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Ilya Rozanov is 30,000 feet over Tennessee, December 3, 2016, when they leak.

A pair of photos of him at the Montreal airport taken at some nebulous point in the past year. He’s waiting in line for coffee. The first photo is him from a careful distance, his face bright as he smiles down at his cell phone. A proof of identity. The second photo is the problem.

Taken over his shoulder, his text thread with someone named Jane is visible on his phone screen, in perfect focus, like the person saw him texting and then decided to collect the proof.

The texts in question:

Jane: Fuck you
Ilya: is that what your dream was?
Ilya: fucking me? being top for once?
Jane: No
Ilya: tell me
Jane: I dreamed about you sucking my dick on your balcony. Woke up so fucking hard.
Ilya: shit
Ilya: dreaming about sucking your dick at the airport now
Ilya: bet i could make u cum before your bags do

All in all, it could have been much worse. No actual names or pictures or details.

The anonymous wannabe paparazzi sold the pictures to a sleazy sports gossip blog with very little readership, but by the time Ilya turns his phone off airplane mode in Boston, his notifications are exploding.

It’s on Bleacher Report. It’s on ESPN. It’s even on fucking TMZ, which almost never covers hockey unless something particular interesting happens (like Shane Hollander asserting his straightness with a famous girlfriend whose name makes Ilya a little nauseous.) The incredible uninspired hashtag #gayzanov is trending on Twitter.

After a decade of careful hiding, that’s that.

Everyone is saying his biggest secret out loud. Ilya Rozanov sucks cock. Ilya Rozanov fucks men. Ilya Rozanov isn’t straight.

It doesn’t feel quite as life crushing as he imagined it would. A calmness settles into his body. It reminds him of those minutes right after you break a bone, when the damage is already done and you know there’s nothing you can do but sit with it.

It hasn’t even been four years since Russia passed the excessively named Law for the Purpose of Protecting Children from Information Advocating a Denial of Traditional Family Values.

He can’t think about that now.

As everyone prepares to deplane, the Boston Bears start whispering around him. They are jocks, after all, and jocks love to gossip. They show each other their phone screens sneakily as if it’s not super obvious what they’re doing. Two of the rookies keep glancing at Ilya, terrified, like he might scream or, godforbid, cry at them. He rolls his eyes.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he sees it’s Alexei. He’s already called twice and texted him a slur that might as well be a nickname at this point. Then Ilya turns his phone off entirely. He needs to get the hell off this plane.

While Ilya grabs his carry-on bag, Cliff Marleau suddenly stands up in the aisle and claps his hands, loudly, until everyone’s looking at him. The plane goes eerily quiet.

“Everybody shut the fuck up, okay?” Marly says. “Go home, and don’t say a fucking word about this to anyone until further notice. Got it?” The team mutters some agreements. Marly shouts louder, “Got it, fuckers?”

“Yes.”

Ilya makes brief eye contact with his alternate captain, his friend. Marly nods and pats Ilya on the shoulder. He rushes off the plane and doesn’t stop moving until he’s in the back of a taxi, hurtling down the 93 toward his house.

When Ilya was eight years old, he ran into the kitchen where his mother was making dinner and told her about the new, young coach that was at hockey practice that day.

“He’s so funny and pretty,” Ilya raved. “And he said I’m the best skater on the team. Nikita was so mad, he started crying.”

“Boys aren’t pretty, Ilyushechka,” Irina replied, not looking up from her cutting board. “Girls are pretty.”

“But he is pretty. Like you’re pretty!

“You should never call another man pretty.”

“Oh.”

Ilya froze, confused about what he had done wrong. After a few moments of silence, his mother came over to where her youngest son was sitting on a stool. She pulled him into a hug, enclosing him between her arms and her chin.

“It’s just not proper, my love. Do you understand?.”

“Okay, Mama.”

He never did listen.

After two glasses of his best vodka and thirty minutes of a mediocre Fast and Furious knockoff, Ilya turns his phone back on.

The pings nearly rattle his cell off the coffee table. He ignores them all and dials the only person he wants to talk to right now. Svetlana answers on the third ring.

“Are you safe, Ilyusha?” she asks. He can hear the muffled din of a restaurant in the background.

“Haven’t you heard?” Ilya says, nestling further into his couch. “Boston loves gay people. They’re probably rescheduling pride for me as we speak. All hail the cocksucking hockey king.”

“I’m being serious, dickhead.”

He hates the tone of her voice. It makes him feel itchy.

“Yes, Sveta. I’m safe. I’m at home.”

“And your team?”

“Please, no more questions,” he says wearily. “Tomorrow is for incredibly awkward conversations with executives and teammates about sucking dick. Tonight is for getting drunk and watching Torque until I pass out.”

“Work is bad this week, but I can come to Boston next weekend,” she says matter-of-factly. "I will book my ticket tonight."

He wants to tell her no, don’t bother. He doesn’t want her to fuss. But as he continues to see the notifications roll in, he can already feel his fight-or-flight fading into something more uneasy. And suddenly he’s craving a weekend where he can lounge around with someone he won’t have to pretend with. He wants a friend.

“I’ll get the good cookies you like,” he promises.

“You better.” Then Sveta clicks her teeth mockingly. “Sexting your lover at an airport Dunkin Donuts. How unsexy of you, Ilya. What’s next, a gas station?”

“I have taken a dick pic at a gas station.”

“Too horny to function,” she teases. Then there’s a pause. Too long of a pause. Ilya knows what’s coming. "How is Jane handling this?”

“I don’t know,” he says, too nonchalant. “We don’t talk anymore.”

“He hasn’t reached out?”

“I haven’t looked,” he admits.

It’s only partially a lie. Of course he saw Jane’s name amongst the pile, right between his coach and a girl he hooked up with a few times in Florida. But he didn’t even read the text previews. He wants to keep that box shut as long as he reasonably can. Schrodinger’s heartbreak.

Suddenly a noise on the phone. “I’m sorry, I have to get back to dinner,” Sveta says. “Some rich fucker wants a car to make him seem less divorced. Call me tomorrow, okay?”

“Thank you, Sveta.”

“Love you, idiot. Take care of yourself.”

Then his house is quiet again, apart from the sounds of motorcycles racing each other on his way-too-big television. He takes a deep breath. He’s put this off long enough. He clicks around on his phone until he gets to the only other person he needs to check-in with tonight.

Four missed calls from Jane. A dozen texts.

Ilya opens the thread and reads the most recent ones, sent an hour ago.

Jane: I’ve been freaking out all day
Jane: What are people saying?
Jane: Has anyone guessed?
Jane: Is there more??
Jane: Fuck fuck fuck

Ilya’s stomach hurts.

Scrolling up through the thread, Ilya dates the damning messages back to April of this year. Six months before the back-and-forth texts with Jane suddenly stopped.

At least until today, when Hollander was forced to remember he exists.

Ilya types:

Ilya: it’s picture of a phone screen not texting hack
Ilya: no one knows who jane is

Within a minute:

Jane: Thank fucking god

It would hurt less if Shane Hollander just punched him in the face.

Two hours later, when Ilya is quite drunk and watching Torque for a second time, another text comes through.

Jane: Are you okay

Ilya chokes out a laugh. Then he types out several different responses.

What the fuck do you think, Jane?
No, Jane.
Fuck you, Jane.
Weirdly relieved, Jane.
Don’t you have a girlfriend to worry about, Jane?
Why are you dating her, Jane?
Why did those texts from you make me feel worse than getting outed today, Jane?

A small part of him hopes Hollander is watching the three dots appear and disappear and that the anticipation is driving him crazy.

Ultimately, Ilya leaves him on read. He doesn’t need pity from someone who doesn’t give a shit about him. Especially not someone that Ilya… well, it doesn’t matter.

He passes out on the couch and wakes up more hungover than he’s been in years.

Ilya arrives last at practice on purpose. He tosses his bag in his locker and whistles to get everyone’s attention. It’s easy. They were already watching him.

“Okay, listen up, assholes,” he begins. “Yes. I am bisexual. No, nothing is different than yesterday. I still fuck more beautiful women than you could dream of. Sometimes I fuck beautiful men, too. I am also still your captain and the best player in this fucking league.” He looks around, trying to make eye contact with all of them. “I would prefer you not talk to press, but I can’t stop you. If you have any opinions about this, say them to my face, not behind my back. Any questions?”

There’s a moment of silence before Marleau kicks off the q&a.

“Who the hell is Jane?”

“A man I fucked in Montreal. What else?”

“Is his name really Jane?”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “You solved the mystery. His name is actually Jessica.”

“Has there been a gay hockey player before?”

“No, I am first one. Real hero. Like Yuri Gagarin.”

“Who?” asks a rookie.

Ilya clicks his teeth. Americans. “Fine. Neil Armstrong.”

“Are you like… into any of us?”

“You wish. I have standards.”

“But if you had to pick one?”

Ilya pouts at Ryan Carmichael. “Are you asking me if you’re hot, Carmy? Not as hot as your girlfriend. You can give her my number if she’s tired of slumming it with slow Canadian with fake teeth.”

“Fuck off, Rozy,” Carmichael grumbles. “You have more fake teeth than any of us.”

Ilya smiles big. “But mine are so beautiful.”

Everyone laughs, including Carmy. The tension is effectively broken in the locker room, and the players go back to suiting up and chatting amongst themselves about whatever random bullshit they like to talk about. A few guys that Ilya always suspected were bigots are more quiet, avoiding Ilya’s eyes like they’re hiding, but they’re keeping their opinions to themselves.

They’re intimidated by him. Thank god.

For the first time in 24 hours, Ilya feels himself fully exhale.

When Coach LeClaire calls him into his office after practice, he tells him (in very stilted, clearly rehearsed language that’s been approved by management) that the official stance of the Boston Bears is that as long as Ilya Rozanov keeps playing like Ilya Rozanov, they don’t give a shit who he dates.

He knows the reaction would not be as lukewarm if they knew who Jane is.

Still, it could be worse. There’s, of course, an undertone of, “As long as you do it quietly,” but it’s better than the tongue-lashing he expected.

That comes the next day.

He schedules Skype calls with Roger Crowell and his Russian agent and a phone call with Alexei during a three-hour block in the afternoon. He wants to contain all of the horrible conversations he has to have to as short a time period as possible.

Their reactions range from political and lightly threatening from Crowell:

“Of course the National Hockey League supports equality and all rights. No one was happier than me when they did the gay marriage thing, but…”

To frazzled and medium threatening from his Russian agent, a longtime friend of his father’s who has been managing Ilya’s career from 4,500 miles away:

“Tell me it was a joke, Ilya, because people here are not happy…”

To smug and openly threatening from his shithead brother:

“Everyone’s talking about what a fairy you are…”

But they’re all saying the same thing in the end. Don’t make this a big deal, Ilya. Make this go away, Ilya. It doesn’t matter whether or not the texts are real or some big misunderstanding, you need to insist to the world that this is nothing, Ilya. Take this part of yourself and shove it back where you’ve been hiding it your whole life, Ilya.

“We don’t need high-profile players distracting from the sport…”

“You are going to tell everyone this is a stupid, disgusting inside joke you have with this woman, Jane, and you will never speak about it again, ever…”

“America has turned you into a fucking pussy…”

“This is bigger than you or your romantic life…”

“There is a lot of money riding on you, and we cannot let this…”

“You’re only worth the money you wire over…”

“You have a wonderful career and a bright future. Don’t ruin it by…”

“Your dalliances are not more important than your country…”

“You think this was Papa’s dream for you when he let you move there? That just because you send us a little cash sometimes, you can embarrass our family…”

“The league is protecting you, too, you know…”

“We can’t protect you if you’re going to act like this…”

“Ever since you were a little boy, you’ve been such a f…”

“You are important to this league…”

“Don’t be impulsive…”

“You are a terrible son…”

“You can easily pass this off as a joke in poor taste…”

“Just say it was a joke…”

“You are a joke…”

On each call, he sits there and nods until they hang up.

By nightfall, Ilya’s entire body is fizzling with anger and frustration. He wants to break his phone. It’s caused him nothing but drama for the past 48 hours, but that would only give him another annoying errand. Based on the vicious texts and emails he’s getting from his father’s old police buddies, he’s not sure if trying to play it off as a joke would actually make him safe in Russia.

Russia, his home.

He hits the heavy bag in his gym until his knuckles ache. He goes for a run and sprints so hard that he sees spots in his eyes when he gets back to his driveway.

Hollander has not texted him again.

It shouldn’t matter but it does.

Fifteen-year-old Ilya Rozanov was the star of the Russian junior ice hockey team, and he wasn’t even on the team yet. Coaches were counting down the days until his sixteenth birthday.

He was fast. He was strong. He was big for his age. He had a good hockey IQ and the raw athletic talent to make up for any holes in his mental game.

He was fixated on his coach’s teenage son.

Sasha didn’t play hockey, or even particularly like it. He and Svetlana bonded over being the children of hockey people, and Svetlana introduced him to Ilya. They were an instant trio. Soon, Sasha was hanging around the edges of practices, doing his schoolwork, chewing on lollipop sticks that would be replaced by cigarettes once the adults were away, and staring at Ilya.

He always stared at Ilya.

“I need water,” a drunken Svetlana said hours into another party-of-three. She stood up from the basement floor, kissed both Ilya and Sasha on the lips, and then stumbled up the stairs toward the kitchen.

Ilya rolled his head toward Sasha. Sasha mirrored him.

“You had sex with Sveta,” Sasha said plainly. Ilya forced out a nonchalant shrug.

“She’s pretty. I am hot. We try things.”

“Am I pretty?” Sasha asked.

“Yes,” Ilya answered immediately.

When Sasha bent his leg, his knee slid between Ilya’s. They were so close together. Neither was sober enough to stay hard, but Ilya’s heart raced all the same.

“I want to try things with you,” Ilya said.

Sasha’s tongue tasted like cigarettes and alcohol. His body felt different than Svetlana’s, no softness, all lean muscle and thin limbs, but Ilya’s blood thrummed the same way it did with her.

For the next few years, they tried things. All three of them. And Ilya learned.

Ilya learned to fuck, learned he didn’t really like being fucked, learned to eat pussy and suck dick and make a body feel good no matter what it looked like. He learned that threesomes were better stories than they were sexual experiences. He learned to love lube. He learned that he loved cocaine too much to do it often. He learned that he fucking loved to dance. He learned to differentiate between good and bad liquor, and good and bad sex. He learned how much he could drink and still play great hockey.

And above all, he learned that he liked Svetlana and he liked Sasha.

It was that simple.

The only difference was Ilya never saw Sasha’s body in the sunlight.

Because the world has been shitting on Ilya lately—

—Well, his whole life, if he’s being honest, but especially since that awful day in October, when he allowed his stupid heart to trick him into thinking Shane Hollander might have any use for him beyond sex and competition, when he had the gall to try to woo the most beautiful man he’d ever fucked with canned tuna and ended up alone and covered in cum on his very expensive sofa—

—Boston’s first game after the leak is against Toronto.

The chirping begins the second he takes the ice.

“Homo,” Dallas Kent mutters as they prepare for the first face off.

Ilya keeps his face even. If he’s going to throw fists tonight, he needs them to hit him first.

“What, Kent? You run out of women to harass in Canada, so you bother me?”

The puck drops. Ilya wins the face off.

Boston has a 2–1 advantage at the end of the second period, though that’s mainly because Dallas Kent and his lapdog Troy Barrett seem more concerned with beating up Ilya than they are with playing decent hockey.

He takes hard hits against the glass. He’s tripped. Kent calls him a slur and Barrett gets away with a high stick to the chin, making Ilya’s teeth snap together painfully. But while he’s getting roughed up, his guys are scoring. And Ilya keeps his gloves on. He won’t give them the satisfaction of a power play.

“God, they are fucking dickheads,” St-Simon groans during the second intermission.

The locker room’s energy is dark despite their lead. Ilya hates it.

“Just say the word, Cap,” Marly growls, crowding over Ilya as he sits in front of his locker. “Just say the fucking word, and I’ll rearrange Kent’s fucking face.”

“Don’t,” Ilya says. “Let them come at me.”

“Rozy…”

Ilya shakes his head firmly. “They want to waste their time being assholes instead of scoring, that is good for us. Best revenge is winning. Makes them losers in two ways.”

Halfway through the third period, Ilya dekes by Barrett and gets his best shot on the goal of the night. The puck whizzes past the goalie’s shoulder and slams into the net. The team crowds around Ilya, bumping helmets

When Kent skates past him, Ilya blows him a kiss.

The reaction is immediate.

“You fucking cocksucker!” Kent shouts, loudly.

And then he’s pouncing at Ilya.

He rips his gloves off and lands one punch to Ilya’s cheek before Ilya can react. That’s about all he lands. It’s not an evenly matched fight. Ilya is several inches taller than Kent, bigger in every way, and by the time the refs and players pull him off the Guardian, Kent’s nose is broken, his mouth is bleeding, and he’s going to have a black eye.

They both get five-minute majors for fighting. Marly skates by and blows Ilya a dramatic kiss in the penalty box.

“Fuck off, Marly,” he shouts.

Marly just gives him a cute little wave. Ilya enjoys the tender pain he feels in his bruised face when he laughs and air-kisses him back.

Usually after a good hockey fight, the fans love to speculate about what particular chirp led to the players dropping gloves. There is no speculation this time. Dallas Kent shouted loud enough that people could hear it on the broadcast.

“It’s hockey,” Ilya says at the post-game press conference when asked about it. “Guys talk. Guys fight.”

And he’s not lying.

Hockey players call each other cocksuckers all the time, just one of many homophobic schoolyard taunts that ricochet around locker rooms, even between friends. But it’s a little different when a player has very recently been accused of doing it.

And when Ilya’s lounging in his bed that night, scrolling on his phone, his Twitter mentions spiking with both vile garbage and aggressively supportive chatter, a certainty settles in his gut like a stone.

This is not going to go away.

Even if he insists the texts were a joke, the rumors will always follow him. This will be the go-to chirp when someone wants to insult him. People will always look at him and wonder. The wrong people will look at him and want to beat the shit out of him. The Russian police. His brother.

He sees two paths forward.

He can deny, lean into his reputation, pick up some women publicly at clubs, fuck his way across North America until no remembers the Jane incident, don’t even flirt with another guy until he’s retired and irrelevant, lock himself firmly into a closet he swears doesn’t exist.

Or…

Ilya hits the new post button on Twitter and types out a simple note, posting before he changes his mind:

“I suck cock sometimes. I’m incredible at hockey always. Next.”

It feels fucking good to post.

It still feels good when he wakes up the next day.

He gives Svetlana the password to all his social media accounts and makes her promise to lock him out for a week. He almost immediately makes burner accounts and reads everything every random asshole is saying about him.

He fires his agent before he can be dropped. The phone call takes 30 seconds. He gets in touch with a few of his teammates’ American agents and sits through meet-and-greet phone calls until he picks one at random.

He finds a new lawyer who specializes in immigration. She immediately begins the process of applying for an EB-1 visa, a special visa for athletes with “extraordinary ability” that would allow him to apply for permanent residency sooner. She assures him that he more than qualifies between his Stanley Cup win, his individual accolades, and his All Star appearances. He understands about half of the conversation, but she seems to know what she’s talking about.

He scores seven goals in his next three games. Other players barely have time to chirp him because he’s so thoroughly out-skating them.

He goes out to a club in Pittsburgh with his team and drinks and drinks and drinks until he almost falls asleep while dancing with a woman in a Penguins jersey. His teammates get him home safely and spend the next day texting him embarrassing pictures.

He’s too exhausted to think, which is what he’s going for.

“If I get gravely injured and can’t play hockey anymore,” he asks Svetlana one night on the phone, during a melodramatic moment of self-pity, “can I marry you for a U.S. passport?”

“Wow, Ilyusha, the proposal of my dreams. Did you read my diary?”

“You don’t want to marry me?” Ilya asks, pouting. “So mean, Sveta. Kicking a sexy queer man when he’s down.”

“You don’t want to marry me either.”

“That is irrelevant.”

It feels good to laugh with her. She’s one of the only people who is back to treating him normally.

“You know I would, if it comes to that,” she says an hour later.

“I know.” And he does. “I love you. Even though you’re biphobic.”

“Dumbass.”

“It’s my gay right to be a dumbass.”

Two days later, the Bears are on the way to Ottawa for their last road game before Christmas. Ilya’s half-dozing against the plane window when Marly waves his hand in front of his face. He cracks one eye open.

“Your fingers smell like sandwich,” Ilya mutters.

“Yeah, I’m eating a Cubano. Want the other half?”

Ilya thinks on it for a second and then nods. The sandwich is cold now and the cheese has completely congealed again, but it tastes amazing. Marly hands him a napkin wordlessly.

“I saw the new Ottawa hotel has a sauna and like a sick hot tub thing,” Marly says, “if you… I dunno, wanna hang out tonight after the game. Chill night in.”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “You propositioning me, Marleau?”

“What? No!”

“Because cruising in a bathhouse is very old-fashioned gay of you.”

Marly flicks the side of Ilya’s head.

“Blyat. What the fuck?”

“I’m trying to be a good friend here, so stop deflecting,” Marly says. “I’m worried about you, dude.” He’s holding eye contact in a way that makes Ilya very uncomfortable. “You’ve been playing like a maniac since everything went down.”

“We’re winning,” Ilya says with a shrug.

“Yeah, and that part rules. But you’re running yourself ragged.”

“Is part of the job.”

Marly nudges his shoulder. “You know you don’t have anything to prove to these morons, right? They’re lucky to even be on the ice with you. You’re Ilya Rozanov.”

“I know.”

“Don’t dismiss me, fucker. I mean it. You’re the best.”

His heart feels too tender. He rubs at his pec muscle as if it’s a knot he can massage out.

“Maybe gay sauna with Cliff Marleau will be nice.”

“Gimme my sandwich back, you dick.”

Ilya responds by shoving way too much bread and ham and cheese into his mouth at once. When he tries to smile at Marly, his friend laughs, which makes Ilya laugh, which makes a little bit of a mess on the tray table. Ilya collects the crumbs in his napkin and leans back against the window, falling back into an almost-peaceful almost-sleep.

When the Bears’ plane lands in Ottawa, Ilya’s phone buzzes in his hand.

Jane: Can we meet? After your game?

Ilya’s pulse jumps in his throat.

He hasn’t seen the name “Jane” on his phone in two weeks.

Ilya: you are in ottawa?
Jane: I can be.
Ilya: why
Jane: To talk
Jane: I can be there in 2 hours
Jane: I’ll book a hotel room

God help him, that text alone gets him half-hard. His dick hates him. He wants to ask a million more questions but settles on a simple:

Ilya: ok

“Sorry, Marly. Rain check on our jerk-off date.”

“I’m never being nice to you again.”

Boston wins, but mainly because Ottawa is terrible. Ilya plays sloppy and distracted. He scores one goal because their goalie might as well be playing with a sleep mask on and hopes that’s enough to deflect any questions about his mistakes.

The excitement he initially felt at receiving Jane’s text has dwindled into uncertainty. He has no idea what Hollander wants to talk about. For Ilya, Hollander is this unescapable ghost that’s lingering on the edge of his days, even when he wants to forget him. Is it the same for Hollander? Or has he been too busy fucking a movie star to keep up with his former fling’s drama?

Ilya lingers in the locker room shower for too long, washing his hair twice just to have something to do. He fiddles with his curls in the mirror until he gets suggestive looks from his teammates.

Then he takes a car to the address Hollander texted him an hour ago.

He knocks on a hotel door, feeling like he’s 19 in Toronto again, waiting for the beautiful, fascinating boy the world has declared his rival to maybe let him touch him.

And then he’s face to face with Shane Hollander for the first time in two months.

The door clicks shut. Ilya leans back against it while Hollander retreats against a wall four feet away.

“Hi,” Hollander says hesitantly.

“Hi,” Ilya repeats back.

It’s quiet. The lamplight makes Hollander appear dreamy and warm, his skin glowing against his fitted sweater. He looks so good. His clothes look so good. His expression is carefully blank, but even that is handsome. He honestly looks like he’s about to sell Ilya a Rolex in a magazine ad. Ilya crosses his arms over his chest, hoping he looks more relaxed than his pulse is.

“So,” Hollander says after a long silence, “you came out.”

Ilya exhales through his nose. “I didn’t come out. I was outed by airport creep. I just confirmed.”

“Why?”

Ilya shrugs. “Felt like the only choice for me.”

Hollander’s put-on calm collapses immediately. Ilya can feel the anxiety radiating off him as he shoves his fingers through his short, black hair.

“You could have denied it. Ignored it. Anything else!”

“Hollander—”

But he’s too wound up to hear it. He pushes off from the wall and begins to pace back and forth.

“So what,” he says, his voice shaking. “Dallas Kent calls you… something shitty on TV and you get back at him by bragging about sucking dick on Twitter?”

Ilya raises an eyebrow. Guess that answers the question about whether or not Shane’s been keeping tabs on him.

“He called me a slur, too. I don’t know if the mic caught that.”

Shane groans and huffs in quick succession. “This is so like you, Rozanov. You act first and think later. Like do you even know what this might do to your career? Or god forbid if anything else gets out—”

“Hollander—”

“And the craziest part is you’ve been playing better than ever! It’s like it doesn’t even bother you that everyone knows—”

“Shane!”

Shane freezes in place. He looks like a wild animal, which humiliatingly, Ilya still finds attractive. It would be helpful if he could be unappealing even for a second.

“Are you done scolding me?” Ilya snaps. “You sound like fucking Crowell.”

The fight leaves Shane from the shoulders down. He slumps back against the wall, his eyes falling to the ugly hotel carpet. Ilya takes this moment of quiet to walk further into the hotel room. He plops down in the desk chair. The bed feels too intimate.

“Sorry,” Shane says. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I’m a mess.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, rolling his eyes.

“Crowell called you?”

“Of course he did. He told me politely to shut up and go back in the closet.”

“Jesus.”

Ilya’s brain feels like syrup. He allows himself a little time to translate what he wants to say, even as Shane’s fidgeting distracts him.

“When I say it was the only choice for me,” Ilya begins carefully. “I mean it was the choice that didn’t make my stomach feel like… like a washing machine.” He rotates a hand in front of his navel, back and forth, agitating. “They ask me to lie. It’s one thing to keep secret things secret. Another thing to lie on purpose. So I didn’t.”

“Does it…” Shane gulps. “Bother you? That everyone knows?”

“Yes and no,” Ilya admits. “I can defend myself. But I am tired of everyone acting weird.”

“And your team…”

“They’re fine, mostly. Too fine. Kind of annoying about it. Sometimes they treat me with, um, children’s gloves.”

“Kid gloves.”

“Yes, whatever.”

Shane’s lips quirk up into a half-smile. His foot extends as if he’s going to take a step closer to Ilya. Instead his left ankle crosses over his right as he folds his arm, using his limbs to cage himself away from Ilya, the big bad Russian wolf.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks quietly. “You never answered my text.”

“You mean the guilty one you sent hours after you freaked out a bunch?”

Shane turns red, embarrassed at being called out so directly.

“I still want to know.”

“No, Shane. I am not okay.” Ilya smiles grimly. “But I wasn’t okay before the texts, so.”

While Ilya can’t always guess what Shane is thinking or feeling, he can always tell when Shane feels. Right now he’s feeling something strongly, eyes wide and shining, his lower lip barely trembling as he stares down at Ilya where he sits.

“Ilya,” he whispers.

His name on Shane’s tongue zings down Ilya’s spine. If Ilya listens hard enough, it almost sounds like regret. Ilya’s mouth feels dry.

“I’m sorry,” Shane says again.

“For what?”

Shane doesn’t answer, but his body uncurls. It’s all the invitation Ilya needs to rise. He moves so slowly that his feet are silent against the carpet. It takes thirty seconds or it takes five minutes, but Ilya soon finds himself standing over Shane, watching his own body send him into shadow. Shane leans his head back against the wall, chin lifting. They both exhale.

“I have a girlfriend,” Shane says.

“I know.” Ilya slides his palm up the wall until he’s resting his weight on his forearm, his body as close to Shane’s as he can be without touching him. “Can’t not know. You chose very public.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

Shane’s brow furrows. Ilya nudges his hips forward until Shane’s eyes flutter, and a quiet, “Wha…” falls from his lips.

“You keep saying sorry,” Ilya mutters. “Sorry why?”

Ilya always thought when he fell in love, it would be a relief, like Wow, you’re here. I can relax now. He would finally belong to someone who wanted him to be there.

Instead, he looks at Shane Hollander in the warmly-lit din of an Ottawa hotel room. Shane stares back. His dark eyes scan over Ilya’s face, his forehead, his brow, the sharp cut of his jawline, his nose, flickering between his own eyes. His mouth.

Shane is staring at his mouth. It feels like hell.

Ilya swallows. Shane’s eyes drop to his throat, tracking his gulp, before dragging back up to his lips. Fuck.

“Does she make you feel like I did?” Ilya asks, because he can’t stop himself. Shane whimpers. Automatic. “Has she ever fucked you until you cried?”

“Fuck off, Rozanov.” It’s too breathy. Shane’s chest is rising and falling too quickly. He’s turned on. Ilya feels him heavy against his hip bone.

“I don’t think she has.”

“That’s not fair,” Shane whispers.

“Fair?” Ilya laughs humorlessly. “Who cares about fair?”

He lets a finger slide down the shell of Shane’s ear, along his jaw. The moment he brushes against Shane’s full lower lip, Shane launches himself forward. His mouth catches Ilya’s chin awkwardly before fixing itself against Ilya’s lips. Ilya’s brain statics out. There’s only feeling. Hair in his hands. Fingers against his throat. Palms shoving a coat off his shoulders. Tongue and hips and warm skin. Shane’s moan vibrating down Ilya’s throat.

Then, just as quickly, Shane shoves him away. He rubs his hand over the back of his mouth, as if that can remove the evidence, as if he wasn’t the one…

“You need to go,” Shane says, a plea.

Desperation claws its way through Ilya’s chest. He would fall to his knees if he thought it would help. Instead, he hears the higher tenor of his voice as he begs.

“Shane, please. Let me—”

“I’m sorry.”

Canadian politeness does nothing to soothe a raw heart. Ilya stares at him for a few seconds, but Shane never makes eye contact again. It’s almost too awful to believe.

“You shouldn’t have fucking texted me,” Ilya spits out, grabbing his coat off the floor.

Then he storms out of the room before he has to see Shane Hollander look hurt.

Ilya walks the three miles back to his hotel in record time, his lungs burning as he smokes cigarette after cigarette. He’s thrust back to October, right back in his Boston apartment, Shane peeling off him like he was diseased. It feels exactly the same.

Maybe this is just his destiny. Maybe Ilya in love is like Ilya in life: bold and tortured, forever grasping for something that’s already gone.

When Ilya thinks back on his childhood, there are many good days. More difficult days. Light days and dark days. And exactly one perfect day.

He was eleven years old. Alexei was fifteen. It was New Years, Novy God, and Moscow was bitterly cold, snow sputtering from a sky too frigid to hold water. The past few years, the holiday had been an opportunity for his father to trot out his beautiful wife and his strong sons, especially Ilya as his hockey talents became more undeniable. But this year, the weather was too bad to leave the house. His family of four gathered in the living room in front of a fireplace, eating zakuski, playing games, and laughing.

He remembers the day like a photograph.

Alexei, holding court in front of the family’s piano, playing the only song he remembered from childhood lessons.

His father, clapping proudly as Ilya tried to break the family record for longest handstand (ten seconds, set previously by Ilya one day earlier).

His mother, smiling, cheeks warm from the fire and the vodka, looking at her boys with so much affection, the dreary daylight illuminating her perfectly-pinned curls into the sun itself.

It’s a memory of a family that never really existed.

A year later, his mother was dead.

Ilya Rozanov has no idea how to get over Shane Hollander, but he definitely knows how to stop thinking about him for an hour at a time.

He fucks a different woman every night over the Christmas break in Boston.

He fucks two woman in the same night in Philadelphia, one at her apartment and another one back at his hotel later.

He fucks a model in New York, a closeted TV actor in Los Angeles, and a teacher at a bar in San Jose who is looking for a wild night after getting divorced.

After their January game in Montreal, where Hollander avoids eye contact so badly on the ice that it makes him play worse hockey—just a little, but still, noticeable—Ilya goes with his team to a nightclub. Within minutes, he sees Rose Landry grinding on her boyfriend, blissed out and oblivious to the fact that she’s shoving a thumb into Ilya’s already bruised heart. For a horrible moment, Shane looks up and catches Ilya watching him. His entire body stiffens, his face unreadable. Then he drags Rose away toward their private VIP booth.

Like any depressed rich slut, Ilya finds the first woman who flirts with him, fucks her in the ally behind the club, and then starts crying the minute he comes. She pets his hair in a way that makes his skin crawl and says she never expected Ilya Rozanov to be so sensitive.

He’s never hooked up with a woman in Montreal before.

The boys are giving him weird looks again in the locker room, like they’re nervous he’s going to fly off the handle. He almost wishes his team was a little more homophobic, so he could resent them for that and not for worrying about him.

The crazy thing is that he’s playing some of the best hockey of his career. Ilya is leading the scoring race, and Boston hasn’t fallen out of the top 3 in the east all year. He may not be able to break Shane Hollander’s heart the old-fashioned way, but for Shane, losing to Ilya will probably sting more.

It’s an empty comfort.

On a rare night where Ilya is home alone before midnight, his phone rings. He’s instantly nauseous when he sees the name Папа.

He answers.

“Papa?”

“Ilya, why do you want your father to suffer?”

“I don’t—”

“I sent you to the store an hour ago.” He coughs for several seconds, loud, wet, and horrible. “Do you like seeing your father in pain?”

“No, Papa, never.”

“Lazy and ungrateful, like your mother. You’ll never make it in the KHL acting like this.”

Christ. Ilya clears his throat. “Let me speak with a nurse.”

“What nurse? Oh you mean the thief? I sent her home.”

His father is so confused, more confused each day. Ilya knows he’s in an expensive assisted living facility, surrounded by medical professionals. He also knows these aren’t actually conversations, as his father no longer has a consistent grip on his surroundings. But this is Ilya’s father, and they haven’t spoken in a month. So he asks.

“Has Alexei talked to you, about me?”

His father takes a beat before replying, “Who the hell is Alexei?”

Ilya pulls the phone away from his ear. For a moment, he genuinely thinks he might throw up. Another round of awful coughing brings him back to the call.

“Can you get Mama?” Ilya’s once-terrifying father whimpers. “It hurts.”

Ilya swallows. “I will call someone to help you. I love you.”

Then he hangs up. Hands shaking, he sends Alexei a text.

Papa is in pain. Why aren’t the nurses helping? Why is he alone??

Alexei writes back right away.

Come home and say that to my face, cocksucker. See what happens.

And another.

Send more money, since you’d rather get fucked in the ass than be there for your family.

Ilya sets his phone face down on the sheets. Then he punches a pillow, again, and again, until he can feel his mattress through the cloth casing. There aren’t words in English or Russian or any language for this. His entire body feels wrong, his skin tight and itchy.

In the morning, he will call his financial advisor to wire his brother another $30,000.

For now, he opens a text thread, looks at the last message, a hotel address in Ottawa. He physically aches with the urge to say something, anything.

He opens Tinder instead.

A week before the All Star Game, Marly slides onto a stool next to Ilya at the team’s favorite bar in Boston. He flags down the bartender for a tequila soda.

“You trying to fuck it off?” Cliff asks out of nowhere.

“Fuck what off?”

“Your dick.”

Ilya frowns. “The hell are you talking about, Marly?”

“I’m just saying, man,” Marly says with a shrug. “I wanna make sure you’re good. Even for you, it’s been a bit much lately. Also you should be happy that it’s me talking to you and not some of the other guys. The rookies wanted to make a Powerpoint.”

“I’m rich, women love me, and I’m good at sex.” Ilya looks around the bar and sees three of the younger players spying on him from a booth. They literally hide behind menus when he looks over. Subtle. “What’s the crime here?”

Marly holds his hands up. “No crime. But the way you’re doing it, it’s like you’re out for revenge or something.”

Ilya sighs. “You stole that from When Harry Met Sally,” he mumbles.

“It’s a good movie.”

Marly clasps his hand on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya rolls his eyes, but he likes Cliff. So he lets him talk. It’s like he’s getting a pep talk from a big brother who isn’t an asshole cokehead.

“You’re acting like you’re going through a break-up,” Marly says.

Ilya hesitates but ultimately nods. “You would not be entirely wrong.”

Cliff’s eyes widen. “Damn, dude. I had no idea.”

“It has been…” Ilya rocks his drink between his fingers, thinking of how to encapsulate all these feelings in as few words as possible. “A difficult month.”

“No shit. I totally understand why you’re having a sex-based nervous breakdown.”

“Fuck off. I’m fine.”

“I’m not gonna lecture you,” Marly replies, handing the bartender a twenty. “Do what you gotta do. Fuck who you gotta fuck. Just know we love you, man. Whatever happened, it’s her loss. Or his. Or whoever’s.”

Ilya scoffs. “Thanks, ally.”

“And if you ever need a wing man away from the team, you know I’m down.” Marly waggles his eyebrows. “Straight bar, gay bar. Makes no difference to me.”

“Wow.”

“I’m just saying,” he says with a confident shrug. “I would crush at a gay bar. I love dancing, I got the good jawline, I’m secure in my masculinity. I’m a total bear.”

Ilya barks out a laugh. “You are not a bear.”

“Why not? I’m definitely not a twink. Otter?”

“You must log off Urban Dictionary.”

Ilya knows from his new agent, who is much funnier than his last one, that the NHL does not want Ilya Rozanov at the All Star Game this year. His numbers are just too undeniable to stop him from going.

“While Mr. Rozanov and the league have had some interesting discussions as of late,” she says over the phone, doing a solid Roger Crowell impression, “Nonetheless, however, despite it all, unfortunately, because the fans asked, we are inviting him to All Stars.”

It’s all very amusing until she says the last bit.

“And Shane Hollander is going to be named captain for the Eastern Conference.”

Wonderful.

He imagines his brain is composed of literal compartments. That bit of pain goes into a small one in the back, out of sight. Ilya has more pressing concerns than romantic rejection.

He has not interacted with many non-Boston hockey players off the ice since being outed.

Despite his outward confidence, there is a small part of Ilya that is worried. He doesn’t give a shit if these guys like him, but he doesn’t want to be treated differently. If they hate him, it should be because he’s the better player. Or because their wives find him attractive.

He half-heartedly asks a few of the Bears if they want to come with him, free of charge, but they all decline. All Stars is a rest and party week for the average player.

So when he arrives in Tampa Bay, he puts on his silliest shirt, orders a noon beer, and posts up right in the middle of the hotel bar. If anyone wants to approach him, they can.

He’s going to kill them with bravado.

Turns out, he doesn’t really need to.

The All Star Game is fun. The most fun Ilya’s had playing hockey in a while. Some players keep their distance, including Dallas Kent, who can exile his own ass into the Gulf of Mexico, as far as Ilya’s concerned. But most of the guys are much more interested in watching Hollander and Rozanov play on a team together than they are in Ilya’s sex life.

And Hollander is…

Nice.

Shane is being nice.

He’s nice when he sits next to Ilya at the hotel bar. He’s perfectly dressed for the occasion, a mix of Florida and fashion. There is no way he picked this out himself.

He’s nice by the pool, inserting himself gamely while Ilya plays with some of the players’ kids.

He’s nice at dinner with the Eastern Conference team, laughing at Ilya’s jokes and rolling his eyes when appropriate. Their feet tap under the table. It feels like an accident.

He’s so nice during the All Star Game, in every way. Playing on the same line with Shane is like playing with his hockey other-half. Their minds and bodies are in perfect sync.

It’s messing with Ilya’s head.

As enjoyable as the whole weekend is, Ilya keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. Whenever Shane enters a room, Ilya braces for a movie star to round the corner after him. (She never does.) Whenever someone brings up the rivalry, or Hollander and Rozanov as a duo, Ilya waits for Shane’s standard PR distancing answer about how he’s only focused on playing good hockey. (Instead Shane jokes that the league is lucky they weren’t drafted to the same team.) During the game, when Ilya assists Shane on a goal, he instinctively goes to bump helmets with his teammate, and then flinches, waiting for Shane’s panicked push off. (Shane smiles brightly at him instead, which is captured in a press photo that Ilya saves in a locked folder on his phone.)

It feels dangerously like hope, which is something Ilya knows better than to trust.

On the last night, the league hosts a party at a beachside bar. Ilya tracks Shane around the room like they’re repelling magnets, keeping a safe distance between them wherever Shane goes. To everyone else, Ilya is being his usual self, moving from group to group, making jokes and chirping players. To Ilya, it’s self-preservation.

He texts Svetlana throughout the night like a socially awkward teenager.

Ilya: at an event and jane is here
Ilya: texting you so i have an excuse to stay away from him
Ilya: blah blah blah text text
Sveta: This is moping behavior
Sveta: Sad emo Ilya
Ilya: how dare you
Ilya: i’m not emo i’m a club kid
Sveta: Please.
Sveta: You’re basically grandmarshalling the Black Parade.
Sveta: Put on some guyliner and I’ll keep pretending I don’t know who Jane is

He’s searching for a meme to send back to her when another text comes through.

Jane: What room are you in?

Ilya almost drops his phone.

Glancing up, he sees Shane standing with Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughn by the bar. Shane holds his eyes for a long moment, dark and serious, before turning back to his conversation.

His mind flips through all the reasons it’s a bad idea to let Shane Hollander into his hotel room tonight. He has been rejected by the man two times in the past four months. At this point, it would be foolish to go into a room alone with Hollander and expect anything different. He has a flight to Toronto at 8am. He promised the goalie from Chicago that he’d do shots with him. His ankle is a little stiff. Svetlana might be expecting more texts. Each excuse feels flimsier than the last.

There’s a phrase that Ilya heard his mother say sometimes, when people would ask how she could marry a cold brute like Grigori Rozanov.

Lyubov' zla, polyubish' i kozla. Love can play tricks on you. You might even fall for a goat.

As a child, he thought it was silly. But as an adult, he understands his mother more than ever. You can’t choose who you love, even when you shouldn’t, even when it’s hurtful. It’s fated and romantic in a way that Ilya finds comforting.

He feels that way about Russia.

He feels that way about Shane.

Ilya: 1801
Jane: I’ll be there at 10.

He has always been his mother’s son.

Two hours later, Ilya is leaning against the desk in his hotel room, watching Shane Hollander sit on the edge of his bed. He’s wearing a muted tan button-up shirt with palm trees all over it, which is the perfect blend of boring and Florida. It makes Ilya want to squeeze his face.

Instead he grips his own thighs and waits for Shane to speak.

“This weekend was really fun,” Shane says finally.

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

“I had fun. With you.” His eyes flick up from the floor toward Ilya, then drop back down. “It’s been really nice to spend time with you like this.”

Ilya digs his fingernails into his legs so hard it’s going to leave marks. He feels petulant and stupid.

“I am surprised you didn’t bring Rose Landry,” he mutters, prodding, trying to draw an embarrassed or angry blush onto Shane’s face. Instead Shane just looks confused.

“We’re not… that’s done.”

“Really?” Ilya asks flatly.

“I mean, I couldn’t keep…” There’s the blush. “After that night in Ottawa, I couldn’t—”

“Ah.” Ilya raises an eyebrow. “So you are blaming me for this.”

“No! Ilya. Fuck. I’m not saying this right at all.”

Shane exhales and looks at Ilya properly, his wide eyes dancing all over Ilya’s face in a silent plea. The patheticness of it chips away at the anger Ilya clings to like armor. Before Ilya can stop himself, he stands up and walks over to the bed. He sits down next to Shane but leaves some space between them. It’s the best peace offering he can give.

“Tell me,” Ilya says.

“I’m sor—”

“If you say ‘sorry’ again, I swear, I will leave.”

“I…” Shane’s face crinkles up as he tries to rework this speech. “Apologize.”

Ilya laughs despite himself.

“Shut up,” Shane whines, smiling even as his voice shakes. “I do apologize. For all of it. For freaking out at your house. For running away. For Ottawa. That someone violated your privacy. For being an asshole after that happened.” Shane frowns again. “That probably didn’t help.”

“It did not make it better,” Ilya admits.

Shane scoots just a little closer, keeping a hand of space between them. Ilya’s shoulder feels warm with proximity to Shane’s skin.

“That day in Boston,” Shane says quietly, “when we were together. It was nice.”

“It was.”

“It felt like we were something real.”

“Yes.” Ilya scoffs. “So real it drove you right to Rose Landry’s bed.”

“Ilya, I’m gay.” Shane confesses this like it’s some grand revelation. Perhaps for Shane it is. Ilya, on the other hand, has to suppress the urge to reply, No shit.

“Congratulations.”

“And I like you,” Shane says, too soft and way too sweet.

“You don’t like me,” Ilya snaps back. No one does, he thinks privately.

“Yeah. I do. I think I like you a little too much.”

“Don’t do this, Hollander,” Ilya says, squeezing his eyes shut.

His first thought is that Shane is saying all the right words, just four months too late, but that isn’t actually fair. For as much as he planned that day at his house in Boston, Ilya had no plan for what would come after.

All Ilya wanted to do was ask Shane to stay over, to make him food, to hang out, and to play fucking boyfriends for exactly one day, night, and morning. Like that was a normal thing to ask of a guy he fucked a few times a year.

No wonder Shane freaked out. Ilya’s cock touched Shane’s tongue six years before his first name did.

“I do like you,” Shane repeats. “And you have every right to tell me to fuck off, especially after what happened in Ottawa, but I was thinking, maybe after the playoffs…” Shane gulps. “I mean, I know you go back to Russia in the summers, but—”

“No.”

“No? Can I at least ask first?”

Ilya’s eyes feel warm and heavy. He looks toward the ceiling, trying to will his emotions away. He hasn’t talked to anyone about this directly, not even Svetlana, not really.

“No, I am not going back to Russia,” Ilya says slowly. Each word has to be extracted from his throat. “I cannot. It is not safe for people like me. Not now, maybe not ever.”

“Oh my god.”

It’s so quiet in this room, Ilya swears he can hear Shane’s brain spinning.

“There are laws,” Ilya continues. “And I am famous, so easy to make example of.”

“I didn’t know. Like I’d heard a little, but… Fuck.” Shane looks like he’s going to be sick. Join the club. “What about your family?”

Ilya scratches his own jaw. “My brother is an asshole and a bigot. My father is sick.”

“Cancer?”

“Dementia. He does not remember that I moved to America. If anyone’s told him I’m bisexual, he cannot remember that either. Silver lining.”

Shane ignores his weak attempt at a joke. “And your mom?”

“Dead. A long time now.”

It’s the most he’s ever spoken about his family in English, and it’s awful, having to think so hard about words he doesn’t want to say. Shane scoots closer to him. His fingertips graze Ilya’s thigh.

“Ilya,” he says, way too softly.

“North America is better, especially Canada.” The words come out too thick. His eyes burn with tears he does not want to let fall, not in front of anyone and especially not in front of him. “It’s fine. It could be worse.” One tear tumbles down his cheek, then another.

“Hey,” Shane whispers.

Then Shane moves. His leg shifts over Ilya’s until he’s on his lap, and his thumb brushes over Ilya’s wet cheek. He’s suddenly everywhere, his body, his smell, his face. Ilya has nowhere to hide.

“Sorry,” Ilya mutters, embarrassed, as Shane wipes away another tear.

“No. If I can’t say sorry, you can’t either.”

Shane’s hands shift to Ilya’s jaw and tilt his face up. He kisses him twice on the mouth, once on the forehead, and then ducks his face into Ilya’s shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck. Ilya’s arms tighten around Shane’s waist.

And then they’re just… hugging. Have they ever hugged before? After a moment, Shane pushes Ilya back onto the bed. He wraps an arm around Ilya’s waist and keeps their bodies pressed together as he shuffles them up onto the bed. They roll over until Shane is on his back and Ilya is nestled on top of him. Ilya digs his nose into Shane’s collarbone and hopes he can’t feel that he’s still crying.

They lay there long enough that Ilya’s despair settles back into good old-fashioned yearning.

“I miss you,” Shane whispers into his hair.

“Me too,” Ilya replies automatically.

He feels Shane swallow beneath him. “Do you think we would be something real by now? If things were different?”

What a question.

Ilya presses a single, closed-mouth kiss against Shane’s neck and then sits up so he can see his face, running a finger along his cheek and jaw. Shane’s eyes are a little teary, and his freckles have bloomed from a weekend in the Florida sun. He’s so beautiful it makes Ilya want to make bad decisions. And this would be the worst fucking decision.

He can’t do this again. If he does, the next time Shane changes his mind—and he will, about Ilya, because everyone does sooner or later—Ilya won’t survive it. He’s lost too much already.

“I think,” Ilya says sadly, “you need to leave me alone.”

When nineteen-year-old Ilya felt homesick in his first Boston apartment, he would close his eyes and think about home.

He thought of gray, rectangular brezhnevkas spanning the streets while whimsical churches peeked out behind them, the color refusing to be fully dampened.

He thought of sunlight flickering off the blue-brown surface of the Moskva, and how when it got very cold, the surface turned to slush.

He thought of a city whose age smothered everything, where a walk down the right street could make your personal tragedies feel like a speck of snow dissolving onto the bricks, instantly forgotten by time.

He thought of frozen lakes and ice skates and coaches who spoke to children like they were adults they hated.

He thought of the candy maker on his block who watched him grow up and sent him on his first trip to North America with a pat on his shoulder and a bag of korovka.

He thought of a father who welcomed him home with a list of disappointments, and an older brother who was half as respected and twice as cruel.

He thought of a woman with neat, curly hair and his face sticking her tongue out at him from across the dining room table until he laughed.

He loved Moscow.

He hated that every time he visited Moscow, he left with more anger than comfort.

Shane doesn’t leave him alone.

He seems determined to keep the door open between them, despite Ilya’s efforts to lock it shut. He never makes any drastic moves, but he nudges.

He texts Ilya when he’s thinking about him, which it turns out is at least once a day. He meets a dog named Lily and sends him a picture. He compliments him on a particularly nice goal and sends a follow-up video of his own insane goal later that night with the caption, “Your turn.”

When Montreal plays in Boston in March, Shane doesn’t ask him to meet up but he does text him several times the day before.

Jane: I had a nightmare about the Philadelphia mascot

Jane: The guys are being so annoying about Rose
Jane: If I wasn’t already gay, this would push me over the edge
Jane: Delete that
Jane: Actually don’t. People know “Jane” is gay haha

Jane: Remind me which one is the better cannoli place in Boston?
Jane: I’m feeling a little reckless

Worst of all:

Jane: I like being in the same zip code as you

Ilya feels a humiliating urge to do something stupid like invite Shane over before the game. Despite the fact that he’s the one who asked for space, he’s desperate to see Shane out of his hockey gear. He’s closed himself off, wrapped a fence around his heart and body, but he keeps peeking through the slats.

He settles for replying to every text that Shane sends.

If he squints, it looks like flirting.

The game against Montreal is a dog fight, and Shane plays so fucking beautifully. He scores two goals, while Ilya notches one goal and two assists. It’s a high scoring game in the end, Boston eking out a win 4–3, but when the final buzzer rings, all Ilya can think about is how when Shane checked him hard against the glass in the third period, he felt Shane’s breath against his neck.

His body is thrumming with a combination of arousal, victory, and anxiety when he gets back to his locker. He grabs his phone, both hoping and dreading to see a text from Jane.

But that’s not what he finds. Instead:

Eight missed calls from Alexei and a text from Svetlana.

Sveta: I heard. I’ll be in Boston in four hours.

Before he can figure out what she means, his phone starts ringing again in his hand. Alexei again. He does this sometimes, calls Ilya repeatedly with urgency, only to demand more money. If Alexei already burned through the $30,000…

Ilya answers the phone call and snaps, “What?”

Alexei says eight words that split Ilya Rozanov’s life into a new before-and-after.

“Papa is dead. Don’t come to the funeral.”

Then he hangs up.

Ilya doesn’t remember leaving the locker room. It’s so loud and bright.

He’s never had a panic attack before, but in the hallway of his home stadium, he can’t catch his breath.

His father is dead. He wasn’t there to see it. He can’t be there now. He won’t be able to visit either of his parents’ graves, not any time soon, and he will have to say goodbye to the most influential man in his life—for better and for worse—from 4,400 miles away. He is not invited to his father’s funeral. If he tries to go anyway, he could be beaten or even arrested. Grigori Rozanov is dead, the thickest string still tying Ilya to the country where he spent the first eighteen years of his life, and Ilya has no fucking idea what to do.

“You good, Rozanov?”

Coach LeClaire’s authoritative voice cuts through the fog in Ilya’s brain. He tries to force his breathing to slow down

“My father is dead.”

LeClaire’s eyes soften. “Come,” he says, grabbing Ilya’s shoulder. He helps him stand up all the way and leads him down the hallway to an open office. Ilya collapses into a chair. LeClaire sits facing him as if there’s a desk between them.

“What do you need right now, son?” he asks plainly.

“Nothing,” Ilya grits out. “I am not going back home.”

“Even if you don’t fly to Russia, you should take a few days.”

“No. I will play.”

LeClaire sits back and folds his arms across his chest. He looks as stern as he did after Ilya got too drunk at a bar, fell off a table, and had to miss two games with a minor ankle injury.

“You’re not coming to Nashville,” LeClaire says plainly. “Take through the end of the week, and you can rejoin us for the next home game.”

Ilya jumps to his feet, which is a mistake, because he’s immediately woozy. The only thing keeping him upright is anger.

“What the fuck, Coach? You’re benching me because my dad died?”

“Rozanov, sit down.”

“No!”

“Ilya.”

Ilya drops back into the chair.

“Roz, we all know how dedicated you are to this team. You’re an excellent captain. And I know you think you want to play through this.” LeClaire looks at him expectantly until Ilya nods. “As your coach, I’m telling you that if you go onto the ice right now, you’re going to be distracted or make a weird decision you wouldn’t normally make. You could get hurt, and we need you for the playoffs.” Then LeClaire leans forward and clasps a hand on Ilya’s shoulder again. “As someone who cares about your wellbeing, I am so sorry for your loss. And I want you to take a few days to grieve.”

“This is bullshit.”

“It’s bereavement.”

It feels like punishment either way.

Sveta arrives after midnight with a hug and some tough love.

“He was right to bench you. You need to process this.”

“Fuck you.”

“Sure, fuck me. Whatever. I’m right.”

Ilya pouts like a child but lets Svetlana shove him back to his bedroom. She loads up his bedside table with water, a takeout container of Thai food, and a bottle of Advil. Then she puts on Rush Hour with Russian dubbing and curls up beside him on the mattress, combing her fingers through his hair until his thoughts settle into a static loop.

Both of his parents are dead.

Ilya is an orphan.

He may never see his home again.

His biggest reasons for not pursuing something with Shane were his father and Russia. Now his father is dead, he doesn’t have Russia, and he doesn’t have Shane.

He feels as selfish as they say he is for even thinking about that right now.

“Are you going back?” Ilya asks Svetlana after an hour of silently eating noodles and watching Jackie Chan fight.

“I think so,” she replies. “My father would like me to.”

“I would like you to, too. Say goodbye for both of us.”

Svetlana throws an arm around Ilya’s shoulder. Their heads knock together, and he feels like he’s twelve again, mourning a parent with the world’s most patient friend by his side. He nestles down until his head is in her lap. The weight of the day sinks him into the bed.

“When I see Alexei, I’m going to punch him in the fucking dick,” Sveta mutters.

“No point,” Ilya says through a yawn. “There’s nothing you can do to him that’s worse than being in his own head.”

She hums, considering. “Okay. I’ll trip him instead.”

Ilya must fall asleep at some point because he jostles and suddenly Svetlana isn’t beside him. Morning sunlight creeps in at the edges of his curtains, so it’s been a few hours. His phone is plugged in across the room, but he doesn’t have the energy to walk over to it. Instead, he lays back on the bed and listens to the sounds of his house. Sveta is talking downstairs, likely on a phone call. The HVAC system hums quietly. Birds chirp in the trees outside. Maybe he won’t do anything today but this. Mourn, like they’re forcing him to.

When Svetlana does return a few minutes later, she knocks nervously on his bedroom door.

“Good morning,” she says cautiously.

“Don’t be fucking weird. What is it?”

“Um. Shane Hollander is downstairs.”

Ilya sits up in an instant. “What?”

“Shane Hollander. He’s sitting on your couch.” She watches Ilya like she’s waiting for a freakout. He’s mostly just stunned. “I can send him home, if you want. I already told him I had to check with you before I’d let him get anywhere near your heart again.”

“Oh god, Sveta,” Ilya smacks his hands over his face. “You didn’t.”

“Someone has to stand up for you, since you clearly won’t stand up for yourself.” Despite her serious tone, her lips quirk up at the corner. “And you pretended you didn’t know he was good-looking.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Obviously he’s hot. Why would you even ask me that?”

“If he’s Jane, who are you?”

“Lily,” Ilya admits, cheeks burning.

“You’re so fucking stupid.”

Ilya rubs a hand over his jaw. Then he looks down and realizes he’s still wearing his compression shirt from the game. “You have to arrange your flights,” he says, taking off his dirty clothes and tugging on a clean hoodie and a pair of gym shorts. “You can use my office. I’ll go down and talk to him.”

“If you need help, yell. It’s a big house.

He waits until Sveta disappears into the room down the hall. Then he flips up his hood and descends the stairs. As promised, Shane Hollander is sitting on the sofa he once jerked Ilya off on. He stares at Ilya with wide eyes, his hands fidgeting in his lap. An unfamiliar suitcase and a hockey bag are propped against the living room wall.

“You are at my house,” Ilya begins.

“I heard about your father. Is it true?”

“Yes. He is dead.”

Shane’s face falls. “Ilya. I’m so sorry.”

Ilya shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket. He doesn’t know what to do with Shane Hollander’s sympathy.

“Did Montreal not fly back this morning?” he asks instead.

Shane shrugs. “Our next game is in three days, and we don’t have practice until Friday afternoon. It’s a pretty short flight. I can stay here for two days as long as I leave by 6am.”

Ilya narrows his eyes. “You are lying.”

“Okay, fine,” Shane says, caving right away, “but I never miss practice. They’ll live with me invoking a family emergency one time in seven years.”

Ilya scoffs. “Mr. Bad Boy.”

There is plenty of room on the couch for Ilya to join while still maintaining some distance. Instead he sits on the coffee table. It’s both closer to Shane and also feels safer. Shane’s eyes flick toward the staircase, and a small smile pulls self-consciously at his lips.

“Your friend does not like me.”

“No, she is protective,” Ilya replies. “She loves you, actually. Big fan. Very annoying.”

“In that case, I can sign a jersey for her.”

Shane is smiling, and Ilya’s smiling, and he’s so cute, and they click into this rhythm so naturally that it almost feels like it’s six months ago again. But a lot has happened since then. And Ilya’s heart is exhausted.

“Why are you here, Shane?” he asks quietly.

Shane straightens his shoulders, like he’s building up courage for something. Then he cautiously leans forward. He pauses before touching Ilya, allowing him to pull away if he needs to. Instead, Ilya nods. Shane’s fingers curve over Ilya’s pinky, sliding, and then he’s holding Ilya’s hand. His thumb sparks along the back of Ilya’s wrist.

“I want to be there for you,” Shane whispers, “however you need. And if you don’t want me here, I will book a hotel nearby in case you change your mind.”

The wall between them crumbles. Ilya flips his hand so their palms press together.

“I want you here,” he admits.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Their knees nestle together as Shane slides his hand up and down Ilya’s forearm. Touch without expectation.

“Can I say something kind of mean?” Shane blurts out of nowhere.

Ilya snorts. “Permission granted, Hollander.”

“You smell like a locker room.”

Ilya’s laugh comes out way too loud. Since day one in Bumblefuck, Canada, Ilya has been equal parts charmed and irritated by Shane’s bluntness, his habit of saying exactly what he’s thinking at any moment. Holding his free hand to his chest, Ilya gasps, pretending to be offended.

“You wound me. And while I’m in grief!”

Shane rolls his eyes and smiles. He moves his fingers from Ilya’s forearm up to his shoulder and shoves it teasingly.

“Go shower. I’ll make you breakfast.”

A clean Ilya comes back downstairs to decent scrambled eggs and a truly terrible green juice. Shane makes a serving for Svetlana, too. She lets herself be terrifying on Ilya’s behalf for another minute before diving into an in-depth analysis of Montreal’s strengths and weaknesses as they approach the end of the season. If Shane is surprised by her knowledge level, that feeling is immediately overwhelmed by his joy at talking hockey with another true freak.

It does something to Ilya’s stomach, watching these two particular people talk to each other. The green juice suddenly doesn’t taste quite as awful.

Five hours later, Svetlana is on a plane to Moscow and Shane and Ilya are alone.

“Tell me something about your father,” Shane says after dinner. He’s stretched out on the couch facing Ilya while a nature documentary plays in the background. If either of them pointed their toes, their feet would be touching.

“He hated that I left Russia.”

“Something nice,” Shane clarifies.

Ilya scratches his head. “He was not a nice man. But he was my father.” Every memory that runs through his mind has two sides. His dad pushed him to be good at hockey; his dad beat him when he didn’t play good hockey. His dad gave him his first drink; his dad drove his mother to drink. “I don’t know. It’s hard to put these words into English sometimes.”

“That’s okay,” Shane says. “What about your mother?”

“She was wonderful.” That’s all Ilya can say right now.

Shane tilts his head and nestles into the cushion. He asks a lot of questions, but there’s no judgment. He just wants to understand Ilya better. Ilya isn’t used to that.

“Do you miss Russia?” Shane asks finally.

A lump forms in Ilya’s throat. “Yes.”

Their time together passes in a blur, short yet still longer than any amount of time they’ve spent together before this. Shane follows Ilya’s lead, allowing the grief to come and go without pushing Ilya in any particular direction.

They play video games. They sit silently. Ilya takes an hourlong shower where he cries so hard he almost throws up. When he comes back downstairs, Shane has cleaned his kitchen. They order takeout and Shane watches Ilya in disgust as he houses two cheeseburgers in twenty minutes. But when Ilya goes outside to smoke, Shane keeps his opinions to himself.

They don’t even kiss, though Ilya wants to, desperately.

But that’s not what this is, not right now.

Ilya’s mostly just grateful. For long, sad days he doesn’t have to spend alone. For two nights of a warm, heavy body pressing him into the mattress until he falls asleep.

Two hours before Shane has to leave on Friday, Ilya holds his phone in his lap and watches as Svetlana secretly Facetimes his father’s procession and burial. She walks up to the open grave and tosses in a few coins that Ilya gave her before she left. Once the dirt has been placed, she pours a splash of vodka from a bottle taken from Ilya’s Moscow apartment.

Tears pool in Ilya’s eyes, and he lets them fall.

Shane sits beside him the whole time. Their thighs press together from hip to knee.

Montreal and Boston play their last game of the season in late March.

He and Shane have been texting nonstop since their two days together.

It’s mostly innocent.

Jane: Are you a dog person or a cat person?
Ilya: dog person
Ilya: because I am the cat
Jane: Opposites attract?
Ilya: obviously 😈

Ilya: a barista gave me free coffee today and said happy pride
Jane: It’s March?
Ilya: every day is pride when you’re hot
Jane: You’re ridiculous
Ilya: ridiculously hot
Jane: …
Jane: True

Jane: If I send you something, can you delete it right away?
Ilya: i am intrigued
Ilya: but yes
Jane: [A close-up selfie of Shane’s eyes and the top of his head. His hair is absolutely covered in glitter hair gel, clumped into little spikes.]
Jane: H’s twin girls got me
Ilya: holy shit
Ilya: it’s a great look for you jane. really sexy.
Jane: Shut up.
Ilya: i’m serious this is very cute
Ilya: babysitter today?
Jane: That’s Mr. Babysitter to you
Ilya: i deleted. i miss it already

Ilya: fmk toronto vancouver ottawa
Jane: What?
Ilya: fuck marry kill
Jane: How am I supposed to fuck a city?
Ilya: but you’ll marry a city?
Jane: This doesn’t make sense
Ilya: jane. it’s fun.
Jane: Fine.
Jane: Fuck Vancouver, marry Ottawa, kill Toronto
Ilya: interesting
Jane: What’s your answer?
Ilya: kill all of them
Jane: 🙄

It feels like they’re becoming friends. Friends who flirt, sure, but friends nonetheless. Of course, as the game gets closer, the texts take a turn. Ilya blames it on the fact that he hasn’t had sex since the All Star break. He doesn’t want to investigate why that is.

Ilya: i am thinking about you
Jane: I’m at the rink
Ilya: i’m about to shower
Jane: Fuck

Jane: Are you alone
Ilya: yes
Jane: [Photo of a dildo]
Jane: You once asked me what color it was
Ilya: fuck jane
Ilya: what are you going to do with it
Jane: You know
Ilya: tell me
Jane: I miss being fucked
Ilya: facetime me
Ilya: [incoming Facetime from Jane]

Ilya: if we were in bed together right now
Ilya: what do you think i would do to you
Jane: I was in your bed for two nights, and you didn’t do anything
Ilya: that doesn’t sound like me
Ilya: i must have been going through a trauma
Jane: You know I’m here for you, if you ever need someone to talk to about all of that.
Jane: You can always call me.
Ilya: jane i am horny
Ilya: no dead dad talk
Jane: Oh
Jane: Sorry
Ilya: no sorry
Jane: If we were together, I think you would make me beg to suck your dick
Ilya: you would beg
Jane: Obviously

Jane: What happens when you’re in Montreal next week?
Ilya: we play a game
Ilya: i beat you
Jane: Fuck off. I’m serious.
Ten minutes later
Ilya: can i be honest
Jane: Yes
Ilya: i am nervous
Jane: Me too
Ilya: maybe we be nervous together
Ilya: if you want
Jane: I want

Ilya: one more day
Jane: Can’t wait

The second their plane touches down in Canada, Ilya feels his body light up, his inter radar pinging that something important is nearby. He fidgets enough during customs that the agent asks him more questions than usual. During the bus ride to the hotel, his knee jostles the seat in front of him so much that St-Simon leans over and swats Ilya with a Sudoku book.

Ilya emerges from the hotel shower to find Marly flipping through TV channels. He looks at Ilya with a knowing smirk.

“Jane texted. Again.”

“Jane what?” Ilya says blankly, snatching his phone off the bed. “Who is Jane?”

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” Marly guffaws. “Montreal Jane. He’s been texting you every two seconds. Obsessed much?” Cliff’s effortless use of the right pronouns for Jane makes Ilya flinch. Old instincts die hard. But Marly is just teasing him, tossing cartoonish winks his way.

“Maybe you are the one obsessed, Marleau.”

“You seem happier.”

“I am happy. Boston will go to the playoffs again.”

A pillow smacks Ilya in the head. “Stop deflecting, man. I’m trying to talk ‘bros’ with you,” Marly says, doing air-quotes around the word ‘bros.’

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “You think Jane is my ‘bro’?”

“No, asshole. ‘Bros’ like ‘chicks’.”

“I think it’s been pretty well established that Jane is not a chick.”

Marly responds by throwing the rest of his pillows at Ilya, and then throwing all the ones from Ilya’s bed at him, too. Ilya feels a bigger thump hit the pillow pile that might be a suitcase.

“I won’t wait up after the game,” Marly says once he’s stopped laughing. “And I’m such a good friend, I still hope you get laid tonight, even though you’re a fucking dick to me.”

Ilya can only smile back. Cliff has been a better, more understanding friend throughout the past four months than Ilya ever expected. A number of the Boston guys have. Sveta is still here, too, and she did bring back a video from Moscow of her “accidentally” tripping Alexei after a dinner.

He’s lost a lot, but he hasn’t lost everything.

His phone buzzes again.

Jane: [an address in Montreal]
Jane: Front door code is 2410
Ilya: real apartment this time
Jane: Yes. I want you there.

Shane approaches Ilya when he’s stretching on the ice before the game.

“Still on for tonight?” Shane asks quietly.

“Yes,” Ilya says, fighting a grin. “Same as two hours ago.”

“Right.” Even in the cold rink, Shane’s cheeks redden just a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god, Hollander, enough with the sorries.”

“You misunderstand me.” Shane brushes some ice off the end of his stick, and then looks down at Ilya with bright eyes. “I’m sorry for what we’re about to do to Boston. We’re gonna destroy you guys.”

Then he skates back toward the Montreal bench before Ilya can respond.

“What was that?” Hammersmith asks.

“Did you know Hollander is an asshole?”

Hammersmith scoffs. “No, he’s not. You’re an asshole.”

Ilya smiles brightly. “Fuck yes, I am. Let’s demolish them.”

They are evenly matched from the jump. Shane wins the faceoff, but Ilya quickly gets a steal. The first period is fast and physical and ends without a goal, despite several close shots from both teams. Five minutes into the second period, Ilya scores off an assist from St-Simon. He cheers loudly, receiving several bear hugs and helmet kisses from his teammates.

“?,” Comeau snaps as he moves past the huddle.

A few of the Montreal players laugh at that. Ilya knows it’s some kind of dig about him being gay, but he’s heard so many of those at this point, it barely even registers.

“First rule of chirping: It’s not a good insult if I can’t understand you,” Ilya says mockingly.

Instead of switching to English, Comeau gets closer and speaks even more slowly, as if the speed is the problem, not the language itself. “.”

St-Simon, who does speak French, quickly skates over to confront Comeau for whatever heinous thing he said. But Shane Hollander gets there first. He slides between his teammate and Ilya, spraying ice as he comes to a quick stop.

“,” Shane sneers. “.”

“!”

“Comeau.” Ilya’s heard Shane irritated, pissed off, infuriated, and embarrassed, but he’s never heard him this angry. There’s a stillness to it, like he’s letting his talent and strength speak for itself. It’s extremely hot. “.”

Comeau frowns at him. “.”

“.”

There’s a brief stand-off between the two Voyageurs. Two referees get in the middle of the scrum, pushing players away from each other. Comeau shakes them off and retreats slightly.

“?” he scoffs. “?”

“.” Then Shane turns to the referees, immediately snapped back into Captain Canada mode. “Apologies for that, guys.”

Comeau spits on the ice and skates toward the Montreal bench, with Shane following closely behind. The second lines jump out to take the next face off.

“What were they saying?” Ilya asks St-Simon once they’re both seated.

Victor shakes his head. “You don’t wanna know, brother. Hollander’s a real one, though.”

After that, the game shifts. The score stays tight, but Shane is taking harder hits, not just from Ilya, but from everybody. Boiziau does his best, but the other defenders seem to ditch Shane altogether in favor of protecting less important players. Shane got in the way of them mocking Ilya, and now they’re making him pay for it.

Toward the end of the third period, Shane steals the puck away from Ilya and rips away toward the goal. His defender isn’t in place to clear a path, so Shane cuts outside. Ilya is right on his heels.

And then Marly’s shoulder slams into Shane’s upper body.

Marly’s pads clip Shane’s chin and fling his head backwards. A sick crunch fills the arena as Shane is knocked off his skates. He doesn’t brace for a fall, just crumples, and his helmet bounces against the ice a few times before settling into uneasy stillness.

Ilya is frozen in place.

One month after winning the Stanley Cup, Ilya showed up at Svetlana’s apartment in Moscow, half-drunk with a cut on his cheek.

She frowned. “Alexei?”

“Papa,” Ilya corrected.

After checking in the bathroom mirror to make sure the bleeding had stopped, Ilya plopped down on Svetlana’s couch. His friend had already grabbed a second wine glass and set it next to hers. She waited for his nod and poured him a glass.

“Something seems wrong with him,” Ilya started. “He got confused about Mama again. It’s like he keeps forgetting that she’s dead.”

“Is that why he hit you?”

“No.” Ilya smiled grimly. “This is because I said the Stanley Cup is the biggest award in hockey. Apparently not when you eat shit at the Olympics.”

“Fuck him.”

“It would have just been a slap, but his ring—”

“Fuck. Him, Svetlana repeated firmly, no room for argument.

Leaning back, Ilya stared at Svetlana’s ceiling and wondered why he felt like crying. He’d felt that way all summer. Of course, he was having fun, like he always did. He was partying with his Russian friends, drinking too much, fucking too much, dancing and singing and laughing his ass off. But when the party ended, he was back at his childhood house with his family, and he felt the weight of his life, heavy like a stone on his chest.

“Why does coming back here hurt so much?” he asked.

Svetlana took a sip of wine, seriously considering his woe-is-me question. “Because it’s home,” she said finally, “and you have a cruel home.”

“You always seem fine here.”

“It’s different for me,” she explained. “Russia has never been my only home.”

“Fuck.” Ilya laid down, draping a hand over his forehead. It was easier when he treated it like a joke. “There lies Ilya. Tragically a citizen of only one country.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes. “You know, just because you are born somewhere does not mean it needs to be home forever. You’ll always belong to Russia, but maybe it’s okay if you let yourself belong somewhere else, too.”

“Where? America?” Ilya scoffed. “America does not want me. They think I’m a spy or a brute who speaks English like a five year old.”

“First of all, your English is great, practically fluent at this point. Have you heard any English-speaking American try to talk in another language?”

“Sveta.”

“I’m serious. Watch ‘Bruce from Worcester’ try to order at a Mexican restaurant. You’ll never doubt your language skills again.”

They laughed together at that image. When the room quieted again, Svetlana stared at him long enough that Ilya started to fidget.

“You love so hard, Ilya. You deserve a home that loves you back just as hard.” She tapped her fingers on her glass. “Maybe that is Russia. Or maybe Boston. Or hell, maybe some bumblefuck town in the middle of nowhere France. I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s Canada, Ilya thought, before quickly shoving that thought away. He was already teetering on the edge of disaster with one Canadian hockey player without bringing the concept of ‘home’ into it. He was lucky Hollander even texted him back at this point.

“Maybe Oklahoma. I look good in a cowboy hat.” He tipped an imaginary cap and put on his best Southern American accent. “Howdy, ma’am.”

As Svetlana giggled, Ilya’s gaze drifted out the window. The setting sun turned the Moscow sky gorgeous shades of pink and orange, and for a moment, the city felt soft and forgiving.

“Ilya!”

Shane’s sleepy, out-of-it face lights up the moment Ilya enters his hospital room. His helmet left a mark across his nose and cheeks that makes his freckles look even sweeter. Christ, Ilya is down bad if he’s romanticizing bruises.

Seeing him does nothing to loosen the knot in his stomach. Everything Ilya touches eventually leaves him or suffers for staying. Now Shane’s done both.

“How are you?” Ilya asks, hugging as close as he can to the wall.

“Concussion and a broken collar bone. Out for the playoffs but…”

“Could be worse,” Ilya exhales.

“Could be worse.”

In his medically inebriated state, it’s so obvious to see what Shane is feeling. His brow furrows, his lips tug down, and his eyes scan unfocused over Ilya’s face. He’s not happy. Ilya imagines him remembering what happened out there on the ice. At least he’ll be polite when he asks Ilya to leave the room. He’ll probably say sorry again.

Instead, a small miracle, Shane makes grabby fingers and whines until Ilya comes and holds his hand.

“Ah. Better,” Shane mutters in a bad Russian accent.

Shane tightens his grip on Ilya’s hand, and his eyes flutter shut. Ilya takes the chance to really look at him. His right arm is in a sling. His arms and neck are painted with bruises and scrapes. He’s attached to a fucking heart monitor, and clearly in enough pain that they have him on the stronger drugs. He looks young and injured.

“You got hurt because of me,” Ilya says quietly.

Shane cracks open one eye. “Thought it was Marleau.”

“He feels really, really bad about that, by the way.” And it’s true. Once news broke Shane was likely out for the season, Ilya had to stop Marly from sending him to the hospital with a handwritten apology poem. If he knew Shane was Jane, he might explode into remorseful dust.

“Tell him it’s all groovy,” Shane says, giggling at his own word choice.

“Hollander, I mean it.” Ilya brushes a finger against Shane’s warm cheek. “You shouldn’t have defended me. People are going to gossip.”

Shane scoffs. “Breaking news: Shane Hollander doesn’t like when the people in his locker room are hateful assholes. Next news: Ilya Rozanov likes to chirp people.”

“It’s not the assholes part. It’s me. I’m not worth this. I’m…” An orphan. A castaway. Someone so damaged that even his own family, his own country can’t love him back. “I’m just some bi hockey player who has caused a lot of problems for everyone.”

“You’re not some bi hockey player. You’re my bi hockey player.” Shane crinkles his nose, not pleased with his first attempt. “You’re Ilya. I’ll always fight for you.” Then he smiles, as if he’s not cracking Ilya’s heart wide open with his drug-influenced declarations. “And it’s not just for you. S’for me too. Eventually.”

“My brave boy,” Ilya whispers in Russian, pushing Shane’s hair back from his forehead.

Suddenly Shane’s eyes pop open.

“Hey, I had a question I wanted to ask you last night before Marleau drilled me.”

“He better not be drilling you,” Ilya teases.

“Are you staying in Boston this summer?”

“Yes, probably. Maybe travel a little.”

“You should come to my cottage instead,” Shane blurts out quickly, like it’s one word. “We’ll have so much fun. It’s so private. We could have a week or two, completely alone, together.”

Ilya swallows “You would want that?”

“Of course. I would spend every day with you if I could.”

Then Shane smiles brightly.

Ilya’s self-control collapses. He leans over Shane’s bed, propping himself on his right hand and cupping Shane’s beautiful face with his left. He presses slow kisses to Shane’s cheeks, jaw, brow, trying to imprint all the affection he feels into his skin. He’s charmed and immensely flattered when Shane tries to catch his lips with his own.

“Unggh,” Shane groans, “real kiss me.”

“You’re high as a kite, Shane.”

“So?”

“Next time,” Ilya says, fighting a laugh.

“Promise?” Shane asks earnestly.

Ilya nods and combs his fingers through Shane’s hair until he relaxes again. There’s no rush. They will kiss the next time they see each other. For the first time in months, Ilya is certain of that.

“Ask me about the cottage tomorrow,” Ilya whispers against Shane’s forehead. “I’ll say yes.”

Two months later, Shane turns off the ignition in the driveway of his cottage. Ilya follows him into a house he’s seen a hundred times in a YouTube video filmed a few years earlier. (He thinks he’ll never admit in a million years how many times he’s watched that video while alone at night, but if Shane asks directly, he would probably crumble right away.)

And then they’re alone.

Shane is giving a nervous house tour, and he’s saying something, but Ilya seems to have lost any grasp of the English language. Shane is here. Shane is beautiful. Shane invited him here. If he doesn’t kiss Shane immediately, he is certainly going to die from wanting.

So he does.

Kissing Shane without an imminent departure time is so intoxicating that their first time back together is two embarrassingly quick blow jobs. Within a few minutes, Shane and Ilya lay side by side on Shane’s bed, half-dressed and struggling to catch their breaths.

“Give me forty-five minutes,” Ilya gasps. “I’ll do better next time.”

Shane laughs loudly. He tugs the rest of his shirt off and flops down onto Ilya. “You came faster than I did.”

“Maybe I wanted you to know how it feels,” Ilya teases.

“Oh yeah?”

“It’s nice, right? You feel like a sex machine?”

“Fuck you.”

“More like ‘Fuck me, please.’”

Ilya rolls them over and presses his lips to Shane’s. Shane’s smiling so much that their teeth bump together.

“How do you say that in Russian?” Shane asks into Ilya’s mouth.

“Trakhni menya, pozhaluysta.”

“Eh, teach me later.” And then Shane sucks on Ilya’s bottom lip. They lazily make out for a long time, tongues sliding together, occasionally breaking to laugh. It’s fun. It’s blissful and disgusting. After a while, Shane hooks a foot around Ilya’s calf and tugs him closer, and Ilya can feel they’re both getting hard again. The kisses become deeper. Neither of them are laughing anymore.

“Ilya, please,” Shane sighs as Ilya sucks and licks down his neck.

“I’ve got you.”

Later, when Ilya is pressing himself into Shane for the first time in almost nine months—his arms trembling, his entire body overwhelmed with sensation and emotion, his breath hitching way too close to tears for his liking—Shane repeats the sentiment.

“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya,” he moans. “I’ve got you.”

Days at the cottage are pure joy. They like each other. They want each other. They don’t exactly know what that means yet. It’s not surprising, but once they have the time and courage to say how they actually feel, the rest progresses naturally.

The sex is incredible, obviously. But the rest of the time they spend together—playing, talking, bickering, cooking, floating in the lake until their fingers prune—feels almost revelatory. Ilya didn’t know he could enjoy so much one-on-one time with another person. Even with Svetlana, his favorite person in the world, in many ways his only family, they start to get sick of each other after four or five days together. But not Shane.

Shane is like salt water. Every minute Ilya spends drinking up his presence only makes him thirstier for more. On day three, as Shane has his lips around Ilya cock in the kitchen, bobbing forward and back with aching slowness, taking him as far as he can down his throat, Ilya thinks if this is going to kill him like salt water would, what a fucking way to go.

Even the hard conversations feel like a challenge they’re tackling together, on the same line.

“Do you ever think about coming out?” Ilya asks over a lunch.

“Abstractly. To my parents, mostly.”

“Would they not be good with it?”

“No, they would. I think they would. It’s just scary. I don’t want to disappoint them.”

“Any parent who would be disappointed in Shane Hollander isn’t much of a parent.”

“I could say the same about you, you know.”

Their feet hook under the table.

“Hockey is harder,” Shane admits. “I already feel like an outsider, being one of the only not white guys in the locker room. I just want to play hockey without all the other stuff.”

Ilya nods. “You deserve that.”

“Would you have come out? If you had a choice?”

“As happy as I am that Scott Hunter is only the second gay hockey player ever,” Ilya jokes, even as he gets emotional thinking about what Hunter did on the ice a few weeks back, “Probably I would not have. Not right now.”

He waits for Shane’s standard, “I’m sorry.” Instead, Shane leans forward and sets his hand on top of Ilya’s.

“I’m really happy you’re here, Ilya.”

Ilya smiles. “Me, too.”

Days turn into a week, then two. Ilya extends his stay through the end of July. How can he possibly leave one second before he has to when Shane loves him?

Shane loves him. They love each other. They are boyfriends.

He told Shane about his mother, and Shane responded with so much more than sympathy, waking him up in the middle of the night with a pitch for a mental health charity they could launch together.

He has David and Yuna Hollander’s numbers saved in his phone. Sure, the circumstances weren’t ideal, and Shane has had a few more panic attacks since that first dinner, but every time Ilya gets a text in “The Boys” group chat, he smiles so much it hurts his cheeks.

“Have you been body swapped?” Svetlana asks when he calls to cancel a weekend trip they had tentatively planned to Miami. “Because I thought I was speaking to my slutty pal Ilya, not some big, heartsick idiot who would rather spend time in the Canadian wilderness than go clubbing with his best friend.”

“I’m the same guy,” Ilya says, grinning. “I just have in-laws now.”

Svetlana fake-gags. “You’re disgusting. I’m so happy for you, and also I hate you.”

“And I owe you something for canceling our trip?”

“You read my mind. I need new earrings.”

That night, Ilya and Shane are laying on the dock together, watching the stars reflect off the water. Shane has built a little sanctuary for them out of sleeping bags and pillows, with citronella candles and fly fans perfectly placed around them. His boyfriend is so responsible.

“Do you like it here?” Shane asks.

Ilya chuckles. “Is this a joke question?”

“No.”

“I love it here, Shane. I love you.”

Shane scratches his hand into Ilya’s hair and pulls him close for a quick kiss. They shift until Shane is laying on top of him. They stare at each other. The moonlight does wonders for Shane’s already perfect cheekbones.

“You know, this cottage has been my favorite place in the world since I had it built,” Shane says, pushing his fingertips beneath the collar of Ilya’s t-shirt. “But this is the most it’s ever felt like home.”

Ilya runs his hands along Shane’s spine, and he thinks. For so long, home for Ilya meant pain and obligation. It was a fixed location with a fixed set of people. And that would always be home, in one way or another. But maybe home could be this, too, the quiet space between Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander where happiness rooted. And maybe, just maybe, they didn’t have to be so separate.

“Can I tell you about my home?” Ilya asks quietly.

Shane props his chin onto Ilya’s chest and nods.

And then Ilya tells the man he loves about Russia, and the slushy winter surface of the Moskva River, and snowed-in New Years celebrations with a family on its best behavior, and learning about hockey and his own desires with two friends at a skating rink, and a baker who sent him to Canada for the first time with comforts from home, and a woman with his face loving him until she couldn’t anymore, and the summer sun shining over a mix of old and new buildings, and a childhood friend who has always carried his heart with tough honesty and gentle care, and how the whimsy of St. Basil’s Cathedral made a young boy who liked hockey wistful for a fun and colorful life, and how—in his darkest moments—the crushing weight of Moscow’s age and history almost settled upon him like his mother’s tight embrace.

Shane listens.