Chapter Text
“What are you going to do while I am gone?”
The corner of Shane's lips twitches up at Ilya's question and he shoots him a sideways glance, not turning away from his phone. “I'm going to jerk off in every room in the house,” he answers dully, looking back at his phone. Ilya snorts back a laugh which just makes Shane smile more as he opens his email.
There are two new emails sitting at the top of his inbox.
Scott Hunter
Are you okay?
Roger Crowell
Scheduling a Meeting
Shane's stomach plummets like it did when he stepped out onto the glass floor of the CN tower for the first time as a kid – free falling and racing to the ground ready to splatter viscera and whatever he ate for breakfast on the sidewalk for all of Ontario to gather and gawk at. He swallows the rush of saliva, tinged with the sharp bite of bile, and simply turns off the phone screen. Now is not the time to worry about whatever the fuck that all meant. He is only drawn back to the present – the car he's sitting in with his husband before Ilya leaves for the four game road trip that Shane is not a part of thanks to Gilbert Comeau and his stupid mouth.
“—ing to have… Shanya? Are you listening to me?”
It is as if a metal rod wedged itself through the vertebrae of Shane's spine. He sits up straight in the driver's seat and his head snaps to the side to see the concern bleeding into Ilya's features.
“Sorry,” Shane murmurs, voice soft and rough like the crush of velvet. He forces a smile and clears his throat. “Sorry, I got distracted by an email and then lost in thought.”
Ilya reaches out across the center console and cups Shane's jaw in the warm cushion of his palm. His thumb brushes slowly over Shane's cheek and Shane is hopeful that Ilya will choose to believe him, dropping the subject altogether. Thankfully, from his peripherals Shane can spot other players heading across the tarmac toward the team plane.
“Looks like it's time to go,” Shane murmurs, a hint of sadness in his voice.
Shane easily pulls back from Ilya and blindly reaches back to open his door. He slips out of the car quickly while Ilya does the same before grabbing his bags from the back seat. Ilya rounds the car and wordlessly slips his hand into Shane's, wordlessly pulling him along toward the waiting plane. There is a twinge of sadness buried inside Shane's chest. He's never been suspended from playing before. Sure, he's missed a game here and there from injuries or sickness but those things couldn't be avoided.
If only Comeau had kept his trap shut, Shane would be boarding the plane with the rest of his team.
As Ilya’s bags are taken to stow onto the plane, he turns to look at Shane. There is a softness around Ilya’s eyes that makes Shane's heart ache just a little.
“I will miss you,” he mumbles.
Shane nods solemnly, “I'll miss you.”
In clear violation of Shane's no PDA at work rule, not that Shane would call it out in this instance, Ilya ducks his head just enough to brush their lips together. Shane can't help but sigh as his hands find the front of Ilya’s shirt and Ilya grabs hold of Shane's jaw in a gentle but firm hold. Shane could almost forget where they are, almost does, if it weren't for the abrupt wolf whistle from behind Ilya.
Begrudgingly they pull apart and Shane peers around his husband's arm to see Bood at the stairs to the plane.
“Let's go, lover boy, we have a game to get to,” he laughs good-naturedly before turning to head up into the plane.
Shane sighs and affectionately shakes his head, “Call me when you get to the hotel.”
Ilya nods and swoops in for one more kiss before murmuring against Shane's lips, “Я люблю тебя.”
“I love you too,” Shane replies, smirking at the faux annoyance at not returning the sentiment in Russian.
There is a bit of rushed whispering, laughing, and rustling from several members of the team. Wyatt is shaking his head as he walks away from where he had been standing with the youngest players. “They want a goodbye kiss from mom,” he teases, gesturing toward the pack of heathens, “They're gonna miss you, Hollzy.”
Ilya snorts back an amused laugh as Shane blinks wildly, trying to process what he was saying.
“Come here, Young,” Shane calls out, motioning for him to come closer.
When the younger man approaches, Shane takes his head in his hands and pulls his head down to lay a kiss on the top of his head. “Don't embarrass me out there,” he says with a grin, releasing the boy.
“Me next, me next!” Holmberg shouts, rushing over, checking Young out of the way.
“If you guys win this is going to become a weird superstition, I can feel it,” Shane grumbles.
He, however, presses quick and exaggerated kisses to Holmberg's toque and then LaPointe's hair. “There, now get on the damn plane,” he says with a point.
Young circles back and grabs ahold of Luca's arm, dragging him closer to Shane. As they approach, Shane can see the wild look in Luca's eyes behind his glasses like he is trying to rub away from Young and the situation as a whole. The kid was still so shy and star-struck whenever anything with Shane or Ilya was involved.
“You gotta get a kiss from Hollzy before we go,” Young demands, tugging hard on Luca's arm.
Shane smiles fondly but rolls his eyes, “Hey, there are no kisses without consent. Let Haas go.”
Reluctantly, Young lets go of Luca with a huff. Luca sighs but steps closer to Shane, ducking his head. Laughing, Shane presses a quick kiss against the top of Luca's head. “Make me proud, but don't like, come for my spot, alright?” he teases.
Luca stammers something in the affirmative and turns to look back at Young with wide eyes.
“Go,” Shane says, shooting them away.
As they depart to board the plane, Shane glances back to Ilya who is watching him with wide, warm eyes. “You too, Rozanov, it's bad enough I'm not going to New York but you can't miss the flight,” he says with a playful exasperation. Shane then takes a few steps back, knowing that if he were to let Ilya kiss him one more time then he wouldn't want to let him go.
He gestures toward the stairs with a forced smile, “Go. Я люблю тебя.”
Ilya smiles a bit sadly but turns to make his way up the stairs into the plane.
“Hey, Rozanov. If you lose to Scott Hunter, I'm changing the locks while you're gone!”
Laughter floods from out of the cabin and Ilya looks over his shoulder to wink at Shane before ducking inside. With one last heavy sigh, Shane turns on his heel to make the trek back to the car. Once there and tucked safely in the driver's seat, Shane fishes out his phone once again to open his emails.
With a trembling finger, he opens the message from Crowell and it is as if all the air has been sucked from his lungs. His eyes skitter around the screen while his brain only manages to cherry pick certain words.
Meeting. Montreal offices. Tomorrow.
Shane feels sick. But he forwards the email directly to his mom and Farah. They would be in the proper headspace to tell him what to do and what to expect. He swallows harshly, dropping his phone into a cup holder, and turns the car on to head back to his husbandless house.
At least Anya will be there.
*****
“Do you have any idea what he wants to meet about?”
Shane sighs softly as he sits down on the sofa. His lap is almost immediately filled by Anya, happy to curl up while Shane absently strokes her head. “I don't know, Mom. Probably some attempt to make me issue an apology for that fight in Montreal. He's probably pissed I took the four games and people online are apparently raising hell about the whole thing,” he says with a heavy sigh.
“As they should! I can't believe the league is fine with letting such an ass get by with just a suspension and fine but expect you to grovel for forgiveness!” Yuna complains loudly into his ear.
“I just don't want to deal with him. After our last meeting, I kind of hoped we could essentially avoid each other until I eventually retire.”
Yuna hums softly, a low and comforting sound that Shane used to hear right against his ear as a small child while sitting close with his mother after a particularly long and loud day. She exhales slowly and says, “I understand that, Shane, I do. And I know that you love and respect the team culture that comes with hockey– you always have. But I think you need to go into that meeting knowing who you are and knowing your worth. Don't let some spineless, hate-fueled little pissant try to scare you.”
Shane can't help but snort back a laugh at his mother's passionate vulgarity.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says, voice suddenly a little waterlogged.
“Whatever happens you know that your dad and I are always behind you. So is Ilya, and your team, and all of Ottawa if we're being honest.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And make sure that you document everything. Just in case.”
*****
Shane is just coming back into the house with Anya after her evening walk when his phone begins to ring. He fishes the phone from his pocket as he unclips the leash from Anya's collar so that she can run off to the kitchen for some water. The screen of Shane's phone is filled with a ridiculously close picture of Ilya’s face, one his husband had taken late one night while Shane was showering.
“Hi, Ilyusha,” Shane greets easily as he takes off his shoes and jacket.
On the other end of the line there's muffled voices and then nothing. Ilya sighs, “Hello, my Shane.”
“How was the flight?”
“Boring. I had to cuddle with Bood because you weren't there.”
Shane can hear the teasing grin in his lips. He clears his throat once and makes his way to the living room. “So… I got an email from Crowell today,” he broaches the topic carefully as he sits on the couch.
Ilya sucks at his teeth, “What does he want now?”
“He wants to have a meeting with me tomorrow in the Montreal office.”
The silence between them is heavy and stretches on just long enough for Shane to feel a bit uneasy. Finally, Ilya sighs as there is a bit of rustling from his side of the call. Shane can picture him sitting on his hotel bed, shuffling backwards to lean against the headboard. It is an image that he is intimately familiar with.
“He's going to try some bullshit,” Ilya mumbles.
Shane hums softly, “More than likely.”
Suddenly, Shane sits up straight. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles. He pulls the phone from his ear, puts the call on speaker and opens his email app.
“Shanya? What's wrong?”
“I got so distracted by Crowell that I forgot that Scott emailed me this morning and I haven't read it.”
Ilya grunts, “Scott? Scott Hunter? What does he want?”
“I will tell you when I read his email,” Shane laughs softly.
He finds the message under an email chain with Farah about his meeting tomorrow with contingency plans, an email from Rolex with proofs from the last campaign he shot with them, and a new email from his mom that looks like it was forwarded to him, but addressed to her about Ilya.
He opens the message quickly.
Hey Rook,
It's been a few days since your game against Montreal (congrats on the win, by the way) and I wanted to reach out to you. I heard about your fine and suspension. I got to say it's pretty surprising since your last fight was when you tried to scrap with me years ago. I thought there was no way to get you to actually fight like that, and then I saw what people were saying online.
I am so sorry that you had to hear that awful shit. I really hope your team is behind you.
I'm here if you want to talk. I know your team is coming to New York, I don't know if you're traveling with them but feel free to stop by the Kingfisher (and bring your husband too, I guess) whenever you have time for a free drink.
Scott
Shane hums softly as he finishes reading, “He wants me to break up with you and be in a throuple with him and Kip.”
“Fuck you, Hollander,” Ilya laughs loudly.
“He's just checking in after what happened– said that next time I'm in New York I can have a free drink at the Kingfisher.”
Ilya snorts back a laugh, “I'm pretty sure they overcharge me when I go.”
A small beat of silence fills the air. Shane glances down at his watch.
“I should go. I've got to get ready for bed since I have to drive to Montreal in the morning,” Shane says with a reluctant sigh.
“I am not home for one night and you are suddenly old and boring?” Ilya teases softly.
Shane hums to himself as he scratches at Anya's ear. “You say that like I've not always been boring,” he breathes with a smile.
God, he already misses Ilya so much, which was so weird considering how long they used to go without seeing one another. Yet, here he is just a few short hours without his husband and he is ready to crawl into bed and pout until he eventually falls asleep. He looks down at Anya in his lap and considers bending his own rule of not allowing her in the bed just so he could have someone to cuddle with.
In his ear, Ilya sighs almost dreamily, “Я люблю тебя. Спокойной ночи, Шаня.”
“Я тебя тоже люблю. Спокойной ночи, Илюша.”
Ilya lets out a soft little chuckle, “Your Russian is getting very good.”
“Don't patronize me, Rozanov.”
“You even emphasize the right part of my name now! So smart, my husband!”
Shane rolls his eyes, “Goodnight, Ilya.”
*****
After arriving in the NHL offices in Montreal, Shane takes a moment to take a picture of his nice dress shoes standing on the huge logo on the floor. He takes a quiet moment to post the picture to his seldom used Instagram with the simple caption Déjà vu before pocketing the device in his coat and making his way toward the elevator.
The split in his lip and fading bruise on his cheek are visible in his reflection in the mirrored walls.
It doesn't take long to arrive in the, unfortunately, familiar office and to be seated once again across from Roger Crowell. Shane's heart is jackhammering against his sternum like it is trying to escape. He crosses his legs and drapes his coat over his lap, folding his slightly jittery hands in his lap.
“I'm sure you can guess why I asked you to meet with me today.”
Shane has to resist the urge to snort and roll his eyes. “I can't really think of a reason,” he responds cooly, eyes drifting from Crowell's face to the framed pictures on the wall, to the desk, and back again.
“Your recent game and subsequent suspension is causing quite a stir,” Crowell says stiffly.
“Do you make it a point to meet with every player you suspend? It's been over a decade and I've never been suspended, so I don't really know the protocol here.”
A small part of Shane knows that Ilya would be losing it if he heard Shane speak that way to the commissioner. The vein along Crowell's temple makes itself known and throbs slightly below the skin.
“You were given the option of having a shorter suspension and you denied it. Why?”
Shane shrugs a single shoulder, “Was Comeau given the same deal? Would he have had a lessened suspension if he apologized for his unsportsmanlike conduct?”
Crowell's shoulders tense, “I'm not here to discuss Mr. Comeau's suspension.”
“Mm, okay. Would you like to know why I'm choosing to sit out for four games instead of just one?”
Nodding his head, Crowell gestures toward Shane with both of his hands as if to encourage him to continue speaking. Shane shifts in his seat and rolls his shoulders back in an attempt to rid his body of the building tension. He's already told Crowell off once before, he could absolutely do it again.
“In our game against Montreal, I was repeatedly and purposefully targeted by multiple members of their team. Which I expected, we didn't exactly part on great terms– as I'm sure you can recall. Gilbert Comeau cross checked me into the boards and called me a bastard and a cocksucker, which is a term that the league itself has begun to flag players for as homophobic leading to penalties and fines. He then proceeded to say that I sold out the Montreal organization to, and I quote, ‘get fucked in the ass by that Russian monster’ before highsticking me and bursting open my lips. So, I hit him.”
The more that Shane speaks, the redder Crowell's face becomes.
Good.
“You called my coach and said I could face the maximum fine and a four game suspension, or a one game suspension if I issued a ‘public and personal apology for my egregious and violent response’. I refuse to apologize to a bigot for having a rational and appropriate response to being sexually harassed and hate-crimed in my place of work. I also find it absolutely insane that you would think that that would be an acceptable offer.”
Crowell's jaw clenches so tightly that for just a moment Shane wonders if he is going to end up cracking any of his teeth.
“That is a hefty claim to just toss around. If I were you, I'd th–”
“Save the speech for the next group of women who you try to intimidate when they come forward about Dallas Kent,” Shane scoffs loudly. His hands grip the arms of the chair he is sitting in and he leans forward slightly, not backing down. “You want me to roll over and apologize so the people who are rightfully calling the league out for this kind of bullshit stop. They're calling for your head online and you think I'm going to help you?”
The loud and sudden slap of Crowell's hand against the solid wood of his desk startles Shane a bit. He steels himself and narrows his eyes back at the commissioner, who looks so mad that steam could start pouring from his ears at any given second.
“I'll add another game to your suspension,” he says through gritted teeth.
Shane shrugs and stands, “Do what you've got to do and I will do what I've got to do.”
As he turns for the door, Crowell practically growls from behind him. “I'll add a game for every day you don't cooperate!”
Years ago, that threat would have really scared Shane into submission.
Now, it simply lights a fire in Shane's belly. He shrugs again and walks out of the office without another word.
In the elevator, Shane stops the audio recording on his phone. He emails it, along with the one from his and Ilya’s last spring, to his personal email. He has work to do when he gets home.
*****
Almost four hours later, Shane is curled up on the couch with Anya as he stares down at the phone in his hands. He takes a slow, steadying breath as he tries to calm the thrashing of his heart.
Then he posts.
Twice.
He shares two reels. Each with the audio from his meetings with Roger Crowell, one with a simple background photo of Shane and Ilya and the other a picture of Shane's busted face after the game in Montreal. He swallows harshly against the rising anxiety in his throat and lays the phone face down on the sofa beside him.
It doesn't take long for his phone to begin to buzz with notifications. He holds off for as long as he can before he picks the phone up again.
Replies, shares, texts, emails, phone calls all come flooding in.
puckaround.findout
WHAT THE FUCK?! no actually what the FUCK is going onhollanderfan105
this is so disgusting 🤢 i feel so bad for Shane and IlyaYuna_Hollander
I'm so proud of you ❤️msvoyager.ifyanasty
Holy shit.centaurs4life
Ohhhh Roger Crowell is evil-evillisa.hayes
I am so sorry you have had to deal with this. You and Roz are both so strong 🖤paydenhike
I'm physically ill hearing this omgchuckismybff
I'm already planning my “Crowell Got Fired” party 🥳
As Shane is scrolling his screen is filled with a FaceTime request from Ilya. He accepts it immediately. Ilya's face fills his screen. He is in his uniform and very obviously in the dressing room in New York.
“Shanya! Holy shit,” he breathes out, a disbelieving smile pulling across his lips.
Shane nods slowly, “Yeah, holy shit.”
There are shouts from the room around Ilya from their teammates.
“Holy shit, Hollzy!” Bood.
“Good for you, man!” Troy.
“Haymaker Hollander strikes again!” Wyatt.
Ilya grin is delighted, but there is something in his eyes that gives Shane pause. Quickly, Ilya steps away somewhere a little quieter and Shane can see his posture relax just a smidgen as he leans against a wall.
“How are you feeling?” Ilya asks softly.
Shane stays quiet for a moment as he considers the question. He's not entirely sure yet how he feels. Part of him is relieved that everything is out in the open. Another part is definitely fearful of retaliation. He blinks a bit harshly and watches Ilya on his screen.
“Okay, I guess. I haven't really processed yet, I don't think. I'm sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Ilya’s brow furrows and his eye squints the way it does when he's parsing his mental English phrasebook to determine what someone is saying.
“Waiting for… bad thing to happen, yes?”
Shane smiles sadly but nods, “Yeah, exactly.”
“Well, first shoe is pretty great. Wonderful shoe, even. I've never seen a more special or important shoe in my life,” Ilya gushes.
Shane laughs, really laughs.
“You're such a weirdo.”
Ilya nods, “Mm, yes. But, I am your weirdo who will be burying Scott Hunter soon for trying to steal you away from me.”
“You can't say that out loud! Someone will hear you and think you're serious. It'll be all over,” Shane chastises.
“I can't hear you over the gay on gay violence about to happen.”
Shane rolls his eyes, “You're bi.”
“Queer on queer. Same, same.”
“Same, same,” Shane quietly agrees. He sighs and lays back on the couch, holding the phone up over his head. “Win for me so I know this wasn't for nothing.”
Ilya smirks and winks, “Hat trick coming up.”
*****
Centaurs Hockey | @OttawaCentaurs
The Ottawa Centaurs stand with and behind their team in fighting against hate. Hockey is for everyone and no one should be afraid to be who they are or stand up for themselves and others when the time arises. We are proud of our team, those who are currently playing in New York and those who are not. We will continue to support everyone in our organization, and sport as a whole, to spread the message of inclusivity and compassion.
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*****
Rocking on the balls of his feet, Shane takes a few steadying breaths before raising his hand to knock on the door in front of him. He can hear some shuffling and muttered words from the hotel room before the door is thrown open to reveal his very confused looking husband.
“Shane?”
“In the flesh,” Shane replies with a laugh.
He has less than a second to brace himself before a hand is gripped into the front of his shirt and he is being yanked into the room. As soon as the door is closed, Shane's back is pressed against it and Ilya has a hand around his chin, holding him still, before crushing their lips together.
“You're here. Why are you here?” Ilya gasps between kisses.
Shane whines softly, thrusting his hands into Ilya's hair, “My suspension was lifted. I'm playing tonight against the Islanders.”
Ilya pulls away from their kiss completely. His pupils are blown and his chest is heaving. He looks wrecked after just a few seconds of kissing. “What do you mean?” he asks, clearly confused.
“Crowell was put on administrative leave while the league investigates and they called to lift my suspension based on extenuating circumstances, which just means they don't want the internet to keep calling out their bullshit.”
Ilya laughs that soft, giddy surprised laugh that Shane absolutely loves. He moves in close again until their lips are once again moving together effortlessly.
It's bliss.
It's perfect.
It's intoxicating.
Shane hardly notices the way Ilya pulls him further into the room, or how their clothes seemingly melt from their bodies. He can only focus on the warm glide of Ilya’s hands against his skin and the subtle vibrations of pleasure that rock through his body as they move together and lie down.
Ilya slips between Russian and English as he presses kisses to Shane’s body. Some words Shane knows, others he has no idea what they mean, but it fizzles wonderfully beneath his skin all the same. His own chest rises and falls with each gasp of breath as Ilya plays his body like an instrument he's studied for a lifetime.
A virtuoso of Shane Hollander.
“Мне так хорошо с тобой,” Shane whimpers. His hands grip into expanses of Ilya's back, holding him close and chasing the feeling inside of him. “Я люблю тебя,” he pants against Ilya’s neck. He repeats it over and over and over again like a skipping record, stuck on loop and doomed to repeat the profession of his love until the end of time.
Ilya presses their lips together in a move that is less of a kiss and more two people desperately sharing air between their gasping lungs.
“Я люблю тебя,” Ilya replies, teeth nipping at Shane's lower lip. “Brave. Perfect. красивый. Shane.
As their hearts eventually slow down and the ringing in Shane's ears subsides, he drapes himself easily across Ilya’s strong chest. He lays gentle kisses along the column of his neck, across his collar bone, and around the curve of his pecs. He isn't sure that he has words, or even the ability to use them if he did. But this is enough. It's enough.
It's perfect.
“You know… Monster energy reached out to me with a very interesting offer.”
Shane will simply choose to ignore that for now.