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Ilya should have known.
The evil look on Shane’s face, the glimmer in his eye, he was up to no good. But he’d been so nice. He paid for Ilya’s order, claiming something about collecting points in the app, all while staring at Ilya with a knowing smile. Ilya had been suspicious but he waved it off as just Shane introducing something Canadian to him.
Shane loved his Canadian things. He loved showing Ilya butter tarts and poutine and Nanaimo bars. He used stupid words like “toque” and had his milk in bags in the fridge. Moon Mist ice cream was by far the worst thing Ilya had ever put in his mouth, but he’d been pleasantly surprised by the orange juice in his Shirley Temple. And Shane would grin giddily as he shared little bits of his identity through this new culture.
He should’ve known, looking at that Tim Hortons menu board in the drive-thru as Shane instructed him on exactly what to order. Never again. He’d see that menu in his nightmares.
“Medium iced capp, then a double-stacked farmer’s breakfast wrap,” Shane instructed.
“Farmer?” Ilya asked.
“It’s like, a hashbrown, and egg, and it’s really good,” Shane reassured him. “I love the mayo. It’s chipotle? Maybe. Not too sure.”
Ilya trusted Shane. Which had been a big fucking mistake.
Sure, it tasted good in the moment. Great, even. The iced capp was like a very sweet, icy coffee, and it washed down the savoury taste of the breakfast wrap. The hashbrown provided texture in what was probably otherwise a very mushy bite. The egg and sausage all worked together to make it feel like a full American breakfast, all within the confines of a tortilla, and the chipotle sauce added a kick of flavour.
He chewed on the ice of the drink. Maybe it was a bit too sugary for his liking, just a little sweeter than how he normally liked his coffees, but it balanced out the wrap. And besides, it lasted longer than the iced coffees; he tended to chug those. The end of the iced capp was just chunks of flavourless ice chips, and that was pretty much his only critique. Overall; 9/10.
He told Shane as much. Shane just watched with glee as Ilya ate all of it. He honestly probably could have gone for another wrap, but they drove to the arena together after leaving the drive-thru.
“Hollander,” Ilya said, smiling at the hockey card he’d gotten with his order. He was the first one in the packet of three. He honestly didn’t care about the rest.
Shane looked down at the card and laughed. “What are the odds?”
“Let us get more,” Ilya told him, shuffling through the rest of the pack. “Only three cards? Scam.”
“Open my bagel for me.” Shane had an open palm turned upward over the divider between their seats as he waited for Ilya to complete his request.
Ilya gave Shane his toasted everything bagel with the entire container of cream cheese on it. That was another hint Ilya should have noticed; after gassing it up so much, Shane got a bagel. Not a breakfast wrap. Not an iced capp.
The all-star game was supposed to be unserious, a way to get other players to work with those they normally wouldn’t have gotten the chance to. Ilya loved them. They gave him an excuse to spend time with Shane, and as much as he loved playing against him, he preferred to have him as a teammate. Celebrity captain Rose Landry drafted Shane and Ilya on her team with a knowing wink that Ilya tried hard not to think about.
Shane had reassured him countless times that they were just friends. That he couldn’t even get it up when he’d been with her. And yeah, Ilya teased him about it, but it hurt deep down.
Not that Ilya could talk. He’d literally discussed marrying Svetlana in front of Shane. He knew it would make Shane crack, though, but the relationship between Rose and Shane felt more real than that. It didn’t feel like a tactic to make Ilya jealous. It felt a little like a last-ditch attempt to convince Shane that he was straight, and it had the complete opposite effect.
Ilya had years to get comfortable with his sexuality. And sure, Shane did too— if their nearly decade-long situationship said anything— but it was different. Ilya couldn’t blame him. But it still hurt.
Ilya needed to put the Tim Hortons incident on the list of how Shane had betrayed him. Maybe it would even be above Rose Landry. The longer Ilya stayed with Shane, the more he saw the personality poke through, but this was something Ilya needed Shane to keep hidden. Especially if it meant that Ilya got the brunt of it.
Ilya was in the middle of warm-up when he felt the beginnings. He ignored it in favour of throwing a ball directly at Shane’s ass as he bent over to pick up a soccer ball. Ilya continued without incident.
He felt it again when he laced up his skates: a low rumble that began in his gut. He ignored it again, tying a cute little bow. He rolled his ankles to get a feel of the tightness. Shane was looking at him in anticipation, like he was waiting for something.
Ilya’s stomach started to cramp on the bench. The rumbling started up again. He grimaced, breathing through the pain, just in time for his first shift. And that was the mistake.
The moving, the heavy exercise. He pumped his legs quickly. It acted like a catalyst in the chemical reaction of the iced capp and farmer’s breakfast wrap brewing in his gut. His world came to an end, right there on the ice, and fuck. He should’ve used the washroom earlier. He should’ve never laced up his skates. He should’ve never trusted Shane with his Tim Hortons order.
He was in trouble.
His shift couldn’t have ended quickly enough.
“Move,” Ilya demanded, shoving past Shane on his way to the tunnel. “Move. Move. Move.”
“Where’re you going?” Shane asked, innocently enough.
“I am going to shit myself!” Ilya yelled angrily, reaching an arm out to push Shane out of the way.
Shane let out a bark of laughter that Ilya heard as he stormed back to the dressing room, already stripping himself of his equipment. His stomping turned into a speed walk, which turned into a jog, which turned into a sprint as he realized how dire the situation was. He left a drag path of padding behind him until he shoved the dressing room door open with his shoulder so hard that it hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his stomach.
He had maybe 0.2 seconds to get his hockey pants and jock off before the devil unleashed its wrath.
The dressing room was too nice to defile it like he was about to. But he had no choice. But maybe God had a plan, because he shed the last of his equipment and dropped his underarmour just in time, and his butt hit the black seat of the industrial toilet.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
It echoed. The room was empty, but the cinderblock walls made the disgusting sounds reverberate back into Ilya’s ears. Everything was amplified. And he hung his head and rested his elbows on his knees, face reddening in shame, because he knew Shane was telling Rose Landry about what he did. And he knew the cameras and TV crews knew. Stupid Canadians. Stupid stupid stupid boring Canadians.
Ilya had no choice but to just sit there and take it.
His phone was in his hockey bag. There wasn’t even anything he could use to distract himself from the burning in his butthole, or the stench, or the sounds. Shane had done this on purpose. He’d timed it just so. Ilya was going to get Shane to sign that stupid Tim Hortons hockey card and sell it on eBay. He was going to pay someone to take it from him.
Right as the moment had passed, Ilya looked to his right.
“No,” he exclaimed out loud, devastation clear in his voice.
There was no fucking toilet paper.
This was on purpose. Shane had done this on purpose. There was no way the arena forgot to stock up the players’ dressing room. There was no way.
“Ilya?” a familiar voice called from outside the dressing room.
“Go away,” Ilya said miserably. He was going to die on this toilet.
Shane entered the room. “Fuck, man. It reeks.”
“Your fault,” Ilya pointed out.
“You okay?” But Ilya could hear the glee behind the fake concern.
“...There is no toilet paper,” he admitted.
Shane laughed, and though Ilya couldn’t see him, he knew the look; head back, mouth wide open, eyes closed in delight. Usually it made butterflies appear in his stomach. Now, there was nothing but pain and suffering.
“I’ll go grab some,” Shane offered, leaving Ilya blissfully alone.
Ilya was going to die in this house. He was going to die. And then they’d all be sorry for laughing. They’d all mourn him, and he wouldn’t even shit himself in death, because his colon was so empty he could probably bottom. As soon as his asshole stopped burning.
Shane returned, and Ilya cleaned himself up the best he could without a bidet. He flushed the toilet, but the water just rose, and–
“Blyat!” Ilya called out, flushing the toilet again, holding the lever down. The water just rose higher.
Shane was laughing his head off, taking delight in Ilya’s anguish.
“No! No, no, no, no,” Ilya repeated, flushing again, again, making it so much worse.
“Dude, just stop,” Shane got out between gasps. “It’s gonna overflow.”
Ilya watched in horror as the water rose too high and spilled over the porcelain. This was it. He needed to die. This was officially the worst day of his life.
He pushed open the stall door— he hadn’t even had time to lock it— and looked at Shane. He was in his gear, grinning ear-to-ear, Ilya’s discarded equipment at his feet.
“We need to leave,” Ilya said, face bright red. He’d never been more embarrassed.
“Get dressed,” Shane told him, gesturing to the equipment he’d picked up. “We’ll tell the arena workers you plugged their industrial-grade toilet.”
“No one is telling shit.”
“So you want all the players to come back to that?” Shane gestured in the vague direction of Ilya’s biggest regret.
Ilya had no choice. He grit his teeth and pulled on his equipment as fast as he could, then took Shane’s arm and dragged him out of the room.
The dressing room had been humid and stinky. They may as well have walked into a forest with how clear the air smelled outside of it. He tried to continue dragging Shane to the rink, but Shane stopped some random poor staff member.
“Ilya had an iced capp and farmer’s wrap incident in the bathroom,” Shane told her, gesturing over his shoulder to the dressing room.
A knowing look passed over her face. She nodded gravely.
Yup. On purpose. Everything had been orchestrated. Ilya needed to die right now.
After the game, they returned to a clean dressing room. The only evidence of something ever going wrong was the hint of a nasty smell, almost successfully disguised by the scent of Lysol and bleach. But the press was ruthless.
Shane had told them. And Ilya had to face those cameras and microphones with a red face and joke about the combination of medium iced capps and farmer’s breakfast wraps. And every single person there had a knowing, sympathetic nod, reporters sharing stories of similar incidents.
Because if there was anything this nation could agree on, it was the laxative effect of an iced capp with a farmer’s breakfast wrap.