Chapter Text
" ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ "; ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ ";
" ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ ";>
" ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ ";
" ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ "; < " ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ "; " ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ ";
" ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦ ";
" ១ ﹆ ໑ . ១ ✲ * ⭒ ✲ ୭ ໑ ✭ ✧ ★ ˙ ✦ ˳ ⁺ ★ ୭ ✦ ⭒ ༶ ° ◌ ✵ ⬨ ໑ ˖ ˖ ✭ ・ ༄ + * ˖ * ໑ ❅ ✯ ୭ ✫ ७ ⊹ ⁂ ๑ ༄ ໑ ๑ . ✰ ⬨ ◈ ✲ ★ ✰ ୭ ୭ ୭ ໑ * ࿔ ✦ ७ ១ ☆ ༄ ✲ ⸝ ༄ ໑ ﹆ ◌ ꙳ ﹅ ◈ ⬨ ७ ⁂ ⬨ * ⊹ ✧ ˙ ﹅ ࿔ ✲ ° ✦ ✫ ༄ ❅ ✫ ✬ . ១ ✧ ७ ୭ ◌ + ◞ ⬨ ⁂ ⁺ * ◈ ១ ☆ ๑ ◌ ⁺ ✲ ༄ ✵ ˖ ࿔ ७ ✲ ° ✰ ࿔ ❅ ・ ☆ ˚ ✯ ७ ⋆ * ⬩ + ୭ ° ﹅ ﹆ ° ★ * ✶ ˳ ༄ ๑ ໑ ⬪ + ୭ ✰ ໑ ◌ ✫ ୭ ☆ ࿔ ⬪ * ༶ ˚ + ✲ ๑ ១ * ✶ ⁺ + ༶ ⁺ ១ ✭ ✦ ࿔ ༄ ១ * ⸝ ✰ ⁺ ୭ ⬩ ✲ ★ ༶ ✶ ✦ 𓈒 ₊ ˚ ◌ ✮ ˖ ୭ ✰ ⬩ ७ ✵ ☆ ✶ ⭒ ✯ ❅ ˖ ◞ ७ ७ . ✫ ✰ ˖ ✦
To the players
Winter Media Retreat
League Operations
<[email protected]>;
to me
Dear Participants,
The blizzard has grounded all flights. Please remain at your current shelter until the roads are cleared.
Winter Media Retreat
League Operations
<[email protected]>;
to me
Dear Participants,
The blizzard has grounded all flights. Please remain at your current shelter until the roads are cleared.
"I’m telling you, the lady at the desk looked like she was about to cry when I asked about a shuttle," Hayden muttered, picking at a loose thread on his team hoodie. He looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from the flight they never took. "There’s nothing, Shane. Not even a minivan."
Shane didn't look at Hayden. He was looking across the row of plastic bucket seats at Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya was peeling a label off a half-empty bottle of Gatorade with painful slowness. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes—which he had—and he was currently ignoring his own teammates, Connor and Marlow, who were arguing over a deck of cards. Ilya’s hair was a mess, sticking up at the back where he’d leaned against the terminal wall, and for some reason, that specific detail made Shane want to drag him into the nearest bathroom stall.
"We’re not staying here," Shane said. His voice was scratchy, stripped of its usual post-game polish. "My truck is in the long-term lot. It’s got the clearance for the back roads."
"And go where?" JJ asked, looking up from his phone. "The highway’s a parking lot."
"My place. It’s twenty minutes away if we take the logging roads," Shane said.
He wasn't talking about his parents’ house—that was ten minutes further into town, and besides, Yuna and David were currently halfway across the world on the vacation Shane had bought them. He was talking about the cottage. It was usually his and Ilya's only sanctuary where they could be themselves, tucked so far into the trees that the rest of the world ceased to exist once the door clicked shut.
A cold sense of anxiety hit him. He ran a frantic mental inventory of the rooms. They had the cleaner in last week, so there were no stray photos, no lingering scents, and no physical proof of the nights they’d spent there together. The only danger was the wardrobe—the shared clothes, the hoodies that didn't belong to Shane, the Russian labels tucked away in the back. As long as he kept the bedroom door locked and his teammates out of his closet, they’d be fine. They just had to be careful.
"You have... cabin?" Ilya’s voice was low, the Russian vowels thick and heavy from lack of sleep. "Of course you do. I bet is full of trophies and very organized spice racks." He let out a sharp, breathy sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Is perfect place for you, Hollander. So much money, but you still live in small, boring box."
"It's a cottage, Rozanov. And it has a generator that works," Shane snapped. He turned to the group, lowering his voice. "Look, the Bears management and ours already cleared it. If I'm taking the 4x4, I have to take their lead guys too. Insurance reasons. Competitive equity. Whatever. The email says 'remain at shelter,' and I'm making my cottage the shelter".
"You have to be kidding me," Hayden said, his voice dropping an octave. "We’re going to be roommates with them? Him?"
"Unless you want to sleep on this carpet, Hayden. It smells like feet".
The walk to the parking lot was a brutal, Shane led the way, his head down, while Ilya trailed at the back with a calculated, lazy slouch.
When they reached the SUV, Shane claimed the wheel—it was his truck and his "shelter". Ilya moved before Hayden could even reach for the handle, climbing into the front seat. "I will sit here," Ilya announced, his voice thick and mocking. "Hollander drives like old woman. Someone must watch him".
The drive was a suffocating; the only sounds were the tires thrumming on ice and the frantic scrape of the wipers. Ilya sat inches away, his arm resting on the centre console, close enough that Shane could feel the heat radiating from him in the dark. When Shane’s phone flickered in the cup holder, the faint green glow caught the edge of Ilya’s smirk, but Shane didn't dare look.
When they finally pulled up to the cottage, the headlights swept across a structure. It was a sprawling, ultra-modern house of black steel, warm cedar, and massive panes of glass that reflected the swirling snow.
"Holy shit," Marlow muttered from the back, leaning over the seat to get a better look at the dark, glass-and-wood facade. "Hollander, what the fuck is this? You said it was a cottage, not a Bond villain’s lair."
"It's just a house, Marlow," Shane snapped, though his heart was still hammering against his ribs.
"You saw this on TV, right?" Hayden asked, glancing at Marlow with a tired, protective edge. "He did a whole architectural digest thing a few years back."
Marlow rolled his eyes, dragging his gear out as the doors clicked open. "No, Pike. Watching Hollander documentaries is not my favourite passing time. Shocker, I know."
"Shitheads," JJ muttered beside Shane, who dutifully ignored everything and focused on unlocking his home.
Inside, Shane flipped the breakers, and the space flooded with soft, recessed lighting that illuminated the high-end minimalist kitchen and designer furniture. It felt calming to Shane, but the feeling was short-lived; as the others stomped snow onto the slate floors, it felt like an invasion. Shane’s mind raced through a mental inventory, desperate to ensure no evidence of their private life—specifically anything in the shared wardrobe—remained in sight.
"Nobody touches anything," Shane said, his voice raw as he pointed toward the sleeping quarters. "Hayden, JJ—bunk room. Connor, Marlow—end of the hall. Stay out of each other's way".
"And me?" Ilya asked, leaning against the marble kitchen island.
"The sofa," Shane snapped, pointing to the deep, designer sectional in the living room. "I'm taking the loft. It's my house".
Ilya rolled his eyes, dragging his bag toward the living room with a heavy thud. "Yes. The….uh what you say? martyr. Very sweet, Hollander".
Shane retreated up the stairs to the loft, his pulse thudding in his ears as he climbed away from the group. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to turn back, to ignore the four other guys in the house, and to just bury himself in the solid, familiar heat of Ilya’s presence. He wanted to press his face into the crook of Ilya’s neck and let the rest of the world just fade out.
Instead, he forced himself into the loft and waited until he heard the doors down the hall click shut and the muffled sounds of his teammates finally settling in. Only then did he let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the airport.
To my always-serious one, who melts only for me.
update : emergency meeting in the trophy room
Lily
<[email protected]>
to me
This sofa is trash, Shurochka. Too soft.
Your loft is better. I will wait until your little bodyguards sleep, then I am coming up to find you.
Relax. I know you are tense. We will be fine.
update : emergency meeting in the trophy room
Lily
<[email protected]>
to me
This sofa is trash, Shurochka. Too soft.
Your loft is better. I will wait until your little bodyguards sleep, then I am coming up to find you.
Relax. I know you are tense. We will be fine.