Work Text:
Shane first learns Russian long before he knows Ilya. He is born a hockey fan, dedicated enough to watch the post-game interviews even when he didn't really understand what was being talked about all the time.
There were Russian players in the league then too and he quickly picked up да, нет, and спасибо [yes, no, thank you] when they forgot to, or chose not to, translate their answers.
Блять he learns from games as the emotion you feel when the opposing team gets a penalty. It was something Russians shouted in frustration when a Canadian would say 'fuck'. It's years before he learns it's closer to the literal translation of 'whore'.
The first word he sets out to learn is привет [hi] and he learns it for Ilya after seeing him play at practice in Regina when they are 17.
He didn't need it, or the more appropriate but impossible to pronounce Здравствуйте, because Ilya had been rude but perfectly fluent in English.
He didn't really need many words at all when he was with Ilya so he doesn't learn any more Russian until Ilya hoists his first Stanley Cup.
Ilya shouts something to the camera with shining eyes as he lifts the cup over his head and it takes Shane hours to translate it. He plays a clip of the moment over and over until he's memorised it and then learns the Russian alphabet to try and sound out the words.
It's hopeless. The only words he gets are the first and last- я and мама. [I, mom] From context he can only guess that Ilya is telling his mom that he won. It makes Shane smile that such a cocky brash man could still be a mama's boy.
Years later, when Ilya tells him she died when he was a child he remembers that moment so clearly and his heart breaks for the boy in Ilya that had to get this far all in his own.
The next words Shane learns in Russian aren't for Ilya. They have a new Russian rookie on the Metros and his skating skills are unquestionable but he's not clicking with his line. Shane knows it will just take time for Vasilev to learn the cues that his new teammates use but the kid is getting hassled every practice. He steps in before the others can isolate him any further and asks for the calls Vasilev is used to.
It's almost second nature to Shane in a few weeks to speak in Russian when he taps his stick for the puck instead of calling 'here'. That's why in his next game against Boston, when he's in the middle of a clash with Ilya he says 'уронить' [drop].
He's only expecting Ilya to lose focus for a second, just long enough to steal the puck off of him.
Instead Ilya listens. He does exactly what the call asks for, leaving the puck as he continues skating forward, ready for it to be picked up by the teammate behind.
Only it's not a teammate behind. It's Shane.
It all happens very quickly and to anyone else it will just look like Ilya lost control for a millisecond and Shane stole the puck from between his legs. But Shane knows Ilya's playing and he knows Ilya dropped the puck to him. He turns sharply, heading back to the goal he's aiming for and Ilya is back on the attack almost immediately, cursing his bloodline when Shane gets the puck off to a teammate before he can catch up.
Ilya plays like a man possessed for the rest of the game, scoring three goals and ending up in the box just as many times. All of Shane's team are commenting on it.
"What did you say to him, Hollander?" JJ asks because it's clear when the switch happened.
Shane could tell the truth. He'd learnt the Russian for entirely non-Rosanov reasons and as his rival it would be expected that he used whatever weakness he could to get under Ilya's skin. It would be useful for the whole team to know if there was something that could throw Ilya Rosanov off his game as well as the chirps he dished out to others.
"Uh, nothing," Shane said. "I mean, I called him a bastard when he checked me but I think he's just mad I got the puck from behind him."
That night, Ilya didn't let Shane move an inch of his own will. He has Shane pressed against the wall the moment he was through the door, and then shoves him to the bed and crawls on top of him.
He looks angry- no, frustrated -but instead of punching someone Ilya was pressing Shane's hands above his head and focusing on giving him the best orgasm of his life.
That, of itself, is not that strange. Ilya always takes the reins when they're together and Shane happily floats in his care. He's been in this exact position more than once before, but Ilya has never looked so crazed, has never spoken exclusively in Russian.
He isn't completely incomprehensible. Shane heara his own surname a lot and блять, я, and тебя [fuck, I, you] in the flood of words so he knows Ilya is talking about them, through he doesn't know if it is commentary on their current activity, related to what happened on the ice earlier, or something else entirely.
It isn't like there's a wall between them either. Shane might not understand much of the Russian but when he says 'your shirt' Ilya unbuttoned it instantly. When he says 'faster' Ilya goes faster.
'Did I mess with your head?' he asks, hands still pinned, being rocked at the pace he likes, too slow for Ilya. He would love to put his hand in Ilya's hair and pull him down for a kiss but Ilya isn't letting him.
"Блять, Hollander," Ilya replies breathlessly. "Да." This is followed by another string of incomprehensible Russian and then Ilya leans down enough for Shane to stretch his neck up and kiss him.
Ilya looks pained and strung out but he still made sure Shane finished first, tumbling after him before collapsing on top of him.
Shane regains clarity faster than he normally does and pulls his hands out of Ilya's loose grip to stroke his bright curls.
"You ok?" he murmurs when Ilya moves.
Ilya takes a deep breath and then let it out slowly.
"I am ok," he answers in thick English.
Shane guides his head up and kisses Ilya slowly, the way he himself craved it sometimes.
"What happened on the ice?" Shane asks softly when he pulled away. "You gave me the puck."
Ilya buries his face in Shane's neck with a groan. "Mistake."
"You thought I was a Boston player?" Shane asks incredulously.
He'd checked Ilya into the boards just before he dropped the puck. There had been nobody else around them and, sure, Ilya was a bit of a puck hog but he normally knew where his forwards were.
"Нет," Ilya says and rolls off of Shane to loosely curl into his side. He sounds disgusted that Shane would question his game like that. He wasn't being very forthcoming otherwise though so Shane didn't feel too bad.
"So you knew I was Montreal and you passed to me anyway?"
"I knew it was you," Ilya says, pressing a finger into Shane's sternum. "I was not thinking enough hockey and when you ask, I do thing."
He gestures down their bodies and Shane realises with horror what Ilya is implying.
"Always I am listening to you, so I do not hurt you," Ilya explains. "Always listening if you say 'stop', if you want kiss, faster, slower, if you want to be on top..."
He did. Fuck, he really did. No matter what Shane asked, Ilya was quick to give it to him. Always had been.
"You can't keep doing that," Shane says in panic. "We were too close for anyone to see today but-"
"Then do not ask me," Ilya cuts in. "I will... I will concentrate more next time we play but do not do this again. And no Russian."
"Yeah, ok," Shane agrees because it is imperative they keep this relationship, whatever it is, a secret.
The thought of Ilya doing whatever Shane wanted sent his mind reeling though. Ilya was always leading, telling Shane what to do and Shane liked it, liked it a lot, but would it work the other way?
"I can't speak Russian at all?" he asks. Russia was always a touchy subject with Ilya but banning the language seemed a bit much when Ilya used it himself all the time.
"You can speak Russian?" Ilya throws back at him with an amused smirk.
"Да."
"Да," Ilya echos in what was almost definitely mocking. "Молодец, мое солнышко."
"That means I did something good," Shane says, just to prove himself. "You say that when I-" Shane feels his cheeks heat just thinking about it. "When I, uh, open up."
Ilya raises himself onto one elbow and looked down at Shane like he was seeing him in a new light.
"You are remembering Russian I say when I split you open?"
"Some of it," Shane admits. He sits up because lying there with Ilya staring at him was too much but Ilya just sits up too and continues to stare.
"Я от тебя зависима, и мне бы хотелось, чтобы дело было только в сексе, но это всё вместе," Ilya says, eyes very blue and very serious. "What about that?"
Shane loves the cadence of Ilya speaking Russian, the way the words bubbled like a spring. He would happily close his eyes and fall asleep to his voice.
"You did not pay attention, I think," Ilya says.
"I listened!" Shane argues. "There was 'I' and 'you', and something that sounded like 'sex'."
Ilya smiles with his lips closed, that kind of smile that happened without him meaning to.
"Yes. It is similar word. I did say 'sex'.
"So it was about fucking me," Shane concludes and Ilya's eyes flash with something he can't name.
"No, it was not about that at all."
Shane tries not to listen in to Ilya's phonecalls from home if he has to answer when they're together. It's hard though because Shane loves the sound of his native language and it feels like there is a different Ilya that comes out when he takes a phonecall. A more real Ilya maybe.
The call Ilya takes when they're eating tuna melts didn't sound like a good one. Shane turns on the TV but he's still listening as Ilya walks out of the room and Ilya's not a quiet panicker.
It sounds like something is wrong. Shane doesn't know the words but he knows the tone of a question and Ilya is asking a lot of them. He repeats a phrase: 'мой брат', followed by something that might be a name.
Shane glances at the door Ilya walked through but his voice is getting fainter now as he walks further into the depths of the house so Shane hurriedly gets out his phone and runs his best guess through translate. He's right.
My brother.
So is Ilya's brother missing? But Ilya had clarified. He'd said 'something something my brother? My brother, name.' Was that a Russian thing? The grammar like that.
Shane was almost certain the call was from Ilya's father. He'd started it with Здравствуйте, that formal version of hello that Shane had never worked out how to say, and then 'Papa'. Formal then informal.
That itself seemed a bit strange but then to clarify who his brother, his father's son, was. Did father have a concussion? That would explain why Ilya sounded so agitated if maybe his brother was supposed to be watching him and left him alone.
Ilya is on the phone for another ten minutes and then comes back with none of the emotion Shane had been listening to showing on his face. He can't help but ask.
"How's your dad?"
The mask cracks, just a little.
"How much did you understand?" Ilya asks, resigned.
Understand was to generous for the vague idea Shane has about the conversation.
"I know the word for father," he says because Ilya didn't look like he could take much more. "'My brother' I guessed. I did turn up the TV but you were..." Loud.
Ilya sighs heavily and leans back against the couch, drawing Shane into his side.
"You are too clever, Hollander, and always asking questions. Tell me, what else have you guessed?"
"Are you sure...?"
Ilya squeezes his side and then lifts his hand to stroke Shane's hair. It feels like it's more for him than for Shane but Shane hesitantly continues.
"Did your dad get a concussion or something? You had to explain who your brother was. Is- Did he get left alone when he's not supposed to be?"
Ilya hums in agreement so Shane continues.
"It was always your brother calling before, never your dad and... You're scared, I think. You shout like that when you're scared."
There is a wet sniff from above Shane's head and when he rushes to sit up Ilya has his head turned away from him.
"Hey, no," Shane says softly, reaching for his face. Ilya won't turn to look at him so Shane climbs into his lap and guides Ilya's head into the crook of his neck.
The strangeness of this meeting, Ilya asking him to stay and making him dinner made more sense now. This was a man barely holding himself together, stuck on the wrong side of the world from his family.
"It's okay. You did the best you could from here. I'm sure it will be alright."
Ilya shakes his head and props his chin on Shane's shoulder.
"It's Alzheimer's," he says into the open room, his fists clutching the back of Shane's t-shirt. "My father is old- my mother was very much younger -so..."
"I'm sorry," Shane says. He can't imagine how scary it would be if his dad started forgetting... everything.
"My brother is supposed to look after him," Ilya continues, channelling anger now to chase away the fear. "And he fucking left him alone. Him and Polina. I give them all this money and-"
He buries his face in Shane's shoulder again and Shane rocks them both from side to side as Ilya starts crying, his whole body shaking with the effort to do it silently.
"Is someone coming to look after him now?" Shane asks because if he was Ilya he'd want facts to reassure him.
"Мой брат," Ilya mumbles into his t-shirt and Shane is so glad he learnt enough Russian to understand that because otherwise Ilya would be sitting watching the game like nothing was ever wrong.
"That's good," Shane says though it sounded like this brother wasn't the most reliable. "You solved the problem. Good job. I forget the word. Starts with m."
Ilya laughs wetly and pulls back, scrubbing away his tears with rough hands. "Молодец?"
"Yeah. Is this the wrong context? Is that like a sexual thing?"
Ilya shakes his head, smiling weakly. "No. Not sexual. Not always."
"I wouldn't know with you," Shane says, teasing Ilya just to make him smile more.
He puts a hand on Ilya's arm and leans back until he can reach their abandoned dinner. He snatches up Ilya's coke and hands it to him.
"I think you need the sugar."
It must be the wrong thing to say because Ilya looks like he is going to cry again.
"My mum used to give me tea with honey when I cried," he says quietly before taking a sip.
"She's a smart woman," Shane replies. "That's much better for you than coke."
"She was so smart," Ilya says, using past tense again. It hadn't been a translation error the first time then. "I did not understand it at the time, all the things she did, but she was so amazing."
"Did she come to your games?" Shane asks, remembering that very raw Stanley Cup celebration in a new light.
Ilya nods. "Yes. Even though it was only city team. I would get scolded for delaying the puck drip after I scored because I was always looking for her."
"Excessive celly, that's not changed," Shane hums and it's overwhelming that the Ilya that he knows has been shaped by half a lifetime that Shane knows nothing about.
That night tipped them over the edge from casual to something more. Truthfully, it hadn't been casual for a while but now there was no pretending Ilya was just a convenient (and incredible) fuck.
They did have sex, because that was how they operated, and Ilya called him Shane right before he came. It should have scared him but he's been asking questions about Ilya's family for years, needing to know everything about him, and that is definitely not fuckbuddy behaviour. So he calls him Ilya.
Shane falls asleep in Ilya's arms and when he wakes up to see that Ilya frowns in his sleep he decides to make him pancakes. Carbs would make him happier.
"This does not look like Shane Hollander breakfast," Ilya says, his voice deeper and more gravelly from sleep. He's shuffled out of the bedroom in the tracksuit pants he was wearing the day before and stopped several feet away to watch Shane flip a pancake. "Oh. Молодец."
"What? You thought I couldn't cook?" Shane answers, glad Ilya had seen that pancake and not the first few. "These are for you. I need to have porridge."
His stomach is grumbling already but Shane has a system, a narrow menu of items he can find a version of at every away game hotel. Porridge, or oats and yoghurt. Topped with fruit. One fruit juice. One coffee.
Ilya opens a cupboard (a cupboard?) and pulls out a banana, dropping it by Shane's hand on the counter. Then he fiddles with his phone for a moment before holding it in front of Shane's face.
"I can make you каша."
He has an explainer article up on his phone for traditional Russian porridge, made with buckwheat. Shane has no idea what it tasted like but the picture didn't look dissimilar to porridge.
"Normally with butter," Ilya explains, "but made with chicken liquid is also good."
"Stock," Shane corrects him absently and takes the pancake that was cooking out of the pan, adding it to the steaming stack he was keeping under a lid. "Yeah, ok."
Ilya stands up a little straighter, brightening at Shane's acceptance. "Ok. You are nearly finished for feeding me, then I feed you?"
"Yeah, one more," Shane says, eyeing the batter left in his mixing bowl.
Ilya doesn't wait for it, stealing the already stacked plate and going to root around his fridge. Shane watches with a mix of horror and awe as he loads the pancakes with butter and syrup (Canadian maple, not store bought- someone had been teaching him well) and a second banana from the cupboard.
"God, nobody is taking it from you," Shane says, an echo of his mother in his teenage years as Ilya cut a slice of the pancake stack and ate it in a single bite.
"Rude to not feed guest," Ilya says around his mouthful. "I finish and make каша."
"Take your time," Shane says. "I can wait."
Ilya swallows his mouthful half-chewed.
"Good pancakes. Not sweet like Americans make."
"Oh, yeah." Shane scratchs the back of his head and flips the last pancake, unsure what to do with the possessive pride swelling in his chest. "There's no sugar in them. Just flour, egg, and milk."
"You make for yourself?" Ilya asks. "Not on game day."
"Yeah, sometimes," Shane says. The final pancake is done and after turning off the stove he lifts it to show Ilya.
Ilya triumpantly gestures for Shane to set it on top of his other ones and digs in immediately.
"I make savoury ones sometimes," Shane says. "Or fruit and peanut butter."
Ilya has his mouth full again but he points to the gallon of maple syrup with a raised eyebrow.
Shane shakes his head. "Only on one if I'm at my parents' house."
Not long after, Shane finds himself sitting on the same stool as he had been the day before, once again watching Ilya Rosanov cook for him. It's still weird, but he's getting used to it.
This is the real Ilya, he decides. The real Ilya has got his Spotify liked songs playing on shuffle and Shane hates it conceptually but he can't deny that it's nice to see Ilya dancing in his kitchen and singing along. The real Ilya also asks nearly as many questions as Shane. Now, it's mostly about food but it strays into his school life and his hockey schedule pre-NHL. He offers some of his own anecdotes but Shane doesn't pry, knowing that any topic that stays too close to family would be putting salt on a wound that had barely stopped bleeding.
"Butter?" Ilya offers hopefully when he set the bowl of kasha in front of Shane. He'd made it with chicken stock as he'd suggested so it was well seasoned but apparently not complete.
"Does it need butter?" Shane asks fondly. He can handle that much of a deviation from the norm for Ilya.
"кашу маслом не испортишь," Ilya replies instantly. "You cannot spoil каша with butter. Russian saying."
Shane laughs weakly. "I don't know if you're lying."
"I would never lie about каша," Ilya says with a straight face.
The kasha is good, much more flavorful and bouncy than hotel porridge ever was. It feels healthier too, the grains still with a rough edge to them.
Ilya watches him eat it like it is a tennis match.
"Do you want some?" Shane asks.
Ilya smiles sadly. "Not today, but I tasted when I was cooking. Do you like it?"
"It's good," Shane assures him. "How do you say that in Russian?"
"Вкусно."
"Skosna," Shane tries and Ilya shakes head fondly.
"You are pulling 'S' out of your ass. Starts with same letter as vodka."
That was easy for him to say. He didn't pronounce vodka anything like the way Shane knew to say it.
"Kosna?"
"Now you are not even trying. I teach you like child- nyam nyam. This is easier."
"I don't want to learn the easy one!" Shane protests.
"Да, very Shane Hollander thing for you to say. Каша is getting cold. Eat. We will train your lazy American tongue later."
For lack of better projectiles, Shane throws his spoon at him.
"I'm Canadian!"
"Did you have good breakfast, Hollander?" Ilya asks when they face off in the second period later that day. "You have lot of energy today."
It's a very good chirp. Perfectly innocent on the surface, but incredibly distracting to Shane who is now imagining Ilya topless and shimmying around his kitchen.
Ilya wins the face-off. Shane wins the game.
Their next game together- against each other -is in Montreal and Shane spends several weeks thinking about asking Ilya to stay over.
It should be fine, because he stayed over at Ilya's last time and the world didn't end. However, that was Ilya's actual home and in Montreal they used Shane's condo, the building he bought so he could get fucked by Ilya without being quiet about it. Should he stock the cupboards of the condo for breakfast? Should he invite Ilya to his house? Did Ilya even have time for him? It would be easier to plan if he had Ilya's flight times.
Share your flights please :Jane
Lily: All of them?
Lily: You are stalking me
Just for Montreal, asshole :Jane
I want to have a plan :Jane
Lily: I have a plan
Lily: First you get on your knees
Shane locks his phone and puts it face down on the cushion beside him, suddenly breathing hard. He can feel the vibrations of more messages coming in but he'll wait until they stop to read it. Maybe he'll wait until the middle of the night so Ilya wouldn't be awake to see he'd read them.
Ilya lets himself in to the condo but he texts Shane when he's outside to give him enough time to really dial in the panic before he appears.
He's still in his suit, his hair fluffy like he'd scrubbed it dry with a towel to leave faster.
"Hi," he says, looking quickly around the condo before settling his eyes on Shane.
Shane is suddenly hyper aware of how he is standing, shoulders hunched and toes pointed inwards. To correct it would just draw attention so he just stands there, silently at war with himself.
"Hi."
Ilya kicks off his dress shoes and then crouches to line them up beside Shane's trainers. He stands up again and runs his fingers through his hair. Maybe that was why it was so fluffy.
"Bedroom?"
"Fuck yes."
Ilya uses his first name and surname in equal measure, switching them out between tender and teasing. Shane tries to do the same but Rosanov still feels more natural on his tongue so he only manages to say 'Ilya' once.
Shane put towels down, which wasn't as sexy but it means that after cleaning up they can both get back into a dry bed. The lazy kisses of last time had been nice, nearly as nice as the sex, so he hopes they can do that again at least.
"When I leave do you normally go home?" Ilya askes when he has Shane pliant in his arms again.
"Yeah. I strip the bed and take the laundry with me. This place has plumbing, obviously, but the-" Ilya doesn't need to know the details of his laundry settings. "I just turn everything off before I go."
"So you turn everything on before I arrive," Ilya concludes. "Before the game."
"Yesterday," Shane admittes. "To give the boiler time to heat up."
Ilya hums at that and presses a kiss to the crown of Shane's head. Shane barely feels it as flames of embarrassment lick up his throat. It was too much, too boring as Ilya always said. Who else was making sure to reset the thermostat in a separate building for a hook-up?
"Look, I know what you're going to say," Shane huffs, unable to stand Ilya's silent judgement. "That this place is so much work and a creepy part of town and it would be easier and better if I just let you come to my house but my neighbours know who I am and-"
"Hollander," Ilya interrupts him. "I do not mind your creepy murder house. The shower was hot, the bed is clean." He squeezes Shane tight and Shane knows something filthy is coming before he even says "You moan so loud when there is nobody through the walls."
"Stop."
"No, come here," Ilya says even though they were already pressed together, shoulder to knee. "I will make you louder. I don't know why I have not tried this before."
Shane sets an alarm for the morning because he has practice and, more importantly, Ilya has a flight to catch. It's his not his usual alarm because he was worried they might sleep through that with how late they stayed up and so he's just as confused as Ilya when he hears it.
"Какого хрена? Пожар?" Ilya mutters sitting up to find the source of the noise. "Fire?"
"My alarm," Shane says apologetically when he realises the sound is coming from his phone.
Ilya flops back down into bed.
"Every day you wake up like this?" he asks. He waits until Shane turned off the alarm before pulling him back under the sheets. "Off, not snooze?"
"It's off, but we do need to get up. You have a flight to catch."
"I will not miss it." Ilya is kissing down the back of Shane's neck though so he's not sure he believes him.
"For the record," Shane adds, trying weakly to keep them on track. "My normal alarm is much nicer."
He was going to describe it but Ilya is between his shoulder blades now and all he can think about is arching his back as much as possible and chasing that pleasure.
"Ilya... We need to get up."
"Call cab," Ilya tells him before sinking his teeth in Shane's right lat. "I will be ready to go when it gets here."
This always happened. The cabs took half an hour most nights and they weren't the types to waste time. Without fail, there would be a bonus round, even more thrilling with the thought of an innocent cab driver coming to break them apart.
This was the first time they weren't starting the timer straight from a previous round though.
Shane makes the call quickly because he knows Ilya won't wait and he barely makes it to the end of the conversation before Ilya tongue is between his legs.
"20 minutes," Shane announces, throwing the phone to one side and tipping his knees open.
Ilya pauses. "No. Should be 30."
"Well it's fucking 19 now," Shane snaps. "Traffic must be better at 5am."
Ilya curses in Russian. At his team, the city, the... taxi?
"Taxi is the same in Russian?" Shane asks, stopping Ilya with a hand in his hair.
The glare he gets, shot up through heavy eyebrows, is unrivalled and Shane instantly lets go of him.
"Fuck, ok, suck my dick. I'll look it up later."
All Stars is torture and also bliss. Ilya is right there. Shane isn't allowed to touch him but they can talk. In the open. With other people watching.
Seeing all the other players with their families and girlfriends, Shane takes a moment to daydream if what it would be like if they were out, if they were just an ordinary couple. He craves it in a way that isn't right because it had nothing to do with sex or Ilya's body and everything to do with how comfortable he makes him feel.
He watches Ilya in the pool commanding a gaggle of their teammates' kids and decides he's allowed to look at him fondly. Anyone would find it cute, how naturally Ilya plays with them, even if they weren't fucking him. And hopefully nobody sees the way his jaw drops open when Ilya hauls himself, breathless and soaking wet out of the pool right in front of him to ask for money.
Ilya grins like he's won the lottery but thankfully goes and steals from someone else before Shane can give them away.
The game is incredible. All Stars is never really about winning so Shane and Ilya can be on the same line despite it losing their team depth at centre. Playing with Ilya is something else.
Was it crazy to say it was like all the sex had been practice for hockey? Maybe. However Shane is convinced they play so well together because they've been reading each others' bodies for years. It's a shame the opposition aren't really trying because Shane wants more. He wants to face a real challenge with Ilya at his side and a trophy on the line. He wants everything.
He skips out on the party after briefly showing his face and Ilya finds him quickly, sitting down two feet away on the sand in the dark.
"Did you get bored of the party?" Shane asks.
"No. It got suddenly less boring five minutes ago," Ilya replies.
Shane flicks sand at him with his toes.
"We can't do anything tonight. The entire hotel is booked out with hockey people."
"That has not stopped us before," Ilya says but he does glance around before reaching out to link their pinkies. "You have room to yourself, I have room to myself. Who is checking?"
"Fine," Shane snaps because Ilya had snuck in a celly kiss on the ice earlier and he needs to get his mouth on him too. "1217. Be fucking discreet about it."
"This isn't working," Shane says as soon as Ilya is through the door. He's had a few minutes to think alone and they were clearly in far too deep.
"What isn't working?" Ilya asks and Shane hates the way he tenses up and then carefully relaxes again.
"This," Shane hisses, very aware that he can't raise his voice. "God, I should be networking and all I can think about I'd rather be cuddled on your couch watching shit movies. All the other guys down there are drinking beers, wives on their arms, and I can't even be seen talking to you without someone looking for fucking rivalry gossip. Don't you want to stop hiding?"
"No." Ilya says sharply.
"So I'm just a convenient fuck then?" Shane says, needing Ilya to deny it. The Ilya he knew, the Ilya he loved, was better than that.
"Fuck, Hollander, no," Ilya says, his nostrils flaring.
He's about to start getting loud and Shane almost regrets riling him up. Hopefully, all the other players are still downstairs.
"I have to be straight in public," Ilya says. "I have to, or I cannot go home."
"Your dad wouldn't be supportive?" Shane guesses.
Ilya throws back his head in frustration. "No. He would not. I am big hockey star and being gay, even here, is illegal in Russia. My father is police. My brother is police. I could not go home. Ever. But I do not have American citizenship, so I would not have choice..."
"No, I'm sorry," Shane says, crossing the room to pull Ilya into his arms. How stupid is he to not consider that Ilya's situation isn't the same. "I'm sorry, I should have realised."
Ilya resists for a moment before knocking his temple against Shane's and looping his arms around his waist.
"I am glad you do not have this," he says like an olive branch. "This danger. You would never let me fuck you if you were Russian, I think. That is real crime. Nobody fucking Shane Hollander in the ass."
Shane's mind cycles through all the Russian he knows, trying to find an appropriate response. He doesn't have the words for it.
"Влять."
Ilya laughs and Shane feels like he's won MVP.
"Да, мое солнышко. Влять."
They stay standing in each others arm for a bit and it's nice, especially as Ilya starts teasing what other activities they could get up to with his wandering hands. There's just one thought that's preventing Shane him giving into him completely.
"You aren't gay though." So why risk it all with me?
It doesn't make sense when there is this terrifying bear trap ready to spring the moment Ilya steps outside with a man. Ilya spends an awful amount of time talking about 'beautiful women', even naming specific women to Shane and telling Shane how nice it was to fuck them regularly. Any of them would make a better partner.
Not that Shane was jealous of Svetlana. Not at all.
"Not completely," Ilya allows. "Are you? You never tell me about anyone else."
Shane pushes on his chest until there is space between them.
"Yeah, because it's fucking weird to do! Does Svetlana like it when you talk about the other girls you fuck?"
"Yes, actually, because she is nosey and we are friends." Ilya frowns. "Do you not like Sveta?"
"I've never met her," Shane points out, "but one of us lives in the same city as you and it's not me."
"You are jealous," Ilya concludes, a little dumbstruck.
"Of a hot Russian woman that lives in Boston and can be seen out with you any day of the week? Yeah. Yeah I'm fucking jealous. You don't have to do this. Why bother with me if you've got so much to lose?"
Ilya catched Shane's wrists and holds them to his chest before pulling him back into a tight hug, caging him.
"You think I didn't try to stop?" he asks softly, his hot breath on Shane's ear.
Shane's heart goes cold as he remembers those awful six months when Ilya didn't even text him. How angry he'd been, how quickly he'd given in once Ilya touched him. How much he wished they'd kissed even though it wasn't supposed to be that kind of relationship and he'd technically been 'satisfied'.
"Nobody comes close," Ilya whispers. "Not Sveta, not the hottest woman in L.A., not a single man, even if I look for someone as tall and strong with freckles and dark hair. I want you, Shane, and I am selfish because this is all I can give you."
Shane thrashes in the straightjacket of Ilya's arms until he can tilt his chin just enough to kiss him. It's angry and messy and quickly competitive because everything about them fucking is.
Shane pulls away long enough to whip off his shirt, hearing the seams start to rip as it comes over his shoulders. He doesn't fold it, just throws it in the general direction of his suitcase.
"Give it to me then," he pants and Ilya is on him like a bear going for the kill.
They're still in the afterglow (yes, Shane has gotten up, showered, and back under the covers but still) when the first clatter of drunk players arrives on their floor.
Shane waits for them to leave or at least find their rooms but it sounds like more arrive every time he hears th slam of a door.
"Where the fuck did Rozy go?" someone asks down the corridor at a volume that would be heard over a jet engine.
"Smoke break."
"Smoke break was four fucking shots ago, Paddy. He's gone."
"Which room is his?"
"He won't be in his fucking room. He'll have followed some puck bunny with big thumpers and a button nose to somewhere much classier than this."
Shane doesn't like any of that. Especially not the part where nobody questioned this assumption of Ilya's activities.
Ilya is grinning though.
"Puck bunny," he teases Shane in a whisper, poking his nose. Then he gasps. "Мой зайчонок."
"That better not mean what I think it does," Shane warns futilely.
"Ты прямо как зайчонок," Ilya says in the tone you would tell a dog 'you are such a good boy.'
'Как', Shane knows. Как means 'like.'
"Не как зайчонок," he argues to the best of his abilities. He didn't want to be a rabbit. He was a man.
"Да. Зайчонок," Ilya counters and then grabs a fistful of Shane's ass and thrusts their hips together only to immediately let go...
"Oh. Like rabbits..." Shane realises out loud, his face turning crimson.
Shane wakes up early (he's nervous, always nervous with Ilya no matter how great it is) and kicks his bedmate awake.
Ilya's eyes open immediately, sharp and focused and his body goes very still.
"Sorry," Shane says immediately and runs a hand down his arm to sooth him. "I just thought maybe you should go."
Ilya sighs and relaxes again.
"Time?"
"6.30."
Ilya looks like he wants to complain but can't deny that Shane is right.
"You wake up every morning at 6.30, да?" he says instead.
"Depends on the time zone," Shane replies. "But yeah. It's good to have a regular sleep cycle so that.."
Shane trails off his explanation as Ilya's smirk gets wider.
"Never I have seen this regular sleep," Ilya says and lifts a hand to stroke his thumb over Shane's freckles. "In many years. You are liar."
"I'm not a liar," Shane says even though he is. He's lying to everyone all the time that he and Ilya hate each other when that couldn't be further from the truth. "You just don't see me very often. Every other night I'm in bed by 10.30."
He wasn't but he wasn't going to let Ilya prove him wrong.
"Every other night..." Ilya purrs and trails his big hand down Shane's body under the sheets, mapping him. Claiming him. "So it is only me."
Shane rolls his eyes because it has to be pretty fucking obvious from the way Ilya has taught him every trick he knows, or watches Shane figure it out on the spot. Admitting that to Russia's Greatest Love Machine was just embarrassing though.
"There was one guy in Mexico, and one in L.A. It-"
Ilya's expression hardens into a very Slavic scowl and the hand on his hip starts digging into his flesh.
"Oh, so now you don't want me talking about other guys," Shane says. "Last night-"
"I asked girls," Ilya says. "When. When did you go to Mexico?"
"2012?" Shane answers.
"L.A.?"
Every year, for hockey.
"2013. You know this is fucking hypocritical."
"Were they as good?" Ilya asks, ignoring the criticism.
"No, obviously," Shane sighs. "It was better than the girls, but it wasn't... you."
"Yes," Ilya says possessively. So possessively he practically pulls Shane onto his cock trying to get their bodies closer together. "Only me. You are only good for me. And nobody is as good as you, Shane."
Shane wants him. So badly. But they're surrounded by their peers and it's getting closer and closer to 7am.
He closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Ilya's. Breathes.
"Ilya. You have to go."
"I will go missing," Ilya replies and that might work if he was anywhere else but Shane's bed. Ilya could miss breakfast and nobody would bag an eye but if Shane did that the fire department would be knocking down the door.
Shane tilts his head and kisses him because it's not enough. It's never been this bad to separate from Ilya but it had never been that bad the last time either and its getting unbearable now.
"You have to make the play-offs," he says because the summer is going to be awful and he can't take all of play-off season without Ilya too.
"We will make the final," Ilya promises.
Not him and Shane, because they're rivals and they can never both win, but Ilya and Boston.
That would be the worst, Shane decides. Ilya in the final, thousands of miles away and Shane stuck at home, not even his own games to distract him.
"No you won't," Shane says because he's in confident in his team and now so desperate not to be the one left behind.
He lets that thought fuel him and gives Ilya a solid push.
"Go. I'll see you at breakfast."
They start texting. Regular, non-horny texting. It's like taking drugstore painkillers for a severed limb but Shane will take what he can get. They call a few times. He tries to be normal about it. He googles Russian pet names, Russian diminutives, Russian food, but he doesn't say anything. They fuck when they have games but they don't stay over. There's no time for it this late in the season and Shane feels like he's slowly fraying, unravelling, falling apart.
Then Ilya goes MIA after a game.
They'd fucked before the game and Ilya had been like before, when Shane had first stayed over and found out about his father. Shane asked questions again because he could never stop asking questions and Ilya admitted his family were hassling him for money- thousands of dollars, again and again -because his father was dying and it was their last chance to bleed Ilya dry.
He'd looked so tired as he told Shane, not angry or scared like before, but tired.
The memory scared Shane a little so when he didn't get any kind of text from Ilya after the game he texts. Then he calls. The call never goes through and he doesn't sleep even though he has another game in less than 24 hours. Distantly, he's aware than Ilya has just become more important than hockey.
He finds out that Ilya misses his team's flight to their next game and no injury or illness is announced. Nothing is announced, which is rare, and now Shane is less worried because he knows in his bones what has happened. He just needs to hear it from Ilya.
Ilya answers after the game.
"You're dad?" Shane asks quietly. He already knows from the way Ilya had said his name when he picked up.
"Dead."
"I'm sorry."
Ilya makes a sound that is mostly dismissive and partly a whimper. "What are they saying about me?"
"Nothing," Shane says even if that's not quite true. Ilya's reputation always leads to some wild rumours, but that's not what he needs to hear right now.
"I'll be back soon, few days."
Shane wants to tell him to take longer to grieve but maybe the house he's gone home to isn't the place to do that. He'd never heard a single good thing from Ilya about any of his family apart from his mother.
"Ok," he says and tries to picture the league schedules im his mind.
Is there any way he can get to Ilya before their next official match? Probably not but he needs to check. There are a few teams in driving distance of each other and he'd sneak away for a night if it would help.
"You can call me again whenever," Shane says. "Even between periods. Or text if you want. Anything."
"Between periods?" Ilya huffs out a half-laugh and its so worth it. "Shane Hollander, you have lost your mind."
"I'd do it," Shane says fiercely.
"I know," Ilya replies softly. "Thank you."
"Or send me a text, any emoji, and I'll call." Shane knew sometimes it was the reaching out that was the hardest. Ilya was better at it, normally. He started most of their text runs, initiated all of their calls. Until now.
"I will."
"Давай," Shane whispers, a little embarrassed at his accent. He knows it loosely means 'let's go' or worked as encouragement and Ilya sounds like he needed that now. He'd only ever heard it in a sporting context though so he could be wildly off.
Ilya laughs, almost choking as if the joy surprised him.
"Ты офигел. Bye, Hollander."
"Привет," Shane answers Ilya's next call two days later. He's in the stairwell of a hotel in Buffalo so it's a little risky but Ilya had asked if he could call and he didn't want to make him wait. He wants to make him laugh again actually, hence the terrible Russian.
Ilya doesn't laugh but he does huff so Shane thinks he might be smiling. They're off to a good start.
"What did you say before you hung up last time?" Shane asks.
"I do not think I need to teach you Russian," Ilya says. "You are doing so well by yourself."
"I'm sure I'm butchering it." Shane says but he let's that distraction fizzle out. "Why did you want to call? How are you?"
"Ok. Not good. Probably bad," Ilya answers progressively more honestly. "They do not want me here. I do not want to be here. I wanted... I... It is too much for English in my head."
"Tell me in Russian," Shane tells him. "I don't think I'll know that vocabulary but maybe it'll be nice just to say it?"
Ilya is silent for a long moment and Shane worries that he's said something wrong. Or maybe Ilya has someone there that would overhear.
"Where are you?"
"Out. Walking."
Thatcs good. Moving always made Shane feel better when too many people wanted things from him.
"Does the river in Moscow freeze?" he asks. "Do people skate on it?"
"They... attack ice on river," Ilya says. "For boats. Skating is in the park. Still now. I am not doing."
His English is the clunkiest Shane has ever heard it, like Ilya is having to dredge the words to his lips. He would never speak like that in front of others in the MHL. Never. The times Shane had seen him struggle, he'd either stayed quiet or made a quick joke to cover his incomprehension.
He wasn't now though. Not when it was just Shane.
"Yeah, you'd stand out even in rentals," he says. "You wanna talk in Russian?"
"You will just ask me questions after."
"I won't. Promise.
Ilya sighs. "Ok."
"Я больше никогда сюда не вернусь. Здесь для меня ничего не осталось. Я всего лишь банкомат, и мой брат меня ненавидит. Возможно, за то, что я не такой, как он. За то, что отец всё ещё заботится обо мне больше, даже если эта забота на самом деле была просто желанием контролировать меня. За то, что у него было достаточно денег, чтобы не появляться до сих пор. Я ненавижу его. Я ненавижу то, что ему довелось заботиться о нашем отце, даже если это было бы ужасно. Наверное, я хотел отца, который, возможно, когда-нибудь сказал бы, что гордится мной. Теперь я никогда этого не узнаю.
"Он похоронен, рядом с матерью и отцом. С меня хватит. Я не вернусь. У меня не будет семьи, потому что они меня не хотят. Они хотят мою зарплату.
"Так тяжело быть здесь с ними, и к тому же, я почти уверен, что влюблен в тебя. Я не мог быть с тобой, поэтому всё было легко. Ха. Не легко. Проще. Но теперь я мог бы быть с тобой, и я не знаю, что с этим делать.
"Ok." Ilya says, shakily. Finally in English. "I think this is everything."
Shane smiles because he's never heard Ilya say so much at once, in any language.
"Feel better?"
"Yes. Tell me."
"I didn't get any of it," Shane promises.
"Liar."
Fuck yes.
"There was a lot of 'я'. And you mentioned your brother. Which makes sense."
"This is all?"
No. In a moment of vulnerability many months ago Shane had looked up 'I love you' in Russian. Ilya hadn't said it but Shane had caught something similar near the end of his rant.
It wasn't 'я тебя люблю' but there had maybe been a conjugate of 'love' in there and then the word for 'you'.
It could mean anything. Ilya could have said 'I don't love you' and that's why Shane missed the 'я' for 'I' at the beginning. He could have said 'I never loved you' and that was the conjugate Shane didn't know. He could have said a hundred things but Shane promised not to pry.
"That's it. I got distracted just listening to your voice at the end actually. Are you always thinking- Sorry. No questions."
"Oh, almost penalty, Hollander," Ilya jokes. He sounds off, the teasing not quite as gleeful as Shane has come to love. "You play today?"
"Yeah," Shane sighs. "Buffalo, so, easy win. I'll be home tomorrow. Thankfully. Hotels are just..."
"Yeah. And you share with Pike. You should lose play-offs so no more of this."
"You wish. I'll see you next week at the Montreal game? If you're ready to play, of course," Shane adds in a rush. "Nobody-"
"Yes." Ilya says it like he's gripping a lifeline. "Next week."
"You can come to mine," Shane says. "Not the murder-alley condo."
Ilya sighs happily. Or at least Shane thinks it might be happiness. He wishes he could see Ilya's face and understand what he's really feeling.
"Upgrade," Ilya says after a moment. "I can see how boring your real house is, finally. I have guesses. Do not change things. I will play bingo."
"Against yourself?" Shane asks to stop himself saying 'You've thought about my house?'
He wants to know Ilya's guesses, wants to know how well Ilya knows him.
"Yes. If I win..."
"Not like Vegas," Shane says quickly. He doesn't know if he can take things being that... impersonal again. Especially now. He needs to touch Ilya. He needs to be let in.
"You did not like Vegas?"
"No. Well-" Fuck, were they really going to do this now?? "I didn't feel great... After. But it was fine! You won the award so it was your night. We agreed."
There's a loud thud in the distance through the phone and then Ilya swearing faintly, like he's pulled it away from his ear.
"Ilya?"
Ilya's heavy breathing comes back. "Stubbed my toe."
"In the park?"
Ilya grunts. "If I win bingo, I am giving you hickie. Two bingo, two hickie."
Fuck.
Fuuuuck.
It's so stupid but Shane wants it so badly. He wants Ilya's teeth in him, on display for all of his team to see in the locker room.
"Where?" he gasps, pressing down on his crotch with his free hand because he could not be getting hard in a public stairwell. He is absolutely getting hard in a public stairwell.
"You would like to know?" Ilya says and that's the Ilya he knows. Confident. A bastard. "Is not your bingo."
Shane grits his teeth. "Fine." He could be vetoing the neck right now, but he doesn't. "Do I get a prize if you don't get bingo?"
"For cheating?" Ilya scoffs. "No."
"I don't cheat."
"Cheater and a liar," Ilya replies. "Thank you for talking, Hollander. Helped. I will go now."
"Any time," Shane says meaning it. "Ok, not when I'm playing, but anytime. Even in an hour, if you need it. I'll be asleep but I'll answer."
"Ok. Давай."
Shane doesn't know if this is a Russian thing or a them thing now.
"Давай."
Shane checks Ilya did hang up and then tips his head back, wincing as he hits it on the bannister. His heart is racing and he's grinning like an idiot. He needs to calm down before he leaves the stairs or the evidence will be a lot more incriminating than a hickie.
Ilya is in front of him finally and Shane just wants to rip off all his gear and hug him. Ilya looks fine, of course he does, but his eyes don't quite match his smile and Shane is worried that nobody else has seen that. Has anybody hugged Ilya since he got back? Svetlana, hopefully. Maybe Shane needed to get her number so they could compare notes. Not for sex- that was disgusting -but how to be there for Ilya as a safe space among all this bullshit.
Shane wins the face-off and if anything that makes him more worried. He's distracted, looking back to see if Ilya had even moved, when Marlow plows into him. He hits the boards, presumably, and then he's on the ice and he can't work out why he's not getting back up.
Shane is ok, he's told. It's quite hard to think about it if he's being honest. He's in hospital, not in the little surgery room down the corridor at the barn so he knows it's major. Out of the play-offs major, but not end of career major. Mostly he's just annoyed that it happened this game because he was going to invite Ilya round and kiss him. Now it's morning and Ilya's probably flying back to Boston already, with no kisses!
The door opens and Shane is delighted to see that it's Ilya! Not on a plane. Here! For him!
Ilya shushes his excitement and then gives a very robotic apology, still standing by the door as if Shane won't see that he's about to cry if he stays all the way across the room.
"Hey." He reaches out a hand for Ilya to come hold. "Hey." Ilya is still shushing him but he does come closer and holds Shane's hand. Yes. That's better.
Shane doesn't realise he's closed his eyes, to focused on the feeling of Ilya's hand in his, his addicting cigarette and cologne smell. He's not got his eyes open though when Ilya says he was scared.
Shane had seen it on the ice, Ilya standing above him frozen in place. He looked scared now too but how has nobody told Ilya that he was ok. Ilya needed to be the first person to know.
"I would have texted you." He needs Ilya to know that he would never leave him to worry like that. "They won't give me my phone."
"It's okay," Ilya whispers. He strokes Shane's cheek with his thumb and it feels sooo nice that Shane mostly misses the Russian mumbles that came next.
"What?"
"It's not your fault. Just rest."
"You were gonna play bingo," Shane says, not wanting to rest while Ilya looks so upset. "I was gonna let you win bingo and then ask you to to my cottage. Will you come to my cottage this summer?"
Ilya doesn't look convinced. He looks a little in pain actually but maybe that's just because he doesn't know how great the cottage is.
"We have a week or maybe two. It's so private. We could be completely alone... Together."
"I can't do that to you, Shane."
What? Give him the best damn vacation of his life?
Unfortunately, before Shane could argue this very important point, a nurse comes in and Ilya pulls away. Shane's brain is working too slowly to stop him and suddenly Ilya is gone with one last sad smile at the door.
"Hollander, you should not be on your phone," Ilya answers his call two days later.
Shane's head still hurts, a lot actually, and a collarbone is a very awkward bone to break because it can't be set so he keeps jarring it, but most of his discomfort is coming from a hazy memory of Ilya saying he wouldn't come to the cottage for Shane's benefit. That didnt make any sense.
"My eyes are closed, I'm allowed to listen to things," Shane answers in a monotone because if he gets worked up his head will start hurting more.
"Have you been listening to hockey games?" Ilya says knowingly. "What does me winning sound like?"
"You lost. And you said you hoped Scott Hunter would have a dick on his forehead?"
"That was on TV?" Ilya asks, sounding very pleased with himself. "I hope dick grows on his forehead. Who is teaching you?"
"Google. It was pretty faint so it didn't catch it all."
"Чтоб у тебя хуй во лбу вырос," Ilya says slowly, sounding each word out slowly.
It sent a shiver down Shane's spine. Maybe it didn't sound so sexy if you knew Russian but Shane doubted it. Ilya was definitely making himself sound like that on purpose.
"I'm not learning that one," he declares firmly. "Anyway, I know you still have play-offs but... the cottage? Will you come? I think you said no at the hospital but I promise it's more secret than hotel rooms. It's beautiful and... I would really like to spend more time together. If- if you want to."
"Shit, Hollander, one minute," Ilya says then Shane can hear him walking quickly and then get into a car. The engine starts and then settles into a low hum and then the sound quality improves.
"Did you put me on loudspeaker?"
"I put you in my car and now I am driving. I must say something that can't be heard. Was nobody where I was but... My brother, he knows I am gay."
"You're bisexual," Shane whispers because it feels like an important distinction when 'gay' is such an insult.
"Да, bisexual. He knows I like to fuck men. Has known long time but I give him money so I am useful faggot."
Shane keens at how easily Ilya had said that about himself and Ilya hushes him.
"I am telling you his mind. If I go to jail, it will look bad on him so I don't think he will out me but Shane.."
"Mhm."
"I stopped giving him money. It was hundreds of dollars and he's spent it all. Andrei is an angry man and he is in police-"
"Then he can earn his own money!"
"I think maybe I need to marry Svetlana now."
Shane's gut reaction is to say 'No! Fuck no! You can't' but the logical part remembers the fear in Ilya's voice when he had first explained that he wasn't safe from Russian laws, not even in the States.
"Pull over."
He hears a blinker and then the road noise lessens.
"Sorry," Ilya says pitifully. "I worry I am watched."
"Hey, that's ok," Shane says quickly. "You've got a lot on your plate. You're in Boston, right?"
"Yeah?"
"Is Svetlana around?"
"She is working I think."
"Can you go get a hug from her?" Shane asks. "Or more, I guess.."
"No, I do not want more," Ilya says firmly. "We are friends."
"That used to fuck," Shane adds, but he's not jealous about that right now. "Go see her, get a hug. Don't... Don't marry her. We'll figure something else out, ok?"
"Ok," Ilya says. "Hug only. Sveta likes cheek kiss. This ok?"
"Yeah. That's like, European. Right?"
"Yes. Only friends in Russia. We do not get close to people who are not friends."
"Yeah, I noticed," Shane says dryly. "You just stare at them across the room in the showers and start jerking off."
"A pretty boy is staring at me, naked and hard. You look, I look. Same page. Until now."
"Still the same page," Shane assures him. "Fuel properly with protein, and ask Svetlana to meet you. Ok?"
"You are my manager now?" Ilya teases him. "Mr Businessman. Sveta sells fancy cars. Should I buy a ferrari to make myself feel better, Mr Businessman?"
"That is a terrible use of money," Shane says, not even deliberately playing along with Ilya's game. "I thought you already had a Ferrari? Are you driving a Ferrari right now?"
"Is McLaren Spider."
"I assume that's like a Ferrari," Shane says just to hear Ilya gasp in disgust.
He knew car brands, at least. You kind of had to as a man in a multi-million dollar sport or you'd run out of things to talk about with some of your teammates. Not with Ilya though, despite him having one of the most ostentatious supercar collections in the league.
"I will tell Sveta this," Ilya warns. "Then you will stop being her favourite player."
"I'm her favourite player?" Shane grins. He can forgive Svetlana her previous transgressions. Maybe her only flaw was knowing Ilya Rosanov.
"No. Goodbye."
Shane gets a text from an unknown number later that night.
Unknown: this is Svetlana. Hes an idiot- Andrei has no power in even Moscow and Ilyusha gave him his apt instead of money. Hes been getting more calls though so he will get a new phone+no. tmrw
Unknown: I'm not marrying him- citizenship takes 3 years. He can drive to CAN and seek asylum if he needs to
Svetlana might be his new favourite Russian.
Thank you! He would never tell me any of this :Shane
Is he doing ok? :Shane
Svetlana: he is eating all my ice cream
Svetlana: and telling me off for texting you
Lily: get off your phone!
You better have eaten more than ice cream :Shane
Incoming call: Lily
"Oh my god, Hollander. You are worse person at being injured."
There is a murmur of Russian in the background and Shane realises Ilya hadn't left the room. And had used his name.
"Svetlana knows who I am?"
"Sveta is smarter than both of us together, да. Jane is in Montreal, Shane Hollander is in Montreal-"
There is muffled rustling and then a lighter breath down the line.
"He does not shut up about you," Svetlana says. Her accent is almost entirely American but Shane can hear the little flecks of Russian tone in it in the sounds Ilya struggles with the most. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Shane Hollander. I am a big fan."
The phone is snatched back.
"Ignore her. She is..." Ilya breaks off to argue in rapid Russian. He seems to lose the argument because he puts the phone back to his ear with a sigh. "She will not tell me word- only cares about how pretty you are."
"Shallow?"
Ilya grunts and then the phone is held away from his ear again for a continuation of the argument. Shane hears Ilya quote the English 'shallow' and it is not well-recieved. Despite the rather poor conversation, Shane is loving being a fly on the wall. The bickering feels safe and since he's already lying down in a dark room, he closes his eyes and just listens.
"For the record, I am a fan because you're a technically beautiful skater and you make smart passes, unlike some people." Svetlana. "Being pretty is just a bonus."
"I am being bullied, Hollander. You sent me here to be bullied. Hollander? Shane?"
"Mmm?"
Couldn't they just keep talking without him?
"Ah," Ilya says softly. "10.15. Bedtime for good little Canadian hockey players."
"...no."
"It is. Are you in bed already?"
"I need to brush my teeth."
And wash his face and pee and refill his glass of water and put pyjamas on.
"I think you can be bad for tonight," Ilya says. "You sound like you're falling asleep already. I don't think you'll last a minute."
".... Will."
"No you won't, ма́ленький."
What does that one mean? Shane wants to ask but Ilya right- he doesn't last a minute.
Montreal is out in the first round of play-offs, which is frankly embarrassing, but they don't have their captain and they were down their main goaltender for a week so it's not that surprising.
He misses the consolatory drinks since they lose on an away game but JJ forces him to go out with him and a few of the guys once they're back in town. He feels bad so he goes, and accidentally hits it off with Rose Laundry, big star of many a terrible film played on airline tv screens.
She's funny and smart and a genuine hockey fan and Shane is a little annoyed that he didn't met her a few years ago when this thing with Ilya wasn't wrapped so tight around his heart. It probably wouldn't have worked but it might have. Then Ilya could marry a pretty girl with a strong passport and they could convince the world they were friends and they could raise their kids together to be a new generation of unmatched talent.
Shane takes Rose's number when she offers it because he did really like talking to her and a week later they go to a bar together because Rose has a break in her schedule and she wants to hear what a professional has to think about the play-off games.
It makes the tabloids the next day.
Shane only finds out because Svetlana seems him a link with three angry faces and 'you're dating rose landry?!'
Shit
Was he?
Surely someone had to say it was a date for it to be a date? Someone other than a papperazzi, that is.
Fuck.
Ilya was going to be so mad.
It wasn't a date to me! : Shane
We're friends? : Shane
Is it weird to ask her if she thought it was a date? :Shane
Sveta: Wow. You deserve each other
Sveta: You and Ilyusha
Sveta: I see why it took you 8 years to get to first names
Sveta: You went to a bar alone with a girl. Thats a date.
It was for the hockey : Shane
Sveta: yes that's what girls say to get hockey players. You're not a bright bunch
Shit.
Do I tell her I didn't know it was a date? :Shane
Do I tell her I'm dating someone else? :Shane
Am I dating someone else? : Shane
Sveta: Did you used to have these freak outs silently in your bedroom?
YES :Shane
This was a nightmare. And to make matters worse, his mom was calling.
He had to answer because she'd only call again but he managed to mostly deflect the questions by saying they hadn't put a label on it and were just getting to know each other. His mom, of course, took the opportunity to remind him of the optics and how good it would be for his career to reach a new audience etc etc.
Shane ended the call sitting against a wall in his hallway, having lost the strength to stand halfway through the conversation. He doesn't want to check what people are saying but he probably should. He definitely should contact Rose and get their story straight before the rumours get too wild but... what was he going to tell her? What kind of guy rejects Rose Landry? Fuck, that would make it even more obvious he's gay.
His are shaking but he checks his phone and finds nothing from Ilya still, despite many messages coming in from other players, congratulating him. The not knowing is killing him, making it hard to breathe. He needs to do something, anything to make this feeling stop but every decision is paralysing.
Shane doesn't know how long he sits there but his hands have gone cold and his ass is numb when he gets a very apologetic message from Rose for attracting the press.
It's ok, Shane types even though it's not but she was hardly to blame.
But what if she reads that as him being ok with the assumptions made in the article?
Shit.
Fuck it.
Nope.
He calls Ilya.
"We're not dating."
"I do not care," Ilya replies and Shane can practically see that casual shrug of indifference.
"I do." Shane lets out a shakey breath. "Can you help. Me?"
"Oh." Ilya's voice is suddenly softer. "How long have you been panicking?"
"I dunno. Since Sveta sent me the link. My mom called. Says it's good branding. Fuck, Ilya. Do you think if I say I'm not attracted to Rose Landry people will think I'm gay?"
Ilya laughs, not unkindly, and Shane finally gets a full breath of air.
"Maybe. She is very beautiful. Maybe you say you prefer blondes?"
"No," Shane groans. "My mom already tried to set me up with a Swedish princess at Wimbledon this summer."
"And you said no? I think she is already guessing you are gay, Shane."
"Shut up. You're not helping."
"I am," Ilya says in the tone that has Shane crawling on his knees most of the time. "You are breathing normal now. Hmm? You want plan now?"
"Please."
"Ok. Plan is you tell Rose Landry 'I just want to be friends' and you tell everyone else you are just friends and if they still think you are dating then you are slightly less boring, good for your mom."
That... was a surprisingly good plan.
"You won't be mad?"
"Because what, Hollander? You have other friends?"
"That I'll go out and get dinner or drinks with someone else," Shane says, already too emotionally spent to pretend they don't miss each other and the life they can't have. "I've not seen you in so long. Lose the play-offs already."
"And then what? You will come to Boston?"
"I might." He'd spend a whole day driving right now to spend a night with Ilya if he wasn't still in contention for the Cup. "My new friend Sveta lives there."
"No, you are not meeting Sveta," Ilya says quickly. "She will teach you bad things."
"What kind of bad things, Ilyusha?"
Ilya moans. "Пиздец. Do not do this to me now."
"I can do it in person if you lose the next two games."
Ilya hangs up on him.
Shane laughs in delight. He rarely gets the upper hand with Ilya but maybe it was just a matter of speaking the right language.
Riding that high, he switched to his text chain with Rose and sends a message.
Hey, so we're on the same page- I just want to be friends. I had fun hanging out last night though so if you want to shit on the Rangers again let me know
Its another hour and a half before he gets a reply
Shane I am sooo sorry about that. Ive been in a fucking scuba pool all day but I'll get my agent to reach out and get a correction. Friends is good 😊 Boston are playing tomorrow if we go somewhere more private can you share all the insider gossip on Rosanov? My brother is obsessed with him.
Ilya plays terribly for the first two periods and Shane is so close to texting him in the break. He doesn't because he respects Ilya too much for that but he's still terrified that Ilya might be throwing the game on purpose. Thankfully, he pulls it together in the final third and Boston wins the game. A lot of games, actually- all the way to the semis where Ilya has such badly bruised ribs even Shane's mom can see it through the screen.
Shane's proud of him but also glad he's not got any more games. And that Boston is out, obviously. No matter what Ilya means to him, he couldn't as a Montreal player want them to win.
Of course, Ilya has team commitments as those of the Captain and Shane's mom has found a way to fill his schedule even in the off-season now that he's recovered from the concussion if not the broken collarbone. He's tries to find the time to call Ilya when they're both home to ask him to come to the cottage again but the moment never happens. Instead, he's watching Scott Hunter pull a man onto the ice and kiss him on live national tv and Ilya calls him.
Shane's hands are sweating when he goes to pick Ilya up from the airport and he's clearly not the only nervous one because it takes Ilya three tries to buckle his seatbelt and he lets Shane win an argument about cars.
Shane rambles when he's nervous and he does it for the next two hour drive because Ilya is also nervous (as he admitted once they were on the open highway) and therefore isn't cutting him off with insults. It's so bad that when they get to the cottage Shane even starts talking about his well until Ilya steps into his space, runs a thumb over his freckles, and kisses him.
Suddenly, nothing is scary or new because this is right. This is where Shane is supposed to be, with Ilya. And it had been entirely too long since the last time.
It's almost ridiculous how easily they live together. Yes, the sex (inside and outside, in every room and on every surface, fast and slow, planned and spontaneous) was great. Shane had expected that, to be honest. It's the other things. They play pool and hockey and video games, they swim in the lake and ride jet skis and read on the porch and cook for each other and sit by the fire and all of it is fun.
Ok, finding out about Ilya's mother was heartbreaking and talking about coming out to his own parents was terrifying but all of it is perfect. It's a glimpse of what they might have and Shane isn't the only one thinking about it because Ilya brought up transferring teams to get citizenship in Canada.
They looked up the laws together, sitting at opposite ends of the couch, toes touching.
"Four years, it's worse than the U.S.," Shane warns.
"But the U.S. is less safe for Russians."
Shane wasn't going to argue him there. Ilya playing for Montreal was out- they couldn't afford him with Shane already -but Ottawa or Toronto would keep them in the same conference.
"Oh, they might be changing it to three years this year," Shane says midway through a very dry government information page. He throws his phone to Ilya. "That's not terrible. And no minimum days."
"2021?" Ilya says, mentally calculating from the day he becomes a free agent.
Put like that it does sound unbearable but Shane isn't giving up yet. Not if Ilya wants it too.
"Ottawa needs a star centre. And that's only an hour from Montreal. You could finish an afternoon game, drive over, stay the night, and be back in time for morning practice."
"You could finish game, drive over, stay the night and go back for morning practice," Ilya retorts.
Shane shrugs. The commute would be well worth it for him.
He works out a plan seemingly in his sleep because he wakes up with the sun the next morning and sees Ilya's beautiful face inches from his own and it all clicks into place.
He's shaking Ilya awake before he even knows what time it is.
"Ilyusha-"
Ilya smiles dopily and Shane slaps him lightly to get him to focus.
"Hey, pay attention. I've had another idea. You sign to Ottawa next year and yeah, people still think of us as rivals but Montreal doesn't have the same history with Ottawa. We can change the narrative-"
"What the fuck is narrative?" Ilya whines, screwing up his face against the morning sun. "I am just woken up."
"The story. Look- we start a charity, something that will benefit both cities. We can say I approached you-"
"Or I approached you." Even half-asleep, Ilya had to be competitive.
Shane pinches his arm. "Whatever. The point is we tell the press, the fans, everyone, that by working together we built respect, friendship. Then it's not so strange if we're seen together. Three years and you'll get citizenship and then, eventually, when we retire... We could be together. For real."
Ilya's eyes are shining now, darting all over Shane's face like he's looking for the lie. Shane isn't lying. He's never been more serious about anything in his life.
"You really think that far ahead?" Ilya asks.
"I do about this." About us.
"You want that? To be together?"
"I do. So much it terrifies me."
The thought of not having it is worse though. Either situation: being too reckless and being dropped from the league or playing too safe and being strangers for the rest of their careers, feels unbearable when being here with Ilya is the best thing he's ever had.
Ilya turns his head away and before that might have scared Shane but he's seen this several times now. Ilya never lets himself cry with an audience.
Shane puts a hand on his cheek and gives him a moment, not alone but at least slightly more privately, to process the line Shane has just stepped over.
He expects to have to pull Ilya back into conversation but Ilya surprises him by turning back almost immediately and crawling on top of him, kissing his face, neck, shoulders, chest, like a man starved of it.
And in between those kisses, he's repeating the same phrase over and over.
"Я тебя люблю, я тебя люблю, я тебя люблю."
He stops, hovering over Shane's mouth and there's hesitation in his eyes, his throat working around words he now can't seem to say.
Shane relieves him of translation.
"I love you too."
Ilya chokes on a laugh and bends to kiss him finally before collapsing into Shane's arms.
"Of course you learnt that one. When?"
"Did you say it in that phonecall from Russia?" Shane answers with a question because it's been eating him for months.
"Not quite," Ilya admits. "You were too clever before. Too clever anyway if you heard it still. я почти уверен, что влюблен в тебя, I think I said. 'I. Am almost sure... that I am in love with you.'"
"Are you sure now?"
"Да, мой любимый. Я тебя люблю."
"Slower," Shane requests in a whisper.
"Люблю," Ilya sounds out. He already knows Shane has mastered 'I' and 'you'.
"Люблю. Я тебя люблю."
"Навсегда."
"Навсегда," Shane repeats. "What does that mean?"
Ilya kisses him like a promise.
"Forever."