in front of Montreal." 

His dad frowns. He looks off to the side, thinking, as if genuinely calculating to see if the math checks out in Shane's statement. "Now, that's not true. Weren't we all laughing over that new Tom Cruise movie just yesterday?" 

Shane sighs, a touch frustrated. That was such a Dad response to his question. "Mom usually talks to me about more important stuff than Tom Cruise, Dad." 

His dad spools a big forkful of pasta. Then, he carefully cuts up a piece of chicken, just the right amount for the bite, and brings it to his mouth. Once he finishes chewing, a pleased smile on his face, he returns to the conversation. 

"I'm sorry to say, kid, I really don't see it." 

"Bullshit," Shane says, calmly. "She is. It's super obvious." 

"Hey. Language." 

"Does she think I'm never going to get better?" Shane interrogates. "Is that why she doesn't want to talk to me anymore?" 

Dad's expression of generosity doesn't change at all. "You just scared her. That's all." 

"I'm trying my best," Shane insists. "My physical therapist says I'm improving at the rate expected for someone with my level of injury." His dad doesn't say anything to this. "Does she think I'm not healing fast enough?" 

Dad laughs, sudden and loud. The second the sound escapes him, he looks shocked, then uneasy, as if he hadn't meant to do that. 

Shane scowls at him, confused. 

"You two," Dad sighs. "Always so friggin' responsible for how the other one feels." 

Shane blinks. "What are you talking about?" 

"Son, maybe you should just wait until your mom gets back to—"

"Dad," Shane presses. "Just finish what you were going to say." 

Dad looks resigned. "Your mom blames herself," he says. Dad was always easy to wear down. "She thinks she hurt you." 

"That's fucking insane," Shane says, instantly. 

"Language," Dad reminds him again.

"No, but like, literally. That's fucking crazy—" 

"Jesus Murphy," his dad exclaims. "You two are actually driving me bonkers. You think she blames you. She thinks you blame her. But neither of you actually blame each other for anything."

"Well," Shane argues. "Who do you blame for what happened to me?" 

"Shane. Obviously I blame nobody." 

"Dad come on," Shane wheedles. "It's okay if the answer is me." 

His dad tuts, disapprovingly. "You wanna blame anybody, blame the sport, kid." 

"Sport is not a person," Shane insists, and even he hears the Yuna in him when he says this. "Blame can only lie in people." 

"Sport is only people, Shane-o," his dad says, nodding to himself as if he said wise. The McGill economics degree prompts him to elaborate: "It's a system." 

Shane just looks at him, blankly. "What?" 

"I'm not saying hate the sport, kid. I'm just saying, it's a risk we accept." 

Shane pokes at the food on his plate. He pushes his green beans into a teepee formation. "Dad, you don't need to tell me playing hockey comes with risks," Shane grumbles. 

His dad's food lies cold on his plate. "You know your uncle Tommy?" 

Tommy Martin played defense with his dad on McGill. He was a regular guest at most Hollander birthday parties. 

Shane nods. 

"Okay, now. Don't get scared." his dad jokes. He pushes himself from the table, so Shane can get a good look at him. 

Then, without another word, his dad grabs his own chin, making sure he gets a good hold. 

And he pops his jaw completely out of place. 

"Dad Jesus fuck!" Shane exclaims.

Dad's chin damn near swings off his face, uncanny and horrific. It makes him look like scary Shrek. 

Shane knows the shape of his dad's hockey injuries. His busted ribs. His messed up back. His fucked up shoulder. But his face—Shane only just now realizes that his dad could never really move the left side of it all that well. 

The injury in front of him is downright Frankenstein-ian. 

With a botched smile, his dad places his hand on his chin, his head, and pops his jaw back into place. 

"It was my third year at McGill. I'm twenty-one, and your mom just told me she was pregnant. My head's all over the place. I don't pay attention, and your uncle Tommy fucks up a pass. He always hit that puck way too damn hard. The puck connects with my jaw, and the second it does it looks like something crazy, like out of Game of Thrones, you know? My face actually explodes." 

Shane stares, unbroken, at his dad's jaw. "That happened to a rookie on The Metros once," Shane says, far away from himself. "2015. Medics needed to completely rebuild his face," His blood completely stained the rink red. Shane looks down at his food, frowning. "He quit the MLH the year after." 

His dad nods. "Now imagine it's the 90's. Sports medicine was freakin' barbaric back then." His dad sounds like he's bragging, despite himself. "Anyway, my point is, your Uncle Tommy did that to my face, and we still go to each other's barbeque parties. So you and your mom can have an honest conversation with each other without punishing yourselves." 

Shane continues to stare at his dad, bewildered. Was that supposed to teach him something? Maybe his dad just wanted to let him know it happened to him. "Of course you forgave Uncle Tommy for cannon-blasting you in the face," Shane says. "On the ice you guys are family." 

His dad frowns now. "And are you and your mom not family?" 

Shane tuts. "Come on, Dad, you know what I mean." 

"Shane," his dad says, suddenly stern. "Just…" 

But instead of finishing his thought, he trails off. 

Shane notices this now too. His dad always had trouble finishing his sentences. Shane always thought it was because it was hard to get a word in otherwise between him and his mom. 

But now, watching his frown deepen, Shane realizes that maybe it's like his brain is struggling to hold onto the thought. 

"It's okay," Shane says. He reaches out, and grips his dad's hand. His dad comes back to himself. "You're right. I'll talk to Mom, okay?" 

His dad gives him a fond smile. "Thanks, Shane-o."

Shane wonders if it's been lonely for him, being an easygoing guy in a family of people who aren't. 

He supposes even if Dad were lonely, he wouldn't care. Or at least, he would resign himself to it. 

Like Shane. 

Shane clears his throat. "So. What's Coach Taylor been up to?" 

His dad smiles, frown disappearing. He launches into an enthusiastic Friday Night Lights recap. Shane participates harder than usual, nodding at different plot twists and character moments, even though he thinks football is fucking boring. 

****

Ottawa's swan song before the season ends is against Montreal. Shane watches the game on the TV, batting away his mom's attempts to shove the medically-prescribed sunglasses into his hands. He finally relents and puts them on in the second period, to give her some peace of mind. 

Ottawa loses of course. But when Ilya shows up at the rink the weekend after, Shane tries not to look unbelievably smug. 

One, because Montreal won. He's still The Metros captain after all. 

Two, because—

"You did what we practiced," Shane says, smug. "You tried it out at the game and you scored." 

Caught, Ilya blushes. Shane wants to eat him alive. 

Ilya used to do whatever it took to make Shane blush. He got so fucking horny whenever he successfully made Shane uncomfortable and bashful. A little part of him always thought the fascination made Ilya some kind of sadist, which was really hot, but not something Shane particularly understood. 

But Shane thinks he gets it now. The way Ilya looks off to the side, indignant yet shy—Shane wants to jump his bones, strip him naked, and ride him on the ice. 

Ilya shakes his head, as if trying to get his bearings. "We still lost," Ilya states the obvious, just to be difficult. 

"It's because the guy they have on your left actually stinks," Shane says. "Did you talk to your coach about what I said? About switching up the lines?" 

Ilya bristles. He jabs his stick in Shane's direction. "You want to retire? Come to Ottawa?" he bitches. "Wear coach whistle and order us around?"

Shane ignores him. "You guys are playing a lot better this year," he says, earnest. "Really. I could see your leadership in the way they move, from the very start of this season." Shane gives Ilya a smile. "They don't get pushed around on the ice as much anymore. They know how to give people a hard time. Only you could get them to improve that much in just a year." 

Ilya clicks his teeth, frustrated. "But not improving fast enough for you, correct?" he grumbles. 

Shane measures Ilya up. He smiles. "Correct." 

With this established, Shane gestures out to the rest of the rink. "Notice the cones." 

Orange triangles line up in neat rows down the entirety of the ice, their peaks standing out in the expanse of white. 

Ilya notices the cones. He looks insulted. 

"Hollander," Ilya snaps, "I come to the rink with you on weekends to help you recover, not to run little league drills." 

In retaliation, Shane overpowers Ilya's irritation with his own fury. "Everyone knows I can't skate a fucking lap without fucking killing myself," Shane snarls. "No one needs to fucking drill that." 

Ilya, startled, looks at Shane with wide blue eyes, like Shane's a hospital patient. So Shane tries to soften his tone. Remain playful. 

"There's nothing little league about what I'm about to make you do," Shane teases. "Alright, come on. Figure 8's, let's go." 

Grumbling, Ilya reluctantly skates backwards and forwards. Shane follows a distance behind him, gritting his teeth and doing much worse than Ilya in keeping in his balance. Ilya keeps shooting worried glances behind him, which pisses Shane off even more.

So Shane suddenly breaks off from the course, veering off to the right. 

"I'm timing you now," Shane announces. "We need to work on getting your speed back up."

Ilya laughs. He hocks a loogie right onto the ice. Right by Shane's skate. "Work on this," Ilya taunts, and grabs his crotch. 

Shane fishes the timer out of his pocket. "At the top of my game, I can clear something like this backwards and forwards in ten seconds," Shane smiles, "I'm not letting you leave until you match or beat that time."

Ilya looks at him with pure derision. "You are not going to let me leave?" he says, in disbelief.

Shane maintains cold. "You heard me." He holds the timer up, and prepares to press it. "Go." 

Ilya, with a completely straight face, sticks his left leg up in the air, like he's a figure skater. He then practically dances and skips through the cones Shane set up. He finishes with a twirl, waving his hands in a "Ta-da!" motion. 

Shane doesn't smile. His voice is completely devoid of emotion when he says what he says next. 

"You might be okay with being a fucking joke but I never will be. Go back and run that again." 

Ilya bares his teeth. "Fuck you." 

"What does it say about you, that I can beat you concussed?" Shane moves, skating up to Ilya so he can get up in his face. "Is this the best my competition gets? Some clown who can't even beat someone with half a working brain? Some loser who lets someone from fucking Ohio push him around the ice?" Shane smiles, eyes glinting. "Like someone's bitch—" 

Ilya cusses at him in Russian before he skates away suddenly and violently. I'll fucking show you, Shane thinks he says. Ilya bursts onto the start of the course. Shane grins, mollified. He pulls out the timer and starts it. 

In a near superhuman display of speed, Ilya swerves his way through the cones, practically blurring together as he moves backwards and forwards. 

He skids to a stop, making sure to spray as much snow across Shane's front when he does.

Shane's smile only grows when he checks the timer. "12.1 seconds," Shane says, gleefully. 

"You're lying," Ilya accuses. 

Shane shows him the stopwatch. A string of Russian expletives come pouring out of Ilya's mouth as he skids back to the start. 

He does it again. 12.8 seconds. His eyes flair with rage. He does it again. 12.3 seconds. 

13 seconds again.

12 flat. 

13.5 seconds. Again. 

14 seconds. 

Everytime he gets back to Shane he gets more tired. Sweat starts beading his forehead. 

"You're not getting any better," Shane says, loftily. "In fact you keep getting worse."

"Fuck you," Ilya snarls. He glares up at Shane from where he's bent over. "You getting off on this?"

Shane looks at Ilya, panting on the ice, blue eyes unfocused in their exhaustion. 

He is getting off on this. 

Ilya keeps glaring at him. "All you are doing is making my trainer hate you." 

Shane tosses him his club. He thinks it's going to smack Ilya in the face but with one tired hand Ilya grabs it out of the air.

"Now do the exact same thing but with the stickplay we drilled last session," Shane smiles, serenely. "Clear the course in twelve seconds, since it seems you can't go any faster than that." 

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Ilya says, meaning it. "I'm going to fucking kill you and I'm going to make you beg for it when this is over."

Shane nods, understanding. "Sure. But for now, you are going to drill everything again. You are going to maintain the same amount of speed while still switching from your forehand to backhand everytime." 

Without even another word, Ilya starts again. 12 seconds. 11.7 seconds. 13 seconds. 12.4 seconds. 

He skids back again, about to restart the course another time, except now, after skating now over fifty rounds, Shane kicks over a puck. 

Ilya looks at the puck, looks at Shane. Shane smirks. 

"You know what to do."

Ilya uses the club, dragging the puck with him as he goes back to the start. 

Shane's heart almost bursts with pride at what he sees.

Ilya's fury lasers his focus on the puck. With him already frustrated and angry at Shane, Ilya and the puck travel in a menacing blur. He already looks so much better than last week. 

Over and over again, Ilya moves up and down, keeping the puck entirely in his possession, tricking even Shane's eyes in terms of where he will go next. 

Ilya moves across the course like that twenty more times before Shane finally stops him.

"Enough," Shane orders. Ilya skids to a halt. He looks at Shane, trying to act like he's not out of breath.

Shane skates over, and then one by one picks all the cones up. He lines them up perfectly in their little stacks, and carries them off the ice. He feels Ilya's eyes on him like a heavy weight the entire time.

The ice returns, pristine and white. It fills Shane's lungs with wonder.

He skates to the center. Ilya still stands off to the side, exhausted and dumbfounded. Shane gestures him over with a jerk of his head. 

"Come on. Now you're going to try to play me again." 

Ilya narrows his eyes. He makes his way over to Shane. 

He bends at the face-off circle. Shane hears his voice low in his ear. "Don't cry if I hurt you," Ilya mocks. 

Shane smiles. "I think I know how to handle you." 

Shane tosses a puck between them. 

Three. Two—

Ilya wins the puck. Shane pushes back, stays in his space, and doesn't let up. Ilya tries to move forward, but Shane is too much of a nuisance—he can't go anywhere without Shane immediately getting an opportunity to wrench the puck back away from him.

"Was all the hard work before for nothing?" Shane says lightly. Ilya tries to move right, tries to sweep in a circle away from him, but Shane jabs the stick toward him, threatening possession. "You're still the same player? So fucking predictable?"

"Shut up," Ilya grits out. 

Shane smiles, all teeth, "Still so fucking slow?" 

In a burst of speed, Ilya does it. Backhand, forehand, backhand—

Just clumsy enough for Shane to still follow—

When suddenly Ilya swerves left, forehand, and speeds toward the net.

Shane lets out a delighted laugh and gives chase. Surely Ilya doesn't think that's all it will take to shake him off. 

Except then Ilya does it again, faster—an illusion. Any time Shane sets sights for the puck, it's too late—Ilya's pushed it somewhere else. Shane loses it for just a second, and then once again he feints the wrong way, opening Ilya to skid and speed off again, in the complete opposite direction Shane anticipated. 

Shane is able to catch up with him one last time, but it's useless.

Ilya lines up at the left face-off circle. Backhand. Forehand.

He scores. 

Shane can't help himself. He takes off for Ilya as fast as possible. Ilya barely has a chance to turn around before Shane barrels into him, shoving him into the boards, and kissing him, stick abandoned on the ice as he fists both his gloves into Ilya's shirt, reeling him in.

Ilya curses under his breath, but he pulls Shane in closer too, running his hands hungrily through his hair, fisting it between his fingers. He swears again when Shane presses up against him, and Shane takes that opportunity to shove his tongue into Ilya's mouth, greedily bringing him in.

"Shane, fuck—" Ilya tries to talk, but Shane keeps distracting the both of them. He doesn't let Ilya go far, even for a second. It's only when Shane starts grinding against Ilya, breath fogging up the air in spurts, that Ilya finally shoves him away. 

"Jesus—" Ilya mutters something in Russian. "You want me to fuck you here? Out on the ice?"

"Yes," Shane begs. He pulls Ilya in again, but Ilya stops him with a hand on his chest.

"No, I beat you," Ilya murmurs. "I get to decide where and when I want you."

"Please fuck me here," Shane whines. He's not thinking straight. He wants Ilya to rip his gear off and shove him up against the boards, everything else be fucked. He wants everyone to see Ilya mark him up—cameras, janitors, whoever is still here. He starts thrusting against Ilya, their clothes, their gear, knocking repeatedly into each other. "Please fuck me, please."

"Fuck," Ilya groans. Shane leans in to kiss him again but Ilya grabs his wrist, and starts physically dragging Shane off the ice. Shane lets himself get moved around, as Ilya tosses him onto the benches. Shae tries to lean in again, now that they are sitting down, but Ilya moves away, unlacing and yanking his own skates off. 

His boyfriend then does something that takes Shane's breath away. 

He gets on his knees in front of Shane, and starts pulling his skates off for him.

Shane thinks he might actually combust.

"I listen to everything you say on the ice," Ilya says, voice low. He yanks Shane's left skate off. He works on the right. 

"You make me run laps like a dog," Ilya continues, his pupils big and black. "You bark orders and treat me like I am your fucking rookie—" Right skate comes off. 

He looks up finally at Shane. All hunger. All predation. Like a starving tiger by his feet. "So as payback I take you back to mine and fuck you only the way I want to." 

****

Shane's shaky and clingy by the time Ilya's finished with him. He plays with the cross on Ilya's chest while Ilya catches his breath, hugging Shane possessively to his side.

Shane's the one who finally breaks the silence.

"Ilya."

It takes the setting sun, the two of them wrapped up in each other, for him to finally confront the unfaceable. "What if I never play again?" 

"What if," Ilya says, voice rough, eyes still unfocused and sex-drunk. "North Americans obsessed with this phrase." 

"Ilya," Shane repeats. His voice is even but, for the first time in months, he lets himself feel the full depth of his fear. "I'm being serious." 

Ilya meets his eyes, and he's being entirely serious too. "What happens will happen. Nothing you can do to stop it." 

"I think I won't be able to live with myself," Shane says, cruelly honest. Ilya's eyes flash with hurt, but he says nothing. "If I really don't get to play again."

Ilya narrows his eyes. "What if I retire?" he retaliates. "What if you do not play again and what if I retire?"

Shane jerks up into a sitting position, hands pressed against Ilya's chest. "That's not funny." 

Ilya shoots him a lazy smirk. "Taste of own medicine," and just because he can, he reaches down and pinches Shane's ass. "I can come up with end-of-world bullshit too." 

"If you retire I'll fucking kill you," Shane says, entirely earnest. "I'll never forgive you." 

"Nothing to forgive if you 'fucking' kill me," Ilya responds lightly. 

Now Shane leans down and bites Ilya's right nipple, not going easy on the teeth. Ilya hisses, calls Shane a "crazy bitch," in Russian. Shane flashes him a smile. 

Ilya gives him one back, entirely too sweet. Then his face falls, serious. 

"If you can never play again," Ilya confesses, soft. Shane can barely hear him over the gravel of his voice. "I will let you do whatever you want with me." 

Shane lays back down. He digs his face into Ilya's chest, hands gripping his waist, his sides, tightly. He does this because rubbing up against Ilya is much easier than responding to the sudden swell of emotions choking his throat.

"You make me play however you want me to play," Ilya continues. He confesses this all while petting Shane's hair back. "You want me to be fast, I will be fast. You need me to be a killer, I will. You need me to destroy them all, I will do it," he levels Shane with a calm, knowing stare. "I am yours." 

Shane doesn't know why, but he starts crying and it's so humiliating, so he keeps his face planted against Ilya. Ilya is still a little sweaty after sex, so he smells especially nice right in the middle of his chest, right where Shane's laying his head. 

"How can you promise that?" Shane chokes out. "You hate me for making you give up Boston. How much more could you hate me if I made you give up your body?"

"I don't hate you for Boston," Ilya says, quietly. 

"Yes you do. You literally told me you did last year," Shane sniffs. He clutches onto Ilya tighter. 

A pause. A long one. 

Finally—"I was horrible to you last year," Ilya says, plain and simple. "I am sorry." 

Shane jerks up. It was the first time Ilya apologized for… any of it. The sudden mood swings, the anger, the shutting down. Shane never expected an apology because he knew that Ilya wasn't in his right mind. But hearing it, so simply absolving Shane of guilt, for all the things Ilya blamed him for last year out of anger, felt like such a sudden relief.

"You were going through a hard time," Shane says, because it's what you say. 

"No," Ilya says, into the ceiling. "Still not okay. Not fair." Ilya looks down at Shane and sees that Shane has tears threatening to spill out of his eyes. 

So he traces Shane's cheekbones, pressing down a little harder when he wants to wipe away tears. "Ottawa not so bad. I see your parents. I see you. Boring as fuck, but I am rich, so maybe one day I will change that," Ilya smiles, as if laughing at an inside joke with just himself. "Team sucks. But I can change that too."

Shane can't stop staring at Ilya. The past year, no, one and a half years, Shane has been twisting himself into knots, thinking of how to save Ilya. How to fix what Shane broke. To promise Ilya something great enough, for him to want to stay in Ottawa. 

But without even looking, Ilya just… fixed it himself. While Shane recovered, Ilya just found it in himself to… get better. 

Shane thinks about the Irina Foundation. The phrase that no one person is responsible for another person's mental health. 

Shane realizes that maybe he thought it was stupid because he got it wrong. Obviously people are responsible for each other. They owe the people they love their care and intention. 

But maybe Shane isn't responsible for changing how people feel. He isn't responsible for how his dad feels. Only his dad can be responsible for that. Same with his mom. 

Same with Ilya.

He's responsible for his family, but not for how they feel. 

It's a mindfuck of a sentiment, because it really shouldn't make any sense.

And yet it does anyway. 

Like him and Ilya. 

Shane sniffs, trying to dry his eyes. "I love you." 

Ilya smiles at him, lopsided and lovestruck.

"I love you too." 

****

It takes one and half seasons for Shane Hollander to finally return to the ice. 

The rookie, whose face exploded on the ice, once explained to Shane the concept of a debutante ball. 

"It's a huge deal in Texas," the rookie said, as he adjusted his gear. Shane had only been twenty-four, but he remembered, as a captain, how disturbingly young the kid looked. "Much bigger deal than hockey," the kid laughed. 

"It's mostly for chicks, but if you had a girlfriend from the ages of 16-21 you got roped into that shit hardcore. It's where young women are like, introduced into society, and it's supposed to mark a girl's transition into adulthood. So girls wear a ton of crazy dresses, and there's usually pretty bomb food, and lots of photos are taken," the rookie explained. 

"Kind of sounds like draft day," Shane said, being entirely earnest, but this made the rookie laugh so hard that snot flew out of his nose.

Shane thinks back to that conversation now, as he waits in the wings in a 3,000 dollar suit. A mass of cameras, journalists, and talking heads sit on standby for him outside. 

His mom fusses over his tie, licking the pad of her thumb to smooth his hair back. It's gotten long in his hiatus, and his mom is diligent about keeping his bangs out of his eyes. 

"Mom," Shane reminds her. "I'm thirty-one. Stop it." 

Yuna ignores him. "I know you've drilled this with PR already, but I think there is wiggle room on the tone we should strike for the league's updated concussion protocol," she says. She fiddles with his tie one more time, and Shane feels like she made it more crooked. 

"It's true that the MLH has been raked over the coals this past year because of what happened to you," his mom says. She narrows her eyes, still preoccupied with Shane's tie. Shane decides to give her another thirty seconds before he adjusts it himself. "So on one hand, we can play nice, because obviously, it's not ideal if the league and The Metros blow up on themselves in scandal."

Her eyes flash, uncharacteristically angry. "But they did hurt you. So." 

His mom pulls his tie one more time, and smiles to herself. When Shane looks down, it's finally straight. 

"I haven't decided what I want to do yet," Shane admits. He knew his first game back would be a nightmare. 

But he feels lucky to have a first game back at all. 

If Shane was younger, he would've meet the league, the press, with gratitude. He would decide for himself that he's already defined by too many things—his race, his looks, his personality—that adding 'whining baby' on top of it would finally tip the scales against him. 

But now, all he can think about is the rookie whose face blew up. He thinks about his dad's jaw, exploding on the ice. 

He thinks about Ilya, shattering his leg in the qualifiers back in Boston. How you could see the veins in his forehead, the tears just threatening to squeeze out of his eyes from the pain, as he stood up from the bench anyway, damn near hobbling back to the face-off circle to shocked gasps. 

How Ilya withstood all that pain, all for Boston, only to leave them anyway. 

"I'll be behind you, no matter what you choose," his mom says. Yet when she backs away, she looks at everything around her with distrust. The Metros logos. The MLH branding, the piles of hockey tape in the corner. 

Shane knows it's not his fault, but he does feel sorry for it. That his injury made his mom fall out of love with Montreal, with hockey. Shane knows how it feels to question hockey's importance in his life, and it is a gutting, empty emotion that he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. 

Much less someone he loves as much as his mom. 

So he brings it up, even though he's expected outside in less than five minutes. 

"Mom," Shane says. "If I retire, what would you do?" 

His mom stares at him as if he grew a second head. "You're not retiring," she says, confused. 

"Not now, no. But when I do. What would you do?" 

"Pick up gardening," his mom says. 

"Really?" 

"No. I mean. I guess it depends on what you'd want to do." 

"Mom," Shane says. He swallows. He considers his mom, standing diligently by his side. "Don't you think it would be nice, sometimes, if you just got to watch and enjoy hockey the way you used to, without all the," he handwaves, "garbage in between?" 

His mom shoots Shane a suspicious look. "Honey, what are you trying to say?" she says, a touch impatient. 

"What if you stopped being my manager?" Shane says, softly. 

The second he says this, his mom's face falls, entire body cut loose in instantaneous heartbreak.

Shane swallows—what's said can never be taken back. 

"I would never want something like that," his mom says, voice cracking. 

"I just feel like, you deserve to keep a sport you love, without worrying about your son all the time," Shane says, feeling awkward and ineloquent for the severity of what he's proposing. 

Separating himself from Yuna Hollander. 

There's a minute of silence. That means that Shane now has less than 120 seconds before he has to go out to meet press. 

"Is this something you want?" his mom says, quiet, restrained. Her eyes are wet, but tears do not fall. 

There's cheering from outside. Despite everything, his mom's eyes fix immediately on the commotion waiting for Shane. 

The distraction is long enough that PR tells Shane it's time for him to go.

He turns to his mom, a touch panicked. When he tries to open his mouth, maybe to answer her, he realizes he doesn't even know what the answer to his own question is. 

"I love you," Shane says, instead. A fierce conviction burns up inside him. "I'd be nothing without you." 

Before his mom could respond, Shane lets PR pull him through the double doors. The lights, the cheering, it swallows him whole.

Claiming him.

****

It starts with a clinical dissection of his injury.

For the first half of the conference, Shane lets it all happen to someone else. The concussion, the pain, the humiliation, the recovery. His quotes are rote enough that, should he play as normal on the ice, everyone will have forgotten everything he said not but three hours later. 

But, as he speaks, he gets caught on one phrase: 

"... and I would like to thank my family." 

Then, for a split second, as the cameras' lights flash, Shane sees it.

The boredom and disappointment that glazes over the entire front row. 

Shane told Ilya once, maybe when they were rookies, that when it comes to press, boredom is the athlete's ideal scenario. Because when you've said something interesting, that's when you know you've fucked up. And even though Ilya makes fun of him for being boring, for being trite on camera, Shane knows it's advice Ilya has taken to heart. Because Ilya can go from laughing and taunting on the ice, showy and cocky like a true performer, letting his body talk for him in the way English never will—

—to blunt, dead-eyed, and precise when he gets chased down by reporters in the locker room. 

There are so many times, in so many interviews, too frequent to count, where all Shane wanted to do was scream. Just listen to a stupid question, and instead of answering in the detached, political way he's used to, just grab the mic and scream as loud as he possibly can into it. 

He gets that feeling now, watching all these reporters and industry heads go dead-eyed when they realize that Shane will give them nothing that will let them commodify his pain. 

So suddenly, the level of apathy from the industry doesn't just feel routine. Suddenly, to Shane, it becomes the most insulting thing in the world. 

He thinks about everything his family gave up, just so he could be sitting here today. 

His dad, his mom. 

Ilya. 

So, here is what Shane chooses to say, in the end. 

"We play a dangerous sport. This is a risk we all accept, because there's nothing like it. I love hockey. I love my teammates. There's nothing that compares to winning a game with people who've been by your side for over a decade." 

Shane smiles, fond. "There's also nothing that compares to playing against someone who challenges you, who pushes you to the limits this sport offers you." 

"But it doesn't change the fact that year after year, we see player after player hurt, for what? More stadium seats? More money? More notoriety? The game we play now looks nothing like the game people played in the 1950s. Yet the way we treat athletes in this league has only gotten worse." 

Shane thinks of Ilya. Of him, visibly depressed, showing up to practice after practice drunk, sleep deprived, everything in his body begging for help.

Only to be ignored. By Shane. By his team. By the league. 

Anything as long as he kept playing. 

"I got my first concussion when I was 26. I'm now 31. Five years later, we see players who now have their first concussion in high school, in the juniors. By the time they reach the league, they've already had their bell rung three, maybe four times. The players coming into the MLH have only gotten better every year—stronger, faster, bigger—but that means the hits people take on the ice are only going to get more brutal." 

"This industry waits for something tragic to happen before it changes. I'm lucky in that I got to come back. I'm lucky in that I got to have a career behind me before my first major injury." 

"But I can name countless players who haven't had that same luxury. Who do not have access to the resources I did. Talented athletes who leave the league before their time, because of another person's carelessness, greed, or negligence."

The press conference concludes with Shane Hollander, staring right at the camera. 

"If we want this sport to exist after we retire, we have to protect the generation that will inherit the ice after us." 

****

Shane Hollander sells out The Bell Centre six months later. 

This is how Game 2 of the 2024 Stanley Cup playoffs begins. 

Those in Montreal who couldn't get tickets pack sports bars to the brim. Those who couldn't even get into the sports bars line up on the street, peeking through the windows, desperate to catch commentary or visual of the game. 

Shift workers stuff their iPhone's in their pockets, out of view from their supervisors. Some keep a single headphone in, so they catch the game even on the clock. 

"What a year to be a hockey fan everybody! In one corner you have Shane Hollander, our MVP back from the dead. Ask anyone down Saint-Laurent right now, after two years of concussion-gate the city was convinced we lost the hero of Montreal, and arguably the face of the MLH."

"Secrecy, conflicting reports, followed by a dang near two-year long break that promised no sign of recovery. We all thought we were getting Hollander's retirement announcement at the start of this season." 

"Yet, here he is again, like nothing happened. His play is as sharp as it was in 2019, The Metros captain leading his team through yet another playoff run."

"Now, I'd be remiss if I didn't talk about the big, raging elephant in the room… who else do we have across from Shane Hollander but Ilya goddamn Rozanov!" 

"What a season. Former rivals, two of the league's best players, suddenly back from the dead."

"Boston's biggest heartbreak was when Rozanov ditched The Raiders for goddamn Ottawa of all places! Since then hockey's craziest damn bullfighter has been dragged to hell and back. Going from top of the deck to being stuck in rankings jail for four years in a row."  

"But this year Ottawa has really come alive. Sure, Ottawa superfans, if those even exist, will tell you their captain has been laying the groundwork for this team's comeback for years. But to go from where they were, not but two years ago, to now, it's nothing short of miraculous, especially coming from Rozanov, a player whose heyday we thought died in the last decade!" 

"And now we have a playoff matchup not even God himself could dream up in front of us. This is the first time in over fifty years Ottawa has made the playoffs…" 

"...But if anyone can end Rozanov's win streak, it would be his old rival Shane Hollander." 

****

They greet each other at the center red. 

"Hollander," Rozanov nods. "Excited to lose?" 

Shane hums, thoughtful. "Excited to drink Ottawa tears, more like." 

Ilya laughs, delighted. He jerks his head out towards the stands. As they skate up to the face-off circle, the roar of over twenty thousand people thunders above them. On sight, fans, haters, and casual spectators alike leap out of their seats to scream and bang violently against the glass. 

Ilya turns back toward him. The two of them lower their heads, scooting closer, smiling at each other like they are in on the funniest inside joke only the two of them could understand. 

Ilya's eyes twinkle. "Ready to give them a show?" 

Shane's grin only grows. "Do I have any other choice, Rozanov?"  

The puck drops. 

Ilya claims possession in one easy motion. When he looks back up he's all Rozanov.

He takes off with the puck. Shane actually laughs in his face. Within three strides Shane catches up to him, and starts battling him for the puck. 

Rozanov swerves, backhand. Swerves again, forehand. Shane catches where the puck is about to fall, just a millisecond before Rozanov can trick him into going in the opposite direction. So as Rozanov tries to switch over, he opens his entire right flank, and Shane leverages this weakness by checking him into the boards. 

Even better, Rozanov crashes hard into the glass, body crumpling in full view of Montreal.

He swears, Russian. You motherfucker, is the jist of it. Metros fans scream, bloodthirsty and starving as they slam their open palms against the glass, demanding Shane Hollander tear this son of a bitch to shreds. 

Instead, all Shane does is yank the puck away from him. 

He launches in the opposite direction. 

As he flies down the ice, Shane has to suddenly dodge Rozanov, barreling toward him. He narrowly misses, slamming and then pushing off the opposite board to resume chase. Shane only gets a second of relief when he takes a hit on his left from Rozanov's unsmiling right wing, destabilizing him.

Shit. But Shane doesn't let himself lose control of the puck, rebalancing and maintaining possession. 

Three. Two. 

Rozanov tries to check him again. 

This time he succeeds.

The two of them both slam into the glass at the same time. Their eyes meet. Shane's panting into Rozanov's open mouth as they wrestle for the puck between the boards. 

Shane just manages to finally overpower Rozanov, shooting the puck back out wildly across the ice.  

They don't even give each other a second look. They take off at the exact same time, damn near diving for it—

Rozanov beats him to the puck. 

His five years in Ottawa—instead of destroying him, they've sanded off Rozanov's every weakness. Because they are nowhere near the left face-off circle. They are damn near halfway down the ice. 

But Rozanov locks eyes with the net. The shot is so improbable that it takes Shane another second to understand what Rozanov wants to do. 

Shane actually laughs. There's no fucking way Rozanov thinks—

Rozanov winds his arm back. 

Ilya's eyes are alight with the telltale determination that's pushed him through the worst of grief, the worst of sadness. 

He slams his club into the puck. 

Faster than anyone can stop, reaching speeds most cars can't even hit, Rozanov shoots the puck right into the net.

1-0. 

The Bell Centre erupts into chaos. The discordant screech of boos and frenetic cheers turns the stadium into a shrieking hellhole. 

The first shift switches out. Shane turns to look at Ilya.

When their eyes meet, Shane feels goosebumps, shivering across his arms, his neck. For the first time in five years he's actually scared that Rozanov's going to destroy him. He hasn't had a feeling this brazen in a stadium full of screaming people since Boston. 

Getting to experience it all again feels like a mack truck crashing into his chest. 

Second line goes. No one scores. Third line goes. No one scores. Fourth line goes, no one scores. 

First line skates back on. 

They place themselves at the face-off circle. 

He smiles at Rozanov, all teeth. "Nice shot. I didn't teach you that," Shane taunts. 

Rozanov smiles back at him, equally as vicious. "Never in your dreams could you teach me how to shoot, Hollander." 

"That's weird," Shane says, lightly. He raises his eyes up in challenge. "I thought I taught you all the tricks you know." 

The puck drops. 

Shane wins the face-off. 

Shane doesn't get to go far before Rozanov smashes into him with both his shoulders. But before Rozanov can use Shane's moment of imbalance against him, Shane quickly kicks the puck down to Hayden.

He actually hears Rozanov laugh out loud when he sees who picks up the puck, and in a flash he tears toward Hayden like a shark that smells blood in the water. 

Heart thrumming in his ears, Shane skids over to Hayden in a rush, grabbing the puck back before Rozanov could eat his left wing for breakfast. 

Agile and light, Shane flies down the rink. He dodges Ottawa's d-man easily. But Rozanov's entire line, as if following his directive, chases after Shane, seconds away from pile-driving him into the neutral zone.

So Shane looks. Sees J.J. halfway across the ice. 

J.J. meets his eyes, nods. 

He kicks the puck back to his teammate, and J.J. receives the pass easily. Shane then checks Ottawa's d-man out of the way. J.J sends the puck back over to Shane—

Who, now with an entirely open lane, shoots the puck right into Rozanov's net. 

1-1. 

Rozanov groans, frustrated. Then, when he steps into the box, he whips his helmet off, yanking a bottle from a rookie's eager hands as he does. He squirts half the thing right onto his head, before pouring the rest into his mouth. He winks at the rookie when he's done, thanking him, before sitting down. 

Second line goes. Third line. 

No one scores.

Back to the first line. 

Third period starts.

Rozanov, energized and incensed, grabs the puck from Shane. Within ten seconds of play, Rozanov finds an opening and shoots the puck into their net. 

2-1. 

They line back up at the face-off circle. The puck drops, and Shane, gritting his teeth, yanks it over to his side in revenge. 

Not wanting to be one-upped, Shane speeds down the ice, dodging the obstacles Ottawa tries to throw his way. 

He scores right after Rozanov. 

2-2. 

Their lines switch out. Second line goes. Third line goes. Fourth line goes. 

By the time the first line skates back on again, there's ten minutes left in the game. 

Shane doesn't say anything to Ilya. The two of them just look into each other's eyes, exhausted but burning.

The puck drops. 

Their clubs clatter against each other, ringing loud across the ice, as they reach for the puck at the exact same time. 

They fight doggedly for possession. Sweat is pouring down Shane's forehead, trailing tears down his cheek. Rozanov's breath fogs the air in rapid bursts. They duke it out for another ten seconds, neither center ceding ground. 

But then Shane sees Ilya's shoulders rise, then sag all at once. Ilya takes a deep breath. 

Rozanov looks back up at him. 

His eyes give no indication of how this game is going to go. 

Rozanov wins the puck. He flips it quickly between his club, and tricks Shane out of the way, taking off for Montreal's zone. 

Shane gives chase. But before Ilya can deepen his reach into their offensive, J.J. tackles Rozanov hard into the boards. 

Rozanov curses, hard and loud, when he slams into the glass. But J.J. has to turn his body to try and hit the puck back over to Shane, so of course, in that split second, Rozanov stands back up. 

It just takes a moment of weakness. It just takes looking away from Rozanov for even a millisecond. 

Rozanov crashes into J.J., stealing the puck back. J.J. falls, leaving it open for Ilya to charge now to a growingly short distance toward the goal. 

This time, there's no need for artistry. 

Rozanov sets up on the left face-off circle. He winds his arm back. 

3-2. 

Ottawa is hysterical. 

They can't believe what they are seeing. As the Montreal side of the stadium boos, angry and incredulous, a chant quickly starts over on Ottawa. They are on fire. 

"Hat trick hero! Hat trick hero! Hat trick hero! Hat trick hero!" 

Rozanov comes alive under the commotion. He does a particularly showy skate around the perimeter of the ice, winking and blowing kisses to Montreal as they pound against the glass in revolt. 

He reaches the opposite side of the arena, where the Ottawa fans await him. 

In a sudden, earnest motion, he lifts his hands up in the air. 

Ottawans, who have accepted their fates as losers, as bottom-feeders, as underdogs, for the past fifty or so decades, look at him with tears in their eyes. They cry his name, adoring and worshipful, as they thump and clap him down the rink. 

Even on Montreal home ice, the volume climbs and climbs until Ottawa's hope is the only thing that rings through the Bell Centre. Ilya's face lacks any of the mirth from before. He gazes up at the crowd in wonder. 

He catches Shane's eye. The two of them skate back to the face-off circle. Ilya tries to school his face, get his back into the game. 

But Shane sees it all. In the way Ilya carries himself. In the determined set of his shoulders. 

He wants to win this. 

Hollander shoots Rozanov a rueful smile. Too bad it goes against his pride as an athlete to let him. 

The puck drops, and Shane doesn't even waste a second.

He grabs the puck.

He races down the ice. 

Shane knows this isn't a very Canadian nice boy thing for him to think, but he loves moments like this. Where Shane's opposition is winning, and their fans are all teary and amped up, thinking, against all odds, their team is going to get one over the legendary Shane Hollander. 

That is until the game reaches the eleventh hour, and Shane takes their hope, their glory, and crushes it underneath his skate. 

This time, Shane doesn't need to fight anyone for the puck. He's going way too fast for anyone to stop him.

Shane skids out of the way every time players make a run at him, sending them whizzing past his ear. The entire time he does, he can hear Rozanov's skates gaining closer and closer, chasing after him like he's hunting him for sport. Shane’s tempted almost to turn back and stick his tongue out, but instead he has to settle for quickly rounding the corner, dodging Rozanov, letting his rival slam against the backboards just a millisecond too late as Shane turns to the net. 

He makes eye contact with Rozanov. 

He backhands the puck into Ottawa's goal. 

3-3. 

All 21,000 people in the stands fall quiet. 

Shane doesn't know what the commentators are saying, because it just takes a moment for the silence, stunned, disbelieving, to land. 

The stadium actually explodes with a cacophonous, incredulous energy. 

With less than five minutes left in Game 2, in a playoff matchup uncontested in its hype—

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are pulling out dueling hat tricks. 

Desperate, heartbroken booing from Ottawa follows Shane as he makes his way down the ice. 

Maybe Rozanov's a bad influence, because the sound actually makes him smile. 

Shane lowers himself back down again.  

"We want four! We want four! We want four! We want four!" All throughout the stadium. Montreal, Ottawa. It doesn't matter. 

The two of them line up. 

One minute left.

It can really be anyone's game. 

Rozanov just looks up. Gives him a smile. 

"May the best man win?" he offers. 

Shane lowers himself. Returns Rozanov's smile. Their eyes stay locked together. 

He starts: "May the best man—" 

The puck drops. 

Rozanov claims it and pushes forward, but Shane fights back. Crushed together, the puck flips back and forth between them. 

After fifteen seconds of struggling, Shane finally pushes through. 

He takes off for The Centaurs' zone, but just as quickly, Rozanov knocks him down, reclaiming possession. Before Shane can recover, Rozanov shoots the puck over to his left wing, and when the kid has it he takes off for the other side of the ice. 

Fuck, the kid is fast. Shane jerks his head over, makes eye contact with J.J. His teammate clocks this immediately, and nods at Shane. 

In one sudden motion he slams and throttles the kid against the glass. As J.J. and the kid crumple into the boards, Shane swoops in and steals the puck back. 

But just as he reaches back into the neutral zone, Rozanov's right wing slams into Shane again, knocking him down yet still struggling to reclaim possession of the puck.

Shane uses his body as a shield, doggedly blocking him out. 

Shane smiles. 

When Rozanov was on Boston, penalty killing him into uselessness was one of the easiest ways to shorthand his team. 

But Rozanov is still halfway down the ice, attempting to gain on Shane. 

So Shane will have to settle for his right wing instead. 

The kid, serious and angry, in a burst of frustration, the clock counting closer and closer to the end—

Takes his stick—

And hooks it through Shane's skate.

The whistle blows immediately. Rozanov curses, loud and angry. His right wing shouts "Fuck!" as loud as he can, as the referee motions for him to go to the penalty box. 

Rozanov shoots Shane an angry look. Shane smiles back innocently, as they reset. 

Five players on Shane's side. 

Four players over on Rozanov's. 

Resetting the game, Rozanov gets low. His eyes spark with fury. 

Rozanov has never looked more focused in his entire life. 

His face is hard, determined, forehead and chest pouring with sweat, as the entirety of his attention narrows in on one person—

Shane Hollander. 

Rozanov grabs the puck immediately. He's outnumbered, but he visibly doesn't care. There might as well be no one else but him on the rink. People attempt to stop his progress, but he forces them out of his cover in seconds. 

Shane chases after him. He attempts to check Rozanov into the boards. He only gets to touch the puck for a second before Rozanov quickly, with an angry growl, reclaims the puck with a hard and forceful jerk. He swerves out of Shane's way, his eyes narrowing in on the net. 

Fifteen seconds. 

Rozanov charges toward the offensive zone. 

Twelve seconds. 

Shane sees him narrowing in on the left face-off circle, and chases after him. 

Ten seconds. 

Shane catches up, and shoves his shoulder into Rozanov's side, fighting for the puck back. 

Nine seconds. 

Rozanov snarls something at him in Russian. "Don't you fucking dare." He glares at him, and in a well-practiced move, quickly dances the puck away from Shane. 

Five seconds. 

Ilya Rozanov skids to his rightful place on the ice. He winds his arm back. 

Montreal's goalie's eyes widen. A motion Shane feels like he can see, even behind the guy's mask. 

A puck going 170 kilometers per hour frisbees into the air. 

"SIEVE! SIEVE! SIEVE! SIEVE!" Ottawa yells, as the goalie attempts to block the shot. 

Three seconds. 

The puck slams into the goalie's right kneepad. For a second, it looks like it's over—the goalie successfully blocked the shot. But the puck's going so fast that it bounces off the goalie's gear—

And hits the back of Montreal's net. 

The buzzer rings, loud and clear. 

3-4. 

The game ends. 

Ilya stares at his goal, his shoulders heaving in exertion. 

His club, his arms, are still frozen in place, in the air, as even he seems stunned into shock. 

No one seems capable of moving. Some are bent over their knees, gasping for air. Shane feels sweat drip down his forehead, down his back, into his eyes, down the neck of his jersey. 

Thwap! 

The noise makes Shane, makes everyone look over. 

An Ottawa Centaurs baseball cap falls onto the ice. 

Shane now looks up into the stands.

Another one drops. Lands on the ice. 

Then another.

Then another. 

In a sudden avalanche, black, red, white, and gold hats shower the arena, hitting the ice like sleet. 

The sound is paired with downright hysterical cheering that explodes from Ottawa. 

Ilya stares at this victor's celebration with wonder. He cuts a lone figure in front of Montreal's net, literally showered in adoration. Waves of people, even from the upper decks, hurry to pass their hats down the line, as the fans, right up on the glass, throw hat after hat after hat over the boards and onto the ice. 

Every single Ottawa fan in the stands is crying. 

Ilya finally seems to snap out of his stupor. First, a shy, tentative smile breaks across his face. It takes him another moment before loud, boyish cheering shouts from Ilya's chest. He rips his helmet off, revealing the dripping sweat in his curls. He throws it onto the ice, as he then yanks the first hat he sees off the ice, slapping it onto his head—

To roaring cheers. 

It's like the second Ilya moves he gives the rest of his team permission to move too. Suddenly, to the sound of loud drumming, the remaining Centaurs rush out onto the ice, delirious with celebration. 

On the count of three, they lift Ilya Rozanov into the air. It barely takes any effort at all. Ilya actually soars. And when he does, he turns to look at Shane, with worship in his eyes. 

His winner at heart. 

**** 

"Well there you have it folks! 2-nothing Centaurs, as Rozanov and his team charge forward into the playoffs. Holy christ, goddamn dueling goddamn hat tricks, can't say we see something like that everyday!" 

"Rozanov and Hollander. What can we even say except these are two names that will not leave any hockey fan's brain for the next five, no dare I say ten years! Their rivalry defined the lay of the play for the last decade, and here they are again, at the start of another!" 

"Say what you will about either of them. Any time they are on the ice together, it's a game for the goddamn century." 

"It's pandemonium down at The Bell Centre right now—Ottawa beating Montreal out in the playoffs, could you even imagine saying such a dang thing even a year ago?!" 

"Ilya Rozanov. Let's see if the comeback king has what it takes to lead Ottawa to its first cup in over fifty years—" 

"Wait, hold on. What's going on down on the ice?" 

"..." 

"... Holy f**king shit." 

"Hey. What the actual f**k am I actually f**king looking at right now?!" 

"F**k. F**k. Oh my god, I think—" 

"Jesus Murphy do we… cut the cameras?!" 

**** 

As Ilya's teammates throw Ilya up into the air, Ilya keeps turning back to look at Shane. 

His entire face just radiates joy. Shane actually can't bring himself to tear his eyes away.

When The Centaurs finally lower him to the ground, Ilya stands on one end of the ice, separated from Shane by the center red. 

Shane, with his teammates cloaked in blue, stands on the other. 

The joy, the laughter, the exhalation. Shane shouldn't let any of it show on his face. There are cameras probably pointed at him right now, trying to capture his devastated reaction. 

Sure. Shane's more determined than ever to beat Ilya next season. But more than anything—

Shane's heart is beating, euphoric and gleeful, in his chest. 

Love for his sport, love for Ilya, love for fucking Ilya, overwhelming him to the point that he feels like he's going to explode. 

Shane shoots Ilya a smile, hoping to communicate the galaxy expanding in his chest. 

Ilya smiles back, helpless and beautiful.

Shane looks around.

He suddenly blazes with determination. 

Ilya still makes the first move, of course. Ilya's teammates call after him in question, as he starts skating toward the other side of the rink. 

Shane follows. His teammates are also confused, as Shane glides, one skate in front of the other, until his right foot crosses over the center red. 

Shane once explained to Ilya that his brain works in increments of seconds, and within each of those seconds is a universe of deliberation. 

But when Ilya first kissed him, in that hotel room, all those years ago now, Shane felt the wall between each of those seconds melt until there was nothing left, nothing but just Ilya's lips against his. 

A universe of deliberation supplicating to a universe of emotion. 

Shane Hollander is a hockey player. Shane Hollander is an overthinker. 

Shane Hollander is closeted. 

Shane Hollander is the son of an ambitious woman. The son of a forgiving man. 

He throws all these things about himself into the wind, all these things that used to define him, as he skates, faster and faster—

And leaps into Ilya's arms. 

Ilya catches him. Of course he catches him. Shane wraps his thighs around Ilya's waist, laughing uncontrollably, linking his arms around Ilya's neck. 

Ilya's hands hook instinctively underneath Shane's legs, keeping Shane right where he wants him. 

Like the ice, it takes no words at all.

Shane looks into his eyes. 

Ilya looks into his. 

They both smile at the same time. 

Shane's ten year coming out plan turns into a ten second one, when Shane, with a rebellious glint in his eye, asks: 

"You ready?" he murmurs. 

Ilya doesn't respond. He just smiles wider. 

He leans in. 

Shane leans in. 

They meet in the middle. 

Shock ripples through the arena—

—as Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov kiss, wrapped up in each other, right in the middle of ice. 

Announcing themselves to the world.