Chapter Text
The sound that came after the buzzer would haunt him for days. Weeks. Months, even.
Shane Hollander had just royally fucked up. He couldn't feel his feet. He couldn't feel the weight of his stick. He stood frozen while he watched Boston celebrate their win. A win that could have been easily avoided if he had not tripped on the ice during probably the most crucial moment of the third period.
Shane knew he should be back with the Metros, acting like the captain he was. The C was a responsibility he had earned. But the badge now weighed heavily on his chest, making his neck stiff and his breathing uneven. Shane Hollander was seeing gray. No, not red. He wasn't angry, at least not yet. He was dazed, like someone had just punched him in the stomach. He could feel his ears ringing and mouth going dry.
All he could see was the moment just minutes before. The puck sliding toward him. The clean lane opening. His skate getting trapped on something even a rookie could easily sidetrack. And Ilya. Ilya had been right there, ready to take advantage of the turnover Shane had literally handed him.
My fault, Shane thought. A stupid fucking rookie mistake. How could I let this happen? And of all people, why did it have to be against him?
His legs finally moved once Hayden Pike bumped into him on the way to the line to greet the Ragers. He didn't look up, though. Shane didn't look to the bench either. He chose to skate to the front of the line in silence, as if he were skating to his own humiliation ritual. When he reached Ilya, his skin crawled. He barely brushed Ilya’s glove, pulling away before their eyes could meet, his own fingernails digging so hard into his palms that his leather gloves creaked.
The walk to the locker room felt wrong. The air felt stuffy and uncomfortably hot. Shane could hear the hum coming from the old ventilating system in the arena, and it made him want to claw his ears out. Sitting at his stall, he didn't even start on his laces. He just stared at the floor, his hands hidden in his lap, thumbs frantically gouging at the soft skin near his nails, over and over.
As captain of the Montreal Metros, it was expected of him to give a consolation speech, but who the hell was he supposed to console? Himself? Hey, sorry, guys, I fucking tripped on my own skates like Bambi the deer. We'll do better. We'll grow as a team. See you guys at practice tomorrow. Boo-fucking-hoo. It felt pathetic.
"Hollander? Did you hear me?" Shane was snapped out of his thoughts by his coach calling him.
"Sorry, what was that, sir?"
"Media. ESPN wants to talk to you, kid."
"Oh, right. Sorry. I'll be right there."
The media pen was a blur of lights, microphones, and journalists with careful neutral faces.
"What happened on the ice, Shane?"
"Do you feel responsible for the outcome?"
Shane answered on autopilot — the years of being polished by media training easily giving the media the quotes they wanted. We win as a team, we lose as a team. Tonight was on me. I apologize to the fans and my team. We'll practice and learn what went wrong. As he spoke, he kept his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his nails catching on the lining, scratching at his thighs through the fabric just to stay grounded.
By the time he got back to his apartment, he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He took a deep breath, ready for anything. Coach calling. Hayden checking in. J.J. wanting to half-kill him and half go out for a drink. Instead...
Lily: Still on for tonight? I can bring takeout.
They had planned this weeks ago, on Montreal's last game against Boston. Ilya Rozanov would be in his town for only one night. Tonight.
Shit. Shane stared at the message until his vision got blurry. The contact name "Lily" — a ridiculous precaution to keep his teammates' prying eyes away — felt like a mockery now. He couldn't possibly handle Ilya or his messy feelings for him right now. Not in his home, not in his room. Not tonight. It was too much. So his fingers moved before he could even second-guess himself.
Jane: Can't. Sorry.
He hit send immediately.
On the other side of the conversation, Ilya huffed.
Lily: Don't be boring.
Three dots appeared. Then, they were gone. Then appeared again.
What could possibly be making Shane cancel last minute? Ilya thought. He never canceled. They had a deal. Game nights were theirs. Hotels. Private condos. They got together, and they fucked. It was simple. Dark four walls held their history after all those years.
If they didn't see each other tonight, it would be months before they could see each other again. They would only be in the same city again next season.
Jane: Don't come. I'm sorry again.
Ilya read the message twice. Then a third time. This was ridiculous, Ilya thought. Then he snorted and called a cab. Shane Hollander would not bail on him. Not after a game like that. Ilya knew Shane; he knew that silence meant the Canadian was spiraling. He was coming to his penthouse, no questions asked. Ilya pulled his hoodie low over his brow, ducking his head as he exited the cab blocks away from Shane’s building. He moved like a shadow, heart hammering. If a scout saw him here, or a fan with a camera, his career would be over. But the thought of not seeing Shane for months (plural?), that was felt even worse.
He bypassed the front desk by slipping through the service entrance he'd learned about months ago, his pulse echoing in his ears. Ilya was lucky the guy was as predictable as he was boring; Shane used his jersey number and rookie year as the password for the elevator. Ilya pressed 2407 and headed up.
He knew this was risky. He knew that there was a big chance that there could be someone — anyone, really — on this building who could recognize him. A Boston player in a Montreal captain’s penthouse hours after a heated game? The headlines would write themselves. Hell, he hadn't even thought about the possibility of Shane bailing on him because he had someone else over. A teammate. His parents. Rose Land... Yeah, maybe let's not go there.
But it was too late now. Ilya was already in front of Shane's door and... He couldn't hear anything. He did hear a bit of furniture moving around, someone pacing around, but not voices. Oof. At least there wasn't anyone over, apparently.
Ilya Rozanov knocked once. Then again, for good measure.
Nothing.
What the hell? He thought. He shouldn't have come here.
He knocked again.
"Hollander", he called out, irritated. "Open the door".
He then heard movement inside. Footsteps.
And then the door finally cracked open. Barely.
"Jesus, is someone making you a hostage or what? Let me in," his voice dripping with his usual condescending bite. He stepped forward, expecting to push past a sulking Shane and maybe mock him into a better mood.
But Shane didn't snort like he usually did when Rozanov was being a dick on purpose. "Why are you here? I told you not to come".
Then the wind from the corridor caught the door, pushing it wide.
The air left Ilya's lungs.
Shane was shirtless.
Pale.
Raw.
His chest and shoulders were a map of angry red lines. Inflamed. Fresh.
Ilya didn't wait for an invitation, pushed the door fully open, and stepped inside, crowding Shane back to the apartment.
"What the fuck happened to you?"
Shane didn't answer; he just turned his back to the door and walked into the living room. "You shouldn't have come, Rozanov. This is not a good time."
"Yeah, no shit." He went after Shane. "Hollander. Hey- Look at me. What the fuck is going on?"
Shane turned around abruptly, eyes flicking up and then away.
"Jesus Christ, look at you," Ilya breathed. His hand reached out, then stopped, hovering in the space between them. "Did someone- Did you-"
"No," Shane said, too fast. "No. It's- No."
"Hollander, I'm being dead fucking serious right now. Talk to me. What happened? Who did this to you?"
Shane let out a laugh. A horrible sound that Ilya had never heard from him.
"You guys had a great game tonight." He pressed his palm to his chest, fingers digging into already tender skin. "That third period was really something else-"
"Hollander-"
"No, I have to give to you guys," he's pacing now, the sound of his own nails catching on his skin again. Skritch. Skritch. "This new offensive tactic you guys have is really impressive-"
Ilya lunged, grabbing his wrists. "Shane, that's enough-"
"Don't touch me!" Shane jerked away, his eyes wide with a fear that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with being seen like this.
Ilya froze, then slowly lowered his hands. "Okay. Okay. I won't. Just- Talk to me. Not this hockey bullshit you're pulling. What is going on?"
Shane turned to him, eyes wild and unfocused. "I ruined everything."
"What? It is about hockey then? You lost game."
"I ruined everything", Shane repeated, louder. "I ruined our chances of winning the fucking cup. I always do. I always do this."
Shane laughed again and again and then- his face crumpled. The sound that came out of him was ugly. His breath hitched, shoulders shaking, tears spilling freely. He dragged his fingers over his face and onto his chest again, smearing the salty tears into the raw skin, hissing in pain, but not stopping.
"I knew better," he choked. "I knew better and I still- I still-"
Ilya couldn't stay on his side of the line anymore. "Hollander, stop," Ilya said desperately, but it was no use. "Shane, look at me."
Not even the first name drop — a rarity even in their most intimate moments — made the Canadian do a double-take. He didn't stop. He folded into himself, crouching near the couch.
"I'm so fucking shit," he sobbed. "There has to be something wrong with me."
"No."
"I tripped," Shane gasped. "I tripped like a fucking loser right in front of you. I fucked it up like I always seem to do, and everyone pays for it, and I don't know how to make it stop. I shouldn't even be captain-"
Ilya kneeled in front of him. "Hollander, you need to breathe."
"Everyone can fucking see how much of a fuck up is Shane Hollander," Shane snapped, voice cracking.
"Baby," Ilya said, the word slipping out of his mouth before he could stop. He waited for a reaction that never came. "You're not thinking straight right now."
Shane's hand shook violently. "I cost the Metros everything."
"You didn't."
"I did!" Shane shouted, the immediately broke, voice dissolving into sobs. "I did. I felt it. I felt the second where my right skate wobbled, and it was like- It was like I was watching everything happen and I couldn't do shit about it."
Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane's, finally touching him in a way that wasn't about sex. "Mistakes happen, Shane. It's okay."
Shane sobbed harder, words tumbling over each other. "No, it's not. I don't deserve any of it. Not the captain badge. Not the team. I'm-"
"Don't," Ilya said sharply. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
Shane tried to pull away, but the fight was draining out of him. His shoulders slumped, his forehead sliding down to rest against Ilya’s collarbone. He let out a long breath that sounded like a surrender.
"You shouldn't be here. You’re supposed to be celebrating. You won."
"Well, too bad. I'm not leaving."
"You should."
"I won't."
They sat there on the floor, the barrier between them finally gone, replaced by a vulnerability that terrified them both. Shane sank back into the same accusations, the same loops. Time seemed to stretch thin. At some point, Shane's crying turned quieter, exhausted with just sigh-like hiccups that insisted on coming through. His words started to trail off midsentence.
"I can't," Shane whispered, his voice small. "I can't do it anymore, Ilya."
Ilya didn't say a word. He just reached out, slowly, and looped his arms around Shane’s waist, pulling him into the space between his knees. For a long minute, they just stayed there on the floor. The Montreal Captain and the Boston star, tangled together.
"I just-" he whispered. "I just wanted-"
"Easy, now," Ilya shushed him softly. "Let's get you up," Ilya murmured. He stood first, then reached down, offering his hand. Shane looked at it for a long time, before he reached out and took it. He let Ilya pull him up. He let Ilya lead him, his footsteps heavy and uneven, toward the bedroom.
Ilya worked quietly, trying not to pop the quiet bubble that had just been created. He tucked Shane in, then lay down on the other side of the bed. The Canadian player slept like a rock, his body finally giving up. Ilya didn't, though. Instead, his hand hovered over Shane's back, unsure what to do. He eventually tucked himself right beside Shane and fell asleep too.