Archive of Our Own

Shane is a man of routine. He doesn’t know any other way to be. He likes his early morning runs, eating the same breakfast every day, and using the same deodorant he’s used since he was fifteen years old. 

Ilya Rozanov has continuously disrupted his routine. 

This is, surprisingly, not something he’s been particularly upset about. Ilya is nothing short of a riot, mercurial as his temperament sometimes is. He’s the best goddamn hockey player Shane’s ever met, and despite the uncomfortable status of their rivalry, Shane’s grateful to know him. Playing against Ilya has made him a better player—maybe better than he ever could’ve been on his own. Having such a worthy opponent gave him something to work for, a goal to keep him focused. 

It doesn’t hurt that Ilya is as good on the ice as he is in bed, too. 

Off the ice, they have just as much – if not more – chemistry. 

Not that they’re together. They aren’t anything, really. But things have been good. 

With summer just around the corner, and Ilya letting it slip he isn’t going back to Russia, Shane had figured they would spend their two weeks off together. Ilya’s been uncharacteristically evasive—hadn’t even let Shane finish pitching his cottage as a place for them both to go before citing an improbable task and hanging up, but… well. He’d figured he had time. 

Instead, Shane wakes up to a text from Scott Hunter, of all people. 

SCOTT: Hey, man. You seen this?
[Link attached] 

Groggily, Shane sits up, kicking the duvet off as he clicks the link. 

His heart drops the second he reads the headline. 

STAR HOCKEY PLAYER ILYA ROZANOV LEAVES THE NHL 

Oh, fuck. 

Fuck. 

Okay. Okay, this isn’t real. Ilya wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do that. They had just talked on the phone only two days ago, and he had been fine. Tired, but fine. Shane likes to think he’s pretty in tune with Ilya, that he knows him well enough to have picked on something like this. Something big enough to make Ilya quit hockey. 

SHANE: I’m pretty sure that’s fake news. 

SCOTT: Just talked to my coach. He said it’s legit.
Rozanov didn’t tell you himself?

SHANE: Why would he? 

SCOTT: Sorry. I meant no offence.
I know we’ve got this whole unspoken thing going on, but this takes precedence. Do you know what’s going on? 

SHANE: No
I’m sorry, man. I really don’t.
I’ll call him. 

SCOTT: Good man. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. 

SHANE: Thanks 

Hands shaking, Shane thumbs over to Contacts. He finds Lily and presses his phone to his ear. 

It rings. And rings. And rings.

No answer. 

Lowering his phone, Shane stares at the screen. 

It’s entirely out of character, is what it is. Ilya has lived and breathed hockey since he was a kid, same as Shane, and Shane wouldn’t ever, in a million years, give it up. They’ve both given years of their life to the game, sacrificed relationships, carbs, and any chance they might have had at a normal life. Ilya wouldn’t just… he wouldn’t give it up. Right? 

The thing is— 

Shane’s not entirely convinced that this is out of character. 

Now, he isn’t an expert when it comes to matters of the heart or mind. It’s rare for Shane to understand his own emotions, let alone anyone else’s, overwhelming as they can be. As close to Ilya as he’s gotten, physically and – in some respects – emotionally, the secrecy of their arrangement has made it hard for him to allow himself to look beyond the surface level. 

Things slip through the cracks, though. Sometimes, when Ilya should be basking in the afterglow, he gets a very strange look on his face. His blue eyes go glassy, and his mouth thins, expression so flat it’s clear that whatever he’s feeling is anything but. 

In the past, a quick kiss usually remedied this. The few times it hasn’t brought Ilya back to Shane, though, Shane squeezes his arm three times—the same way his mom used to do when he got overwhelmed before school. Three squeezes, three reassurances. 

But there have been times when nothing could coax Ilya back. Sometimes, they would meet, and Ilya would already be somewhere else. Somewhere dark. He would move sluggishly, slow to react to verbal and physical prompts. On the few occasions they could spend the night together, Ilya wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning. The small, reassuring smile he would give Shane looked pained. 

It worried Shane. Of course it did. But, looking at Ilya on the ice, you’d never be able to tell anything was going on. He always played like his ass was on fire, with a bright smile on his face. 

But Shane knows and has known for a long time that Ilya holds his cards close to his chest. 

Shane had sat with him. Fully clothed and worried out of his mind, he had sat with Ilya in the bathtub and made sure he didn’t get any shampoo in his eyes. 

“Tell me what to do,” Shane had whispered, mouth pressed to Ilya’s knobbly spine. “Tell me how to help.” 

Turning his head, Ilya had looked at him with half-closed eyes. Like he was vacant. Like he was lost, somewhere far away and out of reach. 

That had been months ago. Shane thought he had been doing better. 

Pulse rabbit-fast, Shane calls Ilya’s phone again. 

No answer. 

“It’s Ilya. I will not listen to your voicemail. Bye-bye.” 

Pursing his lips, Shane waits for the beep. 

“Ilya, answer the phone,” Shane says, trying to keep his voice light. “I saw this—this headline. I know it’s fake, I just wanted to make sure you knew about it. Call me back.” 

He’s buzzing now, adrenaline rapidly pumping through him. 

The article got it wrong. The article is wrong, and Ilya’s asleep in a hotel room somewhere, blissfully unaware, unlike Shane, who is appallingly aware and also maybe panicking a little. 

What if—what if Ilya hurts himself? What if he’s all by himself, with no one around to check on him? What if he’s on his way back to Russia? 

What if he’s dead? 

Shane slams the lid shut on that thought. Catastrophising won’t do him any good. 

He clicks Messages, Lily’s contact right below Scott Hunter’s. 

LILY: 1445 ;) 

SHANE: See you in 15 :) 

Jesus. Is that—it? They called on occasion, of course, and they were just being safe when they deleted photos they sent each other, even the innocuous ones like the picture of a halloumi salad Shane had sent last week, but… were those really the last messages they sent to each other? 

He startles when his phone rings. 

Scott. 

He answers the call with a knuckle pressed to his brow. 

“Hunter,” he says, voice shaky. He needs to calm down. This whole thing is probably nothing, and he doesn’t want to come across as—unhinged. Not to Scott Hunter, at least. Hayden might have to talk him down later. 

“Hollander,” Scott says. Then, a moment later, “Shane.” 

Huffing a small, nervous laugh, Shane says, “Scott.” 

“I, uh, just wanted to check in.” Scott shuffles on the other line. There’s the sound of a door closing. “Did Rozanov say anything?” 

“He didn’t answer.” 

A pause. Then, “Shit. Really?” 

“Really.” 

“Okay,” Scott says. “New plan. You know anyone else who might be able to reach him?” 

“His—yeah. Svetlana.” Shane grimaces. “But I don’t have her number.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah, I know.” 

“Keep trying to reach him,” Scott advises. “I’ll talk to my coach again, try to glean some more information.” 

It’s not much of a plan. But—what else can Shane do? What else can either of them do? Neither of them is on friendly terms with Ilya’s coach, and it’s not likely that he would tell them anything even if they were. A player leaving like this, so abruptly, it’s just entirely unprecedented. Shane imagines a poor intern fielding calls left and right, trying to figure out how to align the constellation of the team without their star player. 

“Okay,” Shane says. He sounds small even to his own ears. 

“Hang in there, kid.” 

“Thanks, Scott.” 

The call disconnects, and Shane’s left staring at the black screen. 

“Come on,” he says, willing Ilya to call him. “Don’t do this to me.” 

Ilya doesn’t call.

As it turns out, it isn’t that difficult to disappear off the face of the planet if you really put your mind to it. At least Shane assumes that’s the case, given that nobody on God’s green Earth has seen Ilya Rozanov in two full weeks. 

He’s been compartmentalising as much as he can. It’s been nearly impossible, given that he can’t escape the buzz. Everyone’s talking about Ilya’s departure, especially since the NHL released a statement—only two days after Ilya’s disappearance, with a flimsy excuse for an explanation, citing a family emergency. 

Shane doesn’t know who to turn to. In a moment of desperation, he even ended up shooting Svetlana a DM on Instagram, but she’s got so many followers that he’s pretty sure his DM’s lost somewhere in her requests. And it’s not like he even knows what he would say if she did reply. 

My fuck-buddy, who is also intermittently your fuck-buddy, is ghosting me. Help? 

Ilya is alive, as far as Shane is aware, at least. He’s just… Away. Away and alive, which should be good enough for Shane. 

It’s not. 

The Metros don’t win the Stanley Cup. 

In fact, Shane is playing the worst he has in his entire career. He lets his team down, and he gets yelled at, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because he doesn’t know where Ilya is. All he knows is that Ilya’s in pain. 

Ilya is in pain, and Shane can’t find him. 

He can't stop picturing him, is the problem. His mind keeps catching on the vacancy in Ilya's eyes, on the way he doesn't quite seem to wake up with the rest of his body in the morning. And then there's the way he would take longer and longer showers. He’d lock himself in the bathroom and simply stay there, like he lost track of time. Shane hadn’t known how to ask about that, either. 

Shane's gathered scraps of Ilya's changing behaviour over the last couple of months—all through hookups interspersed with games, and training, and life. Shane doesn't have the whole picture; he doesn't know if Ilya's better or worse, on average. He doesn't know if he has unwittingly been a witness and useless bystander to Ilya’s slow decline. 

Fuck. What if Ilya's sick? Shane should have known. He should've paid more attention to him. He should've fucking asked. 

Hayden catches up to him in the parking lot on his way out, bag slung over his shoulder. They’re the last to leave out of their team, neither of them keen on luxuriating in the loss over a sad beer. 

“Shane,” Hayden says, falling into step beside him. “Shane, what’s going on, man?” 

Shane keeps walking. “Nothing’s going on.” 

“Dude, come on,” Hayden huffs. “What happened back there, that was… awful. We were totally out of sync. I thought I’d accidentally killed you when I fucking tripped you, which, that’s never happened before—” 

“Hayden.” Shane stops, pulling Hayden to a stop by his elbow. Face to face, he can tell Hayden’s worried beyond the frustration. He feels a stab of guilt — and he knows there’s more where that came from, idling below the surface — but he doesn’t have the energy to wrangle it, to shape it into something easier to swallow. “We sucked. Okay? I sucked. I’m distracted, and I played like shit, and it won’t happen again. Happy?” 

Hayden looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “No? I don’t—Shane, what the hell is going on?” 

Shane clenches his jaw. 

“Is this about Rozanov?” Hayden asks, face rearranging into something puzzled. “‘Cause I know he’s your, like, favourite enemy, or whatever, but he’s been gone for two weeks now. You can’t let that shit cloud your judgement.” 

Chest constricting, Shane exhales sharply. “He’s been gone two weeks, and no one knows where he is.” 

Hayden blinks. “Pardon?” 

“No one knows where Rozanov is,” Shane repeats, voice hard. “And—and he’s not dead, as far as I’m aware, but he could be. He could die today, and I wouldn’t know.” 

“Shane, dude." Hayden hesitates, shuffling in place. "I’m sure the guy’s fine.” 

“He would answer his fucking phone if he was fine.” 

“You have his number?” 

“I–” Shane opens and closes his mouth, caught out. God, he’s so bad at keeping secrets. This is why he never talks about Ilya, even vaguely. He always puts his foot in it. “I do.” 

“Oh. Okay.” Hayden rubs his jaw. “Um. Why?” 

“Jesus,” Shane says. “It doesn’t matter. Just—it’s been stressful. That’s all. I’ll play better next season.” 

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hayden says, hand finding purchase on Shane’s shoulder. He shakes him gently, telling him, “With Rozanov out of the game, we’ve got an advantage, right?” 

Shane’s head hurts. His heart, too. “That’s not helpful.” 

“Just don’t think about it, then." 

“If it was Jackie–” 

Shane snaps his mouth shut, stomach plummeting. Hayden stares at him, face is the picture of shock.  

“Shane–” 

Shane pushes past him, marching toward his rental. He ignores Hayden calling his name and slams the car door as soon as he’s climbed inside. He drives away, still yanking at the seatbelt, refusing to so much as acknowledge his Freudian slip. 

It’ll be fine. Maybe Hayden hadn’t even caught Shane’s meaning. 

Or maybe Shane’s fucking delusional. 

Sore and exhausted, Shane climbs out of the taxi and makes the trek to the front door. He had left his rental at the airport, and in it, his powerbank. He’s going to have to get a new one over the summer, unless his dad has a spare somewhere. He probably does, come to think of it. 

His phone died twenty minutes into the drive, and as he watched the device power down, he wondered why he hadn’t just let his parents pick him up. 

Once inside, he eats a pear-flavoured yoghurt over the sink, leaving his suitcase in the hallway. 

Summer has begun. 

He’s on his own. 

Feeling disproportionately sorry for himself, Shane drags himself to his bedroom.

He charges his phone enough to put it on Do Not Disturb, ignoring the fifteen messages Hayden’s sent, and the heart emoji his mom had sent him that he knows means she’s extra worried about him. Then, finally, he falls into bed. 

Tomorrow is a new day. With two weeks off, Shane can put some real thought into how he’s going to track Ilya down. He should probably feel a little guilty about being so steadfast in his conviction—both about the fact that he’s going to find him, and that it has to be Shane who does it. 

Even if Ilya does not want to be found. 

Too bad, Shane thinks, eyes closing. I’m on my way, asshole. 

Shane wakes to the incessant buzzing of his phone on the bedside table. 

His eyes fly open. The only person who can get through Do Not Disturb on his phone is– 

Ilya. 

Scrambling, he shoots up and accepts the call, pressing his phone to his ear. 

"Ilya?" he says, breathless and wide-eyed. “Where are you? Are you okay?” 

“I am okay,” Ilya says, voice distant and staticky over the phone. The timbre of his voice soothes Shane and agitates him in equal measure. Still, the most salient feeling is, by far, longing. 

“Good,” Shane breathes, eyes stinging. “That’s good.”  

He’s not good at this. Shane’s Achilles heel has, since he was a child, been the sheer volume of his own emotions. These days, he’s good at keeping a handle on them, not letting himself get overwhelmed, but—unexpected things, big shocks, he has no protocol for. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, opening his mouth to say—something. Say what, though? He’s not sure. He hadn’t prepared for this. 

He hadn’t even ended up finding Ilya himself. Ilya called him. 

Maybe that’s the way it was always going to be. Shane knows, with Ilya, sometimes the kindest thing you can do is wait him out. He has let Ilya parse through situations on his own before — which isn’t out of the ordinary, given that they’re both adults — but this time, it felt almost dangerous, being so out of the loop. 

Which… Shane hadn’t realised how reliant he is. Not on Ilya, necessarily, but rather on the knowledge that Ilya is okay. And then, suddenly, Ilya wasn’t okay, and Shane’s world fell apart. 

How does he tell Ilya that? Should he? 

“So, um.” Shane clears his throat. “You’re leaving the NHL?” 

“Not forever,” Ilya says, and at once, Shane’s shoulders drop. “The article was bad. I did not even have time to make my announcement.” 

“Someone leaked the info?” 

“Mm,” Ilya confirms. “But it’s— it’s okay. I am off the grid, so it does not matter.” 

Pressing his forehead to the cool wall, Shane exhales. His gut is still churning, palm sweaty around his phone. “You didn’t answer when I called the first time.” 

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice catching. “I did not want you to worry. I did not think–” 

“I’m fucking worried!” The words burst out of Shane, loud and explosive. 

The following silence stretches between them, taught and unyielding. Embarrassed, Shane exhales, pressing a hand over his thundering heart. Getting yelled at is not what Ilya needs right now. Right now, Ilya needs him to be strong and reliable. Shane can do that. 

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I just… Ilya. You disappeared.” 

On the other line, Ilya exhales shakily. “I know. I needed to.” 

Shane’s stomach twists uncomfortably. “Why?” 

“I…” Ilya exhales, shuffling on the other line. “I am not well, Shane. In my—in my mind. There are some things doctors cannot fix.” 

Shane’s tempted to beg. Then let me help, he wants to say. He bites his tongue. 

Tentatively, he asks, “Can I see you?” 

“You want to see me?” 

“Of course I want to.” 

Silence. “I can send you address. I will be here for one more week.” 

“I’ll drive there now.” 

Ilya laughs. It’s a tired sound, but heartfelt. “You do not even know where here is. What if I was in Denmark?” 

“Why would you be in Denmark?” 

“Holistic reasons,” Ilya says primly. 

“Since when are you a holistic person?” 

“Since two weeks ago,” Ilya says.

They lapse into silence, and Shane resolves to deal with the tornado of wreaking havoc within him, churning his guts into a fine slurry. This is about Ilya. He can keep it together. 

“Send me the address,” Shane says. “And I’ll see you—soon.” 

Soon. Soon, soon, soon. What a beautiful word. 

“Soon,” Ilya agrees quietly. “I’ll send it. Will you come in the afternoon? I have an appointment in an hour.” 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees immediately. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” 

The second Ilya hangs up, Shane texts Scott. 

SHANE: Found him. 

SCOTT: That’s amazing!
Where the hell is he? 

SHANE: Long story. Not mine to tell. But he’s okay. 

SCOTT: Understood. Thank you for letting me know, Shane. 

SHANE: Thanks for having my back. 

SCOTT: That’s what friends are for.
Even geriatric ones. 

Huffing a laugh, Shane thumbs out of Messages. He’s got a road trip to plan. 

As it turns out, Ilya is barely a forty-five-minute drive away. He’s here, in Ottawa—which throws Shane for a loop. The entire two weeks, Ilya’s been here? Just out of reach? 

Is he so nearby on purpose? 

Shane’s head spins the entire drive, wondering what the hell Ilya could’ve been up to for two weeks. How did Ilya even pull this off? How did he get his coach to agree to his sudden departure? How did he sway the higher-ups? 

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself firmly, narrowly avoiding a pothole on the dirt road he’s been on for the past ten minutes. They can talk about it later. Once Shane’s seen Ilya with his own eyes and confirmed he is, in fact, alive and breathing. 

It’s a beautiful road he’s on, the leafy ceiling shielding Shane’s eyes from the sun. 

He rounds the bend. Just past the clearing is an open field. It’s a beautiful field, lush with green sprouts. To the left is an apple orchard, attached to what looks like a rose bush. Nestled between the field and the orchard sits a quaint house, and there, on the front porch, is Ilya Rozanov. 

He’s sitting on the wooden steps, dressed in a flannel shirt so unlike him that Shane’s eyes unexpectedly fill with tears. 

Head fuzzy, Shane throws his car into park and stumbles out of it, half-jogging up the pebbled path leading to the house. 

“Shane,” Ilya says wearily. “Don’t be angry, I–” 

Shane tackles him into a hug. He wraps his arms around him and squeezes, burying his face in his neck. Ilya is stiff against him, hands braced awkwardly on Shane’s hips. 

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice small and shocked. 

“Hug me back,” Shane demands, voice wet. 

Hesitantly, Ilya does. His arms wind around Shane very slowly, splaying his hands across Shane’s back as he returns the embrace. It’s so gentle, so careful. Shane’s heart gives a horrible, violent thump. 

Breathing in him, Shane presses his mouth to Ilya’s neck. He smells just like he always has, bar the cologne. It’s just Ilya: clean sweat and coconut shampoo, a heady undercurrent of natural musk. 

“God,” Shane whispers. His heart feels fit to burst, pounding against his ribcage like it wants out. “God, I missed you.” 

Ilya leans into him, letting Shane carry his weight. 

They stand on the porch, swaying in the gentle breeze, for a long time. Shane’s neck is sun-warm by the time they pull apart. He catches the almost-stricken look on Ilya’s face when they do before Ilya ducks his head, gesturing for Shane to follow him inside. 

The house is as homey on the inside as it is on the outside, outfitted with old home appliances and cozy, woollen carpets. It has a certain European look to it.

“Sit,” Ilya says, gesturing to the kitchen table. The chairs are wooden, with knitted blankets draped over them. 

Shane sits and watches Ilya putter around in the kitchen, fixing them both a cup of tea. He’s still moving as gracefully as always, at home in his body even when he’s at war with his mind. The flannel shirt he’s wearing is too big on him, folded up around his wrists. It makes Shane’s stomach hurt. 

Sliding both cups of tea onto the table, Ilya pulls out a chair and falls into it with a huff. 

Steam curls in the still air above the tea, the tiny water particles bright in the cozy room. 

“Ilya, I…” Shane digs his thumbs into his own thighs. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“There is too much to say,” Ilya says, or maybe guesses. Shane nods. 

Quietly, Shane admits, “You scared me.” 

You scared the shit out of me. I almost lost my mind. 

“I scared myself,” Ilya says. “I… I stopped fighting.” 

Tapping a nervous rhythm into his knee, Shane asks, “What does that mean?” 

“I am depressed,” Ilya says, eyes on the table. An ache blooms just behind Shane’s sternum, deep and demanding. “I have been like this for… for many years, Shane. It is not new to me.” 

“But it got worse?” Shane asks, desperate to reach for Ilya’s hands. But he can wait. He can wait until Ilya looks like he can handle it. 

Across from him, Ilya raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. “It got very bad. It was when I realised why my mother—it was when I was thinking about her, and like her, that I realised I needed help.” 

Guilt washes over Shane. Ilya, the man he has all but grown up with, come into stardom with, has been suffering. How hadn’t he noticed? 

Throat constricting, Shane prompts, “Your mother?” 

“She used to tell me she wished she could sleep forever.” Ilya’s eyes flicker up to Shane’s, face sad and vulnerable. “And then she swallowed a whole bottle of pills.” 

“Oh,” Shane breathes, heart plummeting. “Ilya. I’m—I’m sorry.” 

Again, Ilya shrugs. “It was a long time ago.” 

The lump in Shane's throat burns steadily. “How old were you?” 

“Twelve.” Mouth tugging downward seemingly on its own, Ilya adds, “I found her.” 

Twelve. Ilya had been twelve years old when he had found his mother unresponsive. And he’d been—he’d been feeling the same way she had? 

Ilya had wanted to die, too? 

“Ilya,” Shane says, voice wobbling. “I—are you still—?” 

“No,” Ilya says. He fiddles with the golden chain around his neck, blinking quickly. “No, I do not want to die.” 

Shane reaches for him then, taking one of Ilya’s hands in his. 

For a long minute, neither of them says anything. Shane sits there and watches Ilya, quietly so, so unbelievably grateful that he’s alive. That he’s here with him, talking to Shane. That he’s letting him in. 

“I got a therapist,” Ilya confesses, eyeing the grainy table. His palm is sweaty against Shane’s hands. “And I am taking medicine now.” 

“That’s good,” Shane says, blinking quickly as he nods. “That’s—yeah. I’m glad.” 

Ilya gives him a half-smile. His fingers flex around the mug of tea. Shane wonders if it’s too hot to touch, and Ilya’s stubbornly decided to hold it anyway. 

“I like, um. I like this place,” Shane says. “It’s kinda rustic.” 

“It is peaceful,” Ilya says. “Good for healing.” 

Swallowing, Shane nods again. He avoids Ilya’s eyes, casting his eyes around the room. It’s all cast in a golden glow, the late afternoon sun streaming in from the warped kitchen windows. 

“Can I ask…” Ilya starts, and Shane’s attention snaps back to him. He’s so beautiful that Shane almost looks away again. “Can I ask what you are doing here?” 

Shane blinks, frowning. “What do you mean? I came to find you.” 

“You came to find me…” Ilya says slowly, “As what? As my friend?” 

“Ilya—” 

“I do not have many of those,” Ilya continues. “I do not have many friends.” 

Privately, Shane wonders if that’s true. If maybe Ilya is just as lonely as Shane is. It seems like an impossibility, with how quick he is to smile, even when he’s chirping. He’s always got an arm around someone, throwing his head back while he laughs. 

But there’s a difference, Shane knows, between being lonely and being alone. 

“Do you want me to be here as your friend?” Shane asks. 

He would be, if that’s what Ilya wants, if that’s what Ilya needed him. And they are friends, he knows that now. It would be an honour to be Ilya’s friend in an official capacity, but he also knows it’s more than that. He doesn’t look at Ilya and think: I like him. He looks at Ilya and thinks: I love him. I love him, and I need him, and I want him. 

There is a power in it, in being someone’s friend alongside being their lover, maybe one Shane hadn’t known existed. But he knows now. 

“Is that what you are to me?” Ilya asks. He looks unsure now. Unsteady. Like he’s asked Shane a forbidden question. 

“Maybe not,” Shane admits quietly. “I think I might be more. I think you might be more to me, too.” 

Eyes welling with tears, Ilya nods. 

"I-" Ilya cuts himself off, clearing his throat. "Thank you. For coming here." 

Thumb stroking Ilya's knuckles, Shane murmurs, "You didn't make it easy." 

"I know," Ilya says quietly. "I'm sorry. I was embarrassed. I did not want to know what you would think about this. About me leaving." 

"Ilya." Shane waits for Ilya to lift his head. "I understand why you left. I'm not… There's no part of me that’s upset about that. I just wish you'd told me where you were." 

Ilya looks torn, face a fluttering reel of conflicting emotions. 

"Seriously," Shane says, keeping his voice quiet, mindful of how intimate the moment is. "As long as you're okay, I don't care. You could—you could retire right now and—and create an apple empire, and that would be okay. If it means you're alive, the rest of the world's just gonna have to suck it up and deal." 

Mouth tugging into a small smile, Ilya says, "I think it would get lonely." 

"Even with me here?"

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice heartbreakingly soft. “You cannot risk everything for me. Hockey is your life. Hockey is–” 

“Fuck hockey,” Shane interrupts, throat tight. “Ilya, you—you have my heart. You're bigger than hockey, okay?” 

Ilya freezes. His eyes, wide as saucers, flicker between Shane’s. Softly, barely a breath, Ilya says, “What?” 

Heart pounding, Shane doubles down, “You heard me.” 

“You would choose me over hockey?” 

When Shane had first been drafted by the NHL, he had been pretty sure that hockey was the only thing that could break his heart. That getting injured or being outed and subsequently shunned from the sport was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. He’s not sure that’s true anymore. 

An injury, or being outed, would still be devastating. There’s no way around that. But playing game after game without Ilya Rozanov, without the man he loves in secret, is not something he wants to do either. 

Well—he could. If Ilya retires before him, in the future. But not now. Not now, when they’re both in their prime. Not if it’s not a must just yet. 

“If it came down to it,” Shane says, “I would choose you.” 

Ilya stares for a moment longer before he dips his head. His face screws up, and Shane’s out of his seat before he knows it, rounding the table to pull Ilya into his arms. Ilya stands on shaky legs, hiding his face in the crook of Shane’s neck. 

“Fuck,” Ilya chokes out, mouth pressed to Shane’s shoulder.

Shane can feel Ilya’s heart beat against his chest, hard and fast. He’s warm and alive, and Shane thinks he could do this for the rest of his life. He could be the safe place Ilya comes back to, time and time again. He finds that he longs to be that person for Ilya, the same way Ilya has been his confidant – unwittingly or not – throughout the years.  

Love will do that to you. Love will change you. Love will make the selfless decisions feel easy. 

Eventually, Ilya noses his way up Shane’s neck, mouth grazing his jaw. Shane lets him, flushing warmly under the attention, skin erupting in goosebumps. He loves him. It’s that simple. 

Ilya’s lips find the corner of Shane’s mouth. Shane tilts his head, kissing Ilya once, soft and slow. Sighing against him, Ilya’s hands find Shane’s waist. 

Eyes half-closed, lips grazing Ilya’s, Shane says, “I love you.” 

Mouth falling open, Ilya pulls back. He looks poleaxed, like Shane’s just told him something devastating, but Shane’s not worried. He knows Ilya. 

“You have to stop with the big declarations,” Ilya rasps, overwhelmed and shaky. “You are going to kill me.” 

Laughing softly, Shane pulls him back into his arms. 

“I love you,” Ilya says. “I love you, Shane. God, it—it was so easy. It was so easy falling in love with you.” 

The confession hits Shane in the solar plexus. Body awash with warmth, disbelief, and most of all love, Shane holds him close. He can’t find a single word good enough to describe how he’s feeling. 

It feels sort of—surreal, having said it now. He told Ilya he loves him. He said the words. And Ilya said them back, face pink and open despite Shane’s less-than-stellar timing. 

He thinks he could stay here forever, if that’s what Ilya needed. Hockey has been his entire life, but Ilya—he’s the rest of it. He wants to spend every day with him: summer, winter, autumn, and spring. He wants what they already have, but all year round. They can’t live on snatches of time, on furtive, stolen glances and clandestine meetings. Not anymore. Not if they’re both serious about this, about each other. 

“Shane,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin, tickling him. 

“Yeah?” 

“I am not done with hockey,” Ilya says. “But I need time.” 

“Okay,” Shane says, simply, his voice low. He squeezes Ilya’s hand, three times in rapid succession. He waits for Ilya to return the squeezes before promising, “I’ll be here.”