Chapter Text
Ilya had no words to describe the Ottawa air at a hundred kilometres per hour. At least, not in English. The wind whipped around him, loud enough to drown out the Bad Bunny song pumping through his Bluetooth radio and strip the thoughts from his brain before they could form. He leaned into the curve of the highway, urging his Ducati faster. One hundred kilometres per hour quickly turned to one hundred twenty. Forty. A hundred sixty. The roar of the motorcycle vibrated through his entire body, resonating in his bones and sending jolts through joints that had seen better days.
He wasn’t trying to get anywhere. It was the dead of night, and he had an early morning practice looming ahead. But sleep eluded him after another nightmare about his mother. Ilya decided a bike ride would be a better escape than a cigarette. Either way, Ilya could already hear Shane’s voice filled with concern and disapproval. Shane hated the idea of him winding up a smear on the highway as much as he loathed Ilya risking lung cancer. However, at that moment, Ilya needed the air. He did not need to think about what his life had become.
Every time Ilya closed his eyes, he was affronted by some new horror: his mother’s limp hand against the bedsheets, Russian tabloids, the #TakeBackHockey signs, or Shane in a Centaurs jersey instead of the Voyageurs blue he had been born to wear. He had told himself these things didn’t matter. Ilya had made his peace with the past and his current circumstances. He had everything he wanted, and Shane seemed happy, too. However, Ilya couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift in Shane’s gaze when he thought Ilya wasn’t watching. It wasn’t regret, never that, but a sort of weariness that made Ilya’s chest tighten until he couldn’t breathe.
I did this, Ilya thought, the wind stinging his watering eyes. His sadness started with me.
His guilt wasn’t rational, but Ilya couldn’t help but wonder if Shane would have been better off without him. He would have found a nice guy in Montreal. Someone who was not his rival. Someone who would have at least looked around before kissing Shane in Hayden’s driveway, ensuring they were out of view of any cameras, and keeping them from being outed. Someone who, when they came out, would not spark outrage within the league or lead to Shane being ostracised from his team.
Of course, the rational side of Ilya’s mind reminded him that their ‘outing’ had been an accident. Yes, he had kissed Shane, but it was Hayden who recorded it and sent the video to a fan without any review. From there, it was fucking Brad who uploaded the video online. Mistakes happened, and that was okay. They were going to come out anyway. Ilya had laughed about it once; he’d laugh about it again.
The rational side of Ilya’s mind also reminded him that the reactions of others weren’t his fault. Commissioner Crowle was an asshole, and that was never going to change. If the Montreal Voyageurs could ignore the blood, sweat, and tears Shane had given them — ignore his championship wins, broken All-Star records, and incredible media revenue — then they weren’t a team worth playing for. Shane and Ilya had already proven themselves valuable players to the league and capable partners. That was all that mattered.
However, the darker side of Ilya’s mind was becoming louder. He couldn’t shake the nagging thought that Shane would have re-signed with the Voyageurs if he had the chance. Shane had said it before; he wanted to start and finish his career with that team. He wanted his jersey number displayed in the rafters once it was retired. Unfortunately, that dream was now out of reach for him.
And it was Ilya’s fault.
He had knocked on room 1410 all those years ago. He had let Scott Hunter’s bravery sway him and gone to the Cottage. He had uprooted his life and moved to Ottawa. He had taken Shane outside and into the sight of Hayden’s camera. He had scored after Shane tripped during the playoffs, which led to Shane’s downfall. What might have been interpreted as a mere accident took on a different significance due to their public relationship status. This trip led to Shane taking a pay cut to join the Ottawa Centaurs and packing up his life in Montreal.
Fuck, Ilya was thinking too much.
Just being alone in his mind was exhausting, and yet he couldn’t sleep.
He sped up, threading through the scattered cars like a dart. The speed limit sign blurred past in the rearview mirror, a mere suggestion now. Each heartbeat matched the rhythm of the tyres on asphalt, but the rush of adrenaline still wasn’t enough. Ilya just wanted to feel like himself again.
As Ilya returned an hour later, he found Shane still deep in sleep, oblivious to the world around him. Anya lay curled up at his feet. Ilya knew he would wake Shane by getting back in bed, so he decided to go out to the porch for a smoke.
Shane found Ilya in the kitchen as the sun rose. Ilya was making omelettes that were looking more and more like scrambled eggs. He looked over his shoulder and offered a “Good morning.”
Shane smiled and embraced Ilya from behind.
“You stink,” Shane mumbled, from between Ilya’s shoulder blades.
“Just got some air before making breakfast,” he replied, feigning nonchalance. Ilya could envision Shane rolling his eyes.
“With a cigarette?”
Ilya hummed, turned, and kissed Shane’s forehead. “Go sit at the counter, moy sadovyy shlang, I will bring your plate to you.”
“Your… watering hose? Gross, Ilya.”
Ilya’s reckless streak didn’t stop on the highways; it also followed him onto the ice. Detroit had hired a Russian player who, during the second period of the game, called Ilya a pedik. Ordinarily, Ilya wouldn’t have minded. He had taken enough insults from his brother or chirps from hockey players not to be fazed. But as his gloves hit the ice, there was a fleeting moment of clarity and exhilaration. He didn’t just want to feel like himself again; he simply wanted to feel.
The first punch struck him across the cheekbone, and a sharp burst of pain cut through the mental emptiness for a brief moment. Ilya welcomed the taste of blood in his mouth. Another hit landed on his ribs, sending a jolt through his side, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in, craving more, seeking the kind of pain that could be measured and understood — unlike the vague sorrow of knowing that, unlike his opponent, he could never return to Russia.
Ilya didn’t want to go back to Moscow. He had no interest in playing in the KHL, nor did he intend to repair his relationship with his brother. The Russian tabloids had been harsh ever since Ilya and Shane released their joint statement. They called him a traitor, a criminal, and unclean. Even his Instagram posts were flooded with hatred from his home country. The only thing Ilya missed was having the choice to go back.
He could never see his mother again. He could never stand over her grave and tell her he was happy. If he returned, he would be beaten to a pulp in some alleyway, imprisoned, forced to make Russian propaganda, or worse.
It felt wrong to want something so small as a choice. Ilya had other ways to keep his mother close; he carried Irina’s crucifix and let Shane name their charity in her honour. Ilya also had other blessings in his life. He had a husband whom he fucking loved, along with a dog who was the best. He had supportive friends and great teammates. The Ottawa Centaurs were performing well this year, even though they were still considered the underdogs. He lived in a nice house, drove nicer cars, and had access to therapy and antidepressants. He also had caring parents-in-law who doted on him.
But, damn, there were days Ilya longed to lay lilies over his mother’s grave, see St. Basil’s Cathedral covered in snow, or enjoy shashlik in the park during summer.
Ilya ducked beneath another swing. The referees were yelling at him now. Their voices clashed with the nagging thought that he didn’t deserve the life he had fought so hard to build. He could rationalise his choices all he wanted, but the fact remained: he was a broken record. Ilya was constantly slipping and falling into the same old habits: smoking, fighting, drinking, and hiding behind sex and fast cars. It didn’t matter what he did, good or bad; he always ended up right here.
Hours later, Ilya moved through the bedroom with the ginger, calculated grace of a man made of glass. Shane lay bundled under a mound of blankets on the bed. He looked peaceful — more peaceful than he had been in the locker room, where he had criticised Ilya for fighting. While Ilya was in the penalty box, Detroit scored, leading to the Centaurs’ loss. He had made Shane, his team, and himself look bad tonight. And, if he responded to every insult with punches, a day would come when Ilya would do serious harm to himself or someone else. Ilya knew he was right. Even Coach Wiebe, whom Ilya usually considered laid-back, appeared disappointed.
In the en-suite bathroom, Ilya didn’t turn on the main light; the soft glow of the nightlight was enough to reveal the ghostly figure staring back at him. The spectre had a purple bruise on its jaw and darker bruising beneath its eyes. Ilya’s hands trembled as he opened the cabinet and shook a handful of ibuprofen into his palm. He stared at the pills for a long moment before tossing them back all at once, swallowing them dry.
A wave of nausea washed over him a few minutes later. The sensation in his stomach made him grip the edge of the marble sink. He closed his eyes and waited for it to subside, ignoring the cold sweat beading on his forehead. It didn’t matter if the ibuprofen upset his stomach; it just had to make him functional. It had to make him able to put on his skates in the morning without Shane noticing him gasp for air. It had to make him fast enough to stay in the only world that had ever welcomed him — or at least the only world that remained an outlet for his anger.
When the nausea passed, Ilya went outside and lit a cigarette.
Galina’s office felt more closed off to the world than usual. The lack of windows blocked outside distraction, sure, but made the walls close in. Ilya had never been claustrophobic, though he was beginning to sympathise. He stayed still in his usual seat and waited for his psychiatrist to say something.
“You are very quiet today, Ilya,” Galina said in Russian. “Even for you.”
“I am tired. The schedule is heavy.”
Galina was the one person Ilya couldn’t hide from, and he hated lying to her. It seemed pointless when she was supposed to be helping him organise his inner thoughts. She also knew Ilya well, at this point, and watched his games.
“I watched the game against Detroit. I saw the way you played. And fought.”
Ilya bit his bottom lip and chewed on a piece of dead skin. He should have known she would confront him about the fight.
“It was a physical game.”
“You took a roughing penalty because a rookie chirped you,” she said flatly. “And then you held your punches. That is not the Ilya Rozanov I know. That is a man looking for a reason to bleed.”
Ilya shifted and then tried not to wince when the movement pulled at his side. His ribs were still tender.
“You did not hear what he called me.”
“If it were anything like the Russian papers, then I have an idea. I see the things they say about your mother’s legacy and how you have ‘dragged the Rozanov name into the dirt of a western scandal.’ I know you have read it, too.”
“It does not matter what they say.”
“Then, why did you fight?”
“I don’t know.” Ilya went back to worrying his bottom lip. He knew he should tell her everything: the motorcycle rides, going 200+ km/h down the 417 with no helmet, the cigarettes smoked on the back porch while Shane slept. He wanted to say that the antidepressants felt like placebos against the tide. He wanted to admit that the self-loathing was so loud it drowned out Shane’s voice. He wanted to tell her that he felt like a fraud for promoting mental health while he was yearning for something, anything to distract him from the noise. He wanted to say that he was now five years younger than his mother had been when she committed suicide.
It was an interesting thought that Ilya was almost the same age as his mother. She had been young when she had him, and young when she died. Ilya didn’t feel young, though. He just felt tired.
Ilya didn’t say anything, though. He stayed quiet because if he admitted the truth, it would become real. It would be a “thing” that Shane, his team, and his friends would have to help him carry. And Ilya already had enough baggage for one lifetime.
“I have Shane and Anya,” Ilya admitted. “I have the team. We are winning more than we are losing. Logically, everything is better than it has been in years. I think I just need more rest. I haven’t been sleeping as well. A side effect of the stress, perhaps.”
Galina made a few notes.
“You know, two things can be true at the same time. You can feel good and bad. You made fair points as to why you should be happy: you are married to the man you love. You have a dog. You are successful in your career.”
“Is there a ‘but’ coming?” Ilya asked, warily.
“Well, that’s up to you. It’s normal to feel stressed and tired. That’s part of your job. You have also made some big changes to your life by moving in with Shane, getting married, and playing on the same team as him. But you have a history of depression, and even ‘little’ things can upset your recovery. Your mind could be telling you things that maybe aren’t logical, but feel just as true.”
“I am fine, Galina. The fighting... was just a slip. I will not be so reckless next time.”
At the end of the appointment, Ilya stood up, his knees cracking. He felt a sudden, visceral need for a cigarette and the roar of the Ducati’s engine. He needed to get back to the ice, where the only thing that mattered was the next hit. He needed to feel something other than Galina’s suffocating, polite concern.
The walk from the car to the front door felt longer than it had a week ago. Every step was a negotiation with his own nervous system. He pleaded with his hip to stop clicking and his ribs to stop screaming. By the time Ilya turned the key in the lock, he barely had his breathing under control.
Shane was there immediately, with Anya trailing behind him. He had a habit of greeting Ilya with a kiss after each therapy session. Looking up, a faint smile tugged at his lips, though the shadows under his eyes persisted. Ilya knew that these shadows were a lasting reminder of the media circus they had endured.
“Hey,” Shane said. He smelled like clean laundry and seaweed shampoo. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist, pulling him in for a kiss that was soft, lingering, and tasted of coffee. “How was your session?”
Ilya forced a small laugh against Shane’s mouth. It hurt his chest.
“It was fine, Shane. We talked about the playoffs.”
“Good. Glad one of us is being productive,” Shane murmured. Ilya rolled his eyes. That was a lie, too, as no one, ever, in their right mind, would describe Shane as “unproductive.” Shane chuckled as his hands trailed down to the small of Ilya’s back, pulling him closer. “I missed you today.”
Ilya felt the familiar spark of heat, the way his body always reacted to Shane’s. Yet, that arousal was chased by a surge of dread. Sex required movement and a level of vulnerability that Ilya wasn’t sure he could manage. He felt fragile, held together by over-the-counter pain medication and lies. One wrong move, and the façade he maintained would shatter.
But Shane was looking at him with those hopeful dark eyes. They hadn’t been intimate in days. Both of them were focused on getting the Ottawa Centaurs back into the playoffs while balancing their work with the Irina Foundation and “Being-a-Good-Person” advocates in the league — which was a lot of work with the #TakeBackHockey movement fueling a divide amongst players, officials, and fans. Ilya had reassured himself that their lack of intimacy was simply a matter of being overbooked. It had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t feeling well.
“Yeah?” Ilya whispered, stepping into the trap of his own making. Sex was sex. It had always distracted him in the past. Why not now? “Show me, then.”
The sex was good because it was Shane, and it was always good with Shane. But it was also a marathon of endurance. Ilya had to catch himself before he winced when Shane seated himself over him, his thighs pressing against his sides. He used the endorphins to fuel a performance of passion, a desperate attempt to prove that he was still the Ilya Rozanov Shane had fallen for. The bruises were old news. They didn’t matter. Now, come here so I can kiss you…
Afterwards, as the room settled, the silence felt suffocating. Shane lay sprawled across Ilya, his head resting on Ilya’s chest, right over the spot where his ribs felt like they were grinding together. Ilya didn’t move; he didn’t dare breathe too deeply. He gently stroked Shane’s hair, trying to focus on anything but the present.
He looked around the room — at the Ottawa house that wasn’t Montreal. He thought about the Voyageurs’ lockers where Shane should still be sitting, reflecting on the legacy he had to dismantle simply because they had been outed. Shane had lost his team, his city, and his standing, all because Ilya had been too selfish to end things cleanly years ago.
I am a parasite, Ilya thought. I took his world, and I am giving him a broken man in return.
He wanted to confide in him. Shane knew that Ilya was depressed, but he likely didn’t realise how serious it was. Ilya wanted to say, “Shane, I am in pain. I think I’ve broken something inside me that I can’t fix, and I need help.” However, the thought of seeing Shane’s face change to one of worry was more than Ilya could bear. He didn’t even know what Shane could do to help him, other than be there — and Shane was already there. Would knowing change anything? Would knowing just hurt him? Ilya didn’t want to break Shane’s heart. He would rather suffer in silence than admit he was no longer the anchor that Shane needed.
“Are you okay?” Shane asked softly.
Ilya looked at the ceiling and blinked away the tears that had suddenly sprung to his eyes with that one, stupid question. He tightened his grip on Shane and whispered, “Never better.”