Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

To Download: Right click the link and choose save link as.

Shane’s alarm goes off far too rudely. Its only saving grace is that he set it last night for 20 minutes earlier than necessary so he and Ilya can fuck before Shane has to make the drive back to Montreal for practice later, which means it gets to live another day.

He does not want to make the drive back, but he hasn’t wanted that for a while now. He’s very good at ignoring what he wants in favour of what needs to be done. There’s no point in dwelling on the twisted feeling in his gut at the prospect of being separated from Ilya for the next two weeks, with only phone calls, FaceTime and texts to hold them over until they see each other again. And that’ll be another short overnight visit—not nearly enough. Then again, Shane’s starting to think there will never be enough time with Ilya.

He tries to remind himself they're getting married this summer. They're gonna have way more time together. Presumably. It won't be easy, juggling two long distance schedules, but they'll be married and living together — where exactly isn't clear. They haven't discussed it yet. Their short, infrequent visits feel precious and not worth losing to logistical discussions.

It still doesn't feel real. Marriage. For most of his life, he's had a hard time picturing getting married, couldn't picture having a wife and starting a family. Now he knows why that never felt fully crystallized in his mind. But even now that he's come to terms with the fact that he's gay, that didn't necessarily change years of not picturing himself in that framework.

The idea of marrying Ilya is so wonderful, so spirit-lifting it's almost enough to overcome the anxiety in Shane's bones, the voice wondering loudly if it's even going to happen, if they have enough time to pull it all together with playoffs and the foundation and playing for teams in different cities and navigating the league's reaction to their coming out.

Shane puts that aside, more important things on his mind at the moment. He turns off his alarm and rolls over to plant himself in Ilya’s lap. “Morning,” he greets in quiet, sleepy tones.

Ilya’s hands caress Shane’s hips instantly as he hums, eyes still firmly closed. “No, please, it cannot be morning, tapochka.”

Shane bites his lip, trying to think. “Shoe?”

Ilya’s eyes open, the startling blue catching the morning light and taking Shane’s breath away. He smiles. “Close. Slipper.”

Shane laughs into the kiss he plants on his fiancé. “Well, tapochka, I set the alarm early. What should we do with all that extra time?”

“Oh, I do not know,” Ilya sighs long-sufferingly, removing Shane’s sleep shirt. Next, Shane lifts his hips to cooperate as Ilya tugs Shane’s boxers off. Ilya eyes Shane up and down, all parts of him wide awake now. “I am so confused in the morning, it is hard for me to come up with any ideas.” He places his hands on Shane’s thighs, blinking with an innocent air. “What could we do with the time? Mm, I could take an early shower?”

Shane doesn’t rise to the bait. “I mean, if you want to take an early shower while I think of something to do here in the bed by myself, that’s the kind of decision you’ll just have to live with.”

Ilya’s eyes flash in the way that Shane’s come to associate with the very best orgasms, and then he switches their positions so he has Shane underneath him. He shifts so that their cocks are pressed together in the tight space where their hips meet, lifting his eyebrow in warning, his voice low and threatening. “And how do you think I would react if I found you in my bed doing my job for me?”

Shane’s cock twitches, hard between them. He swallows thickly. “Your cock would react,” he murmurs. “You’d get hard.”

Ilya’s Adam’s apple bobs with the force of his swallow. “And what would I do with my hard cock, Shane? If you are so busy being impatient brat, maybe I will simply watch.”

Shane bites his lip, traces a path along Ilya’s back. “You’re just gonna sit back and watch, hands to yourself? I doubt that, Rozanov.”

Ilya dislodges Shane’s roving hands and closes his own around Shane’s wrists, pinning them to the bed. “You doubt me. You think I am too indulgent, yes? I just can’t resist you?”

Shane’s breathing has picked up. “You definitely can’t resist me. I think you’d cave in five minutes. But I’d fuck myself for as long as it took, until you just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Ilya releases the grip on Shane's wrists so he can reach for the lube. Shane keeps his hands where Ilya put them, eager for him to get them both slick and ready. “And what will I do when I just can’t take it anymore?” Ilya demands. “Will I fuck your ass until you can’t walk straight? Will I fuck you so hard you will feel it on the ice today?” He tests out how wet and open Shane is with his fingers, then spreads Shane's thighs and pushes inside, both of them moaning at the heat and pressure of it. Shane clenches around him, trying to pull Ilya in. “Will I get to have you for as long as I want?”

Shane nods, meeting Ilya thrust for thrust. “Yeah,” he gasps. “You’ll keep me here all day, punish me for - for starting without you.”

Ilya pushes in again with a gravelly moan. “Oh, fuck. Yes, I will chain you to my bed and you will stay until you have begged enough for forgiveness.”

“Could take hours,” Shane grits out, stroking himself to the same hard, fast pace Ilya’s set, “maybe days.”

Ilya curses and starts to lose the finesse of his movements, hips stuttering and instinctively taking over to find his pleasure. Shane shifts his legs so they’re up around Ilya’s hips and grinds down with breathless want. It's not long before Shane’s coming on Ilya’s cock with a sharp, urgent moan, which makes Ilya’s mouth drop open as he ruts and pants through his own orgasm.

Then Ilya’s kissing him, tongue bullying into his mouth. Shane takes it, grateful for it and for him, continuously amazed that Ilya always gets on board with whatever the fuck scenario Shane so much as hints at.

They get showered, lingering under the spray, as they always do when the minutes together are dwindling. Shane’s glad for the location because it's easy to pass off the tears in his eyes as water from the showerhead.

Shane gets dressed while Ilya heads downstairs to let Anya out. Shane listens to the sounds of his warm greeting and her little steps filtering up from below, tries to commit them to memory so they’ll stay with him throughout the long, lonely days ahead.

In the kitchen, Shane grabs his protein shake from the refrigerator and fiddles with the zip of his bag while he waits for Ilya to come back inside. He needs to pull it together. His body knows the score, has the stored muscle memory of what to do. His mind just needs to get with the program. This is more time together than they ever thought they would get, even just a few years ago. They have hockey and each other. That’s plenty. It has to be. Sure, sometimes it feels like the balance is wrong, but what choice do they have?

Ilya and Anya come inside. Anya bounds over for pets, which Shane dutifully provides before turning to his fiancé. “I need to go,” Shane says, voice barely more than a whisper, like if he says the words quietly enough Ilya won’t hear them and they’ll somehow cease to be true.

“Yes,” Ilya says, biting his lip and nodding. He steps into Shane's space and cups the back of Shane’s neck to bring their mouths together. Between kisses, he murmurs, “I love you, drive safe, text me when you get back.”

Shane breaks a lingering, lovely kiss, swallowing down the ache in his chest. “I will,” he says. “I love you.”

He spends the first five minutes of the drive fighting back tears. He's not sure why it's hitting so hard, the sadness about separating from Ilya, except that it's hard to go weeks without the person he loves. He just wants more time, always.

We will have more soon, he reminds himself.

He's not sure he believes that. He should be able to picture it, and it feels like a sign from the universe that he can't. Maybe he won't get to have a future with Ilya. Maybe this is all borrowed time that he should just be grateful for while he still has it.

There's a sort of blurry hazy future happiness that he keeps focusing on instead of the details. Normally, he'd be coming up with a multi-step plan, but something is holding him back. Maybe it's the doubt.

All he can really do is hope that things crystallize a little more after the playoffs, after they come out. They'll have each other to lean on. Whatever happens, he knows he can get through it as long as he's with Ilya.

When these rational thoughts do nothing to calm the anxiety buzzing at the back his brain, Shane tries the old standby trick of drowning it out with sports radio. They spend the two hours talking about soccer, so it's a long drive.

Ilya’s phone chimes while he’s pulling on his compression shirt.

Shane’s texted him. Just got to practice.

Ilya texts back Great, now come back here please. He watches his screen until Shane hearts the message, then stashes his phone in his locker and tries to mentally shake off the unsettled feeling in his stomach, the one that showed up as Shane was leaving hours ago and has plagued him since.

The distance doesn’t feel as bad as it once did, not since the proposal. He’s felt a lot more steady since then, but he’s still wrestling with sadness. The therapy with Galina has not made that go away. He’s worried it won’t ever go away. But he has practice right now, and he needs to focus.

When Ilya gets off the ice, he’s called over by Coach Wiebe. “Not our best,” Ilya remarks, “but not our worst?”

Wiebe laughs. “Pretty succinct way to put it, yeah. We’ll get there.”

Ilya nods. “Do you want to go over plays?”

“Not today. I called you over because… well, it’s a little strange, but… Roger Crowell is here? He wants to speak to you.”

Ilya blinks. The Commissioner of the MLH is here. “Here as in…?”

“He’s upstairs,” Wiebe answers, looking as surprised as Ilya feels. “In our mobile office.”

That cannot be good. Ilya rapidly tries to think what he could have done to bring Roger Crowell to Ottawa. Did he say something on Twitter again? He should check his recent tweets. Crowell basically threatened Troy to stop him tweeting about Dallas Kent, and Ilya isn’t exactly a saint on there.

“Did… he say why?”

Wiebe shakes his head, gesturing with his phone. “No, Fiona didn’t say. I just got the message a few minutes ago.” Whatever he sees on Ilya’s face makes him speak in soothing tones, “Hey, if there’s an issue, you know we’ve got a solid Communications team; I’m confident they can sort it all out. I’ll be in my office if you need anything, okay?”

Ilya hums out his thanks and makes his way to the locker room to get out of his skates and practice gear. He came to the arena in Rick Owens, which isn’t exactly the look he’d put together for a sudden meeting with the Commissioner, especially after last time they spoke. Ilya showers and changes quickly, then takes a few minutes more than usual to style his hair and prepare himself for whatever is about to happen with Crowell. He gives himself a grim nod in the mirror, then throws his bag over his shoulder and heads for the Centaur offices.

The mobile office door is open, Crowell visible where he’s seated at the desk. Ilya knows better than to freely enter the room of a man who expects authority, not without knocking and performing deference. Crowell looks up at the sound. “Ah, yes. Rozanov. Come in.”

Ilya enters the room and fights the impulse to stand at cмирно. He can practically hear his father in his head scolding him for his posture, but he ignores it. He puts his hands behind his back and arranges himself in a more relaxed yet still respectful stance. “Hello, Commissioner. You wanted to speak with me?” he prompts.

“Yes. Some information has come to my attention.” Crowell stands and rounds the table so that they are standing across from one another, close enough to raise some automatic alarm in Ilya’s nervous system. Crowell is the same height as Ilya but evidently he hopes to intimidate or convey his superiority and power over whatever this situation is by invading neutral space. Ilya knows the cost of showing weakness at a time like this, so he remains neutral in body language and expression, waiting for the blow to land.

“I have to admit I’m surprised,” Crowell begins. “Even I know the stories about your popularity with women. I guess I figured you wouldn’t jeopardise your career for some… ill-advised experimentation.” Ilya’s heart starts to race, like it knows already what Ilya’s brain hasn’t quite worked out. “You’re one of the best players in this league. Are you really going to throw it all away for some kind of… fling with Shane Hollander?”

There’s a white hot moment where the ringing in Ilya’s ears blocks out all other sound in the room. Then he can hear again, although sounds in the room remain muffled and hard to make out. Ilya idly thinks this must be what it's like for Shane when he is panicking.

Ilya’s body is acting of its own volition to protect him from risk, but it's fucking with his senses. He tries to redirect the adrenaline, as he does on the ice. His mind starts working quickly: How does Crowell know about them? Why is he here talking to Ilya about it unless it’s more than mere rumour that has reached him? And where the fuck does Crowell get off acting like he knows anything about Ilya?

The worst might be calling Shane a fling.

Outwardly, Ilya shows none of his inner turmoil, clearing his throat and remaining visibly calm, despite the flashes of defensive anger starting to mix in with the panic. “What has made you think this?” he asks, steady but straight to the point in order to get the information he needs promptly.

Crowell rounds the desk to sit down once more in the tall swivel chair. Ilya automatically sits on the edge of the chair in front of the desk, his knee beginning to bounce under the chair. He curses himself, wishes he was still standing.

“I was sent a video,” Crowell says, facial expression and tone equally severe. “One of those… FanMail videos that some celebrities are making now. The video was filmed by Hayden Pike.” Ilya swallows thickly as Crowell starts the video and turns the laptop to face him. “You tell me if you can see the problem here.”

Ilya watches the video, heartbeat in his throat. It is very bad. There will be no denying this, if it gets out. He clears his throat and plays up his bravado immediately. “This is why you are here? I do not see a problem.” He shrugs. “Is not a problem for me.”

“Not a problem? This is a shitshow, Rozanov!" Crowell says, voice brusque and firm. “We’re lucky this fan sent the video to my secretary and not TMZ. He happens to be a lifelong Voyageurs fan, one of three generations of men in his family to have supported the team, going all the way back to its founding. He wanted me to know what he saw in that video has made him question his loyalty. A proud holder of season tickets, but next year, he can’t in good conscience support the team given what he’s seen. So, I am telling you that this is in fact a serious fucking problem, and you are going to make it go away. Whatever foolishness is going on between you and Hollander, it’s over now. You’re going to end it.”

Ilya inhales slowly, the way he learned to do when he was beginning to lose his temper with his father or Alexei. Anger never got him what he wanted; controlled discipline was the only option. Ilya exhales. “No,” he says. “This sounds like your problem, not mine. Why would I make it go away for you?”

Crowell looks visibly annoyed at this. Ilya takes pride in that, in getting under his skin. He knows how to handle men like this, by not letting himself be intimidated, not taking the hint like he's supposed to. Crowell visibly takes a breath and looks Ilya straight in the eyes. "Because if you don't, I will burn your life to the fucking ground.”

Ilya laughs with disdain. “You think you have this kind of power? What arson will you do?”

Crowell threads his hands together in his lap, looking far too relaxed suddenly. “I own this league. Are you seriously under the impression that you're in control here? ‘Cause that’s a fucking joke. The rivalry between you and Hollander— talented hockey stars at the top of their game, competing for greatness. The league has told that story because it works for us. It gets the fans fired up; it sells tickets and jerseys and it brings in ad revenue. And let’s not forget that it also pays for your million-dollar home and all your fancy sports cars. But we can tell a different story very easily.”

“Oh yes, you control media narrative,” Ilya says dryly.

"I have a lot of sway over it." Crowell stands again, rounding the desk and putting his back to the window, making himself the centre of the room. He takes on the air and tone of a news broadcaster. "New information has come to light that the league is investigating.” Crowell holds his hands up in front of him like they’re framing the story. “A statement from the Commissioner reads as follows: Unfortunately, Rozanov and Hollander are not the committed and upstanding players we believed them to be. It appears they have been secretly colluding, putting the integrity of the game at risk, and showing complete disrespect for the institution that treated them so well.”

Ilya closes his hands tightly around the edge of his seat, trying to stop them from shaking with rage. The audacity of this mудак.

Crowell continues, “We know that the fans will be as disappointed and heartbroken as we are by this news, and we assure you we will conduct a thorough investigation into the matter. Naturally, we cannot in good conscience allow these players onto MLH ice as we work to determine the extent of the damage done.”

Ilya’s heart and mind are racing in tandem. He tries to focus on the point in front of him and not spiral off into different worrying directions. “So you open investigation,” Ilya says, trying to keep his voice steady. “They will find nothing. It is not true.”

Crowell’s eyes flash with frustration. “Who cares what’s true, Rozanov! You’ll be benched. What a shame Ottawa’s huge gamble of signing your expensive contract won’t pay off. Who's to say they won't trade you— if they can even find another team willing to take you. And just think what an old market like Montreal will do with this information. They’re not gonna sign Hollander again, not if life-long fans are turning away from the team because of his actions, not if his integrity is being questioned.”

Ilya exhales a shaky breath. He feels sick. The things Crowell is saying make him furious, but also nervous. Fuck, would Ottawa regret signing him? Would Montreal hang Shane out to dry like that, after everything he’s given them?

Ilya forces himself to keep his breathing even, going for sarcastic as his best strategy in the face of authoritarian bullshit. “So they do not want to win any more cups, yes? He is the best player in this league. They would stand up for him. Fans love him.”

Crowell waves a hand, like it’s nothing. “He’s talented, of course. But he isn’t irreplaceable. You think the team and the fans are gonna trust Hollander to lead the room now, knowing he might have thrown games for you?”

Ilya barely holds in the horrified gasp building in his chest. Shane would never cheat, but how can they prove that? If Crowell is right, then it does not matter what the truth is — it only matters what story people believe.

But no— the truth must still matter. The truth is, they have always thrived on the competition, so there was never any need to cheat. The truth is, he and Shane have not had to throw games for one another; since the beginning, they have been a strong, even match for each other, in more ways than one.

The truth is, he and Shane are already planning to get married and to tell the world what they are to each other. They can just bump up the timeline. It's only a couple of months earlier than they were going to tell everyone. He can walk out of here, call Shane, tell him what’s happened, and they can make a statement with Farah. They can do it today.

Ilya stands up. “We will release our own statement,” he says fiercely. “We will tell our own story. We are getting married this summer. This is not something you can control.”

Crowell looks bowled over by this, but only for a few moments. "You think that will help your case? That'll make you look worse." He speaks slowly, as if he's piecing something together. "You'll look like partners in crime. It'll just be another thing you've lied to the fans about, another way you've been sneaking behind their backs." He scoffs, dismissive and unconcerned now. "No, you're not getting married. Don't be ridiculous."

Ilya shakes his head, but Crowell continues with greater intensity.

“Do you realize how many bright new young players are waiting for their shot, hungry to be on that ice? They can replace you tomorrow, and you will never play in my league again." Crowell is displaying the kind of confidence in what he's saying that leaves zero room for argument or evasion. Ilya knows well this kind of confidence. "But it's more than that. Every game you ever did play will be cast in doubt. Every achievement, every award, every Stanley Cup. You'll be an embarrassment to the sport. And just think of Hollander. He’s always stood out, Rozanov. There are plenty of people out there who have been waiting for him to fuck up. The second there's a whiff of trouble, they'll turn on him."

Ilya flinches, vision tunnelling as the panic starts to set in properly. Crowell appears to notice, advancing physically and pouncing on the sign of weakness. “Do you really want to throw him to the wolves, destroy his legacy like that? If you have any respect for him, you’ll end it now before shit hits the fan. There are a lot of hockey fans in this country. He won’t be able to go into a grocery store or coffee shop without feeling their disgust and rage for making a mockery of this sport. But hey, I hear he has a cabin somewhere, maybe he’ll hunker down there after this story breaks so he doesn't have to spend the rest of his life avoiding eye contact with every single person he’s let down."

Ilya feels like he’s been hit by a speeding puck. How the fuck did he get so attached to the idea that they could come out and everything would go well? How is it he never properly thought about how bad it could be for Shane?

What would Shane do without hockey? Ilya’s chest clenches at the mere thought. Even more horribly, if Ottawa trades Ilya to some far away place to get rid of his expensive contract, he might not even be allowed to stay in the country to help Shane figure it out, to love him through it.

Crowell closes the distance between the two of them. “Do you really think you’re worth losing everything for? When Hollander’s whole life is destroyed and he has nothing left but you, is he going to thank you for standing your ground here? You think if I go to him with this, he’s gonna fight me like you are right now? You think he’s willing to throw his entire career away, for you?”

Ilya swallows thickly. Just a few months ago, he’d basically asked Shane the same question. He had felt resentful of the fact that he’d given up so much in order to be with Shane, and terrified that Shane would never make the same sacrifice. But right now, he's even more terrified of the thought that Shane would.

The whole terrifying experience with the airplane and the proposal has made it all very clear: Shane would choose him. What they have together is more important than hockey, for both of them.

Right from the start, they have never been able to stay away from each other.

He knows now. If Shane has to choose between Ilya or hockey, he will choose Ilya, every time. But Ilya has been so stupid! He can’t let that happen. He loves Shane too much to be the person responsible for ending Shane Hollander’s career, to be responsible for making the rest of his life a misery.

In fact, he’s deeply angry at himself for even putting Shane in this much danger. How many times did Ilya come to one of their meet-ups knowing it needed to end, with the intention of ending it for both their sakes, only to put his own desires above what was safest for them?

They need to revert back to the original plan. No, that’s not even enough. Crowell will be watching everything they do. There will be no more sneaking around now that the Commissioner of the MLH knows about them. They'll need to stop seeing each other. They shouldn’t be seen together at all, unless it’s for hockey or the charity.

Crowell crowds in, as if he’s a circling shark, sensing Ilya has given up. "Or maybe, Ilya, you can take responsibility for your actions, stop being so selfish, and do what’s right. You take care of my problem, and you and Hollander can keep playing great hockey for years to come until you retire as legends." He gives an unaffected shrug. “Or you can crash and burn. What's it gonna be?”

Ilya was selfish to be thinking of himself so much these last few months, expecting Shane to put his entire life in jeopardy just for Ilya. But it’s not too late. He can do the right thing now and remove himself from Shane’s life, before Shane loses anything. Shane needs to be protected, and no matter how much it will hurt, Ilya has the strength for this. It’s impossibly hard, but that’s what it means to provide for your family.

He has made sacrifices to get this far, what is one more, for the love of his life?

Ilya swallows, realizing he has reflexively moved into cмирно, muscle memory taking over. “You don’t need to think of it any longer,” Ilya says. “I will take care of it.”

Crowell exhales his relief, returning to his place behind the desk and sinking into his chair with a sigh. “Good. Excellent, Ilya, I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. It’s what’s best for Shane and for you.”

Ilya clenches his shaking hands into fists. “May I go?” he asks.

Crowell gestures to the door in an infuriatingly casual manner. “Of course. Don’t let me keep you.”

Ilya nods stiffly, then turns and starts to walk toward the door.

“Oh, and Ilya?” Crowell adds. Ilya pauses without turning back around or looking at the man, unwilling to give him one more ounce of attention. “Good luck in the playoffs.”

Ilya pictures himself walking back and overturning the desk, telling Crowell he can go fuck himself. Before he can say or do something he’ll regret, Ilya swallows around the lump in his throat, blinks back the sting of tears, and walks out.

As soon as he’s in his car, the tears start to fall. He knows what he has to do, but he doesn't want to do it. He wants desperately to call Shane, to tell him what's happened, to witness Shane plan their way out of this disaster. He can nearly picture it, has faith Shane would try to find some escape hatch, but Ilya knows there is only one way out. He cannot allow Shane to fall on the sword for them. Shane's life will be ruined, and eventually, he will grow to resent Ilya for putting him in that situation in the first place.

There will be no wedding this summer, no carefully planned statement. There will be no heady overnights in Ottawa or Montreal whenever their tightly packed schedules can allow. No lazy or frantic kisses in the stolen moments they made together, against all odds.

When he takes out his phone, at a loss for how to say the impossible, there’s already a text from Shane waiting for him. How was your practice?

It’s agonizing. Ilya thinks and then he starts typing, struggling to see the screen through the blur of tears, forming again and again no matter how much he wipes them away. Something inside of him knows what this will cost him and it is making it well known.

But Ilya is well-acquainted with the art of ignoring what his heart wants in favour of his duty. He learned this lesson from a young age and should never have allowed himself to forget it.

Shane hears his phone buzz with a notification while he’s driving back from the practice facility. That’ll be Ilya, and he smiles at the thought. He’s only a few minutes from home, so he won’t have to wait too long to check the message and find out how Ilya’s practice went. He can feel himself getting hard at the thought of Ilya, fresh from practice. He always looks extra delicious in post-practice press interviews. Might be nice to get in a workout with Ilya before his run.

He pulls into his driveway and parks his car, reaching immediately for his phone. The notification does not have text visible, a setting he configured so no one can read over his shoulder and see anything incriminating. So he has no warning before he opens the text message, expecting a colourful report on hockey practice, only to discover a grenade with the pin already pulled.

Shane, it reads, we have to stop this. We thought we could come out and it would be okay, but I think this was wrong. It can't happen. We should put the engagement on hold. Maybe we can try again someday, when we retire, like we’ve always said. But it's not a good idea to keep seeing each other.

Shane can hear his heartbeat in his ears. He tries to call, but it rings once before getting sent to voicemail. Ilya denied the call.

Fingers trembling, Shane texts back. What’s going on? Will you please answer the phone? Shane shuts his screen off, unable to watch the dots bounce with Ilya’s incoming reply. He sits in the silence of the car, chest aching as he waits, then urgently taps the notification when his phone buzzes again.

No, I can’t talk. Please just respect what I’m saying. We need to go back to the original plan. It’s too much right now. I know it might not make sense, but we can’t get married or come out. We should not see or talk to each other outside of hockey and the Foundation, starting right now

Shane swipes his tears away, biting his lip. Okay, he types slowly. If that’s what you need, I understand. Is it something I said? Shane waits a minute, then two, then five, tears falling freely when there’s no answer. He types, Okay, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to push. I love you. Of course we can put the wedding on hold and wait to come out. I know it’s scary. And there’s no rush, right? We can do this in our own time, when we’re ready. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll be here when you want to talk…

Another few minutes pass before Ilya’s reply comes. There is nothing to figure out. We shouldn’t be talking, not even messaging. I’m sorry but this ends now.

Shane’s head spins as his heart starts to throb with pain. He knew something like this would fucking happen. He's been waiting for this, waiting for the other shoe to drop on this beautiful future they've been planning, and here it is.

Another text comes through. Please don’t reach out anymore

Shane’s shoulders heave with the force of his sobs. Something is very wrong, he knows that much. He finds himself texting back: Ilya, please, did something happen?

After a few minutes where Shane just sniffles pathetically, there is no reply. The message has been 'delivered' but not 'seen', and Shane bites his lip on the sinking feeling that Ilya has blocked him.

When he’s all cried out, Shane gets out of his car and goes into the house. He stands in the silence for a second, and then it turns out he isn’t cried out after all. He thinks about calling his mom, but he has a feeling that’s not a good idea right now. Whatever is going on with Ilya, it won’t help if he calls his mom. What if she texts or calls Ilya and asks him what happened? No, Shane needs to respect Ilya’s privacy, even though another part of him wants to drive to Ottawa and make Ilya talk to him, fix whatever he did to fuck this up and make Ilya doubt them.

Shane goes for his run. When he gets back, he heats up food, but can’t actually make himself eat it, putting it back in the fridge and going straight to his laptop so he can start watching game tape. He needs to focus on the playoffs. That’s all he can control right now.

Two hours later, when he’s gone through all the game footage they were assigned to watch, he finds himself crying again. He manages a few bites of food, then showers and gets ready for bed even though it’s 7:00 pm. He sleeps badly, waking up every few hours and looking at the messages over and over again, wondering what the fuck happened and why he hadn’t noticed something was off with Ilya this morning, before the drive to Montreal. He wracks his brain, trying to think if anything sticks out, but it was like any other time with Ilya.

He’s forcing himself to eat breakfast, despite having no appetite, when his phone rings. He scrambles to check, but it’s only Hayden. He almost declines the call, but feels some desire to not be alone with this, so he answers after all. “Hi Hayd.”

“Hey buddy! Wait, what’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Shane asks, heart abruptly pounding. Is it that obvious?

“Shane, you sound like you did when we got knocked out of the playoffs in 2018,” Hayden answers. “I know something’s not right.”

Shane’s eyes threaten to spill over with tears. He takes a deep breath and releases it. “Yeah. Um, Ilya and I, we… we broke up.”

Jade is totally zoned out over her breakfast when Ruby nudges her with a sharp elbow because Dad has dropped Amber's sippy cup. It's like he's seen a ghost.

“What?" he says. "You… broke up? Buddy, what happened?”

Mom stops feeding Amber, looking up with her own shocked expression. Jade shares a look with her sister. That has to be Uncle Shane on the phone, which means him and Uncle Ilya… broke up? That's impossible.

Dad seems crushed by the idea. "I am so sorry, dude,” he says. “Come over. You shouldn’t be alone right now." He's quiet while Uncle Shane says something. “Hey, shut up and get over here or I’ll come to you … Okay, good. Yeah, see you soon … No, just bring yourself.”

Dad hangs up and meets Mom's gaze, nodding grimly. She hangs her head, shaking it sadly. Then she turns to them. “Go wash up, girls. We need to go in about 10 minutes.”

“But mom!” Ruby says.

“I’m not finished eating!” Jade adds.

“That’s one bite, finish it and get going. We’re not gonna be late again.”

Ruby and Jade do get going, but they complain a lot about it. They go about halfway up the steps, then stop and sit so they can hear the rest of their parents' conversation.

“What happened?” Mom asks. “Shane and Ilya broke up?”

“Yeah,” Dad confirms. “Something about how Ilya thought it was for the best to put things on hold. But it also sounded more final than that. I don't know, Shane said maybe it just got to be too much. I mean, it is pretty complicated.”

“Sure, it’s complicated, but the way they look at each other,” Mom says, voice sad. “I was really rooting for them.”

Dad sighs. “I… wasn’t, obviously, but… I don’t know, I’m actually kind of sad? No matter what I think of Rozanov, Shane’s been so happy the last few years. As much as I’d normally say good riddance, I just… I think Shane’s gonna need a lot of help getting through this. I mean, Shane proposed to him.”

Ruby shifts on the stairs, angling toward the kitchen for better listening, and Jade holds her finger up to her lips to non-verbally tell her to be quiet. Ruby copies her with an eyeroll.

“This isn’t just some casual thing between them,” Dad’s saying. “Shane was ready to marry him.”

Ruby and Jade share a glance. They did get married, right down there in the living room.

"Arthur, honey, time to get ready," Mom says, and Jade and Ruby hurry up the stairs so they won't get caught listening in.

In their bedroom, Jade and Ruby turn to each other immediately. "We have to do something!" Jade says.

"We have to get them back together!" Ruby insists.

"Duh, but how?" Jade asks, thinking carefully. How can they remind Uncle Shane and Uncle Ilya that they're perfect for each other?

"If they just got in the same room together," Ruby says, "then they'd have to talk, right?"

"Oh my god, like The Parent Trap!" Jade bolts over to their DVD collection and plucks it out, shaking it in excitement. "We need a plan to get them in the same room, and then they'll talk and remember how in love they are and they'll be back together in no time!"

Ruby raises her hands in the air. "Yes!"

They're doing their Parent-Trap-inspired super-complicated high five as Mom walks in. "Is this how we get ready for school now?" she asks.

"Uh-huh," Jade answers, putting the DVD behind her back. "It's part of our routine, Mom."

Ruby nods. "Yeah, it's a twin thing, you wouldn't get it."

Mom laughs. "Well, you and your twin thing should be downstairs already. Let's go."

"Okay," they both say, Ruby already following her, and Jade joining once she's put the DVD under her pillow. After school, they are totally watching the movie and coming up with a plan to get Uncle Shane and Uncle Ilya back together.