Chapter Text
Shane
“Have fun with Lily?” Hayden asked as Shane walked into the locker room.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shane said, dropping his bag and immediately beginning to change. It’s not like he was late, not even half the team were in the room yet, but Shane was usually one of the first in a locker room before a game.
“Whatever,” Hayden smirked. “At least we know you’ll be bringing your A game.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said, but he didn’t quite succeed in hiding his smile. He was so happy he didn’t know how the feeling was staying contained in his body.
There had been a few hours between Shane’s arrival in Boston that morning and their evening game and yes, he was freshly fucked, but Ilya had also let him cook salmon fillets for lunch and they’d eaten together at the table, just talking. They’d stretched together, and taken a pre game nap in Ilya’s bed, and then Shane had taken one Uber to a hotel and another uber from the hotel to the Garden. He’d been to Ilya’s house since they’d officially become boyfriends that summer, but it still felt strange to do anything besides hook up before a game. It felt new, and exciting, and Shane was completely, incandescently happy.
“Ah ha ha, Capitane!” JJ sauntered over, shirtless, grinning like a fool. “You’re finally getting serious with this girl, eh?”
Shane just rolled his eyes and kept changing.
“Cap won’t say anything,” Baylor, a second line D man, said. “So we’ll just have to see how well he plays to see if he got laid.”
JJ, Hayden, and most of the guys in a three meter radius started laughing.
“Man,” JJ said, slapping a large hand down on Shane’s shoulder and shaking him a little. “It’s good luck your girl is in Boston. You find her to give you the edge over Rozanov, eh?”
Shane snorted, he couldn’t help it.
“No, dude,” Shane said. “I don’t fucking care about him.”
“Oh?” JJ asked, eyes boggling comically.
“Well, aside from beating his ass,” Shane said.
“Fuck yeah,” JJ shouted. Several of the other guys parroted behind him fuck yeah, fuck him, fuck ‘em up!
Shane grinned and turned back into his locker.
It was a little embarrassing that his team had caught on to how much more relaxed he was after getting laid, even if it was mostly Hayden and JJ who had noticed and everyone else had just caught on. But the fact that JJ thought it was a tactic to beat Ilya, when it had always been Ilya fucking him into a mattress, was a little hilarious. Shane could hardly care, he just wanted to get changed and get out on the ice for warm ups. He just wanted to be in the same space as his boyfriend again.
After those fateful days in July when they’d confessed their love for each other and laid tentative plans for the future, Ilya had postponed leaving for as long as he could. After the initial awkwardness of David walking in on them they’d spent a lot of time with Shane’s parents: Shane rejoicing in the unexpected pleasure of having the three people he loved the most in the world get along, Ilya thriving in a family unit that accepted him.
He and Ilya had relaxed more fully into themselves and each other, often always touching, even if it was just a wrist against a thigh or their pinkies, laced under the table as they played Yahtzee with Yuna and David. Shane had surprised himself with how comfortable he felt being himself around Ilya. He’d found himself disclosing things he’d told almost no one before, stories from his rookie year, from high school and juniors and before, and Ilya listened and teased him sometimes, yes, but never about anything that really hurt. Shane learned more about Ilya in those weeks than he had over the first 7 years of knowing him combined: About his upbringing in Russia, how he learned to skate with his mom as a kid, about the streets he grew up on. Ilya still talked around his family a lot, barely mentioned his father or his brother, but Shane took each new revelation and filed it away in his mind as a new things he knew about Ilya. Everything he knew about Ilya was precious to him.
But those long, sunsoaked days had eventually come to an end.
Shane had greeted Ilya’s eventual departure with trepidation and a little excitement. He didn’t want to let him go, and when he was gone he missed him like he never had before, but now they were boyfriends. He knew that Ilya loved him, Ilya knew that he loved him, and neither of them were pretending that wasn’t true. Even if it seemed like they were back where they started, pitted against each other five hours apart in Montreal and Boston, that changed everything.
Ilya had left Ottawa for Boston, where he had to meet with his agent for contract overviews from his sponsorship deals before flying out to LA for a week of photo shoots. He’d texted Shane from the airport, when he boarded the plane, and no less than six iMessages from the air about the inflight snacks. He’d texted Shane when he landed and when he was back at his house and Shane had replied each time, every notification releasing a tension he’d never known he was holding. It was a revelation to learn that he had wanted to know every time Ilya’s plane landed safe in the airport it was heading to. He wondered how long he had been wanting that without realizing it.
Shane had been closing down the cottage, preparing to spend his last night in Lanaudiere at his parents because the cottage— which had once been his haven— was so empty without Ilya now, when the call came through.
“Hey,” Shane had said.
“Hello,” Ilya drawled. “I am home now, what are you doing?”
“Everything okay?” Shane checked first, still a little unsure that Ilya would be calling if nothing was wrong.
“I texted that flight went well,” Ilya said, sounding half irritated, half fond in the tinny speaker. Shane decided in that moment to upgrade his phone, just to get the best audio quality when Ilya called him. “What are you doing?”
So Shane told him about shutting off the water so the pipes wouldn’t freeze if there was an early frost, and shuttering the windows so the sun wouldn’t harm the textiles, and Ilya groaned halfway through his explanation of the water pressure meter.
“Am I boring you?” Shane asked.
“Could never,” Ilya said and Shane’s heart melted, again. “Is just stupid I am not there to kiss you to shut you up.”
“Yeah,” Shane agreed, his heart aching. “Very stupid.”
“Okay,” Ilya said. “Tell me everything about stupid water pump and I will come in three minutes.”
“Are you— are you going to jerk off while I talk about the water pump?” Shane said, deadpan, half joking but half just making sure he understood what Ilya was saying.
“Yes, keep up,” Ilya said.
“You sure you don’t want me to talk about anything else?”
“You going to surprise me?”
”Yep,” Shane said, popping the p, and told Ilya about the list he’d begun to catalogue in the back of his brain of his favorite places Ilya had fucked him in the cottage in the last three and a half weeks. It was a detailed list, and included ideas for future additions, and Ilya was swearing in Russian through the line before they reached number 5.
Then Ilya surprised Shane by calling every day for the rest of the summer. They texted a lot, in the way they had been before Ilya had agreed to come visit, about hockey and traveling and stupid random details of their days. Shane smiled at his phone all the time and still, he longed for the time every day when Ilya called him.
Two weeks after he’d left Shane was in Toronto. He collapsed onto his hotel bed after a full day of walking slowly around an ad shoot looking dramatic and feeling stupid in next to nothing and realized Ilya hadn’t called. So Shane called Ilya.
It rang out.
Shane sent a text. Just got back to the hotel. Love you.
He almost wanted to delete the love you, just in case anyone happened to see, but they still had their pseudonyms. It was safe enough.
Sorry, still awake? Ilya’s message popped up on his screen an hour and a half later. Shane had been dozing and dropped the book he’d been holding as the message startled him.
He thought about calling but psyched himself out imagining all the places Ilya could be. Shane knew that he was back in Boston between ad shoots, he’d had meetings with the bears upper management earlier that day. He could be hanging with teammates at one of their houses in Boston, they could be out at a club or a bar, he could be, well, anywhere. Anywhere where taking a call from “Jane” and would be unwelcome to impossible.
Yeah. Shane sent instead, and thought about cooler things he could have written for the full thirty seconds before Ilya’s call popped up on his screen.
“Hi,” Shane said, embarrassed by how breathless he sounded.
“Moya lyubov,” Ilya’s voice was sticky, drawn out, fuzzy at the edges. His voice was clear through the speaker of Shane’s new phone, but there was some sort of noise far off in the background. Shane thought maybe he could pick out the rhythmic thump of a base. “I am sorry I did not call sooner.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Shane said automatically. “And I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“I am at Galdas,” Ilya said. He was slurring a little, definitely drunk. “Marly came back in town yesterday so we are out with boys. Is fun. Would be more fun if you were here.”
All the subtle edges of worry and jealousy that had been building up inside Shane for the last hour and a half melted right away.
“That sounds fun,” Shane said, cringing a little as he heard how much it sounded like he meant the exact opposite.
“Is fun! Is good to see Marly, even if Johnny is being a cockass,” Ilya said. “And I am having many theories about Conny.”
“Oh?” Shane said. “Where are you right now?”
“Just outside,” Ilya said. “Said I would smoke, but will not because I am afraid of your disapproval.”
“No you’re not,” Shane said. “You just know I’m right.”
“Eeeehhhhh,” Ilya said, drawing out the sound. “Okay, I will go back in now, before boys come out to smoke and find me being in love on the phone. I just wanted to hear your voice today. Say something boring.”
“Ilya Rozanov, I am in love with you,” Shane said without missing a beat. It’s all he was thinking.
“No fair,” Ilya whined. “I cannot say your name so loud—. Okay. I love you too, I have to go.”
“Bye,” Shane said right before the click.
*
The away locker at TD Garden was much the same as in all the other arenas across North America: Spongy rubber mat flooring, cinder block walls with the corners worn from decades of shoulder pads brushing past, and a persistent smell of sweat that lingered just under everything else. After all these years of playing against Ilya in Boston just the subtle details of this specific room were enough to set Shane’s nerves alight with anticipation. Where the TVs were mounted— TVs that often showed Ilya’s infamously chaotic press scrums—, the way the lockers were laid out, the location of the door to the showers, all these were linked to meeting Ilya on the ice. And meeting Ilya on the ice was still linked to maybe getting a text from him, maybe hooking up with him afterwards. Shane’s brain knew that Ilya was his, had stopped hooking up with other people without Shane ever asking, had taken the enormous risk to confess his love first (even as Shane had been laying plans for them to spend the rest of their lives together). Shane’s nervous system was still catching up.
Theriault and their assistant coach, Thomasson, came in, reminded them of the plays they’d been focusing on, and sent them out for warm ups.
Shane rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the tunnel. Ahead of him walked his team, a bumping mass of shoulders and helmets in blue and red. He took a breath, running through their strengths and weaknesses, through their plays and how they would play out against the Bears based on the tape he’d been analyzing all week. He knew these boys were good because he’d been part of making them so, and he trusted them to follow through on all the hard work they’d been putting in. He was pretty goddamn sure they would win.
Then Hayden was stepping out onto the ice ahead of him, and Shane stepped past the boards, and the world righted itself. Shane always felt best, most sure of himself and how the world worked, when he was on the ice.
Shane glanced over as soon as he was past the boards. The Bears were already on the ice, skating circles, stretching, joking around. Shane spotted Ilya immediately. He was stretched out close to the ice but his head was tilted up, watching as the Voyageurs skated out. He was far away but Shane saw the moment his smirk broke out into that crooked grin. Shane had to look away and shake his head, fighting his smile.
“Damn, dude,” Hayden had fallen into step as Shane skated lazy circles. “You don’t have to say anything, but Lily’s here right? That’s why you look so fucking happy?”
“I’m happy because we’ve got this,” Shane said, pushing Hayden’s shoulder.
“Okay dude,” Hayden was grinning at him with the same expression he used on his eight year olds when they were bullshitting him. “Whatever you say.”
Shane let himself smile. Let Hayden think it was because he was seeing more of his long time hookup, he wasn’t really wrong and if Hayden was focused on some mystery girl he wasn’t going to notice the truth. This did worry Shane a little, because he was thinking a lot about coming out to his team, and he worried that if he did Hayden might start looking a little too closely at the whole Lily situation. That he might start drawing dangerous conclusions. Shane pushed the thought away and dropped into his first stretch.
It was late October, two and a half weeks into the season and Montreal and Boston’s first regular season game. They’d played each other twice in the preseason, winning one each, but this was the first one that counted.
They had crossed a threshold in their relationship last All Stars, when Shane had come out to Ilya and they had tentatively admitted that their feelings for each other ran deeper than the disinterested hookups they had pretended to be for so long. They had played each other once after that, the fateful game where Shane had been injured, but even with their incubating tenderness that had felt different. Shane had been sure about what he felt for Ilya, had known what he wanted, but he hadn’t known if he’d get the chance to try for it. The ice had still been a precursor to something uncertain.
Now, here, under the bright lights reflecting on the shining ice as the crowd filtered in, Shane knew exactly what he and Ilya were to each other. He’d spent the day breathing Ilya’s air, touching his skin, listening to his rumbling accent. Now he was going to play hockey against him, knowing that Ilya knew what he meant to him. Shane wanted to beat him. Shane wanted to impress him. He could hardly wait for the game to begin.
*
There was a long weekend at the beginning of September, a few days off after the initial push of training camp. There were team BBQ invitations and some of the guys were going to watch their WAGs run a marathon, but Shane begged off because Ilya had asked to visit.
“You have these days off too, yes?” He’d said carefully over the phone a week before.
“Yeah,” Shane had said. They hadn’t spoken every day since training camp began, their disparate sleep and social schedules making it harder to find time when they were both alone.
“Do you have big plans?” Ilya asked.
“I was going to go through the training plan again, and then Arthur’s birthday party is Saturday during the day,” Shane said.
“But Sunday? Monday?”
“Nothing really,” Shane said, mentally clearing those team hangouts off his schedule as he started to suspect.
“So if I book a flight that arrives, say, later Saturday afternoon you would be free?”
Shane had to sit down. “You’d do that? I mean, you have a lot to take care of these days too…”
“We have big party Friday night, I am Captain and welcome rookies and buy them all shots. Then I say I am hungover the rest of the weekend and no one will miss me,” Ilya said.
“Hangovers don’t last more than one day,” Shane had said.
“Oh,” Ilya had said, cackling. “You have never had a two day hangover? I can fix this.”
“No thanks,” Shane had said sourly.
So Shane spent that Saturday morning helping Hayden pick up cake and set up balloons at the Pike house, and helping coral the kids through games and snacks, all with butterflies rioting in his stomach. He’d ordered groceries and packed Ilya’s favorite snacks and coke, and a brand of Russian beer he’d mentioned two weeks ago, into his kitchen. Then he cleaned the den again, even though it was already spotless. Ilya had texted when he boarded the plane. He texted when he landed. Then he was knocking on the door.
Ilya pressed a bouquet into Shane’s chest as stepped through the door.
“What—?” Shane said, glitching out as Ilya toed off his sneakers and dropped his backpack next to his suitcase.
“Hello,” Ilya said, stepped right up next to him and stole a kiss.
“You got me flowers?” Shane asked. He held them a little away from himself to loop an arm around Ilya’s shoulders and pull him down again. It was the first time they’d seen each other since the cottage and Shane was amazed by the reality of him, how broad his shoulders were, his golden skin, the mole on his cheek, the smell of his cologne.
Ilya kissed him deeply this time.
“Da,” he said softly, right against Shane’s lips. “I have another present for you in the suitcase.”
“You do?” Shane said stupidly. “I didn’t get you anything.”
“You are enough present for me,” Ilya said, kissing him again.
A few minutes later Shane used his grip on Ilya’s hair to pull their faces apart. “Let’s get these in some water,” he said, breathless, wiggling the bouquet a little in his other hand.
“Okay,” Ilya said happily. “Then bed.”
The other present turned out to be a vibrator. Shane blushed furiously when he unwrapped it (Ilya had wrapped it with a ribbon bow and everything) and Ilya had crowed and flirted and even though they’d just had sex they immediately got going again.
Then they showered, and napped, and Shane proposed ordering take out but Ilya wanted to cook, so they cooked together. Ilya gasped delightedly when he opened the fridge and opened a can of the Russian beer Shane had ordered special. Shane kept glancing over at the vase of flowers on the table. It was an expensive arrangement, with green ferny bits and big colorful blossoms.
“You like them?” Ilya asked, coming up behind Shane and noticing where he was looking.
“Yeah, I mean,” Shane turned in his arms, leaning against the counter as he ran his hands up Ilya’s chest. “No one’s got me flowers before. Not like, romantically.”
“Really?” Ilya’s eyebrows disappeared under his curls. “Rose Landry was not an attentive partner.”
Shane spluttered. “I mean, I didn’t exactly get her flowers either.”
“Good,” Ilya said. “She does not deserve flowers from you.”
“Ilya.”
“Is true,” Ilya continues cheerfully. “You did not love her. Not like, romantically.”
“No,” Shane sighed. “I was gay the whole time. But she is my friend, Ilya. Even if I got it wrong the first time around I do still like her as a person.”
Ilya shrugged. “But you will not send her flowers.”
“I will not,” Shane said, sensing that there was something serious behind Ilya’s lighthearted tone. “You know I never loved her, right?”
“I know that now,” Ilya said, quietly, staring intently into Shane’s face.
“I was just running from how much I wanted you,” Shane said. “Sorry.”
“You say sorry for so many things,” Ilya said, leaning in.
Shane kissed him, just a gentle press of lips, then leaned back.
“Do you want flowers?” Shane asked quietly.
Ilya shrugged, Shane felt the motion in his hands more than saw it. “Not necessary. I like getting flowers for you.”
There was a hissing on the stove to their left as the rice boiled over.
They ate at the table: pulled chicken and grilled vegetables on black rice. Shane drank water, Ilya poured his beer into a glass and asked where Shane had found them. His expression melted when Shane admitted he’d order them special, his cheeks going pink. He ate in silence for a minute and Shane was happy just watching him be so transparently charmed.
“That is like flowers, for me,” he said quietly.
“Oh,” Shane said, and couldn’t think of any other words that could make it past the sudden lump of emotion in his throat. He settled on, “good,” after a moment, hoping that he didn’t sound too raw.
Ilya’s hand landed on his knee under the table and squeezed.
That weekend had actualized their relationship outside of the cottage— made it exist in the real world, in Shane’s Montreal apartment, in their NHL steered, hockey driven lives. The cottage had made it clear to Shane how important his relationship with Ilya was to him, just how much he would do to fight for and protect it, how precious and loving it could be. That weekend showed him the reality of it, Ilya choosing him, to believe in them outside of the bubble of summer and distance that the cottage provided.
On the Monday morning, a few hours before Ilya had to leave for the airport, Shane leaned over him and told him so.
“I’m so happy you’re here, that you booked the tickets,” Shane said. “I just, I love you so much. It’s almost still hard to believe I get to have this.”
“Oh,” Ilya said, his hand coming up to cradle Shane’s chin. “You have this. I am glad I am here too. It is good to see your apartment, da?”
Shane dropped his head to Ilya’s chest. “God,” he muttered, he felt embarrassed every time he thought about his investment property now. “I’m getting you a key, Ilya. For here and for the cottage.”
“Really?” Ilya asked.
Shane raised his head, looking Ilya straight in the face and immediately getting distracted by how the light brought out the green in Ilya’s hazel eyes. “Ilya,” he said, rolling the word around in his mouth. He loved saying it, loved savoring it. “I meant it when I said that I want you in my life. So giving you access to the places I live is not that big a step. I want you to be able to come here, to have a home here, if you want it.”
He was blushing. He fought the urge to drop his head to hide it, but Ilya’s unguarded expression was so beautiful, so full of emotion, that he didn’t really want to look away.
“Okay,” Ilya said, and his voice was gruff. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” Shane said, tucking his head into Ilya’s chest. “Good. I’ll have copies made by the time I visit you in Boston.”
“Da?” Ilya said. “And when is that?”
“When will you have me?”
*
Ilya
The time between warm ups and the the start of the game was Ilya’s least favorite part of game day. They were all there, they were all ready, he just wanted to get started.
But first LeClaire was talking plays, reminding the boys of the Voyageurs weaknesses they’d identified in tape that week, and calling out the lines.
Ilya’s fingers were tapping lightly against his freshly taped stick. He was more excited than usual to get onto the ice and start the game, but it was a calm excitement not his usual restless and boisterous aggression. Spending the day with Shane had that effect on him. He had had sex, and eaten the salmon and edamame and rice that Shane had prepared with measuring cups and cooking scales, cleaning each dish as he went. He had slept like a log, wrapped in the warmth of Shane’s body beside him, and agreed to stretch with Shane before the game, delightedly watching his boyfriend limber up his body.
Ilya kept thinking about that, Shane stretched out on a yoga mat on the floor of his home gym, explaining the benefits of each stretch as Ilya kept asking for more and more details. And now Ilya was going to score six goals and The Nosher, who was a pretty great goalie, would block all of Shane’s silly trick shots. The Bears would win and Shane would act all annoyed, and he would really be annoyed, but then as soon as he just just the slightest bit turned on tonight he would be gasping about how impressive Ilya was on the ice.
“Alright boys,” LeClaire said, the line shifts called. “Montreal has a couple strong players-“ a snicker went around the room. “— And they’ve been playing strong offense in the season so far. But our D lines are stronger than theirs, and we’re up for the challenge. Our objective is to stay focused, don’t let any of those Canadian fuckers distract you from the game. We want a good, clean, game with lots of goals for us and a shutout for Montreal, okay?”
Stick taps, someone clapped The Nosher on the shoulder.
“Okay, Roz, you have five minutes,” LeClaire said and left.
Ilya bounced to his feet.
Ilya was having trouble getting himself to really care about the team this season. He’d enjoyed training camp, the competitive aspects of scrimmages and improving technique and plays. But he’d had to steel himself every time he went to engage a rookie in changing something about his game. He’d played his best and pushed his teammates, because that’s what he always did, but his mind was elsewhere and his heart wasn’t in it.
Ilya tried not to watch the news too much, but he existed in the world, and he knew that things in America were not getting better for Russian immigrants who were hiding their sexuality from almost everyone, including the employer that sponsored his visa. He wasn’t worried in a real sense that anything would happen to him, but he knew there was a risk. He always pushed these thoughts away, dismissing them because he couldn’t do anything yet to change his situation, but the stress never quite relaxed. It kept him distracted, just a little too distracted to be fully present at work.
And his heart, his heart was completely caught up with Shane. Ilya had underestimated just how much accepting his feelings for Shane and deciding to work for their future together would change how he thought about him. He wanted to hear Shane’s voice every day. He wanted to see him, to surprise him with little gifts and gestures and watch him stop and stutter, mouth hanging open in shock. He wanted to kiss that mouth. He wanted to rile him up and make him blush. He wanted to know what Shane was doing, when he woke up in the morning, what he was thinking about. If he reflected on it he was disgusted by how sappy he had turned out to be, but he didn’t reflect on it often because Shane was meeting him halfway.
Ilya had started setting his phone to Do Not Disturb the entire time he was in the rink, because he couldn’t stop himself from checking if he got a message and grinning like a fool before writing back to Shane as fast as he could. Marly had already chirped him a few times, and he and Connors were working on a theory about the what woman had Roz “blushing” this time, and Ilya did need to keep listening to that.
Shane’s training camp schedule was grueling and they didn’t have a chance to see each other after Ilya had visited Montreal in early September until Montreal flew to Boston for their second preseason game. Shane had invented an excuse to come a day early, and had turned up to Ilya’s house the afternoon before they were set to play. They had less time than in Montreal, just until the Voyageurs arrived the next day around noon, but it was time they had together.
They’d made it to the couch before Shane had Ilya’s dick in his mouth, but later, after they’d been in the bedroom for a while and showered after that, Shane had told him to stay in bed, and come back with a box.
“It’s not really a present,” Shane said. “But you wrapped the… the vibrator..”
Ilya cackled as Shane blushed about talking about a sex toy (while naked in the bed they’d just had sex in) and took the lid off the box. It was a key ring, which Ilya could have guessed. Two silver keys, one with a charm clipped to it.
“The one with the loon is for the cottage,” Shane had time to say before Ilya had him by the back of the neck and was kissing him.
Ilya knew Shane loved him. He trusted him when he told him so, and saw the way he looked at him, and there was no other reason he would have kept risking his career and reputation to return to Ilya’s arms. But having a physical manifestation of Shane’s commitment to him, a standing invitation to make a home with Shane, that felt different. It felt secure. It felt lasting.
Ilya felt it so strongly that he didn’t know what to do with the hot bundle of feelings in his chest, so he kissed Shane with all the fervor he could and hoped it translated.
They ordered in, talked about hockey and opened up their calendars, lining up their home and away games, trying to find overlapping gaps where they could get together for even just a day. There weren’t that many. Professional hockey was a demanding career, and if your partner happened to live a two hour flight away you didn’t have a lot of options for long weekends to visit. Especially when you were both on contrasting NHL team schedules. But they found some openings and talked through possible logistics, not booking anything, just making one hair-brained scheme after another.
“You will need the key to this place,” Ilya said while they discussed Shane arriving in November while Ilya would be at a morning practice. “And maybe to my apartment. Is closer to the rink, might be easier to meet there sometimes.”
“You still have the penthouse?” Shane asked.
“Yes, here, wait.” Ilya got up. He was wearing basketball shorts and nothing else, and he could actually feel Shane’s eyes on him as she walked into the hall. “You think I am so sexy.” He teased.
“Well yeah, duh,” Shane sounded annoyed from the other room. “The sex we had earlier didn’t clue you in to that?”
“I’ll clue in you,” Ilya replied happily, rummaging in a drawer.
“Ilya, that makes no sense,” Shane called from the living room.
Ilya found the spare key to his penthouse and slid it off the ring it was on, adding it to one with one of his house keys.
“I have no cute charms,” Ilya said, landing on the couch next to Shane and tossing the keys onto his chest. Shane was wearing a t shirt, which Ilya considered removing as Shane lifted the key ring. He stared at it for a while, then looked up at Ilya.
“I love you,” he said, expression serious.
“I love you lots and lots,” Ilya dropped himself down onto Shane’s shoulder. “Now you will visit Boston and always stay with me, okay?”
“I don’t think I could handle staying anywhere else if you were here,” Shane said. He was so earnest, so serious with his feelings that Ilya did not really even know what to do with it.
“Very good,” he said, patting Shane’s pec. “Want to watch a movie?”
*
“Okay!” Ilya said, turning slowly in the center of the locker room. “This is not our first time playing Montreal this season. We have beat them once already, and they got lucky one time, but I think their luck has run out.”
That got a laugh. Cliff was grinning sardonically up at Ilya, leaned back into his locker. Gordnosh was leaning forwards. Johnson and Belnix were sitting, stonefaced, at the end of the bench.
“They are ok team, yes, but this is good for us. We have to work a little to win. I am Russian, you know this, if I have not had to work for something it is not worth having. We like to work a little to win, show our fans why they root for us, yes?”
Ilya leaned forward, getting into the swing of the speech now.
“Because we rise to meet anything that challenges us. They know it is hard, but we make it look fucking easy. Let’s make it look easy!”
Sticks tapped, the rookies whooped.
“We stay focused yes, we rise to the challenge, we make it look fucking easy!”
That got everyone on their feet, cheering. The buzzer sounded.
“Roll out!” Cliff yelled and there was the scuffle of gloves and helmets.
“You seem excited,” Cliff said as they waited for the team to head out ahead of them.
“I will grind Hollander into the rink,” Ilya couldn’t help saying.
“Fuck yeah, brother,” Cliff laughed.
Ilya just knocked their helmets together and took off into the tunnel.
Cliff had covered for Ilya when they’d been in Montreal in the preseason, evening out their win in Boston a week before by losing 3-1 in Montreal. Shane had scored two of the goals and assisted the third. Drapeau had blocked one of Ilya’s shots, and Miitka had blocked the other five, and in the end it was the second line center, Connors, who got the shot past Drapeau's shoulder at the top of the second. Ilya had immediately left their hotel with Cliff’s promise to cover for him if anyone came to check curfew, and let himself into Shane’s apartment while he was still at the rink.
Take your time, celebrate with team if you want. I will have food ready when you come home. Ilya had texted and set about going through his fridge. Shane’s nutrition plan was laminated in the top drawer nearest his refrigerator, and it was incredibly easy to follow. There were still three cans of Zhigulevskoye in the door, and Ilya cracked one as he portioned salmon and farrow.
On my way home now. Shane had texted after twenty minutes and Ilya had noticed that the flowers he had come with three weeks before were not on the table any longer. They were probably dead, he figured, and decided to start looking into art that Shane would like, maybe some kind of sculpture he could have on the table. He was making himself laugh with the idea of commissioning a naked statue of himself in miniature when he heard the door.
He heard Shane take his shoes off, and the sound of keys on a bowl, and footsteps in a hall.
“Hello,” Ilya drawled, stirring salmon in the pan. “How was celebrations?”
Shane had paused when he came around the corner into the open plan kitchen but only for a moment and then he was walking with big strides around the counter and grabbing Ilya and pushing him up against the fridge.
“Mmph,” Ilya said, holding the spatula away from Shane as he clung to Shane’s waist with his other hand. “I don’t want to burn the food, Shane.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Shane was kissing him again, sliding his mouth open, his tongue in Ilya’s mouth, his hands on Ilya’s collar and in his hair, his forearms pressing Ilya’s shoulders into the fridge.
“You are not hungry?” Ilya asked when the kiss broke, quiet, into the warm air between them.
“No, well yeah, I’m hungry,” Shane stepped back far enough to let Ilya step back to the stove but not so far that he didn’t follow him, his hand sliding to Ilya’s waist and staying there. “It’s just, uh, really nice to find you here.”
Ilya nodded. Shane was being earnest again, and Ilya loved it, and it was also a little overwhelming.
“Yes,” Ilya said. He was going to be earnest too. To be honest. “I enjoyed coming here and letting myself in. It felt very… boyfriend.”
“Very boyfriend,” Shane repeated quietly. He leaned his cheek on Ilya’s shoulder as he kept cooking. “My mom is asking about you. Want to call my parents?”
“Only if it is FaceTime,” Ilya said, feeling himself grin.
“Hmm,” Shane hummed. “Maybe I should let you congratulate me first.”
“What, for preseason game win?” Ilya teased. “Not worth much.”
“Oh, were my goals too ugly?” Shane deadpanned.
“No,” Ilya couldn’t help himself. “You are so sexy when you score.”
“It’s ‘I’m so sexy so I score,’” Shane said, voice even as his ears got red.
“Shane!” Ilya said, delighted. “You made a sex joke! I am so proud!”
“Oh yeah?” Shane said and his lifetime of trying to control all his expressions clearly had some benefits because he was managing to keep a straight face even if Ilya could tell he was close to breaking with laughter or embarrassment. “How proud?”
“I will suck your dick right here,” Ilya said, swiping the stove off and moving any pots that were in danger of burning anyway. The food was done, it just needed to be plated. There was no reason not to go down on his knees, so Ilya did.
Shane came in his mouth six minutes later. Ilya swallowed some and spit some in the sink, rinsing the sink along with his mouth and hand.
“Okay,” he said, turning back around to where Shane was still leaning against the counter, with his pupils blown wide and his cock still out. “Now we call your parents, then eat?”
“Fuck you,” Shane said, blinking, still not quite with him. “Take your pants off.”
“I don’t think you want my pants off when we call your parents,” Ilya said. Then Shane got his wits back and grabbed Ilya and Ilya stopped teasing, or talking at all except for Russian expletives and terms of endearment and finally, near the end, desperate rambling encouragement.
They ended up calling Yuna and David after dinner, which they ate on the couch watching a rerun of a different hockey preseason game. Ilya got a text while they were eating.
You owe me so much dude, I just had to make up the biggest fucking lie. From Cliff.
Good thing you’re a good liar. Ilya wrote back. He was looking forward to hearing the story later.
Conny things your a sex maniac now jsyk.
Conny is right. Ilya replied and put his phone away.
Yuna and David were very happy to see Ilya and Shane on the facetime call, but they didn’t talk for long. Yuna had a lot to say about the hockey both the boys were playing, David wanted to know if Ilya had had time to read an article he had sent him a week ago (Ilya had not read it). They hung up after a few minutes, Shane was clearly tired.
They cuddled together in an easy silence, wrapped around each other on the couch. The game was still playing, muted, on the screen across the room but neither of them were paying attention to it.
“What is wrong?” Ilya asked after a minute. He’d felt the shift in Shane’s mood as they were talking to his parents, but had assumed he was just overwhelmed.
Shane shook his head. Ilya wondered if he meant that nothing was wrong or if he didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe something was wrong with Ilya? Ilya had said something strange on the phone call…
“I miss you all the time,” Shane said. Ilya laid his petty fears to bed.
“I am here,” Ilya said.
“I know,” Shane said. “And I’m happy you are now. No point in borrowing pain from the future is what my mom says, but saying it doesn’t make it easier to do. Or not do.”
Ilya laughed. “I think I know what you mean, yeah. I am here now, but then soon your apartment will be empty again, more empty because we were together here now.”
Shane shifted and looked up into Ilya’s face. “Yeah, exactly like that.”
He moved up so his face was right over Ilya’s. “Just to be clear, it’s worth it. This is so much better than when I was pretending I wasn’t in love with you and just thinking about you all the fucking time instead.”
Ilya laughed. “You are right, it is better. It is hard to be away from you, da, very hard. Maybe harder than before? But, like you said, it is worth it.”
There was more Ilya wanted to say, or better ways he wanted to say it, but it was all welling up in Ilya like a tide: Ilya couldn’t pick apart the feelings, much less name or articulate them. There was relief that Shane loved him, and a small but persistent surprise that he kept loving him with every passing day. There was joy, and sadness, and anxiety about living in the US, about his upcoming move to Canada, about being found out and sent back to Russia. But none of that belonged here, with Shane on top of him, looking him seriously in the face and showing him that despite the risks, it was all worth it.
So Ilya kissed him. He was generally better at showing his feelings than saying them anyway. They kissed until their lips were bruised. Then Ilya carried Shane into the bedroom.
It was a very grumpy Ilya that repacked his suitcase in his and Cliff’s hotel room at 8:34 am the next morning.
“Morning,” Cliff drawled as he came out of the shower. Then he noticed Ilya’s expression. “Your Montreal girl kick you out or something?”
Ilya just glared at him.
*
Ilya skated up to center ice and let his focus narrow to Shane Hollander and Shane Hollander alone. It was very easy to do because Shane Hollander was hot as fuck and on the ice he was as graceful as a dancer. He fistbumped Pike as they skated up to the circle. In Ilya’s opinion Pike was nowhere near good enough to be Shane’s right wing, but whatever, because Shane glanced at Ilya, and then away, obviously flustered.
“Hello, Hollander,” Ilya drawled, not bothering to keep his voice down. There was a beat when everyone was obviously waiting for him to follow with a chirp, but Ilya just kept smirking.
“Uh, hi,” Shane said, guard up. Then he smiled. “What? Nothing to say?”
“I was just saying hi, so that when we beat you later they cannot call me rude,” Ilya winked. Pike and Drevner, Shane’s wings, were protesting but Ilya ignored them. “They like to say I am very rude but is not true, so proving points.”
Shane rolled his eyes and bent into the circle. Ilya joined him there as they readied for the first puck drop.
“You ready?” Ilya asked, quietly this time.
“Are you?” Shane asked, glancing up to meet his eyes. Shane’s eyes were so fucking beautiful.
The puck dropped.
It was a fast game, the puck slingshotting around as each shift asked more and more of the players. Boiziau checked Ilya hard enough to bruise eleven minutes in. At 15 minutes Ilya checked Pike and flicked the puck to Cliff, who took off down the ice only to be caught by Shane, who scooped the puck from his stick and sent it to Drevner. Drevener passed back to Shane who was already in stride down the ice, and Ilya took off after him, legs burning and heart thudding.
On the ice and in bed, these were the places where Shane was his best. There was no pretense to him on the ice, no second guessing. He was completely confident, sure of each move, anticipating the plays as he made them, reacting to actions that hadn’t happened yet. He was so fucking beautiful as he shot the puck to Pike and turned hard, Ilya right on his heels. He glanced over at Ilya, the quickest of looks before he was pivoting away, but Ilya’s heart was stuttering just from the small smile breaking on Shane’s face.
Shane scored off a pass from Pike 25 seconds later and Ilya had to tear his eyes away from him as his teammates pounded his back. Ilya had to get his head in this game. He wanted that goal back, and maybe another two after that. A hattrick would drive Shane wild. He circled to his bench.
“God, Hollander is such a f*g,” Johnson said among the boys on the bench.
“Language,” one of the Assistant Coaches snapped.
“What, is gay to score goals in hockey?” Ilya cut in before he could help himself.
“Nah, Roz, relax,” Johnny said. “He’s just so obviously got something up his ass.”
Ilya skated away before he could either punch Johnson in his weak, ugly jaw or say Yeah, my dick, because neither were particularly smart things to do with five minutes left on the first period timer.
Ilya liked playing for Boston. He liked LeClaire, he liked Marlow and Connors and Gordnosh and, well, most of the guys aside from Johnny. But Johnny was loud and no one really ever told him to shut up and that dragged them all down to his level, even Ilya.
Shane was grinning when they bent over the faceoff circle again.
“Very cute goal,” Ilya said. “They teach it in little league?”
“How many do you–”
“Watch me, Hollander. I will show you how it’s done.”
Ilya won the face off.