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Shane noticed it the third night.
It wasn’t the first night they’d slept in the new apartment in Ottawa, but it was the third night that actually felt like they had settled a bit. Their boxes were mostly unpacked, their kitchen was functional, Anya was curled up in her bed across the room and Shane had finally figured out which light switch controlled the overhead in the bedroom instead of accidentally turning on the hallway light every time.
It was the third night that felt like something close to normal, which was probably why he noticed.
Ilya lay beside him, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone just above his face. The glow illuminated the familiar line of his jaw softened by the dimness of the room and his curls falling wildly around his arm beneath him. His brows were slightly furrowed, not in irritation, but in focus.
His thumb moved quickly. Tap. Swipe. Tap. Tap. Pause.
Then a quiet but deeply satisfied hiss of: “Yes.”
Shane lowered his book a fraction.
“You good over there?” he asked.
“Very good” Ilya murmured without looking at him.
Tap. Swipe. Tap.
Shane watched for another moment. He’d seen Ilya on his phone before, obviously. Everyone had phones. But this didn't feel like the usual doom scrolling on Instagram or checking messages.
“What are you doing?”
“Important work…” Ilya said gravely.
Shane snorted. “Uh-huh.”
He went back to his book, some historical fiction he’d picked up at a shop near the arena, but he found himself rereading the same paragraph three times. The quiet rhythm of Ilya’s tapping pulled at his attention.
Tap. Swipe. Tap.
A longer pause this time. Then Ilya exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Stupid” he muttered.
“What is it?” Shane asked again, more curious now.
Finally, Ilya tilted his phone slightly toward him. “Block Blast.”
Shane blinked. “Block… what?”
“Block Blast” Ilya repeated, as if that explained everything. “You place shapes. They explode. You win.”
“That sounds…” Shane searched for the right word. “…simple.”
Ilya turned his head then, fixing Shane with a look that was half-offended, half-amused. “It is not simple, It is lots of strategy.”
“Right…strategy.”
“It requires intelligence.” Ilya added.
“Good thing you’ve got that covered.” Shane chuckled.
“I do.” Ilya said, entirely serious, then went back to his game.
Shane shook his head, smiling despite himself, and returned to his book.
It became a pattern quickly.
Training days were long, especially now that they were both adjusting to playing on the same team, a new system, a new city. The Ottawa Centaurs were still figuring themselves out, and Ilya as captain, carried that weight whether he admitted it or not.
Shane saw it in the tightness of his shoulders when they got home. In the way he sometimes stood in the kitchen for a second too long, or the methodical way he stroked Anya's head whilst laying on the sofa.
And in those moments, almost without fail, Ilya would reach for his phone.
Not immediately though, and not in a way that felt rude or disconnected. He still talked to Shane, still helped with dinner, still brushed against him in passing, casual touches that sometimes lead to something more when they both felt up to it.
But once they were done, once the dishes were washed, once the lights were dimmed, once they were in bed….
Tap. Swipe. Tap.
Block Blast.
Or sometimes Candy Crush. Or something else with bright colors and small explosions.
Shane didn’t mind.
He understood routines and he most definitely understood decompression. For him, it was reading. There was something about sinking into someone else’s story, letting the steady rhythm of words that carried him out of his own head.
For Ilya, apparently, it was… matching shapes.
Still, it was new. Because Shane remembered (very clearly) how the nights used to be before they moved in together.
The hotel rooms, the limited hours that they had provided. The way Ilya had always seemed unwilling to let even a second slip away, almost dragging Shane into the shower with him after they finished, only to stay as close to him as possible.
Back then, there had been no phones in bed. No phones at all to be exact. Just Ilya, intense and present and entirely focused on Shane like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
Now, the world existed again. And sometimes it looked like a grid of colorful blocks.
“You didn’t use to do that.”
The words slipped out one night without much planning.
Ilya didn’t look up. “Do what?”
“That.” Shane gestured vaguely at the phone. “Play games before bed.”
Tap. Tap. Pause.
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did” Ilya insisted.
“You definitely didn’t” Shane said. “Not when we first started… you know.”
Ilya finally glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Started what? Having sex?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “You know what I meant.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Ilya said, grinning up at Shane.
“Then answer the question.”
Ilya considered him for a moment, then turned off his phone and let it fall forward on his chest.
“Back then” he said, “I wanted to spend every second I could with you.”
The simplicity of the answer caught Shane off guard.
“Oh” he said.
Ilya shrugged one shoulder. “Now I see you all the time.”
“That’s your explanation?” Shane asked.
“Yes.”
“You traded me for Block Blast.”
“I did not trade you” Ilya said, offended. “You are still here. Block Blast is also here. You coexist.”
Shane laughed. “Wow. Romantic.”
“I am very romantic” Ilya said, deadpan.
Shane nudged him with his foot. “So you’re saying I’m less interesting now?”
“I am saying” Ilya replied, picking his phone back up, “that I no longer feel like I am running out of time with you.”
That explanation landed differently.
Shane didn’t say anything for a moment.
Ilya resumed playing, the soft tapping filling the otherwise empty space again.
“…Okay” Shane said finally, quieter.
Ilya glanced at him again, just briefly. “You are still my favorite thing.”
“Better be.”
“Even better than Block Blast” Ilya added, as if that needed clarification.
“Wow” Shane scoffed. “High bar.”
“It is” Ilya agreed seriously.
Shane huffed out a laugh and went back to his book.
There was another thing Shane noticed. Ilya’s phone battery was always dying. Not occasionally. Not “oops, I forgot once.” Always.
Shane, on the other hand, had a system. Phone charged overnight. Headphones charged every other night. Tablet, on the rare occasions he used it, plugged in before bed.
His electronics were always reliably charged to the fullest when he got out of bed in the morning.
Ilya?
Chaos.
Sometimes his phone would be at 12% by noon. Sometimes it would just… die.
“Again?” Shane asked one afternoon as they walked out of the arena.
Ilya held up his phone, screen black. “It is tragic.”
“You didn’t charge it?”
“I thought I did.”
“You thought you did.”
“Yes.”
Shane stared at him. “Did you plug it in?”
“I meant to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Ilya slipped the useless phone into his pocket. “I will survive.”
“You’re going to be unbearable.”
“I am always unbearable” Ilya pointed out.
“Fair.”
Still, Shane noticed the difference.
Without his phone, Ilya had nowhere to direct that small, restless energy. His fingers tapped against his thigh. He shifted more, his attention flickered.
It wasn’t a problem. That was the thing.
Ilya never ignored him for the games. Never chose them over something that mattered. If Shane asked him something, Ilya answered immediately. If Shane reached for him, Ilya always responded.
The games weren’t an escape from Shane.
They were an escape from everything else.
And Shane understood that.
Which was exactly why, one evening, he did something a little… ridiculous.
He was sitting on the couch, his book open but forgotten in his lap, while Ilya stood in the kitchen arguing with the microwave.
“It is not difficult,” Ilya muttered. “You heat things up. That is your entire purpose.”
Shane hid a smile and picked up his phone.
He hesitated for about two seconds.
Then he opened the app store.
Block Blast he typed.
The icon popped up immediately, bright, colorful and vaguely addictive-looking.
He downloaded it.
Then, after a moment, he searched for Candy Crush.
Downloaded that too.
And another one he’d seen Ilya play, something with merging tiles and increasingly large numbers.
By the time Ilya returned, victorious with a warmed plate of hot pockets, Shane had a neat little folder on his phone labeled simply: ILYA
“What are you doing?” Ilya asked, dropping onto the couch beside him.
“Nothing.” Shane said, locking his phone.
Ilya narrowed his eyes. “Suspicious.”
“You’re suspicious.”
“I am always suspicious,” Ilya agreed, dramatically biting into one of the pockets that he so generously called “actual food”.
Shane bumped his shoulder lightly. “Exactly.”
He didn’t explain. Not yet at least.
Training the next week was brutal.
Not because anything was particularly wrong. There weren't any fights, no major conflicts or injuries, but it still somehow felt wrong.
Timing was slightly off. Passes missed by inches. Communication just a fraction too slow.
It added up.
And as captain, Ilya felt all of it.
Shane could see it building.
The clipped responses. The sharper edge to his voice during drills. The way he skated harder, faster, like he could force everything into alignment through sheer willingness.
By the time they broke for a mid-session rest, Ilya was wound tight.
Shane leaned against the boards, catching his breath, and watched him.
Ilya wasn’t sitting like most of the others. He was pacing.
Back and forth along the bench. One hand tugging at his glove, then dropping it. His foot tapped when he stopped moving. His gaze drifted, not focused on anything, just… somewhere.
And his phone?
Nowhere in sight.
Shane didn’t need to check to know why.
Dead battery.
Of course.
He hesitated for half a second.
Then he pushed himself off the boards and walked over.
“Ilya.”
No response.
“Ilya.”
A little louder this time.
Ilya blinked, like he was snapping back into the present. “What?”
Shane held out his phone.
Ilya frowned. “Why?”
“Just take it.”
“I do not want your phone.”
“Take it” Shane repeated, more firmly.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Ilya took it, clearly confused.
“What am I supposed to—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Shane watched as his expression shifted.
Confusion turned to recognition.
On the screen was the folder that was called : ILYA
Inside it: Block Blast. Candy Crush. The tile game.
All neatly arranged, in alphabetical order to be exact. A habit that Shane had when he organised things in folders.
Ilya looked up.
“Why do you have these?” he asked.
“You play them.” Shane said simply.
“Yes. On my phone.”
“Your phone is dead.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“Yeah” Shane said. “So now you’ve got backup.”
Ilya stared at him for a second longer.
“You downloaded these… for me?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t play them.”
“Nope.”
“So they are just… there?”
“For you” Shane said.
There was another pause.
Then Ilya looked back at the screen.
He opened Block Blast.
Shane watched the tension in his shoulders ease, just slightly, as the familiar colors filled the display.
A small, almost imperceptible exhale.
Tap. Swipe.
It was subtle.
But it was there.
“Thank you” Ilya said quietly, not above a whisper and without looking up.
Shane shrugged. “No big deal.”
“It is a big deal.” Ilya said, still focused on the game.
Shane didn’t argue.
A few feet away, someone let out a quiet chuckle.
“Man… I knew it.”
Shane glanced over to see Troy leaning casually against the boards, shaking his head with a grin that was all amusement and zero bite.
“Troy.” Shane said.
“Ilya Rozanov” Troy went on, like he was making a formal announcement, “Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs… and also apparently an iPad kid.”
A couple of the guys nearby snorted.
Ilya didn’t look up right away, still focused on the screen.
“You should probably set screen time limits for him, Shane.” Troy added, nudging one of the other players. “Like, what do kids get? Thirty minutes before bed?”
Shane huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll put parental controls on it.”
“Good” Troy said. “Gotta protect his developing brain.”
That got Ilya’s attention.
He lifted his head just enough to fix Troy with a flat look and then flipped him off, completely without heat.
“And this” Ilya said coolly, “is why you suck at Block Blast, Barrett.”
Troy broke into a grin immediately. “Oh, here we go again.”
“You do.” Ilya continued, glancing back at the screen as his fingers kept moving. “No patience. No discipline.”
“It’s literally putting down blocks!” Troy said, laughing.
“It is strategy.” Ilya shot back.
“Sure, man. Real high-level stuff.”
Ilya scoffed. “You panic. You waste moves.”
“I do not panic.”
“You always panic.”
“Okay, first of all-” Troy pushed off the boards and walked a step closer, clearly entertained now, “-I don’t even play that much.”
“Because you are bad.” Ilya said.
“That is not why.”
“It is exactly why.”
Shane watched the exchange, biting back a smile as he leaned against the boards.
Troy pointed at the phone. “What high score do you even have, huh?”
Ilya looked up at him “On my phone? 159,873”
Troy blinked. “Okay, that’s… actually kind of insane…you even know the number?”
“I know and yes I do.” Ilya said, completely serious.
“Alright, maybe I do suck,” Troy admitted with a laugh. “But at least I’m not pacing the bench because my screen time got cut off.”
“I was not pacing because of the game.” Ilya said.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I was pacing because all of you are incompetent” Ilya added.
“That feels more accurate.” Shane said.
“Rude!!” Troy said, though he was still smiling. Then, to Shane: “You’re really out here carrying backup games for him, though? That’s commitment.”
Shane shrugged. “He gets twitchy.”
“I do not get twitchy.” Ilya said.
Troy raised his eyebrows. “You were one dead battery away from chewing through your gloves, man.”
“That is a lie.”
“It’s a little true…” Shane said.
Ilya looked between them, unimpressed. Then he went back to his game.
“Unbelievable.” Troy said fondly, shaking his head. “Our captain, everybody.”
“Jealous” Ilya muttered.
“Of your screen time? Absolutely.”
A couple of the guys laughed again, and Troy clapped Shane lightly on the shoulder before heading back toward the bench.
“Don’t forget bedtime is at eight!” he tossed over his shoulder. “Gotta keep him well-rested.”
“I will ignore you” Ilya called after him.
“You already are!” Troy shot back.
Ilya didn’t respond, but there was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he kept playing.
That night, back at their house, the routine resumed. Dinner. Dishes. Let Anya out one last time. Quiet. Shane settled into bed with his book, Ilya lay beside him, phone in hand.
Tap. Swipe. Tap.
After a few minutes, Ilya spoke.
“You saved my day.”
Shane didn’t look up. “Bit dramatic.”
“It is not dramatic,” Ilya said. “I was going to kill Troy for messing up all those shots.”
“Tempting.” Shane admitted.
“But now he lives” Ilya said. “Because of you.”
“Wow. Hero.”
“Yes.”
Shane smiled at his book.
There was a pause.
Then, softer:
“I like that you think about me when I am not there.”
Shane glanced over. Ilya was still looking at his phone, but his voice had quieted down enough for Shane to notice.
“I always think about you” Shane said.
“I know” Ilya replied. “But this is different.”
“How?”
“You saw something I needed before I said it.”
Shane considered that.
“…Yeah” he said. “I guess.”
Ilya turned his head then, meeting his eyes.
“You are very good at that.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Shane said lightly.
“I am already used to it.”
Shane huffed a quiet laugh and went back to his book.
Later, when the lights were off and the room had settled into that soft, familiar quiet, Shane felt Ilya shift closer.
The phone was gone now.
Set aside.
Ilya’s arm slid around his waist, pulling him in.
“Hey.” Shane murmured.
“Hey.”
No game. No distractions.
Just this.
Shane leaned back into him, closing his eyes. Maybe things had changed, maybe they’d settled into something different than those early, frantic, meeting in hotel rooms.
But this? This felt just as good.
Better, even.
Because now, they had time.
And apparently…
They also had Block Blast.