Archive of Our Own

Shane’s rookie year was shaping up to be everything he ever wanted. He was leading all rookies in points and scoring after his first ten games, and the Metros were starting to prove that they were a competitive team. Shane was drafted first overall, that had been expected, but he was determined to surpass what even his biggest supporters thought he could do. The Metros weren’t ready to win a Cup - Shane wasn’t under any delusions that he could single handedly end the Metros’ playoff drought and win them the Cup in his rookie year - but it wouldn’t be long. Shane would make sure of that.

He looked out the window of the plane as the team started their road trip. Four away games and then back to Montreal. It wasn’t his first away game, but this one was important. The Boston Raiders had the second overall pick behind the Metros, and Shane would be facing Korogyi for the first time. Shane had already been picked first, but now he wanted to make it clear that he was the right choice. It didn’t help that he had inherited a rivalry that was a century in the making between Boston and Montreal. The fans, the media, even his teammates were talking about the hype surrounding the first Boston-Montreal matchup of the season. As a Centaurs fan growing up, he too had developed animosity towards the Raiders while watching them beat Ottawa almost every time they played.

When they landed that evening, Shane went to the hotel gym, ordered room service with Hayden, and went to sleep early. Hayden teased him, and JJ was disappointed he wouldn’t come out for drinks, but Shane wanted to be ready for the morning skate and the evening game against the Raiders.

As puck drop neared closer, Shane was pulled from the dressing room after warmups for a pre-game interview.

“This is a big game, both for the fans and for you. What do the Metros need to do tonight to start the road trip with a win?”

“Yeah, you know, we just need to stick to our structure and play a clean game,” Shane used the towel around his neck to wipe off any residual sweat on his forehead from warmup. “Show up in the first period and then keep playing our game.”

“This will be the first time you’re facing Korogyi on the ice. How much are you looking forward to tonight?”

“Yeah, there’s nothing better. He’s a great player, and I can’t wait to get out there.”

“Thanks, Shane,” the interviewer said. “Good luck tonight.”

“Thank you,” Shane replied and turned back to the dressing room. He didn’t enjoy giving interviews, but as the new face of the Metros franchise, broadcasters were always asking for him.

Finally the lights dimmed in the arena, and Shane took a deep breath and smoothed down the tape on his stick as the Metros waited in the tunnel before taking the ice. Their goalie led the way to a chorus of boos from the Boston crowd. Shane took in the packed arena as he skated a quick lap around the back of the net before coming to a stop on the blue line. He pulled off his helmet for the anthems when he noticed a man sitting in the stands at glass-level, right beside the visiting team’s bench. Dusty blond curls, a cocky smirk, and a wink that made something flip in his stomach. Shane looked down at his skates and tried to focus on the game ahead.

As the anthems ended and the singer made her way off the ice, Shane put his helmet back on and glided back to the bench. He took a quick drink of water when he heard a deep, accented voice call out.

“Hey, twenty-four! I know you!”

Shane turned to see the man from before looking at him but said nothing. It didn’t mean much for someone to recognize him these days, and recognizing him on the ice at a hockey game was a given. He turned back to the bench and put the water bottle down.

“You are one of the kids I coach, yes? The peewee team is down the street, this is the big league.”

Shane shot the man a glare and huffed as he smiled and the woman beside him laughed. The man couldn’t have been much older than him, if at all. But the fans loved to chirp the opposing team, it was nothing new. Shane shook his head and skated to centre ice for the face off.

The first period was tense; neither team scored and the fans were growing impatient. Shane was, too. The Raiders had a player trailing him wherever he went, and he felt like he had barely touched the puck. Two minutes into the second period, the Raiders opened the scoring, before scoring a second goal barely a minute later. Shane skated off the ice and sat on the bench, slamming the door behind him. This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go.

“Wow, wow, wow,” the infuriating voice said from the stands. “He’s a bad boy.”

Shane shut his eyes and breathed in deeply. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing him react.

The Metros attempted a comeback in the third, but down a goal and their goalie pulled, Korogyi scored an empty netter with thirty seconds left to seal their fate, 3-1.

Shane left the ice frustrated, determined to win next time he returned to Boston.

He would get his chance three months later. Since then, Montreal had hosted the Raiders twice and won both games. But Shane wasn’t satisfied, he wanted to redeem himself in Boston.

He won the opening face off and spent his first shift in the offensive zone. Hayden passed him the puck from the corner and Shane went to shoot, but before he could get much power on the shot, his stick snapped and the puck trickled wide of the net.

He rushed back to the bench and another Metro hopped on the ice as Shane received a new stick from the trainer.

It was then that he heard it again.

“You know, my niece, she is four years old,” the same man from the last game started. Shane hated that he recognized his voice. “Her shot is better than yours, I think.”

Fuck. Could nothing go right in this building?

Shane couldn’t stop himself. He turned to look at the man through the glass and said, “She must not take after you, then.”

The man just looked at him for a moment, before a smile slowly spread across his face. Shane hopped over the boards at the whistle and told himself to forget about it. He had played over half a season, this man wasn’t anything different from all the other fans that liked to chirp him. He had heard worse, from players and fans alike; he had been called a pussy and a bitch and whatever other sexist insult could be thrown his way. Then came the homophobia, slurs hurdled at everyone and anyone, and the racism, specially curated for him and JJ.

This man and his childish chirping should be the least of his concerns. Shane had told himself that he was going to stay focused this game, and he would. In the second period, Shane assisted on two of the Metros’ three goals, and they managed to hold onto the lead through the third to win the game.

As the Metros took turns congratulating their goalie, Shane peeked to his right to see the man watching him as the woman beside him pulled her coat on. He quickly looked back to his teammates, and by the time he skated back to the bench to leave the ice, the man was gone.

The Metros had finally won in Boston. It was an accomplishment Shane could scratch off his list. They didn’t make the playoffs, but Shane ended his first season with the rookie of the year award and a burning desire to do better.

The Metros would compete against the Raiders in Boston for their first game of the next season, and they were going to be ready. Shane wasn’t going to let Korogyi, or the Raiders, or fans with gorgeous curls take him by surprise. 

Of course, the man was sitting in the same seat as last year. As Shane walked out of the tunnel for warmups, the man wasted no time.

“Hollander, looking good,” he started. “You work out in the summer?”

Shane willed himself not to blush. It wasn’t a compliment, at least not a real one.

“I think you will try the ten-pound weights next. Five pounds is too little,” the man continued.

Shane rolled his eyes and took the ice, skating a few laps before picking up a loose puck. He stick handled a bit down the blue line, but instead of turning to take a shot on the goalie, he waited until the man turned to look at the woman beside him before firing the puck at the glass in front of him. The man jumped in his seat, and Shane smirked at him as the woman beside him laughed.

Shane’s confidence got him two goals in the first period, and halfway through the second, he got a third. Shane threw his arms in the air as his line mates hugged him. A few hats were thrown onto the ice, but it was a largely disappointed and quiet crowd in Boston as Shane skated to the bench to high five his teammates. Once he reached the end, there was one Raiders fan that wasn’t quieted by his hat trick.

“Was nice celebration, Hollander,” the man said. “Maybe you will score a few more goals, get used to it.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said as he sat on the bench, but he was smiling.

“Huh?” Hayden said from beside him.

“Oh, nothing, sorry.”

Hayden looked at him a second longer and just patted him on the helmet.

Shane’s second visit to Boston that year was less triumphant. The Metros were fighting for a playoff spot, but they were on a four game losing skid. The team was having a hard time getting motivated, especially as they’d be on the road for the next three games.

Ten minutes into the first period, the Metros were looking worn down already. Shane made eye contact with blue eyes and sighed as he sat on the bench while the ice crew began clearing snow from the ice during the TV break.

“Don’t fucking start with me,” Shane snapped before the man could open his mouth. The frustration was getting to him; there was only so much he could do as a single player. He couldn’t play every shift, even if he wanted to.

“Oh, Hollander,” the man said, feigning surprise. “You’re playing tonight! I didn’t see you on the ice.”

Shane gripped his stick tighter and stood, turning to face the man and his infuriatingly perfect face. Before he could open his mouth, the man continued.

“Does Pike know the ref isn’t his mother? You should tell him, I think.”

Shane blinked, and followed the man’s gaze to where Hayden was trailing behind the referee, waiving his arms and clearly complaining about a bad call. Despite himself, Shane laughed. It did look like Hayden was throwing a bit of a tantrum. (Shane deliberately ignored the fact that he was just on the verge of losing control of his own emotions. He also ignored how satisfied the man looked when Shane started laughing.)

The Metros pulled it together, but it was a tight game. Boston was also chasing a playoff spot, and both teams traded goals. The third period ended in a tie, and Shane listened as the Metros coach outlined their overtime plan.

“We fucking got this!” JJ yelled as the coach finished his speech.

“Let’s go,” Shane said to Hayden, smacking his back before leaning over the bench to grab a drink of water.

“Aw, Hollander, don’t go,” the man said from the other side of the glass. “You still have a chance. Try scoring a goal, that will help.”

“Fuck you,” Shane replied, but he was laughing. He squirted water at the glass in front of the man’s face before heading to centre ice.

Overtime was tense. After one of the Raiders took a shot, the Metros’ defenseman gained control of the puck and Shane skated into neutral ice. The puck was passed to him, and he was on a breakaway alone against the goalie, and then he shot puck over the goalie’s glove and into the back of the net. The Metros had ended their losing streak. His teammates piled onto the ice and surrounded him; the Raiders fans in the arena were groaning and filing out of the stands. As he skated closer to the bench to leave the ice, he spotted the man from behind the glass. He was climbing up the stairs to leave the arena, but he looked back at Shane and the Metros with an indecipherable look in his eyes.

He was a Raiders fan, after all, if he attended every game. It was always disappointing to lose in overtime, when victory was so close and the stakes so high, but something about his expression lingered with Shane.

He walked down the tunnel and into the dressing room, where the mood had finally lifted with their win. As Shane began pulling off his jersey, JJ walked to the centre of the room, shirtless with the lower half of his equipment still on.

“We are going out tonight, boys!” He declared. It was a rare night on the road where they were flying out the next morning, instead of immediately after the game.

The Metros started cheering, and JJ turned to Shane.

“Et toi, tu n’as pas le choix,” JJ said sternly. He wouldn’t accept any of Shane’s excuses tonight. 

Shane changed into jeans and a hoodie, and JJ just sighed when he saw him in the lobby. Some of the other Metros had put a bit more effort into their clothes, but none of them were known (or expected, really) to have a sense of fashion. JJ led them to a club not far from the hotel, and as they stepped in to strobing lights and pounding music, Shane was already drained.

His plan was to stick next to Hayden, who had an annoying habit of trying to set Shane up on dates, but who also would leave early to call his wife before she went to sleep. Shane was more than happy to use Hayden’s excuse to leave as his own escape plan. JJ circled throughout the club; at one point he was dancing, at another he was at the bar sending drinks back to Shane and Hayden’s table. When the lights and the music became too much, Shane gestured vaguely towards the door to Hayden, who was trying to have a conversation with another teammate despite the loud music. Hayden gave him a thumbs up as he left the table and stepped outside the club. It was cold out, but the winter air felt refreshing after the heat of the club.

He turned into an alley beside the club and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Well, well, Shane Hollander. Not so boring, then.”

Shane’s eyes snapped open to see the man from the Raiders games standing in the entrance to the alley with a cigarette in between his fingers. It was strange seeing him here, wearing a tight black shirt and jacket instead of a Boston jersey.

“Are you following me?”

The man laughed. “Ah, no,” he said, like it was silly that Shane would suggest it.

“You certainly won’t leave me alone whenever we play in Boston,” Shane said defensively.

“Wow, angry,” the man smirked. “You will fight me?”

Shane just rolled his eyes as the man leaned against the wall opposite of him. He took a drag from his cigarette and remained silent.

“What’s your name?” Shane asked.

The man just raised his eyebrows.

“You know mine. It’s only fair,” Shane said.

“Ilya,” he replied after a moment. “Ilya Rozanov.”

Shane studied him; it was nice to put a name to the face and voice that taunted him on every visit to Boston. Russian, then, based on the name and accent.

“Like what you see?”

Shane blushed and looked away. “Fuck off.”

“Hm, is that what you want?” Ilya said, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall behind him and stepping towards Shane.

Shane had sipped from one bottle of beer all evening, but he suddenly felt out of control. His face was hot, and his heart was pounding. Ilya took a step closer.

“Yes,” Shane cursed his voice for cracking and rushed out of the alley. He hailed down a taxi and texted Hayden that he was going back to the hotel. He couldn’t be risking his entire career just because an attractive man approached him.

On the flight out the next morning, he told himself he was glad he wasn’t returning to Boston again this season. He repeated this to himself over the next week, and soon he was too swept up in the final push for a playoff spot to think about anything other than hockey. The Metros would make their first playoff appearance in years, which was a small win for Shane, and while their first-round exit was disappointing, a taste of playoff hockey made Shane crave more.

In his third year, Shane found himself nervous for his first game of the season in Boston. There was the never-ending rivalry between Montreal and Boston, of course, but that was normal. There was Korogyi, who was often pitted against Shane in their rookie season, but after Korogyi’s lacklustre second season, the media moved on from forcing any sort of competition between them. Shane was the undisputed star of his draft year.

It was ridiculous, really, but he didn’t know if his encounter with Ilya - Ilya, he knew his name now - would change things. Would he still tease him, or would he be mad at Shane for running away and ignore him? 

His worrying was for nothing, in the end. Ilya’s seat was empty when he stepped on the ice for warmup. He lingered at the start of the tunnel behind the bench, signing Montreal jerseys that a few kids held over the railing. Ilya didn’t show up. When he returned for the start of the game, he recognized the curly-haired woman that always attended games with Ilya, but a stranger sat in Ilya’s seat. It was good, Shane would be able to focus on the game instead of a mouthy Raiders fan. Somehow, Shane kept expecting to hear his deep voice when he got back to the bench after a shift. The Metros won, but Shane’s mind was elsewhere.

Two months later, Shane was back in Boston. He told himself not to think about it, but at the same time he found himself running through things to say in his head if Ilya was there. He had some ideas for a snarky chirp or two but gave up on those when he realized it revealed that he had noticed Ilya was missing. He was a professional hockey player, three years into his career, playing in thirty-two different arenas every season. It was ridiculous that he would keep track of the attendance of another team’s fan.

Yet, when he hit the ice, Ilya was the first thing he noticed. He wore a Raiders jersey, as usual. His hair curled where it peeked out from under his cap, as usual. He was handsome, as usual. Shane was relieved to see him, which was new.

He stretched a bit and took a few shots on net before skating over to the bench. He caught the trainer’s eye and pointed to his stick, and the trainer took it from him and went down the tunnel to find a spare. Something about the stick felt odd. It was normal for players to switch out their stick, to make sure it was feeling right. The fact that doing so brought him over to the glass near Ilya was a coincidence, naturally. 

“You really think the stick is the problem, Hollander?” 

Shane felt the corners of his mouth pull up despite his best attempts to keep a straight face. 

“I see you’re still full of shit, Rozanov,” Shane replied and instantly regretted it, feeling prickly embarrassment creep up the back of his neck. Damn it, he had decided that he wouldn’t be acknowledging Ilya’s absence at the last game, and then he went and added the last name too, just to make it abundantly clear that Shane also remembered their last meeting outside the club. 

He resolutely kept his gaze away from Ilya, fiddling with the water bottles instead. Where was the trainer? He needed to escape, but he would look like even more of an idiot to do warmup without a stick. 

“Aw, you missed me!” Ilya cooed gleefully. 

It was then that the trainer reappeared with a new stick, and Shane quickly grabbed it and skated away. 

The first period passed by scoreless. Neither team was willing to give up any opportunities, and the Raiders were set on covering Shane at all times. Near the halfway point of the second period, Shane and his line mates were stuck in the defensive zone as the Raiders pressed for a goal. Finally, Hayden got the puck along the boards and passed it to Shane, who skated over the red line and dumped the puck into the Raiders’ zone before returning to the bench. He was exhausted from a long shift, breathing heavily, and he didn’t have the energy left to do anything other than send the puck down the ice. 

“Hey, Hollander,” Ilya called. “Was good play, best you made all game, I think.”

Shane sighed and leaned his forehead against his stick. Why had he been glad that Ilya was back?

By Shane’s fourth year, he was determined to make it to the Cup finals. The Metros were ready, Shane was ready. Montreal won eleven of their first fourteen games, and Boston was struggling by the time Shane arrived for their first matchup of the season. The Raiders had made several trades over the summer, acquiring Cliff Marlow and a new goalie, but three of their top players were missing due to injury. 

Ilya was in his seat, and he had given Shane a few chirps, but the Metros were playing so well that even he had a hard time coming up with something to say. 

After a 6-1 win, JJ began organizing a visit to the club. Shane had agreed to go without much resistance, earning a surprised look from Hayden and cheers from JJ, but he didn’t stay long. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to disrupt his routine when the Metros were doing so well, and not because he didn’t run into a certain Raiders fan. 

Shane’s next visit to Boston would come for the All-Star Game. He didn’t mind the event itself; it was relatively low pressure, none of the players got too aggressive during the game and Shane excelled at the skills competition. The biggest annoyance was the brand deals and networking that Yuna scheduled. It was great for his career, and he appreciated how much his mother supported him, but he never quite knew what to do with himself in photoshoots and commercials. He was looking forward to making an appearance at a children’s hockey camp for a charity initiative, but otherwise he slightly envied his teammates who got a weekend’s rest. 

He arrived in Boston on the Thursday before the All-Star weekend and went straight to film a photoshoot as the ambassador for a hockey stick brand, and then from there he left for the arena to film some content for the league. It was strange to be in the Boston arena with no fans or even the Raiders players. By the time afternoon rolled around, Shane was being driven to a local rink for the hockey camp. He was glad Yuna and David decided not to attend this year so he didn’t have to entertain them in the midst of a busy weekend, but then he felt guilty. They were good parents. 

He was shuffled into a back room of the rink where the camp was hosted to put on his skates and gloves. He pulled on a track jacket with the camp charity’s logo and a Metros hat. He fidgeted a bit with the hat, feeling a bit awkward about being the surprise guest in a rival city, but he didn’t have much time to worry as he was handed his stick and escorted towards the ice where the kids were already skating. 

As he approached the rink, he could hear the sound of blades scraping against ice and a man’s voice calling out directions. 

Fuck, Shane knew that voice. It was the same deep, accented voice that he heard at every game in Boston. 

His chest felt tight, and he couldn’t register much of what the charity staff was saying to him. Then he was on the ice, looking at Ilya standing in the same track jacket Shane was wearing and with a whistle in his mouth. 

A kid, no older than twelve, came to a stop in front of him. 

“Are you Shane Hollander?” she asked, and then all of the children stopped to look at him. 

“That’s Shane Hollander!” Another camper yelled from across the ice before Shane could reply. 

He waved and greeted the kids that came up to him. Most were excited, a few seemed interested but largely unimpressed, and one camper asked him what he was doing there. Shane was also asking himself that question, internally. 

He looked up to see Ilya standing behind the crowd of kids surrounding Shane. 

“You know this guy?” Ilya asked a boy standing beside him. The amusement in his voice was evident even as he kept a straight face. 

As the boy nodded in confirmation, Ilya said, “Hey, you are all traitors! Do you forget about the Raiders?”

The kids laughed, and Ilya called them all to centre ice to resume their drill. He was good with kids, Shane realized. It was surprising, initially; Shane only knew the side of him that heckled the Metros every game, but the more he watched, the more it made sense. There was a playfulness underneath his confidence that the campers gravitated to. 

Shane figured he would mostly be there for show, to skate around a bit with the kids and offer signatures, but he was put to work. Ilya ordered him to demonstrate every new drill, and then he would hum and haw with the campers until Ilya goaded them into agreeing that Shane made a mistake, or he wasn’t skating fast enough, or his shot was off target. Shane played along, insisting he did it right and challenging anyone to do it better. The kids would all rush to prove themselves, and Shane couldn’t help but smile at seeing them so carefree and happy. It had been since he was their age or younger that Shane had played hockey without the weight of expectations or scouts watching in the stands.  

As the kids took a water break, Shane skated to a stop beside Ilya at centre ice. 

“You knew I was going to be here,” Shane said, not a question. 

“Yes.”

“Did you know I was going to be here last time I played in Boston?”

“No, not exactly,” Ilya replied. “The charity wanted you, I knew. I said Marlow would be better option.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane replied, smiling. 

“Yes, well,” Ilya shrugged. “You look pretty, at least.”

“Fuck off, the makeup wasn’t my choice.”

Ilya just looked at him, and Shane felt the need to explain himself, or say something to get Ilya to stop looking at him so intensely. 

“For a commercial,” Shane stuttered out. When Ilya didn’t reply, he continued. “The makeup, it was for a commercial I shot, and then I had other things to do, filming and stuff, and I didn’t have time to take it off.”

“Wow, Mr. Superstar,” Ilya said, clearly amused by Shane’s rambling.

“It’s not like that. It’s just work, contractual stuff. Other players do it, too.”

“Okay, Mr. Businessman.”

Shane opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Ilya blew the whistle and called the kids over from the bench. The camp came to a close in the late afternoon, and Shane was approached by parents and kids alike for selfies and signatures. He sat on the bench and did his best to make sure each kid got something, signing jerseys and pucks. When the charity staff ushered the last camper away, Shane stood from the bench and looked around. Pylons had been stacked and left near the zamboni door to be taken off the ice, and Ilya was sliding a bucket towards the net to collect pucks. 

Shane stepped onto the ice and skated over. Ilya looked at him as he tossed a few pucks he had collected on his way over in the bucket. 

“No important plans, Mr. Businessman?”

“That’s not-,” Shane began, but stopped himself. Trying to defend himself only seemed to give Ilya more material to tease him with. He busied himself by filling the bucket with pucks. 

“I have a nice apartment,” Ilya said mildly. “Maybe Mr. Businessman wants to do real estate too.”

Shane swallowed. He couldn’t, right? Going back to Ilya’s apartment would acknowledge the attraction he felt, the desire. At this point, though, Ilya didn’t seem to be looking for confirmation. Somehow this random Raiders fan had looked at him and seen his tightest kept secret.

"I… Uh…” Shane’s mind was a whirlwind, part of him desperate to accept what Ilya was offering, and part of him terrified of what could happen if anyone found out. 

“No one can know,” Shane finally whispered. 

Ilya looked at him carefully. Shane avoided his gaze, scared of what Ilya might see. 

“I understand. I will tell no one,” Ilya said firmly. 

When Shane said nothing, gaze still trained on the ice, Ilya leaned forward slightly to check his expression. 

“I will tell no one,” Ilya repeated. “But we don’t have to. Not if you do not want to.”

Shane’s stomach twisted. He was offering a way out, but Shane felt in every bone how much he didn’t want a way out. 

 “Give me your address,” Shane whispered. 

An hour later found Shane pacing in his hotel room. Ilya had a few things to wrap up at the camp, so Shane went back to his room to wait before heading over. Instead of waiting, though, he was panicking. He could just not go; Ilya had no proof of their conversation, nothing that could be sent to the press other than rumours. He was a stranger, despite the fact that Shane felt like he knew him. He knew superficial things: where he worked, what hockey team he supported… that he was good with kids, and witty, and kind beneath it all. 

Shane’s phone interrupted his thoughts with an incoming text message. Home now was all it said. 

They had exchanged numbers at the rink. Shane had insisted. He couldn’t be seen waiting around Ilya’s apartment to be let in if he was caught up at the camp. Shane shoved his phone in his pocket, grabbed the hotel key, and slipped his feet into his shoes. He could still turn around before he got there, he told himself. 

He didn’t turn around. Instead, he was climbing up the eight flights of stairs to get to Ilya’s floor. He couldn’t risk standing inside an elevator inches away from someone who might recognize him, or even standing in the lobby waiting for the elevator. By the time he got to the eighth floor, he was out of breath. He stood in the stairwell, hand on the door, looking through the small window to see if anyone was there. Ilya could check, look into the hall for him, but- no, Shane couldn't text him back. That was leaving behind proof, a record. He adjusted his hat, opened the door, and rushed down the hallway. 

Apartment 814. Apartment 814. Apartment- there it was. Shane knocked before he could think about what he was doing. He had to get out of this hallway. 

Ilya opened the door and Shane rushed inside, letting out a deep breath once the door closed behind him. 

“Did you forget how to breathe?” 

“Fuck you,” Shane said. 

They looked at each other for a moment. For all his worrying, Shane hadn’t thought about what to do when he actually got here. Ilya tilted his head towards the living room and began walking there, Shane following a few steps behind him. 

The apartment was humble but clean. The main room included the living room, kitchen, and a dining table, and through a doorway was a small bedroom. When Shane turned back to look at Ilya, he was already watching him. 

“So…” Shane began hesitantly, trying to prompt Ilya into taking the lead. 

“Yes?” 

“Are we… going to, y’know… do something?”

“Yes, I think. I think probably you will suck my dick,” Ilya said lightly, as if he was talking about the weather. 

“Jesus.”

“Mm, no. I think you will do just fine.”

Shane huffed and straightened out his shoulders before approaching Ilya, fingers hooking onto his belt and undoing it. Before he could get the button of his jeans undone, Ilya’s hands grasped his elbows and pulled him into a kiss. 

Shane’s fingers went limp, task forgotten. Ilya’s mouth was hot and insistent, wasting no time before his tongue was in his mouth. One hand came up to grip Shane’s chin, and Shane whined into his mouth. Ilya pulled away, and Shane felt his face get hot at the look Ilya gave him as he subconsciously leaned forward to chase his mouth. 

Ilya walked backwards towards the bedroom, using his grip on Shane’s arm to pull him with him. As Ilya’s knees hit the back of the bed, he let go of Shane and sat down, shifting backwards until he was spread across the bed and pulling his shirt off. He stared at Shane, looking him up and down briefly. Shane stared back, distracted by the muscles in his arms and shoulders as he propped himself up on the bed. 

“Are you cold?”

“What?” Shane said, scrunching his face in confusion. “No, I’m fine.”

When Shane said nothing further, still standing in front of the bed, Ilya raised his eyebrows. 

“Your clothes, Hollander.”

Oh. Shane flushed and pulled his shirt over his head, turning it right-side-in, folding it, and leaving it on top of the dresser before doing the same with his pants. 

He turned back to Ilya and waited. 

“You need me to tell you what to do?” Ilya said. 

“Huh?” Shane stuttered, embarrassed at the heat in his stomach at the idea of Ilya’s voice directing him through every movement. “No! No, I mean, I’ve had sex before.”

“Wow,” Ilya said, his voice amused. “Mr. Businessman has a lot of very sexy business.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut and startled when he felt warm hands grab his hips. 

“You want this?” Ilya asked. 

Shane opened his eyes and looked down to see Ilya, eye-level with his half-hard dick visible through his underwear. So embarrassing. 

“Fuck off,” his hissed. 

“No, I am serious, Hollander,” Ilya said quietly, patting Shane’s hip with one hand. “I want to hear you say it.”

Shane bit his lip and looked at Ilya. “Yeah, I want this,” he whispered. 

Ilya nodded and slid off his own pants and underwear, pulling Shane onto the bed above him. He reached up and grabbed the back of Shane’s neck, guiding him down and kissing him again, deep and wet. The heat of Ilya’s mouth, the path his hands travelled across his chest and down his stomach, the sound he made as Shane shifted closer and tilted his head to kiss him deeper. He was making noise himself, Shane distantly realized. 

One of Ilya’s hands began shoving at Shane’s underwear, so Shane stood up and removed them himself. He took a second to look at Ilya, sprawled across the bed with messy hair. He crawled back onto the bed, kissing Ilya once on the mouth before kissing down his chest and stomach. When he made his way to his cock, hard against his toned stomach and a smear of precome across the head, Shane didn’t hesitate before licking a stripe up the bottom and wrapping his lips around the head. 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya groaned, pushing a hand through Shane’s hair. 

It was addicting to hear Ilya falling apart. It made Shane greedy, made him want to hear more, do more. He bobbed his head a few more times before pulling back, swirling his tongue around the head of his cock before taking a quick breath and taking as much of him in his mouth as he could. Ilya’s dick hit the back of his throat and he gagged, startled by the sensation. 

Ilya’s hands tightened in his hair and pulled him back. Shane coughed and avoided Ilya’s gaze. He was a mess: spit running down his chin, eyes teary (from embarrassment or arousal, Shane didn’t know), cheeks red. 

“Shit, sorry,” Shane croaked. 

Ilya shook his head and cupped Shane’s face to kiss him before muttering something lowly in Russian. Shane tried to move back down to continue, to make up for gagging, but Ilya kept firm hands on his face and shoulder. 

“Like this, yes?” Ilya said, grabbing one of Shane’s hands and spitting in it before guiding it to his dick. 

The slide was smooth, a mix of their spit and precome. It was an unfamiliar angle for Shane, but he tried to recreate what he did for himself, paying particular attention to when Ilya groaned or tightened his grip. It wasn’t long before Ilya’s body tensed and he came all over Shane’s hand and his stomach, Shane kissing his neck as he threw his head back. 

When Ilya shifted, seemingly back to himself, Shane leaned back, holding his come-stained hand awkwardly in the air beside him. 

“Did you want high five for good work?” Ilya asked breathlessly. 

“Uh, no,” Shane said. “Just don’t want to get your sheets dirty. I’ll go wash my hands.”

As Shane moved to get off the bed, Ilya grabbed his waist. 

“Is just sheets. They can be cleaned.”

“No need to make them dirty on purpose though,” Shane mumbled. 

“No choice then,” Ilya sighed. “You will have to clean with your mouth.”

Shane blinked. With his mouth? He looked at Ilya, still lightly flushed, and back at his hand, before tentatively licking his palm. It was a weird taste, but not unbearable. 

“Fuck, Hollander, fuck,” Ilya groaned. He grabbed Shane’s wrist and wiped his hand with the corner of the bedsheet before manoeuvring Shane onto his back on the bed and crawling on top of him. 

“Was a joke, Hollander,” Ilya said roughly before kissing and licking into Shane’s mouth. 

Ilya broke away, licking over Shane’s nipple before taking his dick into his mouth. Shane moaned loudly and slapped his hand over his mouth. Ilya looked up at him, tonguing his slit briefly as his hand worked the shaft. His free hand moved up Shane’s body, grabbing at his chest before pulling Shane's hand away and sticking two fingers in his mouth instead. 

It was almost ridiculous, how much Shane was enjoying it. He’d received a blowjob from women before, once or twice. It shouldn’t have been that different, a mouth is a mouth, but Shane’s whole body felt tingly and hot, overstimulated in a way he had never experienced before. He could feel himself reaching the edge much too fast, and he grabbed Ilya’s hair to pull him off, but he wouldn’t budge and Shane was coming. 

Ilya kissed his way up Shane’s body to his face and said, “No mess.”

“Yeah,” Shane said breathlessly, still recovering from his orgasm. 

They laid side by side for a moment, long enough for Shane’s brain to reboot and start spinning. He looked over at Ilya and back at the ceiling. 

“You won’t tell anyone, right?” Shane asked. 

“No.”

“I know you like to chirp at the games, and that’s fine, but you can’t say anything about this.”

“Hollander, I won’t,” Ilya said firmly. 

Shane stayed silent, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t have a choice, at this point. It was already done, and he would have to trust Ilya.

“Will you suck my dick during intermission?” Ilya asked. 

“You’re such an asshole,” Shane turned to glare at him. 

“Okay, okay. Was a joke.”

They laid there a minute longer before Shane sat up and Ilya pointed him to the shower. As he finished getting dressed and put his shoes on, he paused at the door, unsure of what the proper etiquette was in this situation. Ilya stood in the doorway to his bedroom, dressed in nothing but sweatpants. 

“Bye,” Shane offered weakly and turned the door handle. 

“Hollander,” Ilya said, and Shane turned to look at him. “I will tell no one.”

“Okay,” Shane whispered, and stepped out the door. 

He didn’t see Ilya again during the All-Star weekend. He had thought about it, or maybe fantasized was a better word: he never let himself consider actually going through with it, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Ilya. 

Eventually, hockey reclaimed all of his thoughts and attention. The season was coming to an end, and the Metros had playoffs to prepare for. They made it easily through the first and second rounds, and Ilya didn’t cross his mind beyond flitting memories when Shane hurriedly tried to get himself off to ease his tension. Montreal went on to win the Cup, and Shane was elated. It had been his goal, just like every other player, to win the Cup, and he had done it. Messages flooded his phone from old teammates to family to friends. It felt like anyone who had his number texted him the night he won the Cup, except one. It didn’t matter, really, not when Shane was living his childhood dream. That text conversation, a single text from an unsaved number, was long buried in his messaging app. He didn’t let himself scroll long enough to find it. 

It was late in July when his phone lit up with a message. Shane was at the cottage, soaking in the sun and enjoying the quiet. He picked up his phone, frowning at the unknown number. 

Not bad, was all the message said. He tapped on the message to open it, willing his heart to stop beating so quickly. It could just be a random spam text, but- no, there in the text conversation was one other message from February: home now. 

Shane smiled. Impressed?, he sent back, waiting for the read receipt to appear on the screen. 

You are not the first to win, Ilya sent. Shane laughed and rolled his eyes. The league was over a century old, of course he wasn’t the first to win the Cup.

It’s harder to win it now, Shane typed. 

Yes, you do like hard, was Ilya’s reply. 

Shane put his phone face down on the table. That was too close to having any written confirmation of what had happened in Ilya’s apartment. He shouldn’t have replied in the first place, and he definitely couldn’t engage any more. Shane knew this, and somehow his fingers were back to typing five minutes later. 

Winning the Cup did nothing to lessen Shane’s competitive drive. If anything it fuelled him, now that he knew what it felt like. He was determined to win it again, to show the world that it wasn’t a fluke. Before long, it was November and he was back in Boston. He held his phone in his hands, tapping against the sides with his index fingers. Would Ilya be at the game? Would he text him?

The answer to both was yes. Shane’s fifth year in the league somehow became defined by private moments in Ilya’s apartment and texts that spanned the months between the Metros’ games in Boston. He never stayed long in Ilya’s apartment, not with the chance that his teammates would notice his absence at the hotel, but it was the only place other than the cottage where Shane felt the most himself. They didn’t talk about what they were doing, or whether they would meet again next time Shane was in town, or what it meant for Shane as a professional hockey player to be lying in another man’s bed. Ilya didn’t stop chirping him during games, or via text if he happened to watch a Metros game on television, or if he seemingly just felt the need to bother Shane. 

Ilya allowed him to explore a part of himself that could never become public. Shane could compartmentalize his life: his career was hockey, his captaincy was the backbone of the Metros, his accomplishments were shared with his parents, and his pleasure was Ilya’s. The lines were clear. 

Except when the Metros made the playoffs, and the Metros staff asked the team to provide the number of tickets each player was requesting for home games, Shane found himself typing three. But that wasn’t right. He needed two, one for David and one for Yuna. An honest mistake; Shane’s mind too occupied by the upcoming playoffs. 

The Metros didn’t win the Cup that year. They were an injured and exhausted team, and their opponents hadn’t played rough, competitive hockey into June like they had last year. Shane was disappointed but not defeated. The Metros would take the extra two months of rest to recover and be ready again next season, Shane was sure of it. 

In his sixth year, Shane was trying not to be obvious about how impatient he was to play in Boston. It had been eight months since he had last seen Ilya. Over the summer, Shane had considered finding someone local who he could hook up with, just to release some tension. Maybe it would also help reduce his dependence on Ilya, stop associating pleasure with his hands and satisfaction with those few moments in between orgasm and departing for the hotel. He gave up on the idea quickly. He wouldn’t know where to start looking or how to find someone safe and trustworthy, and the thought of it wasn’t particularly appealing anyway. 

Finally, on a Saturday in late November, Shane was in Boston. He stepped onto the ice for warmup, and then, like clockwork, he heard Ilya’s voice. 

“Still playing, Hollander? I do not think they give participation awards in this league.”

Shane turned to look at Ilya through the glass. He was sitting back in his seat, calm and nonchalant, as if Shane hadn’t been on his knees in his apartment this morning. 

(Shane had wasted no time, leaving from morning practice for Ilya’s apartment and dropping straight to his knees. Ilya had his fingers twisted in Shane’s hair, looking down at him until it became too much and he pulled Shane up and off the floor. 

“Wow, no gagging,” Ilya said with a faux-sincerity in his voice. 

“Fuck you, that was once.” 

“Bed,” was all Ilya said in reply, and Shane couldn’t argue with that.)

Before Shane could chirp Ilya back, Hayden walked down the tunnel towards the ice. Shane turned away from Ilya and moved to stretch near centre ice, Hayden joining beside him. 

“You know that guy?” Hayden asked, and panic shot through Shane like a bullet. 

“What guy?” Shane replied, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as his body felt. 

“That fuckin’ Raiders fan, the one who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“Oh. I, uh… No, I don’t know him. He’s just some fan, I guess.”

“Well, yeah, no shit. But you know the guy I mean,” Hayden gestured vaguely towards Ilya’s seat. 

“Yeah,” Shane said, fixing his gaze on the ice below him. 

“Last time we were here, he asked me if I was joining the warmup as part of Make-A-Wish,” Hayden said incredulously. 

“Fucking Boston fans, man,” Shane said, but he was smiling as he stood up from his stretch. 

“Tell me about it,” Hayden said and then looked at him. “Hey, you asshole, don’t fucking laugh!”

Shane skated away, still laughing. The Metros won the game 5-2. 

Later that night, as Shane waited to board the team plane to New York, he texted Ilya: Pike hasn’t forgiven you for a chirp last year. 

Who?, was all Ilya sent back, and Shane covered his laugh behind his hand. 

When Shane and the Metros returned to Boston in late March, it was clear that the first round of the playoffs would be the top seed Metros against the Raiders in the wildcard spot. The media was hyping up the game, positioning it as a key indicator as to who would win the playoff series in two weeks, but Shane wasn’t worried. 

It was hard to be worried about hockey when he laid spent in Ilya’s bed, catching his breath as Ilya used a tissue to wipe his own come off his stomach. Ilya had brought up fucking him once, and as much as Shane had wanted it, he had refused: he couldn’t risk not being in top form when he had a game to play that night. There was one day, last season, when they had met after a game when the Metros weren’t flying out until the next day, but Ilya hadn’t brought it up and Shane didn’t know how to. He wondered, sometimes, if Ilya would grow tired of meeting with him. It was a dumb thought. This would end eventually. But they didn’t talk about things like that. 

Shane had learned that Ilya worked full time running hockey camps for kids, that the woman he attended games with was Svetlana, that he was bisexual, that he was born in Russia but left as a teenager. But he didn’t know why he left Russia, or whether he wanted to settle down one day, or if he thought about Shane in the months between their meetings. 

That was why Shane was lying on Ilya’s bed, not worried about the hockey game or the playoffs, but about how to address… whatever it is that they’re doing. 

“We’re playing Boston in the first round this year,” Shane began hesitantly. 

“Yes,” Ilya said, still occupied with the tissue. 

“I’ll be in Boston,” Shane said. “For the playoffs.”

“Yes,” Ilya said again, but now he was looking at Shane. 

“We can’t meet during the playoffs,” Shane said quickly, looking at the ceiling. 

“No?” Ilya said. Shane couldn’t tell if he was happy about it, disappointed, or just indifferent. The possibility of indifference scared him the most. 

“I can’t be distracted. Or spending energy on anything other than hockey. And people will notice I’m gone if I disappear during the playoffs, so- uh, yeah,” Shane cut himself off, aware that he was rambling. 

“You do not need to explain,” Ilya said, still looking at him. 

“Right,” Shane said. He didn’t need to justify himself to Ilya. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. They didn’t have any relationship, really. 

He got ready to leave, feeling awkward and embarrassed. 

That night, Ilya arrived late to the game, sitting in his seat as the anthems began. 

The Raiders were aggressive; Montreal was favoured to win the series, and Boston needed a strong game to boost morale as they headed into the postseason. 

Marlow hit Shane hard into the boards, not hard enough to injure him but enough to knock the breath out of his lungs. As Shane climbed to his feet, he saw Hayden cross check Marlow, and then Korogyi was grabbing onto the back of Hayden’s jersey. The ref blew the whistle as things escalated, two guys already throwing punches. Shane grabbed onto Korogyi, pulling him off Hayden. 

“You wanna fuckin’ go with me, Hollander?” Korogyi snapped. 

“Fuck you, Korogyi,” Shane spit. “Fucking coward, grabbing him from behind.”

A linesman stepped in between Shane and Korogyi before anything could escalate further, and Shane was escorted back to the bench as the referees separated the remaining players and gathered to discuss penalties. 

“Tough guy when ref is there to hold you back, yes, Hollander?” Ilya said as Shane sat down on the bench. 

Shane glanced over at him, but Ilya was watching the refs talk at centre ice. Was Shane imagining the slight edge to his voice? Or was he projecting his own discomfort with their conversation in the apartment onto Ilya? 

Montreal won the game, but Shane felt unsettled, like there was an itch below his skin that he couldn’t quite reach. 

The feeling would follow Shane through the end of the season and into the playoffs. Shane and the Metros played well, winning the first two games in Montreal before preparing to head to Boston, but Shane returned home at night and the feeling would make itself known. He had never faced Boston in the playoffs, so he just needed to be ready to enter the familiar building in a more intense context. It was playoff hockey, not one of eighty-two regular season games.

The Metros arrived in Boston the day before the game, and Ilya didn’t text him. Montreal won the game the next night, and Ilya was quiet from his spot behind the glass. The Metros stayed in Boston, a rest day before they had a chance to sweep the Raiders in game four and move on to the next round, and Ilya didn’t text him. It was good. Shane had told him they couldn’t meet up, and Ilya was respecting that. So why did Shane keep checking his phone? 

The Metros won game four, and the Raiders were eliminated. Shane hadn’t played at his best, if he was being honest, but he got an assist and his team stepped up. After every mediocre shift, Shane sat on the bench and waited to hear whatever chirp Ilya would send his way, but nothing came. 

After the game, JJ stepped into the centre of the dressing room. 

“Osti de câlisse,” JJ swore, “we fucking did it, boys! Club tonight, all of you!”

He walked over to Shane and threw an arm around his shoulders. 

“You too, Capitaine!”

“Not tonight, JJ,” Shane sighed. 

“Come on, Shane,” JJ groaned. “You have to, we’re celebrating!”

“I played like shit out there. I’m not going to party after that.”

Shane made his way to the showers and then to his hotel room, where he sat on the end of the bed and stared at the black screen of his phone. He unlocked it and opened his messages, scrolling down through the conversations until he found one with an unsaved number. 

Are you home?, he sent. And then: Can I come over?

Yes, was all Ilya sent in return. 

Shane let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and got up to put his shoes on. Within half an hour, he was knocking on the apartment door and slipping inside as Ilya opened it. 

They stood in the front hallway for a moment, neither saying anything. Ilya’s face was unreadable. 

“Needed a distraction?” Ilya finally said. 

“Um. We’re not going back to Montreal until tomorrow. We have a bunch of days before the next series. The other teams haven’t finished their series yet, and we swept Boston, so…” Shane trailed off. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “I was there.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Sorry for winning?”

“No. I mean, kind of. Just- sorry that your team is eliminated.”

“Is okay. I don’t care that much.”

“Oh,” Shane said, and they lapsed into silence. 

He looked at Ilya, backlit by the lamp in the living room. His curls looked golden at the ends where the light came through, and his tank top revealed his muscled arms. He was still just looking at Shane. 

“Fuck me,” Shane said. 

Ilya’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move. 

“Fuck me, please,” Shane said again, and then Ilya was reaching forward to hold Shane’s face with both hands and they were kissing. 

The itch, the unsettled feeling Shane had lived with since he left this apartment in March, faded away. 

Ilya walked backwards, not letting go of Shane as he trailed his mouth down his neck and then pulled his shirt off. Before Shane realized it, he was being pushed onto the bed and Ilya was crawling on top of him to kiss him again.

Shane tugged at Ilya’s tank top, trying to pull it off, but Ilya wouldn’t move from where he was licking across Shane’s collarbone. 

“You too,” Shane whined. “Off.”

Ilya leaned back and took his tank top off before reaching for Shane’s sweatpants and underwear and pulling them off as well. He then stood to pull off his own pants, tossing them aside, and leaning over to rustle around in his bedside drawer. It felt like forever to Shane. They spent months apart, meeting for a few hours two or three times a year, but now that Ilya was right there, the distance felt unbearable. 

“Hurry up,” Shane complained. 

“Yes, I know. It has been a while, I am looking,” Ilya mumbled. 

“Ilya, come back,” Shane said, reaching out to grab his forearm and tug him closer. 

Ilya paused, body still. Then he turned back to Shane and crawled back over him. He kissed Shane gently, stroking the side of his neck. 

“Okay, okay,” Ilya whispered. “Back now.”

He kissed him again, and then he moved down, licking across the head of Shane’s dick. 

“Ilya, no,” Shane whined, pulling at Ilya’s hair. “I said fuck me.”

Ilya paused again, looking up at Shane. That was the opposite of what Shane wanted. 

“I know,” Ilya said, holding up the condom and bottle of lube in his hand. “Have you done this before?”

“Just… myself, yeah,” Shane mumbled, embarrassed. 

“Okay,” Ilya said. “Is okay, we go slow.”

He opened the bottle of lube and squeezed some on his fingers, rubbing it around to warm it up. Then one finger was prodding at Shane’s entrance and pushing in. Shane squirmed a bit - it was different than when he did it himself, Ilya’s finger thicker than he expected. 

“Relax,” Ilya whispered, taking Shane’s cock back in his mouth. 

A second finger joined the first, and then Shane felt pleasure shoot through his body as Ilya’s fingers twisted and hit the right spot. Then there was a third finger, and Shane felt like he was going to fall apart. Or maybe he was being put back together. It was like he was being hit with every sensation, countless emotions, and he didn’t want to think. All he wanted was for Ilya to take care of him.

“Good?” Ilya asked, pulling off of Shane’s dick.

“Yeah,” Shane panted. “Ilya, ‘m ready.”

Ilya didn’t reply, his eyes focused on Shane’s face. Under Ilya’s gaze, it was like Shane was known, like Shane could let himself think about what he wanted and somehow Ilya would know. 

“Ilya,” Shane said again, and then he was being kissed. 

“Makes me crazy when you say that,” Ilya groaned in between kisses. 

“Huh?” Shane mumbled, the thread of conversation lost when Ilya’s mouth was on his. 

“Are you okay? You are sure?” Ilya asked. “You owe me nothing.”

Shane’s hands were running through Ilya’s hair, transfixed by the softness. He nodded, trailing a hand down to rest on Ilya’s cheek. 

“I want you,” Shane whispered. 

“Yes,” Ilya said and kissed Shane on the neck. “And you want this?”

“Yes,” Shane whined. “I want you to fuck me. Please.”

Ilya growled something in Russian, and Shane let the sound of it wash over him, closing his eyes. He heard the sound of a condom wrapper, and he opened his eyes to see Ilya looking back at him as the blunt head of his cock lined up against Shane’s entrance. Shane nodded at Ilya, wrapping his legs around his waist and pulling him closer, and then suddenly Shane was being filled. 

He gasped, and Ilya leaned forward to kiss him sloppily on the mouth, hands pressing into Shane’s waist. 

“Okay?” Ilya whispered. 

Shane just nodded, running his hands up to hold Ilya’s shoulders as he slowly moved in and out. Everything with Ilya felt good, but this was incomparable. Ilya hovered slightly above Shane, stomach rubbing against Shane’s dick as his hips moved. Shane moaned as Ilya hit his prostate, dragging his lips along Ilya’s jaw. It felt close. Closer than they had ever been. Ilya’s eyes were intense, fixed on Shane’s face, only breaking his gaze when he leaned in to kiss Shane. 

“Ilya, gonna come,” Shane whimpered.

Ilya just kissed him again, hand reaching down to stroke Shane’s leaking dick, and then Shane couldn’t hold back any longer. Pleasure spread through his body, overwhelming and intense. He opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them, to see Ilya’s head of curls as he kissed gently along Shane’s collarbone. Shane ran his hands through Ilya’s hair, tracing a finger along the shell of his ear. 

Ilya began pulling out. He was still hard, Shane realized, and tightened his legs around Ilya’s waist to stop him. 

“No,” Shane whined. “Finish.”

Ilya looked at him before thrusting back inside, once, twice. 

“Too much?” Ilya said lowly into Shane’s ear. 

All Shane could do was shake his head and wrap his arms around Ilya’s neck. It didn’t take long before Ilya’s hips stuttered and stilled with a long moan. It was mesmerizing, how Ilya looked at him. Like Shane was all there was, all he needed. As if Shane’s face held all the answers. 

Ilya pulled out slowly, kissing Shane when he started to whine. Shane watched as he removed the condom, walked to the bathroom, and returned with warm cloth. 

Once he was done gently wiping across Shane’s stomach and between his thighs. Ilya pulled him against his shoulder, and Shane curled up against him. Suddenly, his sweat drying and breath evening out, Shane realized that he wouldn’t see Ilya again for seven months. From the spring through the summer and into October, when Shane would have to wait until the Metros played in Boston. It was too long, too long to rely on texts and memories. 

“Come visit me this summer," Shane said suddenly. "I have a cottage north of Montreal. It’s private.” 

Ilya didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he replied, “I don’t think that is a good idea.”

“Why not?” Shane asked, sitting up to look at Ilya. “I want to know you outside of this apartment. Outside of an hour or two before I have to leave.”

Ilya kept his gaze averted, and Shane felt frustration rising in his chest. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Shane said, but then he paused. Maybe it was the sex, or his unexpected visit to Ilya’s apartment, but he hadn’t stopped before asking to consider that maybe Ilya didn’t think about it. It was his first time, but it wasn’t Ilya’s. Something that meant so much to Shane, the connection he felt… Maybe it was inexperienced of him to assume Ilya felt it too. 

“Don’t throw away your career, Hollander,” Ilya finally said, still not looking at Shane. “Is not worth it.”

Shane let out a short breath and stood. Fuck. His hands trembled as he collected his clothes and began pulling them on. Fuck! Shane knew he wasn’t the most observant when it came to social cues, but how could he have read this so wrong?

Pulling his shirt over his head, he stepped into the bedroom doorway and paused before turning around. Ilya was sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes trained on the floor. 

Shane took a breath, trying to blink the tears out of his eyes. He willed his voice not to betray his emotions as he said, “If you don’t want this, then just tell me that.”

Finally, Ilya looked at Shane, but there was nothing left in his gaze from how he had looked at Shane as he climaxed. Had it really only been minutes since then? It felt like that moment was a lifetime ago. 

“I will not let this ruin everything,” Ilya said, face unreadable. 

Shane nodded stiffly and left the bedroom, sliding on his shoes at the door and walking out. He climbed down the stairs, his mind spinning, and took a shaky breath in as he stepped outside into the mild April air. He moved automatically, feet taking him down the street before shaking hands pulled out his phone. A message from JJ, texting him the address of the club in case he changed his mind. Messages from Hayden, asking him if he’s okay or wants to order food. The group chat with his parents, full of messages from Yuna about the game and a congratulatory message from David. 

Shane didn’t open any of them. Instead, he scrolled down to see the conversation with an unsaved number. No new messages. 

Of course there weren’t any. Shane rubbed his eyes and closed his messaging app, fingers moving numbly to request a taxi to pick him up. Riding back to the hotel, Shane found himself going back to his text conversation with Ilya. Maybe Ilya had messaged him, maybe Shane had missed the notification, maybe- no, no new messages. 

“Fuck,” Shane whispered to himself. 

He couldn’t be doing this right now. He had playoffs to focus on, a team to lead, and a Cup to win. He should’ve listened to himself when he told Ilya they couldn’t meet during the playoffs, that he couldn’t be distracted. With still shaking hands, Shane blocked the unsaved number. No messages would come through now. Nothing for Shane to think about; no uncertainty, no wondering, and no more distractions. 

Shane threw himself into hockey. He rewatched games against Toronto, who they would face in the second round, and he spurred the Metros into disciplined practice. Shane scored five goals in the second round as Montreal eliminated Toronto in six games. 

“Video review meeting tomorrow morning,” Shane called out as the Metros filed into the dressing room after their victory. He ignored the mumbling of a few teammates and focused on removing his equipment. 

“You doing okay, Shane?” Hayden asked, trying to keep a casual note in his voice. 

“I’m fine. Great, really,” Shane said. “We won, and now we need to get ready to win again in the Eastern Conference Final.”

“We have a few days before we play Tampa,” Hayden said hesitantly. “You fucking killed it against Toronto. I think it’s okay to take a break.”

“Thanks, Hayd, but I can’t get complacent.”

Shane knew his teammates wanted to celebrate, and he’d give them tonight to do that. But he wouldn’t let them - or himself - get distracted from their goal. 

It was worth it in the end, Shane told himself as he lifted the Cup above his head. The arena in Montreal was electric: fans screaming, helmets and gloves scattered across the ice, teammates celebrating. Shane was swept up in the revelry, with his parents coming onto the ice alongside the other families to hug him, and teammates dragging him out to a club until morning. 

When he finally stepped into his house, he toed off his shoes and sat down on the couch. The silence felt deafening. 

Shower. That was the next task. After the shower, he needed to drink some water. It felt cool running down his throat, so he filled up his glass and drank more. Then food. He took leftover chicken and pasta out of his fridge and ate it without bothering to heat it up. Now… Now, he needed to sleep. Eighty-two regular season games, three months of playoffs. He needed to sleep for days, probably. 

Yet when he settled in his bed, he felt like he was missing something. It was empty. Empty in his house, empty without a goal driving him forward. He wanted to win again next year, of course, and he would be training through the summer to make it happen, but the urgency and adrenaline were gone. He grabbed his phone off his bedside table and paused at the hundreds of texts he’d received since the game had ended. His thumb hovered over his messaging app for a moment, before tapping on his audiobook app. He didn’t know who had messaged him, but he could check tomorrow. He already knew who couldn’t message him, anyway. 

The next day started the way all Shane’s summers did. He woke up, drove to the cottage, and busied himself with cleaning the dusty rooms that had sat unused since last summer. He swam, his parents visited for dinner, and he found himself back in his bed. This time, without the bone-deep exhaustion of playing in the Cup final, Shane laid awake. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his text conversations, finally unable to stop himself. Opening the conversation with Ilya without hesitating, Shane unblocked the number and tapped in the message bar to begin typing. 

Suddenly, he paused. The blinking cursor stared back at him. What was he even going to say? Beg Ilya to reconsider? Yell at him? Pretend nothing had happened that night? It was all ridiculous. Shane had already humiliated himself that night in April, he didn’t need a repeat performance. He exited out of the conversation and placed his phone down on his beside table. 

Three days later on Sunday, the Metros held their Cup parade through the streets of Montreal. Shane waved at the fans as he tried to smile and enjoy the celebration, even accepting a beer from a drunk JJ. He accepted a second beer from Hayden, who slung his arm around Shane’s shoulders and sprayed beer from his own can over the crowd. The alcohol only made him sink deeper into his strange melancholy, so he spent the rest of the parade avoiding JJ’s enthusiasm and Hayden’s concerned gaze. As the parade ended at City Hall, Shane stepped up the mic and did his best to keep the mood up with his speech. It was nothing creative: thanking the fans and his parents, applauding his teammates for their hard work, acknowledging all of the Metros staff behind the scenes, and promising to do it all again next year. JJ stepped up after to give a much more colourful speech, and Shane was happy to clap and fade into the background. 

He was dragged to a bar after, unable to find an excuse that would satisfy the team, but as soon as he could escape, Shane snuck away into the bathroom and locked himself into a stall. Finally alone, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He stood there for a few minutes to try and gather up whatever last energy he had to make it at least another hour, but he couldn’t. He was tired. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to text Hayden that he was leaving, but he quickly forgot everything when he saw a message from an unsaved number. Shane’s hands trembled as he opened the message. 

I am happy you got what you wanted. Truly. Congratulations on the Cup. 

Shane’s chin quivered as he read and reread the message. Is that what Ilya thought, that Shane was happy now? That he would be happy to see an impersonal text from Ilya, as if he was sending a corporate email? 

“Fuck you,” Shane hissed at his phone. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and reached for the stall door, but then he paused and took his phone out again. 

The message was still there. 

He pocketed his phone again and stormed out of the washroom. He ignored the team still celebrating at the bar, but as he stepped outside, he felt a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, Shane,” Hayden said. “You okay, buddy?”

“I’m fucking fine,” Shane said without turning around. “I’m going home. I’m tired. You guys have fun.”

He shrugged Hayden’s hand off and began walking down the street. That night, lying in bed, Shane found himself staring at the text until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. 

The next morning, Shane woke up determined. He unplugged his phone, ignoring the unanswered message from Ilya, and emailed a member of the Metros’ administration. 

Two weeks later, it was Shane’s day with the Cup. He met the Metros staff in a meeting room of a children’s hospital in Montreal, and he spent the morning letting the kids take pictures with the Cup and signing autographs. Then, in the afternoon, he took the Cup to the local rink sponsored by the Metros’ foundation, where the lucky winners of a charity raffle lined up to meet him and take pictures with the Cup.

Shane was glad to do it, but as he sat down in his plane seat that evening, he felt exhausted. The keeper of the Cup, who travelled everywhere with it, sat down beside him. 

“Can’t say this is where I thought we’d be going,” the keeper said conversationally. 

Shane smiled awkwardly and replied, “Yeah, me neither. It’s for charity, though.”

Shane hadn’t expected to be doing this either, but it was too late to turn back. Before long, the plane landed in Boston, and Shane spent the night in his hotel room worrying. His stress only intensified the next morning as the league’s car took him to a local arena. He checked the charity’s online schedule twice during the drive, terrified he had somehow mixed up the dates and his plan would be pointless. 

“Don’t worry,” the keeper said from beside him. “The kids are always happy to see the Cup, even though you are a Metro.”

Shane gave him a tight-lipped smile as the car parked. They were shuffled into a back room, and Shane was reminded of the last time he was here. He tied his skates, focusing on methodically tightening the laces, and then pulled on the charity’s track jacket. 

His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest as he walked down the tunnel while holding the Cup awkwardly in front of him. When he stepped out onto the ice, he heard skate blades coming to a stop and children’s voices echoing through the arena, but all Shane could see was Ilya. 

He looked the same, which was silly, really, because of course he did. It had only been a few months since Shane had last saw him. Ilya’s mouth dropped open, staring at Shane from across the ice with wide eyes. For the first time, he didn’t have a witty remark or chirp; Shane felt a sliver of smugness cut through some of his nerves. 

Then there were gloved hands reaching up at him as the campers asked to touch the Cup. Shane forced his eyes away from Ilya, though he couldn’t stop himself glancing over. 

“Wow, Shane Hollander is here to show off,” Ilya said, but his voice was rough as he tried to seem nonchalant. 

Shane tried to ignore the warmth in his chest as he heard Ilya say his name. He couldn’t get ahead of himself, not when he didn’t know whether Ilya was even happy to see him. 

He couldn’t tell if any of the kids at the camp were the same ones he had seen on his visit years ago, but he doubted it. It was weird, probably, that he was in Boston with the Cup as the Ottawa-born captain of the Montreal Metros. It was for charity. At least, that’s what he told the Metros administration and the league when he begged for an extra day with the Cup. It was all for charity, and definitely not for Shane’s personal benefit. 

He didn’t get a chance to talk to Ilya as the kids swarmed him. He helped kids hold the trophy over their head as they skated around the rink and other campers threw their gloves in the air as if they just won the championship. He pretended to lose as one kid declared he had to fight Shane to restore the Raiders’ honour, and he shook parents’ hands as they arrived to pick up their kids at the end of the day. 

Finally, finally, the last kid left and Shane was alone with Ilya. 

“Can we talk?” Shane whispered, unable to make his voice come out naturally. 

“Yes,” Ilya replied. “My apartment?”

Shane nodded. He wished he could read Ilya’s expression, to understand what was going through his head when he looked at Shane. 

It would have to wait. The charity staff called him over to thank him, and the league staff began carefully packing up the Cup. An hour of pleasantries passed before Shane excused himself to return to his hotel, except as soon as he slid into the taxi, he told the driver Ilya’s address instead. When he arrived, he tried not to dwell on what happened last time he was here. He took a deep breath in the stairwell and stepped out onto Ilya’s floor, knocking on his door. 

Then Ilya pulled the door open, and they were standing face to face, alone in the entryway of Ilya’s apartment. Shane swallowed as he heard the door close behind him. 

“I got your text,” Shane said, and then regretted it. What a stupid way to open the conversation. 

“Yes, I noticed that one was sent,” Ilya said mildly.

“Shit. Sorry for, uh, blocking you. I just… I was kind of having a meltdown.”

“Is fine. I get it. I did not mean anything bad.”

“Right. Still, I’m sorry.”

Ilya watched him for a moment before walking further into the apartment and sitting down on the couch. Shane followed after a second, sitting on the other side of the couch and placing his hands in his lap. 

“Me too,” Ilya said. When Shane looked at him, confused, he continued: “I think… maybe I didn’t explain very well, that night. Was a bit harsh.”

Shane took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. 

“I know I already asked- I mean, I guess I kind of implied it, but… Answer honestly, okay?”

Ilya didn’t reply; he fiddled with his necklace and just looked at Shane. 

“Do you want to be with me?” Shane finally blurted out in one breath. 

Ilya sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. 

“People will find out,” Ilya said. 

Shane waited for more, but Ilya said nothing. 

“Yeah, probably. One day,” Shane said. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Hollander-,” Ilya began, but Shane lost his patience. 

“Don’t call me that, like I’m just some player on the ice,” Shane spat. 

“You said it, you said not to tell,” Ilya replied, voice raised. “And I get it, so what are we doing? People will find out.”

“I know that! And I know trying to… be together in secret wouldn’t be easy. But do you not even want to try?” Shane said, hating how his voice wobbled at the end. 

Ilya looked at him, pained. 

“You will lose more than I can ever give you, if they find out,” Ilya whispered. 

Shane’s mouth fell open, all of the anger and frustration draining out of his body. 

“You don’t know what would happen, Ilya,” Shane said gently, grabbing Ilya’s hand. “And if I lose hockey because I’m in a relationship with a man, it would be hard, but it would be worth it. You would be worth it.”

Ilya swallowed but didn’t pull his hand away. He kept his gaze somewhere off into his apartment and resolutely not on Shane. 

“People would be talking about you, too, if it went public,” Shane said quietly, trying to figure out what was running through Ilya’s head. “They’d want to find out who you are. I get it, if you don’t want to risk that.”

Ilya waved a hand in the air. 

“I don’t care about that,” he said firmly. “I said goodbye to Russia a long time ago.”

“Then what?”

Shane looked at Ilya, his curls and his handsome face and how good he made Shane feel and how gentle he was and his sharp sense of humour and how patient he was with kids and- Shane sighed. Ilya still didn’t say anything. 

“I think,” Shane began slowly, “if I’m right, and we both want this - want us - and if you feel what I feel, then it would be worth anything to have more than this with you. To at least try.”

Ilya’s lower lip quivered, and Shane squeezed his hand. 

“Do you want to try? Try to be together?” Shane said quietly. 

It was quiet for a moment. 

“Shane,” Ilya said wetly. “So much.”

Shane breathed out and grabbed Ilya’s other hand too. 

“Then be with me,” Shane said desperately. “Spend time with me this summer.”

Ilya nodded and used Shane’s grip on his hands to pull him into a hug. Shane kissed his cheek and wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck. 

The next morning, Shane woke up in Ilya’s bed. He turned to see Ilya watching him as he ran gentle fingers across Shane’s cheekbones and nose. Shane smiled, kissing Ilya’s fingers as they trailed across his lips. 

“The cottage sounds fun, I think,” Ilya said. 

Shane propped himself up to kiss Ilya, first on the cheek and then on the mouth. Two hours later, Ilya had a plane ticket for the following week. 

As Ilya finally stepped into his cottage, Shane followed behind him. 

“Wow,” Ilya said as he looked around. “Mr. Businessman does like real estate after all.”

Shane rolled his eyes but his smile gave him away. 

“I’m not a businessman,” Shane replied. “My mom does everything for my contracts, anyway.”

Ilya just hummed and stepped towards Shane, his fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants. Soon, their clothes were off, Shane led them to his bedroom, and Ilya had them both in his hand. It was hard to believe that they were here, that Ilya was kissing him in his cottage, that he could see Ilya in the summer light. Shane had seen him two weeks ago in Boston, and yet he felt desperate for his touch. They agreed to try, but Shane knew that he was already past just trying. They would have to get used to sharing space and communicating better, and Shane was dedicated to making it work. 

“Shane,” Ilya groaned as he came, and Shane came not long after. 

They laid in the bed, legs tangled and Ilya’s head resting on Shane’s shoulder. As the afternoon light flooded the bedroom, they enjoyed the comfort of knowing they had time. 

“We’re going to do more than sex before you have to go back to work,” Shane said. 

“Mm, do not remind me.”

“I think you’ll like it here.”

“I like you,” Ilya said softly, leaning up to leave kisses along Shane’s neck and jaw. 

The next day, Shane made good on his word and brought Ilya down to the lake. 

“It is deep?” Ilya asked as he stood on the dock.

“Yeah, pretty deep. But there aren’t many weeds.”

A big splash made Shane whip around from where he was placing their towels. Ilya surfaced in the lake, laughing when he saw Shane’s face. 

“Come swim,” Ilya said. “It will help with your diving on the ice.”

“You’re an asshole,” Shane laughed. “I don’t dive!”

“Mm, yes. It must be the wind that knocks you over when Marlow skates by.”

“Always a Raiders fan, eh? Even when you’re at my cottage,” Shane said as he stepped in the water along the shore and began wading in. 

“Not really,” Ilya shrugged. “Svetlana has season’s tickets. Her dad, he was their goalie. I just go with her.”

Shane looked up from his feet, where he was carefully watching his step as he made his way across the rocky lake floor towards Ilya.  

“You go to a lot of games for someone who’s just tagging along.”

“Yes, well, you are very slow getting in here,” Ilya replied and splashed water at Shane. 

“It’s cold!” Shane yelled and Ilya laughed. 

“Anyway,” Ilya continued as Shane arrived in front of him. “I wanted to see someone there.”

Shane blinked the lake water out of his eyes and looked at Ilya, shirtless and smiling in the summer sun.   

“I wanted to see you too, Ilya,” Shane replied. 

Ilya groaned and leaned in to kiss Shane, a quick press of mouths at first and then deeper. 

“Is still crazy hearing you say that,” Ilya said as they parted. 

“Saying what?” 

“My name,” Ilya said and kissed him again. 

Shane kissed him back for a moment and leaned back to ask, “Crazy like weird?”

“No, not weird. I like it too much.”

“Okay,” Shane said, lifting a hand to stroke Ilya’s cheek softly. “I’ll say it often. I just didn’t know what to call you, back then. You always called me Hollander.”

Ilya shrugged. “That was easier, at first. I like Shane more.”

“Me too,” Shane said. 

That evening, they returned to the dock once the sun had gone down. The stars were bright over the lake without any city lights to hide their shine. Shane shifted closer to Ilya, leaning his head on his shoulder and pulling the blanket around them. 

“I think-,” Ilya said suddenly, before stopping. Shane laced his fingers between Ilya’s and waited quietly. 

“I think I am bad at making good decisions. But I made the right one. With you.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Ilya,” Shane said. And then, after a moment: “Do you regret leaving Russia?”

“No. I miss my country, sometimes. But I could not stay. My father, he was very ill and very mean. Mean to my mother, most often.” 

Shane just squeezed Ilya’s hand. 

“She died too young. Suicide,” Ilya continued. He looked at the stars and tried to kept his voice casual, but Shane could feel a slight tremor in his hands. 

“Ilya,” Shane whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“She was a good mother. I would have stayed, for her. But after… it was too hard. I stopped playing hockey and left. I think… maybe she would be disappointed in me. If she knew.”

Shane tightened the blanket around them and shook his head. 

“She wouldn’t,” Shane said firmly. “You left to take care of yourself. That’s really brave. And what you do now, with the kids at the camp, that means more than any pro hockey player. I’m really proud of you.”

“Hm,” Ilya said, lifting their hands to kiss the back of Shane’s. “I think the kids like you more.”

“Impossible. It’s just more surprising when I show up. And even then, somehow you still turn them against me.”

Ilya laughed, and the sound made Shane smile. 

In Shane’s seventh year of professional hockey, he was still determined to win. The Metros had won twice with Shane on the team, and he wanted a third: they could win back-to-back and fully establish a dynasty. Just like every year, when the Metros played in Boston, the same Raiders fan chirped him from behind the glass. This year, like years before, he went back to Ilya’s apartment and spent precious hours in his arms. 

Except, this year, he also met Svetlana. She was kind to him, flirting a bit over dinner to make Ilya huff and scold her in rapid Russian. This year was also different, because sometimes Ilya chirped him from the stands in Montreal. He refused to openly cheer for Shane; he said it was to keep their relationship subtle in public, but Shane knew he just liked to tease him. And after those games, Ilya would use his spare key to meet him in the car in the back parking lot so they could drive back to Shane’s apartment together. Ilya was probably right: they would get caught, someday. Maybe one day, Shane would make it a big announcement, but for now, he was happy just to spend as much time with Ilya as he wanted. 

On one notable evening in Ottawa, Shane met Ilya in the airport the night before his game and brought him to his parents’ house. They were surprised, but Ilya charmed them before the evening was over. Seeing Ilya sitting in the Ottawa arena in an old Centaurs jersey that he borrowed from David was confusing. Shane loved it anyway. 

At the end of Shane’s seventh year, he won the Cup once again, this time with Ilya in attendance. After the game, the Metros complained as Shane ditched the party after a hour, but he had better things to do. Summer, which had always meant rest and quiet for Shane, was now busy. It was full of Ilya: Ilya meeting Hayden who hadn’t forgotten or forgiven Ilya’s antics at Raiders games, launching the Irina Foundation with Ilya, helping Ilya move into his apartment once he quit his job in Boston.

Things were different again in Shane’s eighth year. Boston would always be significant to him: the Raiders were one of his team’s biggest rivals, and it was also where he fell in love with Ilya. Now, Ilya was busy with the foundation in Montreal, and Shane had nowhere to sneak away to before the game. He loved coming home to Ilya and hearing about what silliness he and the kids at the hockey camp got up to, but it was strange to be in Boston without him. 

As he walked down the tunnel towards the ice, he could see the blue sleeve of a Metros jersey in Ilya’s seat behind the glass. At least Svetlana had invited a Montreal fan in Ilya’s absence. 

When Shane stepped on the ice and turned to greet Svetlana, he came to a sudden halt. 

In the stands beside the visitor bench, like he was every year, Ilya sat with a smirk on his face. For the first time, unlike any other year, Ilya wore a Metros jersey with his number on the arm. Shane must’ve looked like an idiot, standing on the ice and staring into the crowd while his teammates warmed up behind him. 

Ilya stood up and turned, fingers pulling up the jersey fabric on his shoulders to show off the back. Shane’s mouth fell open. 

Above the large number twenty-four, Mr. Businessman was stitched into the nameplate in block letters where Hollander should have been. Shane couldn’t believe what he was looking at. He spent the rest of the game ignoring Ilya’s calls of “Mr. Businessman” and trying to hide his smile. 

After the game, as Shane laid with Ilya in Svetlana’s guest room, a message from Hayden came in. 

I can’t believe he paid for that custom jersey, the text said, followed by a link. 

Shane opened the link and stared at the photo, seemingly taken by a fan on the other side of the arena: Ilya’s back was proudly showing off his jersey, Svetlana was laughing in the seat beside him, and Shane stood on the ice, forehead leaning against the stick in his hand as his other hand rubbed his glove over his face. 

Ilya looked over Shane's shoulder at his phone and burst into laughter when he saw the photo. 

“Fuck off, Ilya. It’s not funny,” Shane complained. 

“Mm, I think it is a little bit funny,” Ilya said. 

Shane tried to keep a stern look on his face, but he melted when Ilya kissed his forehead. 

Before his next game, Shane stepped out of the dressing room to give a pregame interview. When the interviewer asked him about his new nickname around the league, Shane just sighed and shook his head.