Chapter Text
Prologue:
The night after seeing Ilya in the club in Montreal, Shane knew he couldn’t do it anymore.
Despite the edges of his vision being crinkled from his empty stomach, post-game exhaustion, and champagne buzz combination, the sight of Ilya in that horribly ugly animal-print shirt with his tongue in some blonde woman’s ear was etched into the back of his eyelids. He had been petrified in that moment, stuck frozen on the dancefloor, his agony glowing beneath purple and pink flashing lights for everyone to see. He was heartbroken, and there was no rationalizing his way out of it, which was saying something, because Shane could rationalize his way out of or into just about anything.
But not this.
He knew if he turned around and saw Rose making out with another guy a few feet away, his heart wouldn’t flip over itself. He wouldn’t feel the air in the club grow thin around him until it ghosted from his lungs. He wouldn’t care. Not like this, anyway.
It was just exploratory sex. It was just something to do when he was bored. It was, in a weird way, somehow to get back at his top rival. He wasn’t gay.
Then Ilya ran his powerful hands over the woman’s breasts, her head flying back with an inaudible moan, lost beneath the pumping of a pop song. Ilya leaned into her, his curls limp with sweat, tracing their way down her neck as he planted a kiss on the hinge of her jaw, then viciously ran his teeth across her tender flesh– just like he used to do to Shane.
Fuck. Shane was going to cry.
As dampness swelled into the corners of his eyes, the music shifted to a Latin-sounding artist, the beat low and sexy. Shane was thankful the lights dipped into total darkness with the new track, allowing him to flee– yes, run out of the club and into the cold Montreal November night without his coat or his girlfriend. He would text Rose that he was sorry when he got back to his apartment.
If he ever got back.
Not even ten minutes into the drive, Shane threw on his hazards and pulled off to the side of the road near an exit, the roads and signs and dark sky blurring together like a smeared oil painting. The front of his t-shirt was beginning to soak through, as no matter how many times he swiped at his eyes, the cold, fat tears wouldn’t stop falling in silent sobs.
He was crying for two reasons.
The first was as obvious as the wetness on his face: he was gay. The second, much harder reason, was that he was in love with the one person in the world who made being gay a million times more difficult– the one man with whom he probably could never have a future, no matter how bad he wanted it. He wasn’t even sure if Ilya wanted it. The tears turned hot, a mix of shame, acceptance, relief, and then finally, grief.
It took him twenty minutes of breathless crying to pull himself together enough to get back home. He didn’t text Rose, nor did he shower; both radically strange moves for him. Instead, Shane dragged himself into bed, still in his clothes, and slept for fourteen hours.
In his dreams, Shane was trapped beneath pink and purple lights, feeling around blindly as his eyes burned from the harsh flashing lights, unable to find the door to leave. His head was pounding and all his limbs were floaty, each step like wading through syrup. Instead of finding an exit, Shane began to softly collide with jungle foliage, fat leaves in varying shades of emerald softly hushed as he weakly pushed through them. He thought he was inside a club in Montreal in November– why was it suddenly humid and dense with greenery, like the Amazon? He pushed forward, stumbling in slow motion to his hands and knees and crashing through more leaves until he was sure he was on solid ground, dirt and tiles of a dancefloor.
Lifting his head up, he wasn’t sure if he would see a blue sky or an industrial metal ceiling– he would never know. His eyes never got that far. Instead, a few feet ahead of him lying low to the ground between two flowering bushes was a leopard, huge yet stealthy. Its eyes gleamed sharply when Shane met its gaze, black as ink. His heart thundered blood into his ears— or was that the bass of the music? Shane couldn’t tell the difference anymore. He put his hand flat against his chest, which was surprisingly bare, to ensure it wouldn’t explode like a confetti cannon across the jungle floor. He was totally naked. Shane looked down at himself and expected to be washed in humiliation, but nothing came. It was oddly peaceful.
A low growl snapped his attention back up to the powerful predator ahead of him, and Shane’s mouth dropped open at what he saw. Clenched between the cat's exquisitely large fangs was the neck of a woman, her blonde head twisted away in an angle in which thankfully Shane couldn’t see her expression. He guessed, by her limp body that was motionless in her black sparkly dress, that she was dead. Shane sucked in a sharp, scared breath, and as if on cue, the leopard dropped her with a sickening thud to the ground, its gaze never leaving Shane’s. Around the neck of the animal, something thin and gold caught the pink dancing lights, glinting and making Shane flinch, unable to tell whether or not he was seeing it sink low into its haunches, its ears flattening and its lips curling back in a snarl, seconds from pouncing. Just as he got his bearings, the leopard was gunning for him in an impressive leap, mouth open, paws and claws outstretched, ready to tear him apart.
Shane jumped awake with a violent jerk; his mouth was cotton, and he had sweated through his sheets, which were a tangled, matted mess around his legs. He was gripping onto the side of his mattress as if he had actually been in the throes of an attack. Frustrated, he kicked the fabric away from him in an agitated huff. A soreness ached between his legs.
Fuck Montreal clubs. Fuck leopards. Why am I hard?
Charging his dead phone while he showered, Shane thought of what the hell he was supposed to do. He’d need to come out to Rose first, obviously. Shane owed her that much, especially after he had been such a shitty boyfriend to her, both in and out of the bedroom. And then his parents. God. There was one conversation Shane had prayed his entire adolescence he wouldn’t ever have to have. And then his team, of course, which would be the worst. The last thing Shane would ever want would be for his sexuality to affect his career or his teammates. Or his chances at another cup.
Yet, sitting on his dishevelled bed, wrapped up in a towel, Shane didn’t want to tell anyone but Ilya.
He opened their message chain and typed the same sentiment in multiple ways, different words, different tones, deleting it and starting over at least a dozen times.
Hi. I’m gay.
Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.
Shane closed the messaging app, then his eyes.
These conversations were going to be the hardest thing he’d ever done. And he’d won a Stanley Cup. Twice.
Over the next three weeks, Shane and Rose had awkward short phone calls and spotty text exchanges while they both danced around the obvious impending breakup. It was torture. Even though Shane knew Rose wasn’t the type, he would anxiously float around his phone, worried for an accusation to hurl or something to come up in a tabloid headline. It never did. Instead, as Rose wrapped her shoot for a new thriller movie in which she played the best-friend turned serial killer accomplice, she suggested the two of them grab dinner the first night she was back in Montreal at the wine bar where they had their first official date. That was almost three months to the day.
Putting a date on the first conversation had Shane worried sick.
It also didn’t help Shane’s frayed nerves that all texting between him and Ilya stopped the night after they bumped into each other at Ultraviolet.
Fuck Montreal Clubs.
Shane hated thinking about that night. To him, it was the night that changed everything; it rocked his foundation to his core. He hated thinking about all the women Ilya hooked up with, maybe men too, in the long stretches when Shane couldn’t be the first one at his door. He hated how his stomach flooded with liquid fire when he remembered gold eyes glinting with laughter as Ilya stared him down across the dance floor, kissing a trail down some random woman’s slender neck while his hands roamed wildly along her curves. It had literally reoriented Shane’s world, and did Ilya care? Of course not. He was too busy getting his dick wet and getting better at hockey; two things Shane was currently barred from doing in his terrible mental state. He couldn’t even run on a treadmill without stumbling from distraction. Every time an awkward text from Rose would ping, Shane’s pulse would leap, hoping it would be Ilya. When it wasn’t, he felt even worse– gross and guilty.
All in all, Shane showed up to his date looking and feeling like shit. Which is why he found it odd that as soon as he sat down across from her, Rose called him cute. Twice.
She was beautiful, as always. Practically shining under the restaurant's dim orange light, in a soft black blouse and champagne colored silk skirt, her big gold earrings catching and sparkling like suns. Shane thought she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, which only further cemented his guilt for wasting her time.
There were two white wine glasses chilled and waiting on the table between them, and Shane took long, time-filling sips while Rose rolled the stem between her fingers. They barely got past pleasantries before Rose threw open the doors and yanked Shane from the closet.
“Shane, I like you.” Rose was insisting, her dangling earrings swinging as she reached across the table and grabbed his hands. “I just don’t think we fit well together. I don’t think I… do it for you.”
“You do! You totally do!” Shane could feel his head shaking in the negative as he lied, suddenly unconfident, his pre-planned script to come out dissolving in panic. “I mean, you sort of do…”
Rose’s mouth twitched, clearly suppressing a laugh.
“Shane,” She cradled his name gently, and he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “It’s okay.”
Any chance to backpedal or defend himself melted into the stretch of silence between them, her warm hand encasing his. She beat him to the punch. The jig was up.
Shane let his head fall for a moment, letting out a long, thin sigh until there was no air left in him.
“I came here to tell you. I’m really, really sorry, Rose.”
“You’re like, the eighth gay boyfriend I’ve had. It’s really not a big deal, Shane. I still really like you, only I think we’d be way better as friends.” Rose sounded relieved. “I’m a great actress, but I don’t want to pretend in my personal life.”
“I was a terrible boyfriend to you, gay or not.” Shane met her comforting gaze meekly. “I’m so sorry, Rose. Typical douchebag hockey player move, right?”
Rose pulled her torso over the table, her voice dropping to a whisper so no one around them could hear. “Sorry, I stole your big coming-out moment. Typical asshole movie star move.”
Not even ten minutes later, they were sitting on the same side of the table, arms around one another in the booth and cracking up over truffle fries. They really were better as friends.
“And then Thomas Ferrent, my next gay boyfriend, was huge into arthouse films and would drag me to these crummy theatres all along the strip. They always smelled of pee, but he insisted it was an authentic ambiance enhancement.” Rose sarcastically finger-quoted into the air. “Oh my God!” She had a tear of laughter escaping from the corner of her eye.
“Jesus,” Shane wheezed, shaking his head. “Please never set me up with any of your exes. I’m glad I wasn’t the worst gay boyfriend.”
“God, Shane, no.” Rose affectionately laid her head on his shoulder, popping up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You are seriously one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever dated. I’m so glad I get to be around you all the time as a friend.”
“Me too.” Shane felt a lump bob in his throat, but he pushed it down with his last sip of wine from his second glass. Or was it his third? “I don’t have, uhm…”
People. I don’t have anyone to talk to about this yet.
“I know.” Rose filled in the blank for him, squirming so she could sit closer. “But you do now. And I want the juicy details, seriously. If you hold out on me, I’ll kill you. Best friends tell each other everything."
Shane snorted and kissed her temple. “You’re a great girl, Rose.”
“I’m the best.” Rose started to slide away. “I’m also a little drunk, and I think my cab is here.”
Shane checked his watch. “Yeah, I’d better head out.” As he stood, he realized his head was swimming a little bit. “Let me walk you out.”
Together they stood for a moment, happily and drunkenly swaying in the chilly February air, smiling at one another.
“I think this is the worst time to tell you, but I love you, Rose.” Shane grinned. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
A massive smile split her face, and she shone, like Rose always did. Like the sun. “Shane! Fool me once, shame on you!” Her laughter warmed the scene around them as if it were spring already. “I love you too.”
She jumped into his arms and let Shane plant a kiss on the top of her head.
“I’m calling you as soon as I land in L.A, okay? Don’t go and have sexy adventures without looping me in. And do not watch this next movie, it's going to be so bad!”
“Shh!” Shane laughed as he ushered her towards her impatient cab driver. “No spoilers!”
The sky darkened as he waved at the yellow car until it was out of sight, Rose waving back with her same sweet smile– it was the smile she gave him when he first slid into her booth at La Tambour when they first met. Rose Landry was, to Shane, an angel. She only ever wanted to know him, and now that he was coming to terms with who he was, he could finally let her. And they were having so much fun already.
Shane turned back to call his own cab from inside the restaurant lobby when he spotted a man in a black toque and a navy puffer coat posted up on the wall in a somewhat casual stance. His iPhone was out, and he was clearly recording, which raised Shane’s hackles.
Maybe a little too much fun. Shane noted guiltily. Rose had to be careful about movie spoilers and her public image; she probably shouldn’t be getting wine drunk with him and hollering on the sidewalk.
Oh well. No harm, no foul.
Shane called his cab and headed home. He texted his parents from the backseat and asked if they were free for lunch this weekend, stating he had something important to share with them both. For the first time in a while, Shane scrolled down to Ilya’s number, his finger hovering for a moment. What was he supposed to say? He scrolled away, opened up Instagram and liked Rose’s most recent story-highlight from tonight of the two of them in one another's arms, flushed and grinning, instead.
FOUR DAYS LATER
“Oh, thank God.” His mother gasped, her eyes closing like prayer over her steaming codfish. “I thought it was drugs.”
“Why do you always worry that it’s drugs?” Shane’s father barely raised his eyes from his steak; he mushed a piece into his fluffy mashed potatoes. “Shane still takes baby aspirin for his headaches.”
“Because he’s a professional athlete, that comes with pressures, David!” Shane’s mother opened her eyes just to immediately roll them.
Shane knit his eyebrows together, lifting his eyes from his salmon and asparagus. “Uhm, hello?”
“Oh please, the Metros wouldn’t dope.”
“What do you know about dope? You barely know YouTube.”
“I’m on YouTube, Yuna. Where do you think I learned about dope?”
“Hello?” Shane unpursed his lips. “Are you even going to acknowledge what I said?”
A look passed between his parents. Had they already forgotten?
“Oh, come on!” Shane balked, his tears instantly evaporating. “Are you fucking with me?”
After thirty minutes of gut-wrenching fear, Shane shook out a monologue he prepared the night before in between the appetizers and the mains.
I’m sorry. I tried to be normal. I really did try. I’m still your son. Please, don’t treat me any differently. After a long time of trying to make things work, I realized recently that… I’m gay. Actually, I think deep down, I’ve always known.
He had barely choked it out, and it was as if he told his parents he was missing a sock from the dryer. He had even gone out of his way to book a secluded table so no one would hear if things got loud, but things didn’t even get acknowledged.
“Right, sorry.” His dad wiped barbecue sauce from the corner of his mouth with the ridge of his cloth napkin. “Sorry, Shane. You’re gay. Continue.”
It wasn’t a question, just a flat statement. The sky is blue. My steak is rare. You are gay.
This coming-out shit was going differently than Shane had expected.
“Yes, honey. We’re sorry.” His mother patted his hand. “Do you have a boyfriend for us to meet? Is that what this is about? You know, you could have brought him here today.”
Shane slumped back in his chair. “I thought…”
What, exactly? That his parents' unconditional love for him would draw the line at liking dick? He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or laugh at how quickly they had accepted that their only son was gay. Maybe his spotty relationships with girls growing up had been an early indicator that they quietly ignored until Shane was ready. Maybe this entire lunch conversation was totally redundant.
Shane shook his head with a small smile. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“So, no boyfriend then?” Shane’s dad asked again, cutting another bite free.
Shane’s stomach knotted.
He remembered the pressure of a large sturdy hand pressed between his shoulder blades, the smell of cigarette smoke and its bitter twinge along his mouth, the glint of a chain beneath stadium lights, sneakers barely touching in a hotel gym. Firm fingers digging into the inner flesh of his thighs, his own fingers digging into damp curls. Pinned. Flipped. Filled. His last name husked in the dark. Hollander. And then, as loud as a gunshot, his first name under a huffed Russian accent. Shane.
He thought of a leopard with a neck in its mouth, and swallowed jaggedly.
Something between a sob and a laugh escaped Shane’s lips, and he coughed quickly to cover up the strange, strangled noise.
“No. No boyfriend.”
Shane snatched his water glass, gulping the ice liquid down to simmer his edgy nerves. He noticed his mother hadn’t touched her lunch, her eyes downcast.
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry if you felt the need to hide anything from me, Shane.” His mother’s voice wavered, and Shane reached across the table to grab her hand quickly.
“It’s okay, Mom. I forgive you.”
For a sweet moment, they stared at one another, Shane noticing all their shared features, all their soft points and their edges.
“But… we can really make some great partnerships now. Think of all the Pride opportunities.”
Shane sat back in his chair with a long sigh.
“Okay, mom.”
ONE WEEK LATER: TAMPA
When Shane landed in Tampa, he was determined to talk to Ilya. Like, really, actually talk, not just immediately jump into bed with him. Although he was hoping they could do both. He was feeling more confident after his conversations with Rose and his parents, and then a somewhat awkward coming out with Hayden over FaceTime while his friend was covered in spit-up. In the summer, Shane had already made up his mind that he would come out to the Metros. First to the coach, then to the team, and then, if the league wanted, they could pump out some generic Instagram statement about how Shane liked to kiss boys. That part barely mattered to him. What really mattered was Ilya.
And there he was. Tall and fit and starting to tan already in a silly-looking tropical shirt, salmon-colored with dots of palm trees. He had on cargo shorts and grey slides, and Shane couldn’t help but consider that everything Ilya had on was extremely easy to take off, and quickly. It sparked the same ball of fiery desire in his stomach that he always got when he looked at Ilya. Sharing a space with the Boston captain was agonizing, especially after they hadn’t even spoken in so long. Shane took a moment to take a breath and steady himself.
He felt slightly overdressed, but his new stylist had insisted that he didn’t look like a creepy yacht owner and instead was giving Florida chic. Whatever that meant. In this case, it appeared to be a light cream jacket and a black, ultra-breathable shirt to help with the thick humidity that Tampa was breathing onto everyone's necks.
With his new wind of confidence, Shane took a seat next to Ilya at the main bar and ordered whatever Rozanov was drinking. Some beer he had never heard of. By this point, he and Ilya hadn't texted for over three months, and Shane wasn’t sure how to approach this conversation, but he knew he had to try.
“Hey,” Shane bravely met Ilya’s eyes, which were glued to him from the minute he walked into the bar. “Nice shirt, Rozanov.”
Ilya took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes scanning Shane from top to bottom. Shane felt his mouth dry out and hoped the bartender would be back soon with his drink. Just being in proximity to Ilya made Shane feel strange, excited, but nervous, maybe a little bit afraid.
“Hello, captain,” Ilya said coolly, shifting a little in his barstool. “You look nice. Florida ready.”
“Thanks. This should be fun, eh?” Shane took a sip of his beer the moment it hit his hand. “All-Stars is always a good time.”
“Mhm.” Ilya drummed his fingers on the bar in front of him.
Despite the hot weather, it was decidedly cold between the two men at the bar. Shane wasn’t sure how to push through the sudden silence that was born from the Russian’s disinterest. Ilya wasn’t giving an inch.
Shane felt his palms begin to sweat. Should he just come out and say it? It wouldn’t be like Ilya to tell people– after all, they were the same. Almost. Being openly gay might change things for the better between them. Shane racked his brain and finally landed on starting with an apology for the way he had run out of Ilya’s apartment after things got a little too close to honest. They had slipped up and said each other's first names, and Shane bolted, and then he ran to the nearest solution he could think of: Rose. But now things were different; really different. Shane knew that Ily,a of all people, should understand Shane’s actions, considering how he slept with women constantly. Shane had just needed to be sure, and now he was.
“About last time, at your apartment…” Shane didn’t get to finish or barely start his apology before Ilya loudly cleared his throat.
“So, where is she?”
Shane’s head tilted slightly. “Who?”
An angry glower clouded Ilya’s sharp features, annoyance flashing in his hazel eyes as he snapped his head over. It was so plainly directed that Shane almost flinched.
“Who,” Ilya repeated, his accent thick with disgust. “Nice.”
“Rose?” Shane tented and untented his brows. “We aren’t together anymore.”
“Right.” Ilya snorted, polishing off his beer with a few loud swallows.
Shane found himself momentarily entranced by the bob of his throat, the veins in his neck, and the first lines of stubble appearing along his chin. He ached to run his fingers across those planes of skin, but first, he had to clear the air.
“We’re not!” Shane insisted, a little too loudly. He dropped his voice a level. “We broke up. She’s a great girl, the best, actually. But we weren’t compatible.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m gay, Rozanov.” Shane hissed after glancing over his shoulder, thankful all the other All-Stars were crowding around a few pool tables on the opposite end of the room.
Ilya turned to stare at Shane, his expression morphing and losing all semblance of bitterness. His gaze had gone soft, and his mouth had opened slightly; Shane felt his heart skip a beat. It was the look Ilya would sometimes put on when he kissed Shane. Not a hot, brimming with sexual tension and desire type of kiss, but the gentle kind. The kind he had given Shane the afternoon they spent in Ilya’s apartment bed, watching the game and eating lunch together. Before they went past the point of no return. Before Shane realized that, for years, right then, and right now too, he was in love with Ilya Rozanov.
Suddenly overwhelmed by it all, Shane dropped his gaze to his shoes. “I should go make the rounds and say what’s up to people.”
Chickening out for the time being, Shane stood up and walked away, leaving Ilya alone at the bar with a dumbstruck expression.
Later, by the pool, Shane had spotted Ilya standing next to Mike Brophy, the big New Jersey defenceman with a ginger beard. Shane was hoping that they could talk more, but for the time being, he was happy drinking Ilya in. Shane had just been watching Rozanov play with some kids in the pool, losing a race against them and then buying them all candy bars from the hotel lobby as their reward for besting a famous athlete. Now, his golden hair looked dark brown as it was slicked back against his head, curling around his ears as it began to dry. His body, chiselled and firm and dripping wet with chlorine water, was leaving Shane parched. He absent-mindedly sipped a virgin Mojito as he watched Brophy sling an arm around Ilya’s shoulders, showing him something on his cellphone; a video, Shane guessed, by the landscape orientation of the device in his massive hand.
From across the pool deck, Shane saw Ilya’s expression drop, and for a moment he looked sad– maybe even devastated, but it quickly twisted and soured. When Ilya looked up, he looked right at Shane, scowled, and then slipped out from Brophy’s arm, disappearing into the building behind him.
“What the fuck was that about?” Shane wondered aloud, receiving a dirty look from a mom who had her young son on her lap in the next chair over. “Oh, sorry.”
That night, because Ilya had been avoiding him like the plague, Shane gave up and texted him his room number.
There was no response, and as the night crawled by, Shane was beginning to wonder if he would show at all. Just as Shane was about to turn off the lights and crawl into bed, defeated, he heard a soft knock at his door. Checking his watch, Shane was baffled to see it was almost two in the morning; he had sent the text three hours ago.
“You sure took your sweet time,” Shane smiled teasingly as he opened the door.
Ilya didn’t look happy.
Shane dropped his smile and took a few steps back, letting Rozanov take a few slow steps in, flinching when he slammed the door behind him.
“We doing this, or what, Hollander?” Ilya asked, giving him a bored look.
Shane tried to swallow his discomfort. “Uhm, I think we should talk beforehand.”
Ilya made a face, shaking his head in the negative. “No, thanks.” Then, he moved forward and shoved Shane in the middle of his chest, forcing Shane to sit down clumsily on the bed. “Take your clothes off.”
“Rozanov,” Shane heard the hurt in his voice and tried to stiffen his tone.
Something about this was reminding Shane of the Vegas award ceremony.
“Seriously. Let’s talk for a second here. I have a bunch of things I need to say to you.” Shane licked his lips as Ilya bent down, their faces only a few inches apart.
“I don’t want to hear your lies, Hollander. Keep your boring shit to yourself.” The cruel statement was followed by Ilya crashing his mouth into Shane’s.
Frustration and passion swirled in Shane’s head for a moment. He was getting what he wanted, but not at the cost Shane had been planning to pay for it. A sickening feeling fizzled out the desire that had flooded Shane’s stomach moments prior, and it peaked when Ilya grabbed at Shane’s belt and unlatched the buckle.
“Stop,” Shane turned away from Ilya, breaking their kiss. He took Ilya’s hands off him. “Stop it.”
Ilya sighed, long and annoyed, then pulled away from him.
Shane caught his breath, then forced himself to look up at Ilya, who was standing over him, glowering down at him with his hands shoved into his shorts pockets.
“You are wasting both of our time.”
“Oh, am I being boring? Sorry.” Shane sarcastically huffed, feeling his eyes begin to sting. “Sorry for wanting to talk to you.”
“We fuck, we don’t talk, Hollander. It is simple this way.”
“Bullshit.” Shane scoffed, then looked out the window of his hotel room to the waves crashing outside. He swallowed thickly, hoping Ilya didn’t actually feel that way. “I want more from you.”
“Now who is bullshitting?” Ilya laughed without any humour, turning away from Shane and walking over to the mini fridge.
He opened it and fished out a beer. It cracked with a hiss, and Shane watched Ilya drain half the can before speaking again.
“You have enough. You don’t need anything more from me.”
Shane felt heat and embarrassment wash over him. He looked away again, determined not to let Ilya see him cry or get close to it again.
“So all we’re good for is–”
“Yes. Fucking, Hollander.”
Shane nodded stiffly, mechanically. “Okay.”
Ilya finished the beer and tossed it with a loud clatter into the small trashcan by the coffee table.
“So, are you going to take your clothes off, or are you going to waste more of my time?”
Shane re-latched his belt, swallowing his agony and letting the anger he had been trying to keep at bay wash forward like the waves on the Tampa shore.
“Get the fuck out of my room, Ilya.”
An ugly pause. Then, with a slight scoff, Rozanov left.
Shane locked the door behind him, stripped down, and crawled into bed with an aching heart. He felt bruised, like he had just been thrown from a moving vehicle.
Yes, he was gay. No, that didn’t mean that things would automatically work out between him and Ilya. Their arrangement was exactly what it was. Sex. Rivalry on the ice. Sex. Distance.
Shane and Ilya assisted one another on the ice for All-Stars, smiled for group photos, and didn’t speak for the rest of the duration of the trip.
When he got back to Montreal, the first thing he did was come out to the rest of the Metros and helped their publicity team craft and publish a statement. He got many phone calls and texts of support from other players; Metros, Admirals and Ottawa Centaurs, and even a few guys from the Boston Raiders. Not Ilya, though. And Shane told himself he was fine with that, even if his heart still felt bruised.
His score for coming out was a solid three out of four. His parents were okay with it, Rose was fine with it, and now his team was too. There. It was perfect.
Almost perfect.