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“Get off of me.”
“Shh- Shane, its okay,”
“No, get off of me.”
“Mmm”
“Please, please just-”
“Shhhh…”
Shane shut up.
Shane did not play his best, like the coach had promised he would. If anything, Shane is pretty sure he played the worst game of his life. Nothing felt right out there. His legs were heavy, his timing off, every decision a half-second too late. Even the familiar, comfortable rivalry with Ilya being on the ice hadn’t grounded him the way it usually did. Instead of pushing him forward, it only made the mistakes feel louder.
Now Shane finds himself in the bathroom, alone.
He’s hunched over the sink, hands gripping the porcelain hard enough that his knuckles ache, staring at his own reflection without really seeing it. His eyes burn. His throat is tight. He doesn’t want to go back into the locker room. Doesn’t want to face the noise, the looks, the unspoken disappointment. Doesn’t want to face anyone at all.
The door opens behind him.
Someone slips inside quickly, the door shutting just as fast, the sound sharp in the too-quiet room.
“Hollander.”
Shane sniffles, shoulders tense, still not looking up. “Rozanov.”
“You sad I beat you?” Ilya says, his voice light, almost amused, like this is just another part of their routine.
“No.”
“Yes,” Ilya replies easily. “Why else you cry?”
“I’m not crying.” Shane’s voice cracks on the lie.
He hears footsteps approach, slow and deliberate, until Ilya is close enough that Shane can feel his presence at his back. “You play like shit.”
“I know.” The words fall out of Shane, flat and hollow, like he’s already given up defending himself.
An arm comes around his back. Shane stiffens immediately, instinctively bracing, but Ilya doesn’t let go. He doesn’t push, either. He just stays there, solid and warm.
“Shane,” Ilya says, quieter now. “What is wrong?”
Something in his tone—concern, real concern—shatters whatever fragile control Shane had left. A broken sound tears out of him, deep and raw, and then he’s sobbing in earnest, his body folding in on itself as if it can’t hold the weight anymore. His forehead drops toward the sink, his shoulders shaking violently.
Ilya freezes for a heartbeat, then reacts, pulling Shane closer, tightening his hold like he’s afraid Shane might fall apart completely if he lets go. One hand comes up to Shane’s face, clumsy but gentle, wiping at tears that won’t stop spilling over.
“It’s okay,” Ilya murmurs, no teasing left at all. “I got you.”
Shane can’t answer. He just cries, breath hitching and chest aching, while Ilya holds him there in the quiet bathroom, not asking for explanations, not letting him go.
“Ilya—I just—” Shane hiccupped through the words, breath stuttering painfully in his chest. “I don’t know—” He couldn’t even finish the thought, his voice collapsing in on itself.
Ilya’s hands moved instinctively, rubbing slow, steady paths up and down Shane’s sides, grounding, familiar. Shane tensed immediately, every muscle locking up on reflex.
“Hey,” Ilya said softly, adjusting but not pulling away. “It’s okay—”
“No, it’s not okay!” Shane suddenly wrenched himself out of Ilya’s grip, spinning away so fast his shoulder clipped the counter. “Why do people keep saying that—” His voice broke completely, the rest of the sentence dissolving into another sob as he bent back over the sink, hands braced hard against the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Ilya stared at him for a moment, stunned, then stepped closer again, slower this time, careful. “Shane,” he said, voice low, steady. “You had bad game. We all have bad games.”
“It’s not—” Shane dragged his hands down his face, smearing tears and sweat together, breathing hard. He felt Ilya’s touch again, this time light, settling at his shoulders like a question instead of an anchor. “That isn’t why.”
Ilya went still.
The bathroom felt smaller somehow, the hum of the lights louder. “Then why?” Ilya asked quietly, no judgment, no teasing. Just concern.
“I can’t… I can’t tell anyone, Ilya.” Shane’s voice was barely there, fraying with every word, like if he pushed any harder it would snap completely.
Ilya frowned, frustration flashing hot and quick before settling into something sharper, more focused. “This bullshit,” he said, blunt but not unkind. “You can tell me.”
“No, Ilya!” Shane choked, shaking his head hard. “I just can’t!”
Ilya stilled. His voice dropped, careful now. “Someone say something to you?”
Shane didn’t answer right away. He just sniffled, shoulders hitching, then turned back into Ilya like his body had made the decision for him. He buried his face against Ilya’s shoulder, breath uneven, hands clutching weakly at the front of his jersey.
Ilya’s arms came up automatically, holding him, solid and protective. “Okay,” he murmured. “Okay. I got you.”
Then a thought crossed his face.
“Someone hit you?”
Shane went very still.
Ilya pulled back just enough to look at him, concern sharpening into something dangerous. His eyes scanned quickly, methodically, like he was back on the ice reading a play. He checked Shane’s arms through the fabric, his shoulders, his face. He tilted Shane’s head gently, eyes flicking to his ears, his jaw.
And then his gaze caught on Shane’s neck.
Red. Angry. Irritated. The skin looked tender, mottled in a way that didn’t come from equipment or sweat. It looked like fingerprints. Like pressure.
Ilya’s hand hovered, not touching, like he was afraid to make it worse. His jaw tightened hard.
“Shane,” he said quietly, the humor completely gone, accent thicker with restraint. “This is not from hockey.”
Shane swallowed, his throat working. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look up either.
The bathroom felt suffocatingly silent.
Ilya exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm, even as something fierce coiled in his chest. He slipped one hand back to Shane’s upper back, firm, grounding, while the other stayed deliberately away from his neck.
“Shane.”
The way Ilya said his name this time was different. Quieter. Careful. Like he was standing on thin ice and knew one wrong step would crack it.
For a second, it was almost like Shane forgot how to speak at all.
Having Ilya here was one thing. Having him see was another. Having him understand—or get close to it—made his chest feel too tight to breathe. His mouth opened, closed. Nothing came out.
“I’m sorry,” Shane finally whispered, the words breaking apart as soon as they left him. “I didn’t—” His voice cracked hard, tears spilling fresh. “I didn’t mean to—”
Ilya frowned, confusion knitting his brows. “Shane, why you sorry?” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to realign the pieces. “Someone grabbed you. Why are you sorry? To me?”
Shane squeezed his eyes shut.
“Ilya—I— I let—” He sucked in a shaky breath, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “I let it happen, Ilya.”
The air in the room shifted.
Ilya went very still. “You let someone hit you?”
“No,” Shane said quickly, panicked. “Well—yeah, but not that. Not—” He scrubbed at his face, frustrated, ashamed. “Not like that.”
“You let someone…?” Ilya repeated slowly.
And then it clicked.
The memory hit him all at once: Shane showing up late to the rink, skating out beside the coach instead of with the team. The way his shoulders had been hunched, his eyes unfocused. How he’d looked rattled even before the puck dropped. Ilya had noticed—he always noticed—but he’d told himself it was nerves. Pressure. Nothing more.
Now Shane was crying in a bathroom, apologizing for something that had been done to him.
Ilya’s jaw tightened.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t explode the way everyone probably expected him to. Instead, he stepped closer again, slow and deliberate, and placed his hands firmly but gently on Shane’s arms, making sure Shane could see them.
“You did not let this happen,” Ilya said, each word measured. “You did not choose it.”
Shane shook his head weakly. “I didn’t stop it.”
Ilya leaned in just enough that Shane had to look at him. “That is not same thing.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Shane’s shoulders shook, but he didn’t pull away. He stayed there, caught, like some part of him wanted to believe Ilya.
Ilya softened his grip, thumbs pressing reassuringly into Shane’s sleeves. “Listen to me,” he said quietly. “You do not owe anyone pain. You do not owe silence. And you do not owe apologies for surviving something.”
Shane let out a broken sound, half-sob, half-breath, and finally sagged forward again, forehead resting against Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya held him without hesitation this time, one hand steady at Shane’s back, the other braced at his side like a promise.
“You are safe right now,” he murmured. “I am here.”
And for the first time since the game ended, Shane didn’t argue.
They spent the weekend together at the cottage.
It was quiet there in a way Shane wasn’t used to. No rink noise, no voices bleeding through walls, no expectations pressing in from every direction. Just trees, the lake, and the steady creak of the old place settling around them.
Shane took four showers by two in the afternoon.
Ilya noticed. Of course he did.
The first time, Shane didn’t say anything. He just disappeared down the hallway, shoulders tight, eyes unfocused. When he came back, his hair was still damp, skin pink from the heat, jaw clenched like he was bracing for something.
Ilya didn’t comment.
The second time, Shane muttered something about feeling gross. The third, he didn’t offer an explanation at all. By the fourth, the water had been running long enough that steam crept down the hallway and Ilya found himself listening to the sound of it more than he should have.
He never told Shane to stop.
Instead, Ilya left clean towels folded on the chair outside the bathroom. He turned the heat up a little. He made sure there was always a glass of water waiting on the counter when Shane came out, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Shane emerged from the last shower wrapped tight in a hoodie, damp hair curling at his temples. He looked smaller somehow, like the effort of holding himself together was exhausting him.
“You okay?” Ilya asked, gently, from the couch.
Shane hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug. “I think so.”
Ilya nodded, accepting the answer for what it was worth. He patted the space beside him. Shane sat, careful not to touch at first, until the silence stretched too long and his shoulder drifted closer on its own.
Ilya stayed still. Let him set the pace.
They sat like that for a while, the lake visible through the window, the world moving slow outside. When Shane finally leaned his head against Ilya’s shoulder, it felt less like giving in and more like exhaling.
Ilya didn’t say anything. He just stayed.
For now, that was enough.