Chapter Text
December 2013
Shane doesn’t mean to say it.
They’ve got rules, unspoken, of course, no first names, no staying the night, no attachment, just casual—but fuck he’s weak, he’s been weak ever since he saw Ilya Rozanov’s stupidly attractive face in person, because it—this, whatever it is—never should’ve gotten this far anyway.
If Shane was as smart as the NHL and the Voyageurs liked to boast, he would’ve stopped this in the showers in Toronto—
Before he sank to his knees in room 1410—
Before he gave Rozanov his phone in room 1221 in Nashville, after hooking up at their first All Stars—
Before he started texting Lily with semi-regularity—
Before he came on Rozanov’s fingers alone after he’d talked him down from a panic attack because despite what they’d organised he really wasn’t ready for anything more after their rescheduled game—
Before they kissed on a roof in Las Vegas—
Before they’d met up in Rozanov’s penthouse apartment the few times he’d been in Boston—
Before Shane had brought him home after their game in Montréal and they’d fucked for the first time.
And fuck wasn’t that a revelation and a half.
Because yeah, he’s not straight. Which, if he’s honest, he had realised approximately zero point three seconds after he’d finally gotten Rozanov’s, frankly magnificent cock in his fucking mouth and now, after having said cock in his ass—he’s definitely not bisexual either.
Because yeah, he knew Rozanov was good—how could he not know that, after three fucking years of this—after five years of knowing him—but he hadn’t—fuck, he hadn’t realised.
Hadn’t even realised what attraction felt like, until he was standing outside that dingy fucking ice rink at seventeen, stumbling his way through an introduction with the only other person in the world at his level.
Hadn’t realised that sex wasn’t something to be endured, that his enjoyment—fuck, his near desperate fucking need for it, whenever faced with Ilya fucking Rozanov—wasn’t just because the stupidly attractive Russian was supernova levels of hot.
It’s because he doesn’t like sex with women.
It’s because he doesn’t like women at all.
Not because he just hasn’t found one he likes enough—not because there’s something wrong or broken or damaged—Shane’s just, super fucking gay.
He’ll panic about it later, probably—definitely—but now, sitting on the cold concrete steps of his apartment building with Ilya Rozanov’s jacket clutched in his arms, he’s honestly too blissed out to worry about it.
Fuck, he smells good.
Surreptitiously, Shane inhales.
Rozanov smells like sex and Shane’s body wash and something he can only identify as Ilya that since he’s already being painfully honest with himself has been driving him fucking crazy since 2008.
Fuck, Ilya noticed.
Shane babbles something about the Olympics, vaguely hears Ilya reply and wonders if he could get away with breaking their no sleepover rule if they just… didn’t sleep.
He keeps talking.
Fuck he wants to do it again—wants to climb into Ilya’s lap right here in his fire-exit stairwell and ride him until he comes inside him without a condom this time.
Just to see what it felt like.
For research purposes.
Reality closes in far too quick when Shane recalls they aren’t exclusive and Ilya’s kind of well known for being a—really well liked by women.
Right, so, that’s a no on going raw then.
Fuck. Shane kind of wants to die a little about that actually.
Is just sex, Hollander, Ilya had said.
Casual, he’d implied.
Except… Shane’s never been casual once in his entire fucking life and really, he’s an idiot because he should’ve known, should’ve realised, and now since he’s decided to be a little honest with himself, he might as well be fully honest and admit that—whatever this is, isn’t just sex.
Has never been just sex, not for him.
It wasn’t casual, when Ilya had asked him if it was worth the wait, it wasn’t just sex, when he’d touched him so fucking softly that Shane thought he might cry from that alone, wasn’t unattached when he’d pressed a kiss to Ilya’s forehead and Ilya had traced the freckles along the bridge of his nose.
“Hey, uh,” Ilya smirks, leaning against the stair rail, “remember when I made you come hands-free?”
“Go fuck yourself.” Shane surfaces just enough to murmur, eyes following Ilya as the taller man tips forward slowly, one knee bending to kneel between Shane’s open thighs and he fucking wants, so badly it makes him breathless.
“Such a good trick.” Ilya drawls, and Shane watches his eyes fall to his lips, knows his own fall just the same, the air between them so charged Shane can feel it tingling against his skin.
He leans forward. “Your cab is definitely here.”
Ilya meets him, pressing a kiss—soft and so fucking sweet—to his lips.
Shane meets him for another.
And a third that lingers, that makes him chase, that makes him follow as Ilya pulls away just enough to whisper “bye,” against his lips and steal his jacket from Shane’s lap.
Shane smiles.
As he pulls away.
As he opens the door.
As he sees that sure enough, his cab is waiting just outside.
“Bye Ilya.” He can’t help but murmur, when Ilya turns back to look at him.
Ilya stumbles.
The door slams behind him.
Shane heaves himself off the stairs, trudges back up to his apartment, strips himself of his clothes, half-heartedly folding them in a way he knows he’s going to hate himself for in the morning and throws himself face first into his bed. He curls around the pillow Ilya had laid on after his shower, breathing in the faint, lingering scent of him.
Fuck.
I miss him.
Eyes shut, Shane replays each kiss they’d shared, waiting for Ilya’s cab.
I should have asked him to stay.
Fuck, how would that have even gone? ‘Hey Ilya I—’
Shane shoots upright.
No.
No, no no no no no.
I said his fucking name.
By the time he’s on his knees scrubbing at the baseboards in his kitchen, the sun has long since risen, Shane hasn’t gotten a minute of sleep and he’s well past his normal day-to-day levels of panic.
He can’t stop replaying it.
The way Ilya—fuck, Rozanov, no first names, no first names, no first names—had stumbled before the heavy door had slammed between them, the shocked expression on his face—the way he’d lent in for one, two, three more kisses before Shane had fucking ruined it.
Not only is he fucking gay—as one of the youngest Captains of an original six NHL team no less, while also being the first half-Asian player to do so because God forbid he’s an underachiever—but he’s ruined whatever the hell it was between him and the only person he’s ever been attracted to.
The only person he will ever realistically be attracted to because yeah Shane’s definitely realised a few things about himself in the last few hours and a good portion of his attraction to Ilya is that not only can he keep up with Shane, but the fact he can surpass him.
Great.
Shane groans, collapsing on his back on the kitchen floor, his head in his hands.
Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead doing so, but he knows his floor’s immaculate, if only because he swept, vacuumed, and mopped his entire apartment about an hour ago… after stripping his bed, washing all the clothes in his laundry basket (and the ones from the night before that he yes, had hated himself for not folding correctly), rearranging his wardrobe and reorganising his bookshelf.
Shane can’t put it off any longer.
He needs to research.
If he’s doing this, if he’s accepting that he’s—that he’s gay… he needs to be informed.
He needs to do this right.
And he’s got approximately three hours before he’s supposed to meet Hayden and JJ for a run.
He groans again.
Yeah, fuck, he’s really doing this.
It’s not the first time Shane’s gone down a rabbit hole, but this one is the first that simultaneously terrifies and elates him.
Elates because; gay marriage has been legal nationwide in Canada since 2005 (2003 in Ontario, though retroactively, 2001, the more you know), same-sex couples have been able to adopt since 1996 (which, fantastic, Shane’s always wanted kids and he doesn’t care either way if they’re his by nature or nurture) and Quebec was the first jurisdiction in the world larger than a city or county to prohibit discrimination against queer people.
Terrifies, because the deeper he digs, the more he finds wrong.
Gay marriage isn’t legal in America (though he notices, it is in Massachusetts), in Australia, in the United Kingdom, in any of the commonwealth countries aside from South Africa, New Zealand and Canada.
Being gay isn’t legal in over seventy-five countries.
Surprisingly—or unsurprisingly, considering what he knows of Ilya’s—fuck, Rozanov’s—past hook-up with his Coach’s son, Russia isn’t included on that list.
Homosexuality was decriminalised in 1993, but… it doesn’t look like it’ll stay that way for much longer, if what Shane’s read (and he’s inclined to believe it is) about the new law criminalising the promotion of LGBTQI+ identities to minors is correct. He can’t find any specific information about what the punishment for being gay in Russia entails, but his anxiety is creative enough and considering Ilya’s a public figure… he can’t imagine the Russian government would be content simply fining the man who’s supposed to lead them to their first ever men’s ice hockey Gold.
Furiously, Shane closes the tab.
I could lose him.
I don’t even have him, and I could lose him.
Shane goes cold all over.
He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the screen of his laptop, list of countries where it’s fucking illegal to be him, open and mocking.
“Shane?”
“Shane, buddy, you in here?”
“Fuck, Hayden, he’s having a panic attack.”
“Still don’t speak French JJ, fuck, Shane, hey, look at me buddy.”
Shane blinks and Hayden’s concerned expression swims into view.
Distantly, he remembers his laptop, what’s still open on it, but his arms don’t work, his stupid body won’t respond and fuck they’re gonna see.
“Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay, I’ve got you.”
Shane hears someone whine, and his body finally, finally cooperates enough for him to lurch forward—his laptop clatters to the ground, knocked off the coffee table as he flails past Hayden.
No, no, no, no, no.
JJ picks up the laptop—
Turns it around to show Hayden and—
“Oh. Oh, putain, Hayd—”
They know, they know, they know.
Shane can’t breathe.
Hayden squeezes his hands. “We don’t care. Shane, Shane. Look at me, open your eyes, yes, good job buddy, we don’t care.”
“Yes mon ami,” JJ agrees, “this changes nothing. Well. Maybe the clubs we go to.”
And Shane—yeah Shane’s not holding either of them to that, especially when; “I slept with Ilya Rozanov.”
Twin wounded noises sound, and JJ’s knee clunks against the coffee table. “Holly,” he whines, “you have terrible taste in men.”
Shane chokes on a watery laugh.
“English, JJ, Jesus.”
“Your children will be born in Montréal you need to learn French.” Shane says quietly as JJ throws up his hands.
“Yes! Thank you! It baffles me how you got to your great age of twenty-two without learning French. You were born here!”
Hayden huffs, “Blame my parents! Jacks and I are already signed up for classes, and we can talk about that later! What do you mean you slept with Ilya Rozanov? You don’t mean The Ilya Rozanov right, there’s another one, right, a nice one, who lives in Montréal and isn’t an asshole and doesn’t play hockey for the fucking Boston Bears.”
“Isn’t your wife from Boston?”
“Shut up JJ, we’re talking about Shane right now.”
JJ rolls his eyes. “You, are a deeply unserious person.”
“Last night.” Shane says finally. “And yes, that Ilya Rozanov.”
“Okay. Okay, that’s fine,” Hayden continues, “one and done right?”
Ouch.
Except… Shane had almost the exact same thought, that first night in Toronto.
Has had that thought—or a variation of it, every time he’s waited for a knock on his door or knocked on one himself and now; I don’t want to lie anymore. Not to them.
Fuck it.
Slowly, Shane shakes his head. “Since… since before our rookie season.”
“Since before your rookie season?” Hayden yelps, and JJ gapes.
“Jesus fucking Christ is the rivalry foreplay?”
“No, JJ, ew.” Shane mutters, “we’ve been competing against each other since we were seventeen and we both like to win.”
He can see JJ turning it over in his brain. “You always play like a beast whenever we’re up against the Bears.”
“And you’ve…” Hayden draws his thumbs across the backs of Shane’s hands—he hadn’t realised Hayden hadn’t let him go. “Been together, since then?”
Shane shakes his head.
“Oh my god, are you in a situationship with Russia’s greatest rage machine?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course you don’t.” JJ pinches the bridge of his nose. “Have you eaten?”
Shane shakes his head again.
“I’m ordering food, yes, I’ll make sure it fits your diet, no, Hayden you don’t get to choose, not after last time.”
“Hey!”
“Never again.” JJ glares, and Shane watches as the giant defensemen makes himself at home in his kitchen, rifling through his draws to find the stack of take-out menus Shane keeps specifically for times like this.
“Do you love him?”
“No!” Shane denies immediately, and Hayden raises a brow. “Fuck, Hayd, I don’t know. I didn’t even know I was gay until last night.”
Hayden blinks. “But you said you’d been hooking up since—”
“Bisexuality is a thing, Hayd.”
Not that he would’ve admitted to that either.
Hayden hums. “And you’re not?”
Shane shakes his head. “No. No, I’m—” He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m gay.”
Hayden surges up, crushing him into a hug, and Shane clings, relief flooding like a wave, his entire body going lax in Hayden’s arms.
He might be crying.
They both might be crying.
“Fuck you’re heavy.” Hayden mutters eventually, and Shane snorts, wiping his eyes.
“We weigh the same.”
“Yeah,” Hayden scoffs, “and we’re both fucking huge!”
“You’re both tiny,” JJ scoffs in French, and Shane grins as Hayden squarks in displeasure. “Not even six feet, no wonder neither of you are defensemen, you’d be crushed.”
“English!”
“No, today we’re learning by immersion.” JJ flops down beside Shane on the couch, his expression turning serious. “We love you, Shane. Having terrible taste in men does not change this.”
“He’s not terrible.”
JJ scoffs.
“Okay, he’s not terrible to me.” Shane concedes. “He’s… he’s careful. Kind. Funny. Checks in, makes sure I’m okay. That I’m not—panicking. He’s an asshole, don’t get me wrong but he’s… he’s not always like that.”
Hayden hums. “Like you’re not always Canada’s Golden Boy and are in fact, the world’s greatest little shit.”
“I am Canada’s golden boy.”
“You’re an asshole is what you are.” JJ says, and blinks. “Ah, I see.”
“So, what, you’re saying it’s an act?”
“I’m saying he takes great delight in making people hate him on the ice.”
“Huh.” Hayden says. “That… makes sense actually. He’s fucking annoying but he’s never actually cruel. Wait!” Hayden’s on his feet, pointing at Shane accusingly. “Liar! You said hockey wasn’t foreplay, that motherfucker calls you pretty boy at centre ice all the fucking time!”
Shane flushes tomato red. “I said the rivalry wasn’t foreplay.” He mutters.
JJ cackles.
“Oh my fucking god,” Hayden continues, his voice rising hysterically, “he’s Boston Lily!”
“Who?”
“Shane’s girl!"
JJ blinks. "You have a girl?"
"No!"
"Yes! He started texting her after—oh you little fuck,” Hayden shoves him and Shane, impossibly, laughs. “After your first All Stars game. Holy shit, you are in a situationship with the Boston Terror.”
"That's who you're always texting?"
Shane blushes. “No," he lies and knows it's entirely unconvincing when JJ snorts. "Shut up. I still don’t know what that means.”
“An undefined relationship.” JJ explains easily.
Shane winces. “No, we defined it. It’s… it’s just sex.”
“Oh, friends with benefits.” JJ nods sagely. “Or—rivals with benefits? Wait, are you friends? Do we have to be friends with fucking Rozanov? Oh, I’m going to be sick.”
“Nope, absolutely not.” Hayden shakes his head frantically, “no, you know what, I’m sure Jackie knows some nice gay men right here in—”
“No!” Shane shouts, and winces as his best friends’ blink. “No.” He says again, more quietly now. “I don’t… you can tell Jackie, obviously, I wouldn’t make you keep a secret from your wife, and she’s one of my best friends too, but I’m not—I can’t—”
Come out.
Be with anybody else.
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m sorry,” Hayden soothes, and Shane absently thinks he’s going to make a great dad, if only because of the practice he’s had on him. “Bad joke, we won’t set you up with anyone, okay? And if you want us to be friends with,” he swallows, sharing a pained look with JJ, “with Rozanov, we’ll do it. Holly, you’re our best friend, and we love you, okay, us knowing you’re gay doesn’t change that and Shane, if you want me to keep this a secret from Jacks, I will, no questions asked.”
Shane shakes his head, his eyes watery. “You don’t… you don’t hate me? For…”
For being gay?
For being gay for Ilya fucking Rozanov?
“Don’t be stupid.” JJ snaps. “We are your best friends, yes? It is our duty as your friends to chirp you for your horrible taste and then support you when you choose them anyway.”
“Yeah exactly, remember when JJ hooked up with that Puck Bunny in Miami? And we told him it was a terrible idea? And his nudes ended up on twitter the next day?”
JJ squarks. “Oi! I thought we agreed to never speak of that again!”
Shane laughs wetly.
“But while we are…” JJ smirks, and holds his palms together, slowly spreading them apart. “Rozanov’s cock, yes? Say when.”
January 2014
Shane makes the executive decision to save coming out to his parents until after Sochi.
Not because he’s scared (he is) but because if he did and then his mom went down the same research spiral, he did, she’d spend the entire Olympics terrified out of her mind.
He’s terrified enough as it is.
Because Shane’s been noticing things.
For his entire life, he’s been quiet in locker rooms.
Made himself small, to be less of a target as the only half-Asian kid in what is often a racist, homophobic, white-man’s sport, to let the uncomfortable microagressive bullshit roll off his back like water on a duck, to laugh along with the teammates he didn’t quite know how to connect with. Shane had learnt to dissociate from it—to ignore it—and now, he realises, listening to the frankly vile shit spewed from the mouths of men he’s considered his brothers from the moment he put on the Voyageurs sweater, that the rot’s already sunk deep.
From the top down, if his recollection of the GM’s comment on draft day was anything to go by.
Oh, and, uh, just to be clear, uh, we are thrilled that Shane is Asian, or Asian-Canadian. Very thrilled. I mean, we've historically broken barriers, and we're doing it again, so nothing to worry about there.
Because choosing Hiroyuki Miura in round eleven of the 1992 draft and then refusing to pick up his contract when the camps were complete was truly groundbreaking.
It’s different, for guys like him and JJ—every time they’re on the ice or in front of a camera, they aren’t just speaking about themselves, but everyone else with the same colour skin who’d come before or will come after. He can’t count the number of times he’s been praised for his intelligence, never mind the fact he’s hockey smart, rather than doctor smart, like Jackie’s sister—or how often JJ’s aggressive play style gets brought up by commentators, never mind the fact he’s a defenseman and that’s his entire fucking job.
And yeah, Shane’s been lucky, with Hayden, who he’d played against in the AAA and had decided they were best friends within the first five minutes of development camp, and JJ who’d taken one look at them on their first day of training camp and adopted them as one would a pair of bonded cats. They’re good people, good friends—but even they aren’t angels in the locker room.
Hayden’s a bit misogynistic and JJ’s always had a mouth on him—it’s only now he knows Shane’s gay that he’s stopped throwing out cocksucker from his repertoire of insults—stopped using it at all after an incident in the new year where he’d instinctively chirped back at Comeau, and gone so pale that Hayden, sweet, oblivious Hayden had asked if he’d gone too hard in the weight room and was gonna hurl. JJ’d dragged Shane home after, apologising the entire way, and refused to accept Shane’s acceptance until he’d been stuffed full of Diri Kole ak Pwa.
So Shane had asked while JJ was disarmed and relaxed, eating the food his da taught him to cook, if the locker room had always been like that.
“Like what?”
Shane shrugs. “I never paid much attention to it. Just, you know, considered it as part of hockey.”
JJ hums. “It is part of hockey.”
“So what, we just have to fucking live with it? Accept that it is what it is?”
JJ sets down his cutlery with deliberate care, his expression twisting. “We have to accept that if we speak up, we’re going to be the problem. That we’d be called difficult and overly sensitive and all the other bullshit phrases that white people use to excuse their fucking racism. They’ll give you the C and me the A but god fucking forbid we rock the boat because they’ll punt us overboard and sail off into the sunset without a care in the world. We’re two people in that locker room Shane. Two people on a team of twenty-three and we are not indispensable. You think good old boy Theriault wouldn’t jump at the chance to be rid of either of us?”
The worst part, Shane had realised as he laid in bed that night, was that JJ wasn’t wrong.
Neither of them has brought a cup home to Montréal.
They haven’t (yet, sue him, he’s hopeful) medalled at the Olympics.
Sure, Shane’s been given league awards—the Calder, an Art Ross, two Lady Byng’s and a Rocket Richard—and JJ’s taken home a James Norris—but they don’t mean Montréal wouldn’t put them on waivers in an instant if they started causing trouble, no matter their no-trade agreements.
Fuck.
Shane kind of misses the forced obliviousness of abject denial.
February 2014
Sochi is beautiful.
And cold, and a beach (if it can be considered a beach when it’s all fucking pebbles) town, which is kind of an insane pick for the Winter Olympics but, well, who’s Shane to judge. He’s rooming with JJ and Greg Huff from the Admirals in the village, the rest of the Team Canada in the same hall and—
He doesn’t text Ilya.
Shane wants to, fuck does he want to, but the idea of drawing attention to their texts here—it’s enough to make him break out in a cold sweat.
“Holly, you good?” JJ squeezes his shoulder, flopping down into the seat beside him in the dining hall. “You’re spacing again.”
“And you’re hovering.”
“Sorry I just—”
“It’s fine, J. I get it.” Shane sighs. “Hayden isn’t helping.”
JJ groans. “He is checking in constantly Holly; he texts me more than mama! Have you checked on Shane, is he okay, are you both being safe, did you pack socks, make sure Shane eats, what’s the food like, is it true the Olympic village has run out of condoms, you should’ve slammed that dickhead from Finland into the boards—how does he have the time!”
Shane grimaces as JJ drops his forehead to the table. “The girls are being released from the NICU tomorrow, I promise you he’ll forget all about checking in on… us when he hasn’t slept in two days.”
“That French skier I told you about, we met up last night, and he was blowing up my phone so much I had to show her his texts to prove I wasn’t cheating on my girl back home.” He grins. “Come watch her event tonight?”
“No,” Shane shakes his head, “no, I think I’m going to look around, see what—”
JJ catches his arm, squeezing tightly. “You’re not—”
“No, JJ, fuck.” Shane shakes him off. “I’m not stupid.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Pat skated his short program this morning. The pairs and ice dance shorts are back-to-back tonight, and I used to train with half of them so unless you think me cheering for Scotty and Mos from the stands in a Team Canada jacket is as good as waving a fucking Pride Flag and asking to be arrested, I think I’ll be fine.” He shoves his chair back, cringing at the sound on the linoleum and ignores JJ’s pained call of “Holly,” behind him as he dumps his tray on a cleaning cart.
Shane shoves his headphones in, pressing play on the hockey podcast he was listening to earlier to drown out the echoing noise.
He hates this, the hovering, the concern, even if he understands it—Shane’s spent so long denying his sexuality that having himself be known, especially by his best friends, makes his skin crawl. He loves them, of course he does, and he’s so fucking grateful for their unflinching support but fuck… coming out to them wasn’t a cure-all for his self-loathing, for his anxiety, for the crippling fear that this—that being gay is just another way he’s going to be othered. Already, three—possibly four if Scott Hunter’s chirp was as much a knowing taunt as it sounded, which Shane really doesn’t think it was—people know and Shane’s not naïve enough to believe he’ll manage to keep his sexuality a secret forever, no matter how much he’d prefer to wait until retirement to come out.
A retirement he once thought he’d announce as his sweater was raised to the rafters in the Bell Centre—alongside a good half-dozen Stanley Cup banners.
Shane hadn’t realised just how unrealistic that dream had been until he’d stopped denying he was gay and started realising just how fucking homophobic his entire organisation is.
Fuck, how am I going to tell mom?
The Voyageurs aren’t just his team—she’s been cheering for them her entire life. Hell, she prayed he’d go second in the draft (not that she knew he knew) because all she’d ever wanted was to see him in Voyageurs white, red and blue.
He thinks about sacrifices, about too early mornings and never-ending drives, about his mom moving with him to Kingston rather than have him billet after one too many (later founded) rumours of hazing, of his dad no longer being on speaking terms with his family after they’d missed one event too many, about the cost of skates and fuel and gear and private tutoring because with so many hours at the rink spending eight out of twenty-four at school just wasn’t a viable option, not if he wanted to be the best, and just how much easier it all would’ve been if he hadn’t,
chosen,
hockey.
He ducks into a café rather than ponder that any further, haltingly ordering a coffee in his god-awful Russian, grimacing as the cashier switches smoothly to English when he blinks uncomprehendingly at their reply. The cashier smiles easily, as though this is a regular occurrence and repeats their statement—Shane’s so embarrassed he kind of wants to die about it. “We will bring your drink to you shortly.”
“Thank you,” he answers in Russian, because at least he’s got that pronunciation down. He picks a table by the window, only half listening to the podcast as he lingers over his text messages, over the now two-month long drought of texts from Ilya, his last message simply;
There’s so much he wants to say to him… and not a single fucking word can be said here.
Shane drops his head into his hands, the podcast in his ears suddenly far too loud.
“—be a tough pill to swallow for Rozanov, I mean, losing to Latvia? What a shitshow.”
“Just goes to show that hockey is a team sport—”
“Exactly!”
“—and even a generational talent can be outclassed when his team is unable or unwilling to connect.”
“God, imagine him on Team USA, though.”
“Fuck Team USA, imagine him on Team Canada. He can play wing, put him on a line with Hollander.”
“You know what I just realised? Hollander’s on a line with Rozanov’s wingers from the Bears—St Simon and Marleau, fuck ain’t that a kick in the teeth for—”
“Hollander! What’s up motherfucker!”
Shane flinches as someone grabs his arm—he yanks at his headphones, his shoulders slumping in relief as he recognises Carter Vaughn and Scott Hunter. “Boys,” he greets, ducking his head, still a little mortified about the last time they’d met as Scott claps him on the shoulder.
“Hey Rook,” Scott grins.
“Oh, I’m Rook again, am I?” Shane ribs, and Scott shakes his head, clapping his hand over his chest as he laughs lightly.
“You’ll always be Rook to me kid,” Scott grins, “even when you almost break my damn jaw.”
“Your bones going brittle in your old age?” Shane asks deadpan as Vaughny cackles.
“I’m twenty-five, you fucking asshole.”
“Speaking of fucking assholes,” Vaughny winces, “can you believe Russia?”
Scott sighs, “be nice Vaughny.”
“Be nice? They fucking lost to Latvia. Did you see that game?”
Shane winces, “yeah. Yeah, it was a straight-up shitshow.”
“A debacle.”
“Hey,” Vaughny asks, “what did Roz say about it?”
Shane’s stomach swoops. God, I wish he’d said something. I wish I’d said something. He shrugs. “I don’t know. Nothing to me, that’s for sure.” He smiles, probably awkwardly. Fuck. “I think he knows Canada’s got this in the bag.”
Vaughny scoffs, shaking his head with a grin. “It’s USA this year baby, we’re coming for you—”
“Okay, okay,” Scott shakes his head.
“—trust me!”
“You’ll look great in silver Vaughny, don’t even stress.” Shane smirks as Vaughny protests loudly.
“Alright children, calm down.” Scott snorts, shaking his head at them—bizarrely, his expression reminds Shane of dad, intervening during games night whenever he and mom get a little too competitive. “Ice cream?”
“Fuck, yes.” Vaughny says emphatically.
Fuck no, Shane thinks but nods anyway, finding himself shuffling behind the pair of Admirals to the counter—unsurprisingly, there’s nothing that fits his diet, nothing plant-based, nothing dairy-free—oh thank god, he thinks, spying (an untouched) sorbet in the corner. He gets a single scoop, pushes it around the shallow paper cup with the little plastic paddle, lets Vaughny and Scott’s chatter wash over him as he chimes in occasionally, pretending he actually wants to be here rather than back home in Montréal, with Ilya in his bed and no fucking clue he’s gay, his organisation’s a fucking nightmare or that Russia’s a hellscape.
“Tonight, we can do…” Vaughny squints at his phone, “figure skating?”
Shane tunes back in, his sorbet long since melted, nodding. “I’ve got a few buddies skating in pairs and ice dance, would you guys be cool to do that? I’d love to show up for them.”
Vaughny shovels another spoonful of chocolate ice cream into his mouth. “Hell yeah, man. I’ll show up for any dude who's that brave.”
He blinks. “What do you mean?”
Vaughny leans forward, “well, I'm assuming your buddies might be g—”
Fear, ice cold and constricting, strangles him.
“Shut the fuck up Vaughny, Jesus Christ!” Shane snaps.
Vaughny reels back, his hands raising quickly in surrender. “Woah, Hollzy, I just meant it’s fucking brave for a dude to show up to a place like this—”
“Carter…” Scott says warningly.
“—and be like; hey, here's me. Russia is not safe for folks like that.”
“Which is exactly why you don’t fucking say shit.” Shane hisses, his gaze darting throughout the café—no one’s looking at them, but fear isn’t rational, and right now, neither is Shane. “You don’t even fucking imply it.”
Comeau had done more than imply it in the locker room before their game against Finland, calling the third string goalie, Guardians rookie Wyatt Hayes a faggot when he’d mentioned missing his girl back home—St Simon had almost put him through a wall, held back only by the giant that was Cliff Marleau as he went on a tirade (in French no less) about how fucking stupid the defencemen was to call any of their teammates a fag in Russia, where a rumour could get you at the very least, deported.
Naturally, Comeau had laughed and doubled down—but Shane doesn’t think it’s a coincidence his Voyageurs teammate had gone down hard in practice, cracking his jaw on the ice and ending up on injured reserve after an accidental collision with their first string goalie, Admiral Eric Bennett.
“But it’s not like… illegal to be… you know in Russia.” Scott says, and Shane looks at him sharply—wonders, for just a moment, if Ilya had been fucking right when he said the only way Scott fucking Hunter, 2008’s number one draft pick, Captain of the fucking New York Admirals, could’ve clocked them was if he was also… like them.
Shane discards the thought immediately.
Scott Hunter is just so… straight.
It’d be nice though.
To know they weren’t alone.
“What, you think the Human Rights commission sued Russia for fun?” Shane asks, “it was decriminalised, yes, but it’s still illegal to promote it to minors. The Olympics are televised; how easy do you think it would be for the Russian Government to decide just existing is promotion? They keep their laws vague for a reason.”
“Fuck.” They breathe in unison.
“Sorry.” Shane says quietly after a few minutes of awkward silence—I shouldn’t have said any of that fuck.
Vaughny shakes his head. “No man, thank you for telling me. I could not have that on my conscience.”
“It’s a stereotype anyway.”
“Huh?”
“Male figure skaters being…” Shane trails off meaningly; Scott and Vaughny’s eyes widen. “It’s a stereotype. Most of them are dating, sleeping with or have slept with their partner. Or other single skaters if they’re not in a duo.”
“You’re kidding.” Vaughny leans forward. “You’re not kidding? No fucking way.”
Shane snorts. “They train the same amount we do, live in each other’s pockets the same way we do except they’re learning their partner’s bodies so they can throw or be thrown without causing permanent injury to each other with their skates or the ice meanwhile, we’re bashing each other with sticks and knocking out teeth.”
“Like you’ve ever lost a tooth, Rook,” Scott snorts.
Shane smirks. He’s quite proud of the fact he’s still got all his original teeth, actually.
“Damn.” Vaughny sighs. “I chose the wrong fucking sport.”
Tell me about it.
Ilya is here.
Scott and Vaughny haven’t noticed, their jaws hinging as they lean forward in their seats, watching Mos and Kirsten on the ice and Shane digs his thumb into his opposite palm, praying they don’t notice his anxiety spiking.
I could go to him.
He glances over his shoulder, hopes it looks casual, as though he’s not zeroing in on Ilya leaning against the railing in the nosebleeds, as though he’s not studying the man from afar, desperately trying to get a read on him.
Are you okay?
Are you safe here?
Are your family good people?
Is your mom like mine?
Is your dad?
Can I touch you?
I miss you.
I don’t even have you and I could lose you.
He looks… vacant.
Shane turns back to the rink.
Shifts his thumb so his nail presses into his skin.
The pain makes him feel a little more in control.
Mos and Kirsten nail their program, and he risks another glance over his shoulder as he, Scott and Vaughny follow the surging crowd to their feet, cheering loudly.
“They fucking killed it man!”
“Pairs is always technically impressive,” Shane agrees, “they did really well. Wait til you watch the ice dancers though, it’s gorgeous.”
“This is so fucking cool.” Vaughny grins, delighted. “Man, I’m gonna sign up for some figure skating classes when I get back, their footwork is actually insane. Imagine you pull some of that shit in a game?”
Shane doesn’t have to imagine.
“Huh.” Scott says, and Shane—fuck is he clocking me again?
No, fuck, chill out Shane.
“What dots just connected in your twisted little brain, Cap?” Vaughny frowns at Scott, who waves him off with a grin as they sit, eagerly awaiting the next pair on the ice.
“Nothing man. Who’s next?”
Shane tunes out Vaughny’s reply as he glances quickly over his shoulder again.
He recognises that expression, Shane realises, from the rooftop in Vegas, after he’d won the Calder and picked and picked and picked until Ilya yelled; not everything is about you Hollander! and then kissed him until he was breathless and wanting and terrified.
“Just going to get a drink, I’ll be back.”
Vaughny nods, and Shane figures he might as well; grabbing a coke and a bottle of water from the concessions stand on the walk to the staircase leading to the nosebleeds. Sure enough, Ilya’s still leaning against the railing when he approaches, and Shane—doesn’t know what to say.
Fuck he’s terrible at this.
“Did your coach call up your goalie from his local beer league?” Shane asks and Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks, you could have said literally fucking anything and you go with that? “Here.” He shoves the coke towards Ilya, who—laughs?
“What the fuck, Hollander?”
Shane knows he’s blushing—wants to lean forward and bang his head against the railing—and instead fumbles with the screw-top lid of his bottled water. “I just figured—he must’ve been drunk… to let in so many goals from fucking Latvia.”
“When did you get funny?”
“Asshole,” Shane mutters, “I’ve always been funny.”
“No,” Ilya protests, and Shane risks a glance as he attempts to mirror him, leaning his forearms (what he hopes is) casually against the railing. His eyes still aren’t right, the playful spark Shane’s become so familiar with nowhere to be seen, even as the vacant expression seems to dissipate. “No, I would have noticed before now I think.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane says softly, “about the game.”
“Is not on you, Hollander.”
“It’s not on you either, Il—Rozanov.”
Ilya’s expression shutters, and he turns back to the rink. “Go sit down.”
There’s a large part of Shane that instinctively wants to do so—to fold, to listen when Ilya issues an order—but Shane’s always been fucking stubborn and they’re not in bed so, he stays, leaning against the railing, his eyes fixed on the skaters below. It’s not a team he recognises—Russian, according to the announcers—but they’re fucking good, better, it pains him to say, than Mos and Kirsten.
“My mom was a figure skater.” He says, ignoring him. “She wanted hockey but… settled, I guess, for figure skating.”
“Hollander—”
“She medalled at Sarajevo. Retired. Enrolled at McGill four years later and met my dad.”
“What the fuck is McGill.”
He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but Shane hears his curiosity, nonetheless. “A school in Montréal. A University.” Shane watches the pair on the ice execute a flawless split triple twist and knows—Mos and Kristen don’t have a chance at gold. “They just put Russia back on the podium. Fuck that’s impressive, double axels are hard enough, let alone completing them in sync.”
“You speak like you know.”
Shane snorts, turning toward him. “I do.”
“Because your mother was Olympic Champion.”
Shane shakes his head.
Thinks again, of sacrifices. Of his mom wanting hockey so fucking bad but knowing, even as a child, of the folly of dreaming, and choosing the next best thing as her consolation prize. About becoming the best anyway, about taking gold and then retiring because even winning didn’t make her love it—about his parents refusing to make him choose like his mom had to, of wanting make them both proud and being enough of a perfectionist to make it happen, to work and work and work until he reaches the peak of two different sports.
He’s succeeded in one, so far.
Shane can’t imagine he’ll manage to do it again.
Not now he knows what he is.
A failure.
A fucking faggot.
Shane Hollander.
“No because I was.”
Ilya’s grip tightens on the railing, his body rocking back. “You have not won gold yet, Hollander.”
“So you do think Canada will win.” Shane taunts, and Ilya scoffs. “I competed at Palavela.”
“What?” Ilya finally looks at him again and Shane, fuck, he wants to reach for him, to fall to his knees, to beg, to kiss him just one, more, time—but this is Russia, and so, he drops his gaze. “No, you didn’t. That’s—I would’ve known.”
“Been reading my Wikipedia page again, Rozanov?” Shane asks teasingly. “It’s not on there. I didn’t compete as Shane Hollander.”
“Do not speak riddles, you are Shane Hollander, you cannot compete at Olympics without being Shane Hollander.”
“It might’ve escaped your notice,” Shane snorts, “but I’m not entirely white. My mom was born in Canada, but her parents registered her birth in Japan, and she did the same for me. I have two names.”
“You have competed in the Olympics already.”
“Yes.”
“As figure skater.”
“Yes.”
“What,” Ilya stresses, “name?”
Shane’s knees feel weak when he recognises the tone—it’s the same fucking one he’d used when he asked; what colour? “Shēn Ōtani.”
Ilya fumbles with his phone.
“You’re going to chew through your data.” Shane protests weakly.
“Am millionaire, Hollander, I don’t care.” Ilya scoffs and his eyes narrow as he somehow finds a video compilation of fourteen-year-old Shane’s programs. “You are tiny baby. I did not think it possible for you to be any smaller.”
“Fuck off, you’ve got like an inch on me, max.”
For a moment, Ilya’s expression becomes a leer, and Shane can almost hear him say two actually, before he seems to remember exactly where he is and the blank expression returns.
“Mr Gold Medal…”
“Mom’s got it beside hers in the trophy room.”
“Of course she does.” Ilya shakes his head, but his tone is… almost, fond? Shane honestly does not know what to do with that. “Sarajevo, that was 1984, yes?”
Shane nods.
“Your mother, she competed individually?”
Shane nods again.
“Mama competed in pairs.”
“Your mother was a figure skater?”
“Yes.” He says in Russian, and Shane’s momentarily proud he recognises the single syllable. “Yes.” He repeats in English. “She won gold. Met papa. Had Andrei. No more skating for mama.”
Something about the way he says it stops Shane cold.
Not everything is about you Hollander!
I go home in three days.
Shane realises, with abject clarity, that Ilya Rozanov fucking hates it here.
Loves it, too, the kind of patriotism that that makes him yearn for the weather and the smell of the city, that shows in the food he eats when he’s sick, and endearments he whispers when he thinks Shane can’t understand—but hates it, in a way that festers beneath his skin.
Russia is Ilya’s house.
Shane doesn’t think it’s his home.
“I’m sorry.” Shane says and he… he doesn’t know which thing he’s apologising for.
For the game.
For Ilya’s grief.
For the way his eyes had shuttered when he said, no more skating for mama, because yeah, Shane’s often oblivious when it comes to emotions but even he can sense there’s something not right there. Did… did Ilya’s mom die?
“Not here.” Ilya says sharply. “We are not… anything here.”
It hits like a physical blow.
We’re not anything anywhere, Shane wants to retort.
He takes a step back.
We could be, Shane wants to tell him.
I want to be.
“Enjoy the drink.” Shane says instead, because it’s safe—because it’s easy—because a can of coke is nothing incriminating, and Shane feels like Ilya is cracking beneath his hands and he doesn’t have the skill to put him back together.
Ilya nods.
And Shane…
Shane leaves.