Archive of Our Own

By the time Ottawa started orbiting Ilya Rozanov like he was gravity itself, he already felt adrift in a season that pulled him in too many directions. The team was bad in ways no amount of optimism could disguise—missed coverages that left gaps like open wounds, fragile confidence that shattered under the slightest pressure, the kind of losses that stuck on the bones long after the final buzzer. And still, Ilya showed up every night and made something out of nothing, skated like the ice was a promise he intended to keep, scored when there was no reason to believe it would matter. The city noticed, clinging to him as if he could single-handedly rewrite their story. The league noticed, too. He became the narrative they whispered about a future that hadn't yet arrived, a beacon in the fog of another rebuilding year.

Two hours east, Shane Hollander was doing what he had always done, what he couldn't imagine not doing. Montreal had always fit him like a second skin—the weight of its history pressing in just right, the roar of the crowd a constant echo in his veins, the unyielding expectation that he met with squared shoulders and eyes fixed on the horizon, already envisioning the gleam of another Cup. Legacy wasn't a word he said out loud, but it lived quietly in the way he dreamed, in the relentless rhythm of his training, in how he measured time not in years but in seasons, each one a step toward something eternal.

Two cities. Two hours. Close enough to drive after a game, the highway stretching like a thin thread between them. Far enough to turn every effort into a deliberate choice, a quiet commitment weighed against schedules and scrutiny.

Publicly, they made it look easy, as if the distance and the secrecy were mere footnotes.

They launched the charity together with practiced ease, standing shoulder to shoulder in tailored suits, smiling for cameras that were hungry for a narrative untarnished by rivalry or scandal—two friends, two stars, a shared cause that painted them as allies rather than anything deeper. Ilya spoke earnestly about giving back, his words carrying the faint trace of his accent like a signature. Shane talked about responsibility and reach, his voice steady, polished from years under the spotlight. Their names appeared together in headlines often enough that it felt intentional, a carefully curated illusion.

Behind closed doors, it was choreography, precise and exhausting: timing arrivals to avoid overlap, leaving separately under the guise of separate plans, sitting just far enough apart that no one thought twice about the space between them. At first, the secrecy felt manageable, almost intimate, a private language built out of glances and restraint, something only they shared in a world that demanded everything else.

Over time, it became a weight, pressing down with every unspoken moment.

Ilya felt it in his chest during those events, the way his body leaned toward Shane before his mind could stop it, a magnetic pull he had to resist. He felt it in locker rooms when teammates talked casually about wives flying in, about kids learning to skate on wobbly legs, about futures that unfolded openly without fear of judgment. He learned how to smile without committing to anything, how to nod without agreeing, how to swallow the urge to say my partner is right there, right across the room, pretending not to notice him.

At night, he dreamed of his mother—not always her illness, not always the end that still haunted him. Sometimes she stood at the edge of the rink, bundled up against the chill, smiling like she knew something he didn’t, her eyes holding a quiet understanding. Sometimes she was in the kitchen from his childhood, hands busy with dough or tea, voice calm as she asked why he looked so tired, so worn at the edges. He woke from those dreams with a pressure behind his eyes and the sense that he was failing something important, though he couldn’t have said what, exactly. Perhaps himself, or her memory, or the life he was building in shadows.

Shane didn’t see that part, or if he did, he trusted Ilya to carry it the way he carried everything else on the ice—with quiet determination. Shane talked about games and seasons and what Montreal needed next, his focus unwavering, like a blade cutting through distractions. Ilya listened, nodded, and let the wanting settle somewhere deep and wordless, a steady undercurrent. Loving Shane the way he did, quietly and without witnesses, began to take up more space than he could afford, crowding out the ease they once had. And still, he stayed. There was nowhere else he felt as steady, as certain of himself, as he did when he was with him, even if it meant living in fragments.

Once he had finished dinner, Shane was pacing the apartment, phone wedged between shoulder and ear, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt like it had personally offended him—fresh off practice, hair still damp, voice tight with leftover adrenaline, bleeding off like smoke after a fire.

“Tell me why our power play suddenly forgot how to count to five,” he said, the words spilling out in a rush. “I swear to God, Ilya, I could draw it in crayons and they’d still miss the point entirely.

”Ilya smiled despite himself, curled into the couch with his legs tucked up, the fabric soft against his skin. “Maybe crayons would help,” he offered, keeping it light. “Bright colors. Very motivating, no?”

Shane snorted, a sound that carried both exasperation and fondness. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” Shane replied, but there was a pause after, as if he was turning the words over in his mind, letting them settle.

It was familiar, this rhythm they slipped into without thinking—easy on the surface, but with undercurrents now. Shane kept talking, venting about drills that dragged on, about media circling like vultures now that Montreal was heating up again, about how everyone suddenly wanted a piece of him, pulling at threads he couldn’t afford to unravel. Ilya listened, murmuring at the right moments, letting Shane burn himself out, the words washing over him like waves eroding stone.

When there was a pause, long enough to feel weighted, Ilya said, “You coming up this weekend?”

Shane hesitated. Just a fraction too long, his pacing slowing as he considered.

“Probably not,” he said carefully, weighing each syllable. “We’ve got back-to-backs and then travel. It’s just… easier if I stay put, you know?”

Ilya exhaled through his nose, the sound quiet but telling. “Right. Of course.”

“What?” Shane said it immediately, an edge creeping in, as though he were sounding out his own frustration.

“You knew this stretch would be bad,” he added, as if explaining it to himself as much as Ilya.

“I know,” Ilya said, his tone still light, but his fingers tightened around the throw pillow, knuckles whitening. “I was just asking, Hollander.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and unspoken. Shane stopped pacing, turning to face him fully now.

“Are you annoyed?” he asked cautiously, his eyes searching Ilya’s face.

“I’m not annoyed,” Ilya replied, a beat too quickly, the lie hanging there. “I’m tired.”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face, staying there a moment. “So am I. You think this is easy for me? All of it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” Shane said, his voice sharpening now, stress bleeding through as he paced again, slower this time. “Every time I say no, you make it sound like I’m… choosing this on purpose, like it’s something I prefer.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, a slow clench. “You are choosing it.”

“That’s not fair,” Shane countered, but he paused, turning the idea over, his shoulders tensing.

“It’s not unfair either.”

Shane turned toward him fully now, frustration flashing hot and bright in his eyes, though he held back, letting it simmer. “This is my job. This is what I’ve worked my whole life for—every practice, every game.”

“I know,” Ilya said, irritation finally surfacing, though muted. “I know that. You don’t have to keep reminding me, like I forget.”

The room felt smaller, the air heavier with what wasn’t said. Shane’s stress had tipped into defensiveness, his words coming faster but still measured, as if he was piecing them together.

“I can’t just walk away,” he said, the weight of it settling in. “You know what this season means. Everyone’s counting on me— the team, the city.”

“Everyone,” Ilya repeated, the word laced with something unspoken, a quiet accusation.

Shane scoffed, but it was half-hearted, like he was questioning it too. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like I don’t care… about us.”

Ilya laughed quietly, without humor, the sound echoing in his chest. “You care. About hockey. You always do.”

Shane stared at him, stunned, like he’d only just realized how close they were to something dangerous, turning it over in his mind. His voice dropped, softer but strained. “That’s not what this is about.”

“It is for me,” Ilya said, the words simple but heavy with implication.

The banter was gone now, burned off, leaving raw edges behind. Neither of them had raised their voice. Neither had said anything unforgivable, not yet. But the words hung there, waiting for the next one to land, the air thick with possibility.

They stood there longer than either intended, the silence hovering over them.

Shane broke first, exhaling hard as he dragged a hand through his hair, lingering on the motion. He looked wrecked in a way he usually only did after a loss that mattered too much, his shoulders tight, posture rigid, like he was still bracing for contact that never came.

“You’re acting like I don’t care,” he said finally, his voice not loud but strained, as if he'd thought it through. “Like I’m just... choosing this because I want to, without thinking of you.”

Ilya shook his head slowly, taking his time, his English slipping just a bit when tired, when hurt. “I am not saying that,” he said. “I am saying that it feels like—” He stopped, searched for the shape of it. “It feels like I am always... waiting.”

Shane's jaw tightened, but he paused, considering. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to be done,” Ilya said quietly, the words unfolding slowly. “With practice. With season. With next thing that pulls you away.”

“That’s not fair,” Shane said again, sharper now, stress leaking through. “You know how this works. You know what’s at stake for both of us.”

“I know,” Ilya said, and he did, that’s what made his chest ache, a dull pressure building. “I know what hockey takes from you. I just did not think it would take... this much from us.”

He gestured vaguely between them, fingers curling back into his palm like even that admission costs him something, the motion slow, deliberate.

Shane stepped closer, frustration crackling off him, but he held back, weighing his next words. “So what do you want from me, Ilya? Because I can’t just stop everything.”

“I am not asking you to stop,” Ilya said, an edge creeping in now, though indirect. “I am asking you to see me—really see.”

“I do see you,” Shane insisted, but there was a question in it, like he was turning it over.

Ilya let out a quiet, humorless breath. “Then why do I feel invisible, like a shadow in your schedule?”

That landed, heavy. Shane stilled, eyes widened just slightly, like the word caught him off guard, and he paused, processing. He opened his mouth, closed it again. For once, there was no immediate answer ready, just the weight of it hanging.

The silence stretched, pressing in on Ilya’s ears, on his ribs, a slow compression. He felt exhausted down to the bone, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, that seeps in from carrying too much unsaid. He hadn’t wanted this to turn into a fight. He’d only wanted it to be a conversation, as much as he dreaded having them. Wanted Shane to notice before it got this far, before the words sharpened.

Shane finally spoke, voice lower now, mindful. “I’m doing everything I can, balancing it all.”

“And I am so tired of pretending that it is enough,” Ilya replied, the implication clear but not shouted.

Shane flinched, like that one hit somewhere vital, and he mulled over it, eyes narrowing slightly. “Then what is? What would be enough for you?”

“That you choose me the way I chose you,” Ilya said, letting out what he had been holding back, the words unfolding with quiet force.

The words hang there, heavy and truthful all at once. Because Shane knew Ilya was right, and he turned it over in his mind, the truth of it settling. Still…“Would you choose me?” he blurted, a stupid impulse fueled by frustration, though he paused after, as if regretting the directness.

Ilya raised and dropped his forearms to his sides as he turned away quickly enough to hide the rage etched on his face, the motion sharp but deliberate, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he had made the right decision, the doubt swelling.

“I didn’t move my life for fun,” Ilya continued quietly, the words measured. “I did not change teams and cities because it was convenient. I did it because I thought… because I chose you.”

His voice gave out on the last part. Not dramatically, just enough that it was obvious he couldn't hide it anymore, the vulnerability exposed.

“I already chose you, Hollander.”

He stepped back then, the space between them widening like a wound, slow and deliberate. Shane’s eyes widened, shock cutting through the frustration, lips parting like there was something urgent forming there, but he sat with it, unspoken.

Ilya didn't wait to hear it.

“Go home,” he said. The word please came out softer than he intended, almost a plea, hung there. “Please.”

Then he turned and took the stairs quickly, not looking back, leaving Shane standing there with everything he didn’t realize had already been decided, the silence dwelling heavy.

Shane stood frozen in the living room, the echo of Ilya’s footsteps fading up the stairs like a retreating tide. The word please hung in the air, soft and shattering, a plea that wasn’t meant to beg but did anyway. He opened his mouth to call after him—Ilya, wait—but the words dissolved on his tongue, tasting like regret. His chest tightened, a familiar ache from bad games, but this was worse: self-inflicted, avoidable if he’d just seen it coming. He grabbed his keys from the counter, the metal cold against his palm, and left the apartment without another sound, the door clicking shut behind him.

The drive back to Montreal blurred into highway lights and silence, the radio off because every song felt like an accusation. Shane’s mind replayed the fight in fragments: Ilya’s quiet admission, the way his shoulders had slumped, the raw edge in his voice when he said I already chose you. Shane had chosen him too, hadn’t he? In stolen weekends, in texts sent at odd hours, in the way he’d rearranged his life around this secret without ever naming it aloud. But tonight, it didn’t feel like enough. The city’s skyline appeared on the horizon, welcoming and oppressive, a reminder of everything pulling him back.

A couple of days dragged by in a haze of practices and film sessions, Montreal’s momentum building but feeling distant, like it belonged to someone else. Shane moved through it all with mechanical precision—tapes, weights, ice time—smiling for the cameras, nodding at the right moments. Inside, the argument sat heavy, a bruise he kept pressing. Ilya hadn’t texted. Neither had he. The silence stretched, familiar in its pain.

That evening, after a grueling practice that left his legs burning, his phone buzzed in his locker. A message from Hayden Pike:

The boys are hitting Le Bar tonight. You in? Need to blow off some steam.

Shane stared at the screen, thumb hovering. He should go home, crash early, let the exhaustion pull him under. But the apartment waited empty, echoing with thoughts he couldn’t outskate.

Yeah, he typed back. On my way.

Le Bar was alive in its usual way—no suits tonight, just the team in jeans and hoodies, blending into the crowd of socialites and locals chasing the weekend vibe. Low lights, pulsing music, the kind of place where recognition came with a nod rather than screams. Hayden waved him over to their corner booth, already lined with shot glasses glistening under amber lights. J.J. Boiziau—tall, broad-shouldered, with that perpetual grin—was there too, mid-story, gesturing wildly. “Hollander! Get over here, man. Pike’s already three deep and talking shit about your slapshot.”

Shane slid into the booth, forcing a half-smile as Hayden clapped him on the back, hard enough to jar. “About time, captain. You look like you got hit by a truck. Rough day?” Hayden’s eyes were sharp, the kind that saw through bullshit, but he kept it light, shoving a tequila shot Shane’s way. “First one’s on me. You need it.”

J.J. laughed, deep and rumbling, leaning forward with elbows on the table. “Nah, he’s just pissed ‘cause Rozanov’s been lighting us up in highlights again. Ottawa’s trash, but that guy’s a machine.” The words landed casual, but Shane felt them twist. Rozanov, Ilya, the secret knot in his gut. He downed the shot without a word, the burn cutting through. “Something like that,” he muttered, signaling for another round.

Conversation flowed easy and loud—recaps of practice mishaps, chirps about rookies, bets on the next game’s spread. Hayden ragged on J.J. about his latest failed date: “Man, you gotta stop leading with ‘I bench 250’—women want mystery, not metrics.” J.J. fired back, “Says the guy who married his high school sweetheart. Boring as hell, Pike.” Shane laughed along, the tequila unwinding him, the camaraderie a temporary balm. For a while, it almost worked; the noise drowned out the quiet accusations in his mind, the guys’ easy ribbing pulling him into the moment. Another round appeared, then another, the liquor warming his veins, blurring the edges of everything.

He excused himself eventually, weaving toward the restroom at the back, the alcohol humming steady in his veins. The hallway was dimmer, cooler, a brief escape from the crowd. He pushed through the door, relieved to find it empty, and leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. The mirror reflected back someone unfamiliar—eyes a little too bright, jaw tight beneath the stubble.

That’s when the door opened again. A man stepped in—dark-haired, sharp-featured, attractive in that effortless way that turned heads. Mid-thirties maybe, dressed in a fitted black shirt that hugged broad shoulders and a lean torso, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms dusted with dark hair. His eyes were a striking green, framed by lashes that should have been unfair, and his jawline carried a hint of stubble that begged to be touched. He moved with a confident prowl, washing his hands at the next sink without hurry. Shane felt it immediately, a pull low in his gut, the man’s presence filling the space like heat from a flame. Broad chest straining the fabric, the subtle flex of muscle as he dried his hands—Shane’s gaze fixed despite himself, tequila-fueled attraction stirring something dormant, a physical ache he hadn’t felt from a stranger in years.

The man met Shane’s eyes in the mirror with a slow, knowing smile. “Rough night?” he asked, voice low, accented faintly. Italian, maybe, smooth like aged whiskey.

Shane huffed a laugh, drying his hands, but his pulse kicked up. “Can you tell?” Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne mixed with a hint of smoke, intoxicating. Shane’s body reacted traitorously—heat pooling, skin prickling as the other turned, leaning a hip against the counter, openly focused on Shane’s mouth, then lower, tracing the lines of his hoodie over his chest.

“You play for Montreal, right? Saw you out there with your friends—hard to miss.” His eyes darkened, appreciative, as he stepped closer, the air thickening. “Name’s Luca. You?”

“Shane,” he offered, voice rougher than intended. The proximity did things—Luca’s height matching his own, bodies inches apart now, those green eyes holding his like a challenge. Physical, undeniable: the way Luca’s shirt clung to his abdomen, the subtle bulge in his jeans hinting at more. Shane’s mind flashed to Ilya, but the alcohol shoved it aside, leaving only the raw want humming under his skin.

Luca’s lips curved, predatory but inviting. “You look tense, Shane. Wound tight, like you need to let go.” His hand brushed Shane’s arm, fingers caressing, sending sparks up his spine. “I could help with that. No strings, just… release.”

The words hung heavy, laced with promise. Shane’s breath caught, attraction flaring hot—the thought of those strong hands on him, that mouth exploring. Several drinks in, the edges of the world soft and blurred, he didn’t pull away. “Yeah?” Shane murmured, voice low, testing the waters even as guilt flickered distant.

Luca leaned in closer, breath warm against Shane’s ear. “Yeah. You want this? Tell me.”

Shane’s control snapped. He closed the gap, mouths crashing—intense, hungry, no preamble. Luca kissed back fierce, hands finding Shane’s waist, pulling him flush as tongues slid slick and demanding. Luca’s fingers threaded into Shane’s hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head, deepening it until Shane’s back met the cool tile wall, a groan escaping his throat.

Luca’s hands moved with purpose—one sliding down Shane’s chest, over the thin fabric of his hoodie, thumb circling a nipple through cotton until it peaked, hard and sensitive. The other dipped lower, palming him boldly through his jeans, stroking with deliberate pressure that drew a low, ragged sound from Shane. Heat pooled fast, dizzying, Luca’s body pressing flush, hips rolling slow and teasing, the friction building sharp and urgent against Shane’s growing hardness. Fingers worked at his belt, deft and insistent, slipping inside to wrap around him—skin on skin now, hot and sure, stroking with a rhythm that made Shane’s knees weaken, breath coming in gasps against Luca’s mouth. “Fuck, you’re responsive,” Luca murmured against his lips, voice husky, hand twisting just right at the tip, thumb swiping over the slickness gathering there.

And then—snap.

Ilya’s face flashed vivid behind his closed eyes: the hurt in those dark brows, the quiet I chose you, the way he’d turned away up the stairs. Reality crashed in cold and brutal, shame flooding hot on its heels. This wasn’t escape. This was sabotage.

Shane jerked back hard, breaking the kiss, hands shoving at Luca’s chest. “Stop—no,” he rasped, voice wrecked, stepping sideways until space gaped between them. His chest heaved, lips swollen, body still thrumming traitorously, arousal aching unresolved. “I can’t. Fuck—I’m sorry.”

Luca blinked, surprise flickering, then smoothed into something neutral, though his chest rose and fell quickly too. He raised his hands, stepping back with a nod. “No worries. You sure? Looked like you were into it.” His eyes held a beat longer, appreciative, but he didn’t push.

“Yeah. Taken,” Shane muttered, the lie half-true, adjusting his clothes with shaking hands.

Luca shrugged, a wry smile. “Lucky guy. Offer stands if you change your mind.” Then he was gone, door swinging shut behind him, leaving Shane alone with the echo of his pulse and the taste of regret thick on his tongue.

He braced both hands on the sink, staring at his reflection—flushed, disheveled, undone. The guilt hit like a wave, drowning the haze of alcohol. He’d crossed a line, even if he hadn’t gone all the way. And Ilya deserved to know. Or maybe he didn’t. The thought twisted deeper.

Shane splashed more water on his face, straightened his clothes with shaking hands, and walked out without looking back.

Shane stumbled back to the booth, the bar’s haze closing in like a fog he couldn’t shake. Hayden glanced up mid-laugh, J.J. still mid-chirp about some rookie’s fumble, but their faces blurred at the edges. “You good, Hollander?” Hayden asked, eyebrow arched, that knowing look creeping in. Shane nodded too quickly, sliding into his seat with a forced grin. “Yeah, just… tequila hitting hard.” He grabbed another shot from the table, downing it to chase away the taste of Luca’s mouth, the ghost of those hands still burning on his skin. The guys bought it—or pretended to—the conversation rolling on without him, but inside, the guilt coiled tighter, a snake in his gut.

He begged off early, mumbling about an early skate, ignoring J.J.’s protest of “Come on, one more round!” The cool night air hit him like a slap as he stepped outside, but it did nothing to clear the fog. His apartment loomed a few blocks away, a sterile box of glass and steel that felt more like a cage tonight. He walked slowly, footsteps echoing off the pavement, replaying the restroom scene in brutal detail: Luca’s green eyes, the heat of his body, the way Shane had leaned in, hungry for something—anything—to fill the void Ilya had accused him of creating. Invisible. The word echoed, Ilya’s voice soft but cutting. What the fuck had he done? Fuck, how could he even remember a stranger’s name?

Inside, the door clicked shut behind him, and the silence amplified everything. Shane kicked off his shoes, not bothering with lights, and headed straight for the kitchen cabinet where he kept the good whiskey—single malt, a gift from a sponsor he barely remembered. He poured a glass, neat, and sank onto the couch, the leather cool against his back. One sip burned down, chasing the tequila’s remnants, but it didn’t numb the ache. Guilt wasn’t new to him; he’d carried it through rivalries, through secrets, through the weight of expectations in Montreal. But this was different—self-inflicted, intimate. He’d stopped, yeah, but not soon enough. His hand had been on another man’s waist, lips parted, body responding like a traitor. Chosen you. Ilya’s words from the fight twisted the knife deeper. Shane had chosen him, over and over, in quiet ways no one saw. Until tonight.

He scrolled through his phone, thumb hovering over Ilya’s contact. No new messages. The last one was from before the argument:

Beat Boston tomorrow, idiot. Miss you.

Simple, teasing, the kind of thing that usually grounded him. Now it mocked him. Another glass down, the whiskey warming his veins, loosening the knots but unraveling others. Memories flooded in unbidden: their first kiss in that Boston hotel room, raw and desperate after years of rivalry; lazy mornings in Ottawa, Ilya cooking eggs with that crooked smile; the way he’d uprooted his life to be closer, trading Boston’s glory for Ottawa’s rebuild just to bridge that distance. And Shane? He’d given pieces, sure, but always with hockey as the anchor, pulling him back. Tonight proved that Ilya’s accusations weren’t wrong. He’d sought escape in a stranger’s touch, and the shame of it burned hotter than the alcohol.

By the third glass, the room tilted softly, edges softening like the ice after a long shift. Guilt morphed into something heavier, a pressure behind his eyes that blurred the city lights outside the window. He thought of his parents, their quiet pride in his career, oblivious to the man who shared his heart. Thought of the team, the city pinning their hopes on him like a jersey too tight. But mostly, Ilya—alone in Ottawa, carrying the secrecy like a weight Shane had helped strap on. I feel like a shadow. Fuck. Shane’s fingers trembled as he hit dial, the phone pressed to his ear before reason could intervene. It rang once, twice, the sound echoing in his skull.

“Shane?” Ilya’s voice came through sleepy, laced with surprise and something guarded. It was late—past midnight, Shane realized dimly. Ottawa’s quiet would be settling in, Ilya probably in bed, that worn T-shirt he loved.

“Ilya,” Shane slurred, the name catching in his throat. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, free hand raking through his hair. “I… fuck, I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.”

A pause, the line crackling with unspoken questions. “Hollander? You drunk?”

“Yeah. A bit. Lot.” Shane laughed, but it came out choked, wet. “Miss you. God, I miss you so much it hurts. You’re… you’re everything, you know? Chose you. Always choose you.” The words tumbled out, whiskey-loose, raw with the guilt he couldn’t name. “I’m sorry for the fight. For making you wait. For… everything. Love you. I love you so much, Ilya. Don’t deserve you.”

Another silence, longer this time. Shane could picture him—brow furrowed, sitting up in bed, that quiet intensity sharpening. “Shane, what is this? You okay?”

“I’m not,” Shane admitted, voice breaking. Tears pricked hot at his eyes, unbidden. “I fucked up. But I love you. I promise I’ll do better. I’ll be better. Just… don’t leave. Please. Okay?”

“I am not leaving,” Ilya said slowly, his accent thicker in the quiet, suspicion threading through. “But you sound… wrong. What happened?”

“Nothing,” Shane lied, the word tasting like ash. “Just miss you. Needed to say it.” He hung up before Ilya could press, the phone dropping to the cushion as sobs wracked him quietly. The guilt didn’t lift, it settled deeper, and he felt he deserved whatever happened next.

Ilya stared at the phone in his hand long after the call ended, the screen dimming to black against his palm. Shane’s voice—slurred, ragged, pleading—still echoed in the quiet bedroom. I love you so much… Don’t leave. The words should have soothed him, wrapped around the raw edges left from their fight, but instead they sat strangely, like a coat that no longer fit quite right. He wasn’t angry. Not yet. Just… unsettled. Shane drunk-dialing in the middle of the night wasn’t new; they’d both done it in younger, wilder seasons. But this had felt different—too earnest, too desperate, like Shane was trying to convince himself as much as Ilya.

He set the phone face-down on the nightstand and rolled onto his back, eyes fixed on the faint patterns of streetlight bleeding through the blinds. Sleep tugged at him again, but his mind refused to settle. He replayed the conversation in fragments: the choked I’m sorry, the cracked I miss you, the sudden hang-up before Ilya could ask anything real. A small, warm smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. Shane Hollander, stoic captain of Montreal, legendary for keeping his emotions locked tighter than a penalty kill, reduced to drunk confessions. It was almost endearing.

Almost.

As the minutes stretched, the warmth settled, replaced by a slow tightening in his chest. Shane had sounded… guilty. Not just regretful about the fight, but guilty in a way that prickled at old insecurities Ilya usually kept buried deep. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come, but instead a memory surfaced, soft and vivid, pulling him under like a gentle current.

It was two summers ago, a rare week off overlapping in a rented cottage north of Montreal. No games, no cameras, no careful choreography. Just the two of them. He remembered Shane sprawled on the dock in the late afternoon sun, skin golden, hair still damp from the lake, laughing at something stupid Ilya had said in Russian. Shane had reached over lazily, fingers threading through Ilya's, and murmured, “You know I’d stay here forever if I could.” Simple. Quiet. No audience. Ilya had believed him completely in that moment—believed that the world could shrink to just the two of them, the creak of the dock, the loons calling across the water. He’d felt chosen, wholly and without reservation.

The memory eased the heaviness in his chest, just enough to breathe. Shane loved him. That wasn’t in question. Whatever had spilled out tonight was probably just the tequila talking, amplifying the fallout from their argument. Ilya exhaled slowly, letting the cottage warmth cover him until sleep finally dragged him under.

He woke to grey January light and the low hum of the city outside. Practice wasn’t until noon; the morning stretched empty. Coffee first, black and strong, then the restless pull he sometimes got when things felt unresolved. He found himself grabbing keys and jacket before he’d fully decided, the highway calling like it always did when Shane felt too far away.

The drive south was familiar—two hours of asphalt and evergreens, radio low, thoughts sparking. He didn’t have a plan beyond movement, beyond closing some of the distance that had felt wider since the fight. Halfway there, he pulled off at a quiet gas station, the kind with flickering fluorescents and a single clerk behind bulletproof glass. He needed cigarettes—bad habit, worse when he was unsettled—and stepped inside, boots crunching on salt-tracked linoleum.

At the counter ahead of him, two men paid for coffee and a pack of gum. One was tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair curling at the collar; the other shorter, leaner, gesturing animatedly. For a split second, in the harsh light and from behind, the taller one moved like Shane—the set of the shoulders, the economical way he reached for his wallet. Ilya’s heart gave a stupid lurch. Then the man turned, laughing at something his companion said, and the illusion shattered: wrong jawline, wrong eyes, wrong everything. Just a stranger. Ilya looked away quickly, heat creeping up his neck. Foolish. But the ache lingered, sharp and ridiculous.

He paid for his cigarettes without a word, climbed back into the car, and kept driving.

The charity event was that evening—a joint appearance in Montreal for the foundation they’d started together years ago. Neutral ground, public smiles, carefully curated distance. Ilya arrived early, tuxedo crisp, accent polished for the cameras. The ballroom hummed with donors and minor celebrities, soft jazz underscoring polite conversation. Shane was already there, of course—impeccable in charcoal grey, shaking hands, that captain’s charm dialed up just enough to keep everyone happy.

But Ilya noticed the cracks immediately. Shane’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes; his gaze drifting during conversations, landing on nothing in particular. When their eyes met across the room, Shane’s expression flickered—relief, maybe nervousness—before he looked away to answer a question about the power play. Something was off.

Later, when the speeches were done and the crowd thinned toward the bar, Ilya caught him near the terrace doors. “Hey,” he said quietly, stepping close enough that no one else would overhear. “You okay, Hollander?”

Shane startled slightly, then covered it with a quick nod. “Yeah. Kinda had a long week. You?”

Ilya studied him—the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “You seem… distracted.”

Shane’s mouth twisted, half-smile, half-wince. “I’m just a little tired. We have a game tomorrow.” He hesitated, then added softer, “But I’m really glad you’re here.”

The words were simple, but they landed warm in Ilya’s chest. He wanted to push—What was the call about? What aren’t you saying?—but the room was too public, the moment too fragile. Instead he brushed his knuckles discreetly against Shane’s in passing, a ghost of contact. “Me too.”

Much later, alone in his hotel room, Ilya scrolled through the event photos a local reporter had already posted online. Candid shots mostly: him at the podium, Shane laughing with a donor, the two of them side by side for the ceremonial check presentation—shoulders not quite touching, but close. In one photo, Shane was looking at him while Ilya spoke to someone else, expression unreadable but soft. Another caught Ilya mid-glance toward Shane, something unguarded in his eyes.

He saved both to a hidden folder on his phone, the one no one else would ever see. The unease from the drunk call still bothering, a quiet question mark, but these images, this proof that Shane still looked at him like that, eased it again. For now.

He set the phone aside and stared at the ceiling once more, the two-hour distance stretching between them like always.

The hotel room in Montreal was quiet, too quiet, after the charity event lights and chatter faded. Ilya had stayed—officially for an early morning flight back to Ottawa, unofficially because Shane had murmured “stay” against his ear in the elevator, a single word that carried more weight than any speech that night.

Now the door clicked shut behind them, the city glowing faint through half-closed curtains. Shane leaned back against the wall, jacket still on, eyes dark and unreadable. Ilya stepped close, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, the faint tremor in Shane’s breath.

“You were somewhere else tonight,” Ilya said softly, fingers brushing the lapel of Shane’s tuxedo. “Tell me where.”

Shane’s throat worked. “Here. With you. Finally.”

The words cracked something open. Ilya surged forward, mouth finding Shane’s in a kiss that started slow, testing, almost careful, then turned hungry the moment Shane groaned low and opened for him. Hands fisted in fabric, jackets shed in a careless trail to the floor. Ilya backed him toward the bed, lips dragging down the line of Shane’s jaw, teeth scraping the sensitive spot just below his ear that always made Shane’s hips jerk forward.

They fell onto the mattress in a tangle, Shane on his back, Ilya straddling him, grinding down slow and deliberate. The friction drew a ragged sound from Shane’s throat—half curse, half plea. Ilya swallowed it with another kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding slick and filthy until Shane was arching beneath him, fingers digging hard into Ilya’s shoulders.

“Off,” Shane rasped, tugging at Ilya’s shirt. Buttons scattered; neither cared. Skin met skin, hot and urgent. Ilya’s mouth traced the sharp cut of Shane’s collarbone, down the firm plane of his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple until Shane hissed and bucked. Lower still, teeth grazing the ridges of abs that flexed under his lips, the faint trail of dark hair leading down. Shane’s belt gave with a metallic clink; zipper dragged down slow, deliberate.

Ilya looked up, met Shane’s blown-wide eyes, and took him in hand—slow, firm strokes that had Shane’s head falling back against the pillows, a broken “fuck, Ilya—” spilling out. Precome slicked Ilya’s palm; he used it, twisting just right on every upstroke, thumb pressing over the sensitive head until Shane’s thighs trembled and his breath came in sharp, desperate pants.

Then Ilya’s mouth replaced his hand—hot, wet, relentless. He took Shane deep, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling, humming low around him until Shane’s fingers knotted hard in his hair, hips trying to thrust but held down by Ilya’s forearm across them. The sounds Shane made—raw, helpless—sent fire straight through Ilya’s blood.

When Shane was shaking, close to the edge, Ilya pulled off with a wet pop, crawled back up, and kissed him again so Shane could taste himself. “Not yet,” Ilya murmured against swollen lips. “Want to fuck your pretty mouth first.”

Shane’s eyes flared, dark with want. He nodded, eager, as Ilya shifted up, knees bracketing Shane’s head. Ilya fisted his own cock, hard and leaking, and tapped the head against Shane’s lips. “Open wide, Hollander. Show me how good you take it.”

Shane’s mouth parted, tongue darting out to lick the slit, tasting salt and musk. Ilya pushed in slow, savoring the wet heat enveloping him inch by inch, until Shane’s nose brushed his pubes. “Fuck, yes—such a greedy little slut for my cock.” Shane moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight to Ilya’s balls. Ilya thrust shallow at first, then deeper, fucking into that perfect throat with steady rhythm, spit dribbling down Shane’s chin as he gagged just enough to make it filthy.

Ilya pulled out briefly, gathered spit in his mouth, and let it drop onto Shane’s tongue. “Swallow it.” Shane did, eyes watering but locked on Ilya’s, begging for more. Ilya slid two fingers in next—knuckle deep, pressing down on Shane’s tongue until he choked, drool pooling. “Good boy. You love this, don’t you? Choking on me like you were made for it.”

Shane whimpered, nodding frantically. Ilya slapped his cheek lightly—sharp sting that made Shane’s cock twitch against his thigh—then flipped him over roughly, face down ass up. “Spread for me.” Shane obeyed, knees wide, back arched. Ilya spat directly onto his pretty hole, watching it clench, then slapped his round ass hard—once, twice, the crack echoing, skin blooming red under his palm. “So fucking perfect. This ass belongs to me.”

He dove in, tongue first—wet, probing licks circling the rim before pushing inside, tasting Shane’s musk and sweat. Shane keened, pushing back shamelessly, grinding against Ilya’s face. Ilya added fingers—one, then two, entering knuckle-deep, curling to hit that spot that made Shane sob into the sheets. “Please—fuck, Ilya, need you—”

“Not yet.” Ilya edged him mercilessly, fingers thrusting fast, then slowing to a tease, pulling out to slap Shane’s ass again when he got too close. “You come when I say, understand? My good little whore.”

Shane was a wreck—sweat-slick, trembling, babbling praises: “Yours, all yours—fuck, you feel so good—” Ilya flipped him onto his back again, extravagant now, lifting Shane’s legs over his shoulders, folding him nearly in half. Their cocks aligned, frotting hard, slick slides of hot flesh grinding together, precome mixing in a messy glide that had them both groaning.

Finally, Ilya slicked himself with lube, lined up, and sank in, slow at first, that tight, velvet heat gripping him like a vice. Shane’s nails raked down his back, drawing red lines. “God, you’re so big—filling me up—” Ilya bottomed out, hips flush, then pulled back and slammed in hard, setting a brutal pace. The bed creaked, skin slapping wetly, Shane’s cock trapped between them, leaking onto his abdomen and trickling down his chest.

“You belong to me,” Ilya growled, hand wrapping around Shane’s throat—not hard, just enough pressure to make his eyes roll back. “Say it.”

“Belong to you—fuck, yes—only you—” Shane gasped, clenching around him.

Ilya edged them both now, thrusts slowing to deep, grinding rolls when Shane begged to come, then speeding up again, pounding that prostate until Shane was crying out. Praise spilled from Ilya’s lips: “So good for me, taking my cock like a champ—perfect, Hollander, fucking perfect—”

When he couldn’t hold back, Ilya reached between them, stroking Shane rough and fast. “Come now—come all over yourself for me.” Shane shattered—body seizing, hot spurts painting his chest and chin, hole pulsing tight around Ilya. The clench dragged Ilya over, thrusting deep one last time, spilling inside with a guttural moan, filling Shane up until it leaked out around them.

They collapsed, tangled and sticky, breaths ragged in the humid air. Ilya pulled out slow, watching his come drip from Shane’s wrecked hole, then gathered some on his fingers and pushed it back in—possessive, dirty. Shane shivered, pulling him down for a lazy, spit-slick kiss.

“Stay,” Shane whispered, voice hoarse.

Ilya smirked, nipping his lip. “Not going anywhere, Hollander. You’re mine.”

The Ottawa arena was empty after hours, the kind of quiet that pressed in like a held breath. Ilya had slipped in through a side door, skates slung over his shoulder, the security guard nodding him through with a knowing look—no questions, just the unspoken understanding that came with being the team’s quiet star. The ice gleamed under the dim overhead lights, freshly Zamboni’d, a blank canvas waiting for him to carve into it. He laced up in the locker room, the echo of his movements amplified in the silence, then stepped out onto the rink.

The first glide was always the best—cold air biting his face, the scrape of blades cutting through the hush. He started slow, circling the boards, letting his body fall into the rhythm without thought. But tonight, thought intruded anyway. The charity event still in his mind, the hotel room after, Shane’s body under his, the way they’d come apart and come together in that raw, desperate way. It had felt like a reset, a promise sealed in sweat and whispers. But the morning had brought distance again—Shane heading to practice, Ilya catching a flight back, the two-hour gap reasserting itself like an old habit.

He picked up speed, transitioning into drills: crossovers, tight turns, backward skating that burned his quads. His breath came in sharp puffs, visible in the chill, but his mind wouldn’t quiet. Fear crept in like a shadow lengthening across the ice. Hockey had always been Shane’s first love, the thing that defined him before Ilya ever had. Montreal’s captain, legacy-builder, the one who measured life in Cups and seasons. Ilya got it—he lived it too—but sometimes it felt like he was competing with the game itself for Shane’s attention. The drunk call, the absent-mindedness at the event, the way Shane had clung to him in bed like he was afraid of letting go… it all added up to something unspoken, something that made Ilya’s chest ache with the fear of being second place.

He stopped at center ice, stick planted, staring down at the logo beneath his skates. Ottawa’s rebuild was his now, a team full of young guns and fragile hopes, but it didn’t anchor him the way Montreal did Shane. He’d chosen this—traded Boston’s contention for proximity, for stolen weekends and hidden touches. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if the secrecy, the constant balancing act, wore them down until Shane chose the easier path: the roar of the crowd, the uncomplicated life without shadows?

His mother’s face flashed in his mind, her quiet strength during her illness, the way she’d looked at him in those final days with eyes that said hold on, but let go when you must. Loss had taught him to guard his heart, but with Shane, he’d let the walls crumble. And now? Doubt gnawed at the edges, whispering that maybe Shane’s apologies were preludes to goodbye.

Yet, even as the fears swirled, love pushed back, steady as his heartbeat. He remembered Shane learning Russian phrases just to make him laugh—halting, accented words like ya tebya lyublyu murmured in the dark. The red-eye flights Shane took after back-to-backs, showing up exhausted but present. The way he’d held Ilya after he told him about his mother, no words needed, just arms that felt like home. Ilya would choose him again, every time, even if it meant skating through this fog. He exhaled hard, the sound echoing off the empty seats, and pushed off again, harder this time, drills turning punishing as he channeled the turmoil into motion. By the time he stepped off the ice, sweat-soaked and spent, the resolve had settled: they’d talk. Really talk. No more fragments.

Back in Montreal, Shane’s apartment felt too big, too empty. The charity event had been two nights ago, the hotel room with Ilya a fever dream of heat and connection that now felt like a bandage over a wound still bleeding. He’d driven back the next morning, practice calling, but sleep had eluded him since. Tonight was worse. He tossed on the couch, phone glowing in the dark, scrolling through nothing—stats, highlights, anything to distract from the loop in his head.

Luca’s face kept intruding: those green eyes, the confident smile, the way his hands had moved with purpose in that dim restroom. Shane’s stomach twisted with disgust, not at the attraction—that was biology, alcohol-fueled and fleeting—but at how close he’d come to crossing the line. The kiss, hot and urgent; fingers wrapping around him, stroking with skill that had made his knees buckle. He’d stopped, yes, shoved away with a curse, but the memory lingered like a bruise, arousal tangled with shame. Worse was the contrast: Ilya’s touch, familiar and electric, the way he’d claimed Shane in that hotel bed—possessive, dirty, perfect. How could he have risked that for a stranger’s fleeting high?

He sat up, rubbing his face, guilt a heavy weight in his chest. Flashbacks hit in waves: Ilya’s mouth on him, commanding and relentless; the slap of skin, the praise growled in his ear. “Good boy… you belong to me.” It had undone him, rebuilt him. And now? He stared at the charity photos on his phone, the one where Ilya glanced at him with that soft, unguarded look. Shane didn’t deserve it. He typed a confession a dozen times—I fucked up, there was this guy at the bar…—then deleted each one, the words too raw, too damning. What if Ilya walked away? The thought hollowed him out. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the city hum outside mocking his insomnia. Guilt wasn’t going anywhere; it settled in for the long haul, a companion he couldn’t shake.

The trade rumor hit the next morning like a slapshot to the gut. Shane saw it first on his phone during coffee, a push notification from an NHL insider app: “Sources: Ottawa Exploring Rozanov Trade Options Amid Rebuild Push.” His mug froze halfway to his mouth. Ilya? Traded? The article speculated—assets for youth, cap space, the usual rebuild chatter—but it named potential suitors: Boston, Toronto, even Vancouver. Not Montreal. Shane’s mind raced: closer or farther? The two hours could stretch to coasts if it happened. Panic clawed at him, mixed with the guilt from the bar. Had his near-miss pushed the universe to pull them apart? He scrolled comments, fans debating Ilya’s value, his “enigmatic” personality. It felt personal, invasive. He almost texted Ilya—Seen this?—but stopped. What right did he have to worry when he’d been the one teetering on betrayal?

In Ottawa, Ilya saw the rumor during a team meeting break, his phone buzzing with alerts from agents and media. His stomach dropped. Traded? Again? Boston to Ottawa had been his choice, for Shane. Now this—whispers of him as a “veteran asset” to flip. Insecurity flared: was he washed up like Scott Hunter? Too old for the rebuild at 30? And Shane… if he was moved west, the secrecy would snap like an over-stretched band. He stared at his locker, the Ottawa jersey hanging there, and felt unmoored. But beneath the fear, resolve hardened. They needed to talk, rumor or not. He pulled out his phone and texted Shane:

Come to Ottawa after your game tomorrow. I’ll cook. We need to talk.

Shane’s reply came quick:

Yeah. I’ll be there. Should I grab anything on my way?

The drive up felt longer than two hours, Shane’s hands tight on the wheel, the highway a blur of headlights and regret. The rumor hung over him like a storm cloud, amplifying everything. He arrived at Ilya’s apartment just after 8, the scent of cooking wafting out as the door opened—something hearty, Russian, like borscht or pelmeni simmering on the stove. Ilya greeted him with a quick hug, brief but warm, his eyes searching Shane’s face. “You look tired, Hollander.”

“Had another long day,” Shane muttered, shrugging off his coat. The apartment felt like sanctuary: soft lighting, books scattered on shelves, the faint hum of a record player in the corner. They settled at the table, plates steaming, wine poured. Light at first—game chatter: Montreal’s recent win streak, Ottawa’s defensive woes. “Your power play looked sharp last night,” Ilya said, smirking. “Almost like you were trying to impress someone.”

Shane managed a laugh. “Always.” The charity recap came next: donors impressed, headlines positive. “That photo of us with the check—people are eating up the ‘rival friends’ angle,” Shane said, pulling it up on his phone.

Ilya leaned in, their shoulders brushing. “Good cover.” His voice dropped lower, a teasing edge. “Though after the hotel… hard to keep it friendly.”

Heat flushed Shane’s face, memories flooding back: Ilya’s commanding presence, the slaps, the filthy praise, the way he’d edged Shane until he begged. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “That was… intense. You were incredible. Almost as incredible as this food.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened, fond. “You took it so well. My good boy.” The words hung playful, but they twisted the knife in Shane’s gut. Guilt surged, overwhelming, the food turning to ash in his mouth. He set his fork down, hands trembling slightly.

“Ilya,” he started, voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Ilya’s fork paused mid-air, his expression shifting to wariness. “What?”

Shane swallowed hard, staring at his plate. “The night after our fight… I went out with the guys. Hayden, J.J. Tequila shots, the bar got crowded. I went to the restroom, and this guy—he swallowed—he approached me. We… kissed. It got heated. His hands were on me, and I… I let it happen for a minute. But I stopped. Pulled away. Nothing more. But I should’ve never let it get that far. I’m so sorry.”

Silence stretched, long and heavy, the only sound the faint tick of the clock in the kitchen. Ilya’s face went still, then pale, his eyes widening with hurt that hit Shane like a check into the boards. Tears gathered in Ilya’s eyes, and he blinked hard, failing to hold them back. One slipped down his cheek, and he swiped at it angrily.

"You're unbelievable," Ilya whispered at first, voice splintering like glass under pressure. Then louder, rawer, the accent thickening with the storm of emotion: "Un-fucking-believable, Shane. You... you let some random piece of shit put his mouth on you? His hands? In a fucking bathroom like I'm nothing but a dirty secret you can forget when you're drunk and horny?"

"Ilya, please—it was nothing. A stupid, drunk mistake. I stopped because all I could think of was you. You're everything to me. I get it now, how I've been fucking this up, putting the game first, making you wait. But you—you're my whole fucking world. I can't lose you over this."

"Nothing?" Ilya choked out a laugh that sounded like a sob, standing so fast his chair toppled backward with a crash that echoed through the apartment. Tears streamed freely now, his face flushed red, eyes wild with betrayal. He paced like a caged animal, hands raking through his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. "You call that nothing? You let him touch you—stroke you like some cheap hookup—and it's nothing? You have any idea what that does to me? I've been killing myself for us, Shane! I moved my life for you, Shane. Left Boston, took the rebuild shit in Ottawa, all so we could be closer. And you? You get drunk and almost fuck some guy in a bathroom because—what? You’re too weak to handle the pressure?"

Shane stood too, his own tears blurring his vision, chest heaving with sobs he couldn't hold back. "It's not like that! I was angry, lost after our fight. I felt like shit, like you said—like I was invisible in your life too. But I realized—"

“Invisible?” Ilya laughed bitterly, tears streaming now. “Try being the one always waiting, always hiding. You think it’s easy for me? Hearing teammates talk about dates, families, while I smile and say nothing? And now this. You insist it was nothing, but it was everything. It was you choosing escape over us.”

Shane reached out, desperate, but Ilya shoved his hands away, the contact stinging like a slap. “I’m sorry! God, Ilya, I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll do anything—quit the team, come out, whatever it takes. Just please, don’t—”

“Don’t what? Don’t hate you right now?” Ilya’s sobs turned ugly, wrenching from his chest as he backed away, hitting the counter hard enough to rattle the dishes. “Because I do, Shane. In this moment, I hate you for making me feel this small, this used. I’ve given you my soul, my mother’s memory, my dreams, every hidden piece of me, and you throw it away for a quick handjob in a bar? Get the fuck out. Get out before I break something, or worse, break us for good. I can’t even look at you without wanting to scream.”

Shane froze, the words gutting him, tears pouring down his face as he grabbed his coat with shaking hands. “Ilya… please…”

“Out!” Ilya roared, voice hoarse and shattered, pointing at the door like a weapon. The apartment door slammed behind Shane, leaving Ilya alone in the wreckage—sobbing into his hands, the dinner cold and forgotten, the rumor a distant echo in the hurricane of hurt. Love was still there, buried under the raw agony, but that night, it bled like an open wound.