Archive of Our Own

Growing up, his teammates had joked that the only thing Shane loved in life was hockey. So it made sense that when Shane eventually fell in love, he found the feeling was not dissimilar to the adrenaline of a sudden-death overtime. Or the danger of a particularly sharp turn, combined with the satisfaction of listening to the corresponding crunch against the cold surface. Or the lonely serenity of being the only skater on the ice in an empty arena packed to the brim with the potential of what could happen and who could witness it. That is to say, it felt like flying.

And now, as Shane flew down the ice, carrying the puck back and forth with his stick, he found himself enjoying his own breathlessness. He felt his stomach jolt and his hands grow clammy with the excitement of the breakaway. The rink seemed to fade away as he got closer and closer to Toronto’s goalie. He did not see the crowd start to stand, sensing the impending goal. He did not see Montreal’s bench lean further over the boards, praying for the win that would clinch their spot in the cup finals and already imagining the glory of securing another title. 

He did not see Todd Masterson.

Todd saw him, though.

Saw the open ice behind him. Saw the goalie out of position. Saw, with sudden nauseating clarity, that Shane Hollander was about to end his season.

Later, people would call it violence. They would call it jealousy, recklessness, attempted murder. But in the moment, Todd was only thinking about his brothers in the stands wearing his jersey. About all the blood and sweat he had put into the pursuit of his childhood dream. About winning. About how Shane was faster than him.

Todd reached.

Shane felt his right leg lurch backward as Todd's stick shot out for the puck and instead hooked into his skate. Shane gasped as he felt his body fall to the ground gracelessly. Too quickly, his face met the cold ice beneath him. The pressure pulling him backward released as Todd let go of his stick, allowing the momentum propelling Shane towards the goal to take over. It took only two seconds for Shane to crash into the boards, but to Shane, those seconds seemed to stretch into something more. Shane felt the grooves in the ice scrape across his face as his body twisted forward, carrying with it the memory of the game they had been playing. Each line and divot acted like the ridges in a vinyl record, playing a kind of music. He saw flashes of a perfect game. A game-winning goal. A candle, for some reason. A tap on the helmet from Hayden. A flash of blonde curls, disappearing around a corner. 

What felt like the end of the world to many only made a small thud. Shane felt a sharp pain in his head and neck as his helmet became the first thing to reach the end of the rink, and then it seemed like his body was screaming. It was all wrong. Wrong. Shane tried to push his eyes open and was met with a confused blur. He closed his eyes once more and listened. Listened to the roar of the crowd demanding retribution that slowly quieted into stunned silence. Listened to the referee's whistle bringing play to a halt. Listened to angry shouts and the slap of gloves hitting the ground. Listened to hurried footsteps rushing toward him.

Someone was calling his name. Ilya? No, Ilya wasn’t here, he was…he was…

Well, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure.

“Shane. Shane!” Shane frowned. He couldn’t feel his fingers. “Shane, can you hear me?”

Shane tried to open his mouth to respond but found that he couldn’t, not even to cry out in pain. And he was in a lot of pain. Where was his mom? His mom would help patch him up; she always did. He could remember her so vividly, standing anxiously on the sidelines of every game, a purse stuffed with Band-Aids and a phone filled with texts from agents and teams who were beginning to see potential in her young son. Sometimes he wondered if this was the life she had dreamed for him when she had bought him his first pair of skates. Had she dreamed this when she held his hand as he stumbled across the ice for the first time? Had his dad when he taught him how to tape his first stick?

“Moy malchik,” he heard a woman say.

“Shane! Shane, please wake up. Shane!” Someone was screaming. They were sobbing. Hayden? Why was Hayden crying?

“Shane, stay with us, okay, can you do that?”

“Come on, Hollander.”

“No, Shane—!

“Shane, no, no—!”

“SHANE!”

“Shane.” Shane gasped and jolted up, looking at the woman kneeling beside him. She was beautiful. Her long golden hair drifted in waves in what appeared to be a light breeze that he couldn’t seem to feel. Her eyes gazed at him sadly. 

He sat up, glancing around, but every image of the world around him seemed to glimmer in and out of existence. Too vivid and yet not vivid enough. Shane frowned in confusion and turned back to the woman who now reached out to run her hand along the side of his face, thumb grazing against the freckles that were scattered across his cheek. It was a gesture that so reminded him of Ilya.

Ilya.

Shane’s eyes widened with a newfound sense of urgency. Ilya. Why hadn’t he thought of him before? Shane had gotten hurt…he thought. Although he didn’t feel any pain anymore. But Ilya would have seen. He had promised Shane that he would be watching. He had to know Shane was okay.

“Do you know Ilya Rozanov?” Shane asked the woman quickly. 

He winced. 

Oh, right, this was a secret. Rivals probably didn’t ask strangers about each other. 

But Shane loved him, so he had to ask.

Oh. 

Shane loved Ilya. 

The simplicity of that thought hit Shane as it had never done before. Before? Well, before, the thought felt like something shameful and secret. Something Shane hid in sock drawers and under mattresses and hotel room keys. But now, it seemed like the easiest thing in the world. As if the world he was currently in existed because of rather than in spite of that love. 

The woman chuckled a bit before nodding.

“Yes. I know him very well, darling,” the woman replied with a slight twinkle in her eye. As if she knew a joke that Shane didn’t, but Shane didn’t feel laughed at. 

“You need to call him. It’s very important.” Shane stated seriously.

“What is?”

“What is what?”

“What is very important?”

“Oh…” Shane thought about it. He wasn’t quite sure. Ah. Yes. He was hurt. “He needs to know I’m okay. He’s going to worry.”

“Yes, he is very worried.”

“Oh.” Shane frowned, looking down at his fingers, pressing them together one by one. He couldn’t remember why he had been worried about them earlier.

“Do you think…” Shane stammered off shyly. He felt himself blush as he glanced back up at the woman. “Do you think he’s going to come see me?”

The woman’s hand moved up to touch the edge of his hair. “Yes, darling, I imagine he will.”

A grin slowly spread onto Shane’s face. “Oh well…well then he will need the code to the front door. I haven’t given it to him yet. I don’t know why. I love him so much, so I—” Shane cut himself off with a horrified look. But the woman only laughed at his startled face.

“Yes, moy malchik, I know. He loves you, too. Very, very much,” the woman said, simply looking amused.

“Oh.” Shane was blushing again. “Well…can you tell him to wait for me when he gets here? He can let himself in, but could he wait for me? I want to see him.”

The wide smile slowly drifted from the woman’s face, settling into something softer and sadder. “Yes, I’m sure he will wait for you. I hope he’ll wait for you for a very long time.”

Shane nodded. “Yes, that’s good. I wouldn’t want to miss him. Do you think he’ll be able to find us?”

The woman stared at him seriously. “Ilyusha will always be able to find us. As long as we are with him.”

Suddenly, a noise sounded in the distance. It sounded like a goal buzzer going off for too long. The woman stood to her feet and reached out her hand toward Shane, who promptly took it.

“Where are we going?” asked Shane, rising to his feet.

“Well, that depends. But I think we have a game to get to.”

“Oh. But I just played a game.”

The woman smiled. “Ah, yes. But there’s always another game to play.”

Somewhere far away, a buzzer continued to sound.

* * * * *

The Montreal Metros were going to win another cup, Ilya thought bitterly as he watched Miitka save another desperate shot. This wasn’t the finals, but Montreal could beat the Western Conference if they won against Toronto. The score was tied now, but with three impossibly easy wins under their belt, Ilya had no doubt that they would somehow manage to nab a fourth. Fucking Metros. Fucking Shane Hollander.

Shane, who looked every part of his god-like persona, was flying down the ice with more speed than anyone should be able to maintain in overtime. Ilya sipped the last bit of his beer and admired the way Shane was able to push the blade of one skate all the way to the edge before stepping onto the other, carving his way through player after player.

The Raiders, who had lost their playoff round against the Metros the week before, were now gathered in Ilya’s living room to watch the game along with an assortment of WAGs and friends. While a number of people were conversing and drinking in various adjacent rooms, most, like Svetlana, whose hands were clenched in tight fists at the hem of her shorts, and St. Simone, who was mumbling (chanting?) long lines of French under his breath, were fixated on the TV. 

Pulling his phone out from his pocket, Ilya shot a quick text off to Shane.

This is very rude of you Hollander. I have a lot of money on Toronto.

Ilya had sent Shane a number of texts throughout the game. Normally, Shane refused to respond to texts while he was playing, but Ilya’s last text was met with a short “Asshole” during intermission. Ilya smiled faintly, looking back at it now. 

Shoving his phone away, Ilya reached for another chip on the table and dipped it in the salsa, glancing back up at the TV. As he watched Kent swipe the puck away from Pike, he spilled a bit of the salsa on his shirt, right below the small Raiders logo on the right side of his chest. Ilya swore quietly and stood from the couch to make his way to the kitchen before the red seeped further into the threads, staining it permanently. 

Grabbing a towel, Ilya turned on the sink, wet the end, and started to dab at the shirt. The red stain only seemed to bleed further. Ilya sighed, dropping the towel. This was his favorite shirt, too.

From the other room, he heard a rush of gasps. One of the women let out a short yell. 

“Oh my god, that looked bad.”

“Jesus, that might have knocked him out.”

“Oh god—”

Ilya felt himself freeze. The whole world seemed to narrow, and his hands started to shake. His body seemed to know something before his brain did. Trying to brace for whatever came next. Trying to hold on to every second of before until it had to experience the after.

Like when your brother sighs over the phone, and you know he's calling about something worse than overdue payments. Like when you come back from hockey practice to an eerily still house, and you know to check Mama's bedroom before you even hang up your coat or take off your shoes.

Ilya hurried back around the corner into the living room, where everyone was watching the TV with pale, horrified expressions. Svetlana met his eyes. The fear he found there worried him more than anything else. He turned towards the screen. Trainers were hurrying onto the ice towards a player in Metro blue and red.

“What happened?” Ilya asked forcefully.

“Hollander hit the boards hard,” Marleau replied grimly. The room was silent, watching as the medics kneeled next to Hollander. 

“Come on, Shane, get up,” whispered Ilya, slowly moving closer to the TV. He still wasn’t moving. He watched as more medics were called, and the camera started to pan around. Todd was standing a few feet away, stick hanging loosely in his hand. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose where Boiziau had punched him, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes remained fixed on the scene before him. A woman in the crowd had her hand over her mouth, and her wide eyes kept darting to her friend beside her. The Metros' bench was all standing up, trying to catch a twitch of movement from their captain. 

“You hate to see a player go down this hard during play-offs. Especially for a player like Hollander,” stated the announcer as the screen began to replay the hit. Ilya let out a small whimper as he watched Shane’s head get sharply pushed backward by the collision. 

The camera panned back to the medical group, who were now stabilizing Shane’s neck. More medics rushed on. Why were there so many medics? 

All of a sudden, there was a sharp shift on the screen. The announcers' babbling fell into stark silence as one of the medical staff members yelled something to someone on the sideline and began performing compressions. Shane’s body jolted softly with the movement, one of his arms falling to the side stiffly, seemingly reaching out to the stick that lay a couple of feet away from him. Somewhere, Yuna Hollander had been let onto the ice and was now running toward Shane faster than should have been possible on slick ice. She fell to her knees beside him, sliding the last few feet across the ice. David Hollander was not far behind her.

“No Shane—no you—Svetlana, why are they—” Ilya turned to Svetlana desperately. Tears were starting to well in his eyes. He could feel the eyes of his teammates turning to him in confusion. Who was Shane Hollander to him?

Ilya gasped for breath, wildly gesturing at the screen. Didn’t they understand?

“Svetlana, why are there so many people out? Why are they pressing on his chest?”

Tears began to fall from Svetlana’s eyes as she stared back at him with so much fucking empathy. She needed to stop looking at him like that. Like he’d lost everything. His everything was still here.

“Ilya—” she began.

“No, don’t— Pizdets!” The broadcast stopped showing the replay and instead cut between the audience, the commentators, and other players, avoiding the actual scene on the ice. It was when they cut back to Hayden Pike that Ilya started crying in earnest. Hayden had broken off from his fellow teammates and was now kneeling on the ice. Though it could not be heard through the speakers, it was clear that Pike was yelling his friend's name. Begging his friend to hear him

Ilya began pleading in Russian, English abandoning him entirely.

“Please, Shane— please. I can’t do this without you. Please don’t die. Please, I—I can’t.”

A few hands tried to reach him. Tried to pull him back into focus. But Ilya refused to remove his attention from the screen, hoping to catch a few glimpses of Shane. 

Why couldn’t they put the fucking camera back? 

What were they trying to hide from him?

“Please, Mama. Please don’t take him. Please, I need him here. Mama—”

“Jesus, Roz, I get it’s sad, but you’re acting like you were in love with the guy,” Sebbin muttered from behind him. 

"Shane," Ilya could only cry desperately.

Svetlana froze.

Beneath the thick Russian accent and through his gasping breaths, ‘Shane’ sounded an awful lot like—

"Jane," Svetlana whispered.

Her eyes widened.

"Shane is Jane."

The room froze. They all knew Montreal Jane. All had teased Ilya for his repeated texting and faint blushes. All had publicly speculated on the identity of the impossible girl who had locked down Playboy Roz. All had privately considered the longing eyes and gentle smile of their usually cavalier captain. Understanding spread slowly and horribly across the room.

“Everybody. Out.” Svetlana said seriously. Nobody moved, eyes darting around the room at each other. “I’m not kidding. Every single person gets out of this house now. You will not speak to anyone about this. But you will get out. Now.” 

“But, Roz—”

“OUT.”

Hockey players and partners alike slowly started shuffling towards the door, glancing back briefly at Ilya as they walked out of the house, leaving Marleau, Svetlana, and Ilya, who had slowly sunk to his knees, crying heavily and rocking back and forth.

“Marleau—” Svetlana began strictly.

“Lana, I can’t go, and you know it. He’s my brother. I won’t leave him,” Marleau replied softly. 

Svetlana sighed. “Okay.”

Both of them knelt next to Ilya and placed their hands on his back. Svetlana began to run her fingers through Ilya’s hair. He glanced up at her with pleading eyes.

“Svet, please. I—I love him so much, and,” Ilya hiccuped. “And I never got to tell him, I—never told him. I can’t lose him. I—oh god,” Ilya buried his face back in his hands before looking upwards again, bargaining with the only person he knew to pray to.

“Mama, pozhaluysta. Ya tak sil'no yego lyublyu. Pozhaluysta, ne zabiray yego. Pozhaluysta, ne—”

The broadcast had cut back to the commentators, who were speaking in solemn voices. They weren’t showing the arena footage anymore. Shane had been wheeled off while they continued compressions. The commentators were saying something, but Ilya’s brain was too jumbled to make sense of the English. He desperately scanned their lips, trying to make sense of what they were saying. 

Ilya gripped his arm hard, leaving little half-moon marks, relishing in the pain it gave him. Was Shane in the ambulance now? Was he at the hospital? Shane didn’t like hospitals. He always said they had a weird smell.

The TV continued to report only vague details of what had happened, and Ilya continued to rock back and forth, eyes not leaving the screen. They went to commercial, and Ilya took the remote from the coffee table and flung it at the screen, leaving a crack that rendered the right corner completely useless. 

“Ilyusha—” Svetlana said softly.

“I don’t care,” Ilya interrupted roughly. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. Not until he knew Shane was okay. 

Marleau stood from his position next to Ilya and began to busy himself by gathering up the remnants of the party around them. Svetlana continued to sit next to Ilya, keeping one hand on him while the other hand slowly lost one manicured nail after another as she nervously bit them off one by one. 

They moved in silence for what seemed like hours. Ilya knew Svetlana and Marleau had questions, but thankfully they kept them to themselves. Ilya didn’t know if he could talk about Shane right now. Didn’t know how to tell them about the stolen kisses in quiet hotel rooms. About drawing the curtains closed and crowding around the peephole, waiting for teammates to pass. About a racing heartbeat they once blamed on the danger of getting caught, only to realize it came from a different danger entirely.

After a while of sitting, the TV droning on uselessly in the background, Ilya pulled out his phone and began carefully refreshing Twitter. His heart sunk further and further, sure that every new post would be the one he dreaded. Ilya had never sat in the waiting room of a hospital, like the one he knew Yuna and David would be in right now. He had never paced back and forth, sure that every doctor wearing a solemn expression would finally be the one to approach him. But as he swiped down on the page every three seconds, he imagined it would feel a lot like this.

“The Montreal Metros are devastated to share that Shane Hollander has passed away…”

And here was his doctor.

Ilya stared at the screen. 

The words blurred. He felt his heart claw at his throat. 

He stared. 

And then he screamed.

For years, Ilya had imagined what it would be like to lose Shane. Imagined the moment when Shane would tell him that it was all too much. That hotel sheets and fake names and chirps on the ice were too much and yet not enough. Imagined Shane finding someone else. Someone better. Someone softer. 

He had never imagined this.

And so Ilya sobbed in a way he hadn’t since his mother died. 

Marleau dropped the glass he was carrying, and it shattered, sprawling across the wood floor. He rushed over to join Ilya and Svetlana still on the floor, both of them holding him tightly as Ilya leaned forward, away from them, crying loudly. They held him like they were trying to hold all of the broken pieces of him together. But they couldn’t. Ilya was scattered across the floor beside Marleau’s broken glass.

This is what dying felt like, Ilya was sure of it. To so suddenly hate the world and everything in it. He hated the digital clock on Marleau’s wrist that changed to the next minute. He hated the sound of Svetlana’s breathing echoing next to him as her face pressed further into the back of his neck.

He pushed the two of them away and stood quickly, pacing around the room, his eyes wide like a caged animal. He shoved their reaching arms away and made his way into the kitchen where the bottles of beer stood still, waiting to be opened by a crowded, happy room. He took one of the bottles and stared at it. He threw it across the room, watching it shatter on a cabinet, auburn liquid dripping down the grey paint. 

“Ilya, stop!” Marleau cried, grabbing the arm that reached for another bottle. He had never called Ilya by his first name. He used his other hand to take another bottle. Marleau let go of his hand to cover his face while Ilya let the spray of sticky liquid cover his own. 

Svetlana was screaming at him. He could hear the yells echo off of the white marble countertops. It was a wretched sound. He turned to her to tell her to shut up, but he found her crying silently in the corner of the room, watching Ilya Rozanov fall apart. Ah. She wasn’t screaming; he was. 

“Ilyusha, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head. All of the fight slowly left his body, and the grief that had been holding him up now dragged him to the floor, where he crouched, holding onto a drawer handle for support, his other hand coming up to cover his eyes as he sobbed.

Svetlana warily crouched in front of him. She wasn’t sure if Ilya would get through this. Ilya wasn’t sure either. Marleau silently left the room, staring blankly ahead, his eyes vacant of the spark of mischief they usually contained, replaced by tears that he brusquely wiped away. 

“No. No, no, no…” Ilya cried. It couldn’t be true. This couldn’t be it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wished he had never even known him. He wished he had known him so much better.

“He can’t be gone, he just can’t,” Ilya bemoaned, looking at Svetlana pleadingly, begging her to fix it for him. Begging her to hide him away like they had done as kids, crouching under bed frames as Ilya’s father had yelled at them from somewhere else in the house. 

“I did not—” he gasped, “I did not get to tell him. He cannot leave me here. I never got to say he was mine. ”

He inhaled sharply, choking on the thick saliva that coated the inside of his mouth.

“Shane…my Shane…” Ilya sobbed, barely able to form words in between his desperate moans.

“I know, Ilya. I…I know,” Svetlana said quietly.

No, he thought.

She didn’t.

* * * * *

The room reeked of cigarettes and stale tears. Ilya lay in his dark room, tucked carelessly beneath the duvet, pulled so high up that only his curls poked out of the top. Svetlana and Marleau came to check on him every day, but became quieter with each visit. Ilya guessed that Svetlana had moved temporarily into the guest room with the frequency of her visits, but he didn’t bother to check or to try to listen for any movement outside his own room. A small shrine of Tupperware containers was beginning to pile on his nightstand. Most still had not been touched. Svetlana would probably come later to take the containers away with a disapproving look. You have to get up at some point, Ilya, she would say sternly. He disagreed. He was perfectly content to slowly melt into the creases of his mattress.

Svetlana had tried to sit with him for a while yesterday.

“Do you want to tell me about him?” Svetlana had asked softly.

Ilya had paused before shaking his head. He didn’t want to tell her about him. Didn’t want to tell anyone. He felt like, as soon as he did, Shane would leak out of his body, memories becoming diluted as they filtered into more minds than just his own. Shane still lived inside Ilya. Ilya could feel Shane grazing his fingers slowly across each tendon, each bone. He didn’t want Svetlana to have him.

So he had turned away from her, shifting his position for the first time in hours to look away from her, pushing the blanket back up over his head. She hadn’t tried to lie with him since.

There was a long thread sticking out from the pillow next to him. The one Shane had used when he was here, his brain added unhelpfully. He twisted the thread around his finger once, then twice, pulling it a little harder and watching as the tip of his finger turned white. He unwound. He repeated. He tried his best not to think. When he did, he found that his mind kept betraying him, leading him down pathways that led only to scattered freckles and brown eyes.  To ‘asshole’s and ‘fuck you’s. 

Shane had died three days ago. Ilya masochistically kept scrolling through Twitter, looking at all the copied-and-pasted messages from various players and organizations. Thoughts and fucking prayers. Ilya did not post anything, even though his agent and coaches had all asked him to, because he did not want to use their stupid hashtag or their stupid picture. He had stared at their chosen photo for a while, looking at Shane’s serious face and perfectly placed hair, the “C” on his jersey taking up the focus of the image. The image of Shane in his head was flushed, his hair sticking up awkwardly as he lay in the bed next to Ilya, breathing hard. Ilya would have posted that if he could. But he couldn’t, so he let the internet draw its own conclusions. Let them say that he couldn’t let the rivalry die. That he hated Shane.

And maybe he did hate him.

Right now, he certainly felt like he did.

He saw a post detailing the crowd outside the Bell Center, slowly dispersing after two days of a persistent presence. There were candles, flowers, pictures, and jerseys draped over the metal fencing, and the news articles featured pictures of small children and grown men alike shedding loud tears for their esteemed captain. Ilya barely felt anything looking at it. This was about Shane Hollander, not his Shane. They were grieving the loss of their Stanley Cup-winning hockey player. They were missing hat-tricks and cologne ads and robotic press statements. Ilya was missing the look on Shane’s face when Ilya had gifted him a label maker on their first game back from Christmas. 

He stared intently at the pictured candles, imagining the wax dripping slowly, leaving puddles of white and red that would eventually have to be scraped up from the pavement.

He went to scroll onward, but paused, remembering a different candle.

“Literally shut up,” Shane had groaned. Ilya continued to laugh at him.

“No, it’s so sweet, Hollander, I love it. It’s so romantic of you,” Ilya had giggled, looking up at Shane from under his eyelashes, batting them a little bit. “Are you going to make love to me, Hollander?”

“Oh my god, fuck off. I panicked, okay. Hayden said something about girls and dates, and I panicked.”

“Yes, obviously,” Ilya said, glancing at the lit candle that stood next to a speaker and an expensive bottle of wine. Ilya wondered if his mother had recommended it.

“I just—,” Shane sighed, leaning against the table. “It’s just that Hayden was talking about how he never hooked up before Jackie because he didn’t want girls to feel, like, used and…I don’t know.” Shane put his head in his hands.

Ilya moved closer to Shane and took his hands away from his eyes so that they could see one another.

“Hollander,” Ilya said bluntly. “I do not feel used. And we are using each other. We are both hot. We have great sex. Okay?”

Shane let a deep breath out. “Okay.”

Ilya ran his fingers along Shane’s chin, making Shane shiver. 

“Stop worrying so much, okay?”

“Okay.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered closed as Ilya leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“But, how many candles did you actually buy?”

Shane had shoved him, and Ilya had laughed. 

Ilya felt like he might throw up now. Actually, he was going to throw up. Ilya stood quickly and hurried into the bathroom, stumbling from getting up too quickly on his unused legs. He threw himself over the toilet and emptied what was left in his mostly empty stomach. He clutched at the porcelain edge, sweating and trembling. After a few more dry heaves, Ilya sank onto the tile, feeling the cold seep through his clothes, making him shake even more. 

What the fuck was he doing? Why was he here? He looked around the distant and blank bathroom. There was nothing here. Shane wasn’t here. Shane wasn't in the news articles. Shane wasn't in the flowers. Shane wasn't in the hashtags.

Suddenly, Ilya knew where he had to go. For the first time since Shane had died, he left his room. He worried about running into Svetlana, but she seemed to be out somewhere. A jacket had been flung gracelessly over a chair. He grabbed it and pulled his passport from a drawer. From the array of keys hanging on the wall, he chose a set at random. It didn't matter which one; they were all fast.

I’m coming, Shane, he thought as he got in his car and turned out of his driveway, headed north.

* * * * *

He didn’t know Shane’s door code, he realized as he stood outside of Shane’s apartment in Montreal. Ilya had driven for hours, only stopping once for gas. Well, he had stopped for a stray cat that had darted in front of his car three streets away from Shane’s building, allowing it to cross safely in front of him. It darted away quickly after, its black fur blended into the shadows cast by benches and alleyways. Before disappearing, it paused for a moment and turned to look at the car, its eyes flashing as they reflected the street light. They stared at each other for a while before returning on their respective journeys.

Now he was glaring at the offending keypad, letting his fingers graze over the numbers. He typed in Shane’s birthday. Wrong. He typed “2424”. Wrong.

He groaned in frustration. He was so close. He was not going to be stopped by Hollander’s fucking front door. The same one Ilya had once pressed him into kissing him hard, the groove of the handle leaving a small indent in Shane’s back. Shane had scolded him for that later and for kissing him in the hallway where anyone could see, but Ilya saw the small twitch of Shane’s lip and the satisfying fog that gleamed across Shane’s eyes, so he hadn’t felt particularly scolded.

Maybe he would look up some lock-picking videos. He flipped his phone over in his hands and turned it on. He punched in his phone password and went to open his chat with “Jane” to see if he could find any hints there before disrespecting Shane’s golden-boy apartment by committing a small crime right in front of it, but then he paused. He didn’t want to see their old messages, not now. He closed the phone and stared at it for a little longer. 

No. Shane wouldn’t. Unless…

Ilya slowly lifted his hand to the keypad again and punched in his own phone password. 

1410

The light turned green, and Ilya pushed the door open. 

Ilya felt like he had been hit by a wave that pushed him one step back into the hallway. He was immediately overwhelmed with the Shane of it all. He thought it would feel like the empty apartment that it was. He was surprised and horrified to see how full it felt. His eyes immediately met a pair of Reeboks that Shane had no doubt once again forgotten to wear to the game. Shane never left shoes by the door, so these must be out as an explicit reminder not to forget them. Ilya stepped inside and picked up the shoes. He opened the closet in the entryway and set them carefully on the shoe rack next to all of Shane's other meticulously ordered shoes. He took off his own shoes and set them on the opposing rack. Shane would never forgive him if he tracked dirt through his apartment.

Ilya walked into the kitchen. Shane’s expensive espresso machine sat gleaming in the corner. Shane really didn’t like coffee, but he said it was for his guests. Although he never really had guests. Ilya brewed himself a cup and scanned the rest of the kitchen. He knew that if he opened the fridge, he’d find Shane’s meticulously prepared post-game meal ready to be reheated and a line of ginger ales. He knew that if he opened the drawers, he would find wooden dividers, separating each utensil, knife, and whisk into its proper category. Unlike Ilya’s drawers, which Shane had tried to organize a few times. Sometimes, Ilya liked to throw things in the wrong drawers on purpose just so Shane would always have a reason to come back.

But Ilya didn’t open any of the drawers. Shane wasn’t there. The real Shane was always more than his well-organized and controlled kitchen. Shane had told him so once.

“I am disappointed, Shane,” Ilya had bemoaned, looking around the apartment for the first time. “Where are all the pictures of baby Shane?”

Shane had frowned. “I mean, they’re not here. What, did you think I was just going to have them all laid out on the counter?”

“I hoped you would have big display of all your young hockey pictures. Everything is so clean and organized. I feel I am in hotel.”

“Well,” Shane said, glancing around. “This is just what I like. My designer helped, of course, but…I don’t know, I think it looks nice.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes, it is very nice. Good apartment for good nice hockey boy. Always makes his mama proud.” Ilya shuffled around the kitchen, poking at the blender in the corner before turning back to Shane. 

“I want to see the mess,” Ilya declared.

Shane cocked an eyebrow. “The mess?”

Ilya nodded vigorously. “Yes, I would very much like to see the mess,” he said, sneaking closer to Shane. 

Shane rested his hand on Ilya’s waist, his thumb grazing over Ilya’s hipbone.

“Ah, well. You’ll be hard-pressed to find any. I keep everything very tidy.”

“Everything?” Ilya edged closer, running his hand up Shane’s arm.

“Well. Almost everything. You’ll have to look very hard.”

“Mm—will I?” Ilya said, slowly leaning in, grabbing Shane’s chin. Shane’s lips met his in a soft kiss. Shane hummed into it.

“Better get started,” Shane said, grinning and pulling away. He grabbed Ilya’s hand and led him further into his bedroom.

Later, when Ilya and Shane were lazily lying in bed together with the TV on in the background, Ilya asked, “So am I the mess? I do not fit in your clean, clean apartment.”

Shane was tracing a finger slowly along the freckles on Ilya’s leg that was draped casually over Shane, and stopped to circle just one of them on his knee.

“It’s just an apartment. You fit here,” Shane replied simply.

Ilya hummed and turned back towards the TV. The Admirals were losing. Poor Scott Hunter.

“I think you’d like my cottage,” Shane had remarked.

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“I think I have a box of baby photos under the bed there.”

As it turned out, Shane hid far more than baby photos under beds.

And so Ilya began his search for the candle, opening drawers and peering through shelves, looking at the very back. He finally opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. He tried not to think very much about the fact that he was now in Shane’s bedroom. It was the last room he decided to search. What he found inside the drawer made him laugh. Not only was there the candle, but four more just like it in different scents. He knew Shane had bought more than one candle, that idiot. Shane would never risk making the wrong choice. 

He looked next to the candles and felt his face drop. He brushed through the contents with shaky hands. A pack of cigarettes Shane had stolen from Ilya to hide from him. A paper Ilya had signed and given to Shane, joking that he always gave autographs to his fans. A sock whose pair he had thrown out long ago, thinking it was lost for good. A t-shirt he had let Shane borrow once, and that Shane had never returned. A copy of their CCM advertisement.

Ilya ran his fingers across each object delicately. He had a drawer at the bottom of Shane’s dresser. The thought made him smile again sadly, tears slowly falling across his cheeks. He had finally found Shane’s mess, perfectly contained within four planks of wood. 

Ilya grabbed the candle that Shane had brought out that evening. Pine Forest. He set the candle on top of the dresser and took a lighter from his pocket, gently igniting it. Looking back down at the drawer, he bent down once more and withdrew the CCM photo and set it next to the candle. He wished he could have had one of those baby photos now to set beside it. Ilya didn’t know how long he stood and stared at the candle. At the picture. He let the smell of pine wrap around him for a moment before blowing the candle out. He didn’t want his little tribute to overwhelm the smell of Shane that lingered throughout the room that made Ilya feel like Shane was with him. Like Shane could walk through that door at any moment, pinning him to the bed and telling him he needed to improve his passing. Ilya hoped Shane was here. Hoped he liked the smell of pine. Hoped it reminded him of his cottage.

* * * * *

Ilya spent the rest of the next day in Shane’s house. He mostly wandered about, opening drawers and looking through Shane’s things, carefully cataloging each item. Six pairs of white socks, seven black, one navy. Top left drawer. He flipped through Shane’s boring hockey books, noting that the one on Soviet-era hockey was a little more worn than the others. Ilya took that one. 

There were many rooms in Shane’s apartment that Ilya had never been in. He’d never stayed very long while he was here. The discovery of Shane’s trophy room made something sink inside him. He peered at each little trophy. Each little plaque. He would have assumed that the centerpiece for the room would be Shane’s MVP award, Olympic medal, or even the Calder. But there, in the middle of all Shane’s glimmering accolades, sat a silver medal from the 2008 Prospect Cup. Ilya smiled at that. He took that too.

He was now in the kitchen, reheating one of Shane’s many meal-prepped containers on the stove. Shane always said they got too squishy and weird in the microwave. He was wearing one of Shane’s Montreal sweatshirts that he had found folded on the couch in the living room. He didn't really want to eat, but Svetlana would scold him if he didn't, like she had back in Boston. Not that he wasn’t already in trouble with her. Best to eat and flee to Montreal without telling her than not eat and flee to Montreal without telling her. Lying face down on the counter, his phone was buzzing like crazy from a slew of text messages from her asking where he was. He had sent her a quick reply so she would know that he hadn’t jumped off a building or anything like that, but that hadn’t seemed to satisfy her. Not that he would do that. Unless he had to. 

Suddenly, he heard four beeps echo through the house. Ilya froze. He heard the handle turn and the front door swing open. Ilya tried to stand very still, but was betrayed by the microwave timer (okay, so he had put the vegetables in the microwave, but he wasn’t about to use two pans; that would be insane, Shane).

“Hello?” a voice called.

Maybe now was the time for the jumping idea, Ilya thought as Hayden Pike turned the corner and locked eyes with him. They stood there looking at each other for a moment. 

“What the actual fuck,” Hayden proclaimed, his voice rising.

Ilya gestured at Pike with a spoon. “Ah, Pike. Good. I just finished cooking gross health food. You can eat it all. Might make you a better hockey player, but I doubt it. They are not miracle vegetables.”

“What the fuck.”

Ilya narrowed his eyes at Pike. “You are broken?”

“Rozanov. What the actual fuck are you doing here?” Hayden was yelling now. “This is Shane’s apartment.”

“Ah,” Ilya said sarcastically. “I thought it must be your apartment.”

“Why the fuck would it be my apartment?”

“Because why the fuck else would you be here?”

“Why—why would I be here? Because Shane’s my best friend, what are you—why the—” Hayden stood there breathless. Suddenly, his eyes widened in anger, and he stormed around the island to get closer to Ilya, crowding him.

“Is this some kind of sick fucking joke to you?” Hayden growled at him.

“No I—”

“Did you come here just to fuck with us? With Shane? What kind of sick monster are you?”

“Pike, it’s not—”

“Not what, huh? Not you waltzing around like you own the place? Not you dancing on your dead rival's grave? Shane is my best friend, and he’s—” Hayden broke off with a slight sob, before letting out a short, aggravated breath, lifting his finger, and jamming it into Ilya’s chest. “And you!” Hayden yelled. “Who do you think you are, breaking into Shane’s place? Did it feel good? You just had to come rub it in? You’re a bastard, Ilya Rozanov. You’re a…you…you…” 

Ilya followed Hayden’s eyes, which were now locked on the words that rested under Hayden’s finger. Hayden furrowed his brow in confusion.

“Why are you wearing a Metros sweatshirt?”

Ilya stared at the faded white lettering before looking back up at Hayden.

“I hear they are the best team in sport,” he replied hesitantly. 

Hayden withdrew his finger and looked around a little more carefully, taking better note of the details around him with obvious confusion.

“How did you get in? What are you doing here?” he asked, now more curious than angry.

“I uh,” Ilya shuffled his feet. “I don’t know. What are you doing here?” Ilya asked, now more sincere. 

Pike ran a hand through his hair again. It was sticking up in every direction, making it obvious this wasn't the first time he'd done it today.

“I don’t know, I—I don’t know.” Hayden let a deep breath out. “I told Jackie I was going to come over to make sure Shane hadn’t left any food out but—”

“—But Shane does not leave food out,” finished Ilya.

“Yeah,” agreed Pike, shooting Ilya with another contemplative expression. Pike peered into the pan next to Ilya. “Do you actually have enough food for two in there?”

“No, probably not. Shane is very careful with portions,” Ilya replied, now also looking at the pan. Although Ilya really wasn’t hungry, so…

“Shane?” Hayden said, interrupting Ilya’s train of thought. 

“Hmm?”

“You said ‘Shane’.”

“Ah,” Ilya shrugged, walking over to the fridge and pulling out a second Tupperware container. “I guess I did.” He didn't feel very panicked about the slip-up. It hardly mattered anymore. Not here. Not wearing Shane's hoodie. Not now.

“I can make more for you. If you want,” Ilya said, shaking the container in offering. Hayden shrugged, and Ilya took that as a sign of agreement.

Neither of them talked until Ilya had plated both of their meals for them and joined Pike on an adjacent barstool. Hayden took a bite before grimacing a little.

“It’s a bit…bland,” Pike said disapprovingly. Ilya took a bite of his own and shrugged.

“Shane made it, not me. No added sugars, no sauce, no fat.”

Hayden scoffed. “I always hated his stupid bird food diet.” Pike pushed around his food a bit before taking another bite. He was looking at Ilya like he was trying to put together a puzzle but was missing those last couple of pieces.

“So you and Shane…were you like secret friends or something?” Pike asked.

Ilya tilted his head. “Mm, yes. Or something.”

“Huh,” Pike said deep in thought. “I always thought you guys hated each other. I didn’t realize he liked you.”

“He didn’t like me. Not really,” corrected Ilya.

Pike lifted an eyebrow and scoffed a little. “Jesus. Well, he must have liked you a little bit. He gave you the code to the door and everything. He didn’t give that to me until I had known him for like six years. And I think that was mostly just as part of his fire safety plan.” 

Ilya didn’t want to tell him that he hadn’t known the code. That he had just made a lucky guess. So he just shrugged again instead.

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me. I mean, he told me everything,” Hayden said, rubbing his brow before laughing a bit. “Well, I guess everything except Boston Lily.”

Ilya inhaled sharply and started coughing incessantly. Pike gave him a quick pat on the back.

“You okay, man? Swallow something weird? I’m Heimlich certified so I can…” Pike drifted off when he met Ilya’s eyes, which were still wide in slight horror. 

“Wait, do you know Lily? Did Shane tell you about her?” Pike rushed out, sounding slightly hurt.

“No! No, I—” Ilya stammered, growing more panicked and hiding it poorly.

“Holy shit dude, you totally know her! I tried to figure out how to get a hold of her earlier, but Yuna has Shane’s phone, and I didn’t want to…wait, do you have her number?”

Ilya shook his head fervently. “No, I, I don’t even know her—”

Pike was getting angry again. “Rozanov, we have to call her. She deserves to be here.”

“I cannot,” Ilya stated harshly, standing up. “She is nothing, Pike.”

“Bullshit, Rozanov! Shane was in love with her.”

“No,” Ilya murmured. “He was not.”

At that moment Ilya’s phone lit up again. Another text from Marleau. Ilya sighed, picking it up and unlocking it to read the message. Suddenly, Pike leaped across the island, grabbing the phone from Ilya.

“Pike! Give that back,” Ilya yelled, but it was too late. Pike launched himself across the room with the phone and was typing ‘Lily’ into the search bar. However, what appeared was not a contact name, but rather a suggestion for a text thread with someone named Jane. Pike looked up at Ilya, who was still advancing towards him.

Quickly, Hayden clicked on the suggested text message and read the first entry

Nice goal today, Lily. Too bad you’re still five points behind me in the scoring race

Just giving you a head start. It is so boring if I am winning the whole time

Must make you think you have a chance

Asshole

“Who’s Jane?” Hayden asked Ilya, who was now close enough to wrench the phone out of his hands. Ilya was looking at Hayden with more anger than he had ever done before, and Pike cowered slightly under Ilya’s glare. 

“None of your fucking business,” Ilya spat at Pike. How dare he ask him about Jane? How dare he look at their messages? How dare he—

“Oh my god,” Hayden whispered, looking a little bit green now. 

He stared at the phone for a long moment before looking back up at Ilya.

Ilya met his eyes. He knew.

“Pike—”

“It’s you. You’re Lily.”

Ilya stood frozen, mouth opening to try to form words, anything. A denial. A plea. “I’m not—”

“Don’t fucking say that. Don’t even try. You’re fucking Lily, right?”

Ilya blinked.

“I am,” he said quietly. Hayden’s jaw dropped.

“Oh my god. What the fuck WHAT THE FUCK,” Pike all but screamed.

“Pike. It was just —”

“Just what? Just what, Rozanov? Just you fucking my friend?” Ilya cringed at that. “Just the biggest fucking secret in the league?” Hayden was breathing heavily. 

He glared at Ilya. “How long?”

“How long?” repeated Ilya.

“Yes, Rozanov,” Hayden exclaimed, exasperated, “how long have you and Shane been…I don’t even know, seeing each other? I know he’s been texting Lily for a while, but Jesus, he’s been texting her for…for…”

“For years,” whispered Ilya. Hayden’s eyes widened. “Since before our rookie season.”

Hayden’s face fell. 

“That’s…that’s before he knew me.”

“Yes.”

Hayden stared at the floor.

“Jesus.”

It was then that Pike started to tear up, his already red-stained eyes growing redder. 

“I thought—we did everything together back then. I didn’t have anyone, not even Jackie. I just had him. And he was there when I met Jackie. He knows everything about her.”

Ilya stayed silent, fiddling with the cross on his necklace, rubbing his thumb against one of the points. Hayden was looking at Ilya, scanning him for signs he should have seen. Looking for the presence of his best friend on this stranger’s body.

“He…he didn’t tell me.”

“No, he did not,” Ilya agreed quietly.

Pike sat down on an armchair in the living room.

“Did he…did he think I wouldn’t be supportive of him being gay or whatever? Did he think I would like, yell at him?” Pike asked Ilya, tears now falling in earnest.

“You did yell,” Ilya responded curtly. 

“Shut up, that’s different. I think. I don’t know.” Hayden put his head in his hands, running them through his hair again before looking back up at Ilya. Pike stared at him for a moment.

“I really fucking hate you, you know.”

Ilya shrugged. “I know.” He paused. “I’m sorry Shane did not tell you. It is probably my fault, with Russia and everything—” Ilya waved his hand away. 

“I get it, I just…I wish I had known. I wish Shane could have told me eventually. In his own time. I would have been there for him.”

Ilya said nothing in return. He sat down on the couch opposite Hayden, who leaned forward slightly.

“Did he…did he tell you about me?” Pike asked cautiously, as if he couldn’t decide if he wanted to know the answer or not.

Ilya stared at Hayden’s large brown eyes that were still wet with tears. “Yes. He did.” Ilya paused, choosing carefully what to say next. “He said you get scared watching scary movies by yourself and ask him to come sleep in same room as him.”

“Oh fuck off man,” Hayden laughed. “I can’t believe he told you that, that asshole.” 

“It is very cute. I will buy you night light for the road.”

“Fuck off.” But now the silence felt more harrowing. Now that they were sitting in Shane’s living room, remembering what the night light would be replacing.

“I really don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do about this,” Hayden laughed weakly. “Jesus Christ.”

He looked around the apartment.

“We need Yuna.”

Pike began to pull out his phone and draft a text message.

“Yuna?”

Hayden glanced up at Ilya with a confused look. “Yeah, Yuna. Shane’s mom.”

“No, I mean—I know who Yuna is, but why are you texting her?”

Hayden stared at the screen for a moment.

“I don't know,” he admitted.

The answer seemed to surprise even him.

“I just—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don't know what to do with this, Rozanov. I don't know what Shane would've wanted. And I just spent the last hour finding out I didn’t know Shane as well as I thought I did, but at the same time—” Hayden broke off with a small tremble. “But at the same time, I hate that there aren’t going to be any new things after this.”

He laughed once, a miserable little sound.

“And apparently there was still so much left to know.”

Hayden glanced down at his phone.

“I think she deserves to know.”

Pike looked around the apartment again. At the calendar on the wall with Yuna’s tight handwriting. At the plethora of decorated pillows that Ilya had teased Shane for endlessly. At the small framed photo of the Hollander family cottage that rested on a side table.

“More than anything, I just know that if Shane were here, he'd call his mom.” Hayden swallowed. “And he's not.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Especially if you're going to keep living here wearing Shane's sweatshirt and presumably sleeping in Shane's bed,” Hayden added under his breath.

Ilya frowned.

He had been planning on both.

“Okay,” Ilya said quietly.

Hayden nodded once.

“Okay. Let’s call Yuna.”

* * * * *

Yuna Hollander was perhaps the scariest woman Ilya had ever met. Ilya and Hayden were sitting at the kitchen table across from Yuna and David. Ilya had his hands clasped in front of him, on the table, so that it didn’t look like he had anything to hide. Well. At least, nothing else. Ilya couldn’t imagine how frightening Yuna would look on a normal day. When her mascara hadn't mostly vanished, with a few remnants staining her cheeks, and when her hands didn’t shake every time she lifted her glass of water to her mouth. In contrast, David sat next to her completely still, the color having not yet leaked its way back into his face and arms.

“Since your rookie season?” Yuna inquired sternly.

“Since the summer before,” Ilya corrected. He shifted his weight from side to side, feeling the heat from her persistent gaze.

“And I’m supposed to believe this? That you were…”

“Yes. That we were.”

Ilya took a long sip from his own water. Yuna sighed and leaned back in her seat.

“Well…we did always think that he might be gay.”

Hayden’s eyes widened. “You did?”

“Mm,” Yuna hummed. “We did know him pretty well.”

Ilya winced at that. He was the evidence to the contrary. 

“Well, I would love a drink,” Yuna declared. “Although I doubt Shane has a drop of liquor in this whole place.”

Hayden laughed at that.

Ilya lifted his hand to rub his ear. “I think there is some vodka in the freezer.”

They all turned to look at him. Yuna was noticeably startled. 

“Why would you think that?”

Ilya blushed. “I uh—I put some in there a while ago.” Ilya omitted the fact that when he brought it, it was with the hope that Shane would let him do some very slutty body shots. 

Yuna stood and found the bottle in the freezer, looking back at Ilya, who just shrugged in response. They sat quietly sipping the vodka after Yuna had poured them all healthy glasses.

“This is good vodka,” David said quietly. It was the first thing he had said all evening. 

“Yes. Shane did not agree.” Okay, maybe he had convinced Shane to do one or two shots as well.

David laughed at that. “No, I can’t imagine he would have.”

“So how did this whole thing begin?” Yuna asked.

“Well,” Ilya said awkwardly, taking a long drink of vodka. “He came up and introduced himself to me at the Prospect Cup.” He took another sip. “He was…he was very cute with all of his—,” Ilya gestured to his own face, “—freckles. After that we kept talking. Small things here and there. And then, I hear that he is doing photoshoot and I email the people and ask to do photoshoot together. And then we talked some more and…” Ilya waved his hand.

Yuna raised an eyebrow. “And?”

Hayden coughed on his drink next to him. Ilya scratched the back of his neck.

“And he ah—gave me his room number, and I—I go there.”

Hayden immediately turned red.

Yuna pressed her lips together. David suddenly became very interested in his vodka.

Yuna cocked her head slightly. “Wait, didn’t I run into you for the first time in an elevator in that hotel?”

Ilya did not think his face could get any redder. Hayden laughed loudly next to him.

“Dude,” he giggled.

“Shut up, Pike.”

Yuna smiled, shaking her head as she sipped her drink. 

Suddenly, a harsh knock pounded against the front door, and a woman’s voice sounded throughout the apartment.

“ILYA ROZANOV. I KNOW YOU’RE IN THIS GODDAMN APARTMENT AND IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL BREAK IT DOWN AND KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS. I’LL DO IT, ILYA, DON’T THINK I—HEY LET GO OF ME. LET—” 

Svetlana was cut off abruptly by someone else who seemed to be with her at the door. The entire table looked wide-eyed at Ilya, who sank lower in his chair.

“Rozanov,” Marleau’s voice came through the door. Shit. Svetlana had dragged Marleau with her. They might as well start planning the double funeral. “Hey man, Lana’s really worried and I would very much like her to stop pacing. And she’s absolutely going to make me break down this door if you don’t open up. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Upon seeing that Ilya was no closer to moving towards the door, Yuna sighed and stood up, making her way through the hallway. She swung open the door to find two very shocked faces.

“Mrs. Hollander,” Svetlana said nervously. “We were just—”

“About to kick down my son’s door?” Yuna finished, eyebrows raised.

Svetlana and Marleau looked at each other, panicked.

Yuna closed her eyes briefly. “He’s in the kitchen,” she said, stepping aside to let them pass through.

Svetlana nodded at her, fixing her face and storming through the apartment until she saw Ilya. She visibly deflated.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t killed yourself,” Svetlana stated, crossing her arms.

Ilya flinched. “I ah…I sent you a text.”

“Roz, a single thumbs up emoji seven hours ago does not exactly count as a text,” Marleau replied, joining next to Svetlana and taking in the room. “Pike. Good to see you, how have you been?”

“You know, Marleau, I’ve been better. I’m surprised to see you joining the Boston Tea Party here. How did you know where we were?”

“Ah, well, you know. I’m never one to miss a party. And I had to sleep with your social media lady to get the address. Katie says hi,” Marleau said, gesturing at the people around him, who gave him unamused faces in return. Hayden frowned. That was the name of the Metro’s social media lady.

Yuna clapped her hands behind Marleau, startling him. Yuna glared at him. Apparently one Boston Raider was one thing. Two was entirely another.

“Well then. It does in fact seem like we have a party on our hands,” she said flatly, glancing at their two new members. “Shall we get some food and…talk?” She gestured to the final two open seats. Svetlana settled into the seat beside Ilya, but Marleau had stayed standing, shifting his weight back and forth, awkwardly looking around like he was checking his exit points. 

Yuna gave him a pointed look before pushing him further into the room

“You can stay too. Rozanov might need his alternate captain for something,” she remarked dryly. Though her eyes lingered on him until he finally sat down beside Pike.

David nodded and stood up, walking further into the kitchen. “I can whip up some spaghetti real quick. I’m sure Shane has all of the ingredients here.” He placed a hand on Yuna’s shoulder as he passed, and they gave each other a long look that Ilya couldn’t interpret. 

Yuna joined the group sitting at the table. None of them knew what to say. Marleau stole Pike’s glass and took a sip, grimacing.

“Well, this is fun. Love meeting the in-laws.”

“In-laws?” scoffed Pike, stealing his glass back brusquely. 

“Yeah? For loverboy Roz over here,” he said, winking at Ilya and laughing nervously until his face dropped suddenly. “Shit, do you guys not know yet. Shit, I mean—I don’t—”

“We’re mostly caught up, Marleau, thank you,” Yuna said curtly, looking back at Ilya with slightly more softness than before, which startled Ilya.

“How did you guys find out? Did you know the whole time?” questioned Hayden, looking back and forth between Marleau and Svetlana, appearing slightly sick at the thought.

“Ah,” Marleau hesitated, glancing at Svetlana and then Ilya. “We uh…we saw Hollander go down and we were all together watching, and well…we always knew how Roz felt about his Jane so—”

“His Jane?” Yuna interrupted.

“Ilya was Lily in Shane’s phone,” Hayden responded.

“And Shane was Jane in Ilya’s,” answered Marleau.

“Lily and Jane,” Svetlana muttered softly. Everyone turned to look at Ilya, who was pointedly looking away. Even David had paused in the kitchen, standing in the open refrigerator door light, a tomato in each hand. Ilya shuffled in his seat. He didn’t like them saying those names. Those were theirs. 

“Well,” Marleau said, chuckling a bit. “Those obvious ass names seem like your brilliant idea, eh Roz?”

“Not that obvious,” Ilya muttered in response.

Yuna pursed her lips slightly. 

“We ah—,” she said, struggling to find her words a bit, shaking her head as if to center herself. “—we are planning on having lilies at the funeral. Shane always said it was his favorite flower so…”

The room stilled completely. Oh, Ilya thought. His favorite flower. He felt a bit like he might have swallowed one of those flowers the way his throat seemed to squeeze tighter. He would have bought Shane lilies.

Hayden coughed before adding, “Yeah, it used to drive Jackie crazy. She’s allergic to lilies but didn’t want to tell Shane to stop putting them in his own house, so she just started avoiding the living room. But then he started keeping a vase of them in the kitchen as well so…” He drifted off once he noticed that the whole room was looking at him with various expressions of shock and grief. 

Hayden coughed again and made himself a bit smaller. "Sorry."

He looked down at the table.

Ilya thought he was going to throw up, to try and get the flower out. He would gag and spit and pull out each bloodied petal before tucking them in his pocket. Was it too late to run away, he thought, looking anywhere but at Yuna. He didn’t want to see the depths of her sympathy. Didn’t want her to reach out. Didn’t want to feel her arms around him, holding onto him the way she had held her son after each game, each panic attack, each goodnight story.

“Hey, what’s a pomidor?” David called from somewhere in the pantry.

Svetlana sniffed. “Sorry, what?” she responded. 

David emerged holding a can in one hand and a small slip of paper in the other. He lifted the paper up and walked towards the group.

“I don’t know, there’s a whole bunch of little stickers with letters on them in the pantry, but I’ve got no clue what they mean. This one was next to the can of tomatoes, but I don’t know why.” He held the sticker out so the group could read it.

Svetlana let out a wet laugh. “It means ‘tomato’. It’s Russian, but it’s not in Cyrillic; that’s the English pronunciation.”

Ilya stood sharply, his legs buckling a little bit from having been sitting on the hard chairs for so long. Ignoring the calls behind him, he rushed into the pantry. He hadn’t looked in here earlier. On every shelf, next to each item lay a meticulously placed sticker with its associated Russian word.

 Ris. Muka. Luk. Chesnok. Chechevitsa. Makarony. Olivkovoye maslo.

Ilya let out a harsh sob, running his finger over the labels. Shane had used Ilya’s stupid label maker to label all his stupid foods. 

It was too much. It was all too much. Ilya clasped a hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out. He hadn’t even known Shane was trying to learn Russian. He hadn’t known Shane was learning his language when he wasn’t there.

“What language do you think in?” Shane had asked him once while petting his curls.

“Russian. Not your stupid language, of course. Why?” he had responded, pinching Shane in the side.

“Sometimes, I just don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours,” Shane replied softly.

Ilya looked up at Shane and ran a finger across Shane’s freckles.

“But it is such a beautiful head, no? I have never gotten complaints on my head.”

Shane had grabbed the pillow next to him and whacked him while Ilya laughed.

Now, as Ilya touched each white sticker, he thought that it was him that had not always known what was going on in Shane’s head. Turns out, Shane hadn’t told him everything either. His Shane. Who loved the label maker Ilya had given him. And used it to print Russian words.

“Oh honey,” a voice said softly behind him. He turned to the large group behind him, everyone having followed to come see. But Yuna wasn’t staring at the labels like the rest of them. She was staring at him.

“I…” Ilya began, but was interrupted by a loud sob drifting from him.

Yuna wrapped her arms around him quickly, and rocked him slowly while he cried even harder. Damn it. She was hugging him now. But then he wrapped his arms around her too, probably holding her too tight. He let his head fall into the crook of her neck, his tears running down her skin.

“I am sorry.”

“Oh honey, you don’t need to say sorry. Not to me.” She was crying too.

“No, I am sorry. I loved him so much. And I never told him I loved him. I am sorry.”

“He loved you too, Ilya.”

Ilya shook his head and pulled back, rubbing furiously at the tears that continued to fall from his face. The rest of the group had slowly made their way back into the kitchen, leaving Yuna and Ilya by themselves.

“You don’t have to say that, Mrs. Hollander. I am very mean hockey player, it is okay. I love him enough for the both of us,” he joked weakly, looking toward the ground.

“Oh, Ilya. Look at me.” Yuna wiped at a tear he had missed and pulled his face upward with both hands. Tears were running out of her own eyes, and yet she made no move to touch them. “Shane may have been a quiet person, but he loved you very loudly.” 

Ilya’s face crumbled, and he began to cry harder, letting out loud heaves. She leaned in to hug him again, and held onto him almost as much as he held onto her. They stood like that in Shane’s pantry for a long time.

* * * * *

“It’s too bad Shane got rid of that other table. We could have added another leaf,” Yuna stated, adding the sixth plate of spaghetti onto the already crowded table.

“Oh yeah, I remember that table,” Hayden remarked through an already full mouth. “He was super sketchy about it when he got rid of it too. Something about it not working with the color scheme?”

Ilya laughed at that, loud and sharp. “Ah no, not exactly. The table was not…very strong,” Ilya commented suggestively. 

Hayden let out a long groan. “Great, just great. Is there anything in this apartment that won’t scar me for life?”

Ilya hummed. “I maybe would not sit on the couch.”

The blood drained from Hayden’s face. “Which one?”

Ilya only stared at him in response. Hayden quietly began shoving more pasta into his mouth. 

David chuckled to himself. “Shane was always such a bad liar. He used to never blink when he was lying. I told him what he was doing, and then after, it seemed like he was blinking every five seconds exactly,” he said, grinning at Yuna, who laughed in response.

“Oh my god, do you remember when he accidentally threw a red shirt in with the rest of his clothes and then tried to convince us that his shirts had always been pink?” Yuna exclaimed, resting a hand on David’s arm.

The whole table laughed at that. Svetlana shook her head and scooped more cheese onto her pasta.

Hayden started giggling. “Oh my god, one time,” he started slightly out of breath, “Shane told me he was watching game tapes on his phone when he was obviously just texting someone. When I went to go look over his shoulder, he flung the phone so hard across the room, it hit the desk and shattered.”

Marleau let out a loud “ha!” and proclaimed, “Well, he was probably texting Roz. One time I tried to read Roz’s texts to Jane, and he nearly swerved off the side of the road getting the phone from me.”

“Should have swerved into a pole,” Ilya grumbled, and Svetlana swatted at him.

“I bet Shane hated your stupid sports cars,” Yuna commented, smirking into her glass. 

Ilya groaned. “Ugh, he hated them so much. He kept telling me to sell them and buy a boring jeep like his. And then he started checking my location to see if I was driving too fast so he could yell at me about it.”

“Mm, well, Shane only did that to you because I did that to him first. He was quite the fast driver in high school.”

Ilya gawked. “No. Perfect rule-following Hollander has never driven too fast.”

“Oh yes, he has,” Yuna laughed. “But then he got pulled over by the police one day and the local news reported on the ‘trouble-making young hockey star.’ Shane never drove more than three over after that.”

“Except for that one time we were almost late to practice,” Hayden added. “Shane had volunteered to help me get the kids to school while Jackie was visiting her sister and Ruby spilled orange juice literally everywhere. I swear to god he hit at least seven or eight over the limit that day. I thought he’d finally lost his mind.”

Ilya snorted. “Shane did lose his mind when Marley here came back early from the club during one of our away games. I have never seen him move so fast. That is saying something for world’s second fastest skater.” Marleau cackled, eyes now wide with glee while Hayden gave Ilya a quick smack, defending Shane’s honor (at least as a hockey player). “He had to hide in the closet for an hour while I tried to convince Marly to go back out again.”

“He was probably used to it after years of practice,” Marleau joked under his breath. Hayden smacked him too. 

“Oh, Hollander was always such a beautiful skater to watch,” Svetlana sighed. “He was fast, for sure, but he always had such grace. So much fluidity on his turns. Unlike these three lumbering hunks,” she remarked, gesturing at the other half of the table. All three men made loud offended noises. 

“Shane actually learned a lot of that from figure skating. He used to take lessons as a kid, but he didn’t want to risk it getting out to the other players when he got older,” Yuna added softly. “But I think he still has a pair of figure skates in a closet somewhere that he likes to pull out when he thinks I’m not going to notice.”

David smiled. The room softened around the edges, resting in quiet contemplation like a church meeting right before the choir sings.

“I loved watching him figure skate. He was always great on hockey skates, but he just looked like he was flying when he was figure skating,” David replied. His voice wavered at the end, and Yuna took his hand that was resting on the table and slowly moved her thumb back and forth over his.

Svetlana gave Ilya a sad smile and a quick pat on his arm. Marleau used the pitcher to fill up his glass with water before turning and doing the same to Hayden’s, who gave him a grateful nod. 

The table settled into a thoughtful silence, their forks scraping across their plates as they continued to eat.  

Somewhere in the apartment, a fan hummed softly overhead.

A mountain of leftover spaghetti remained in a pot on the stove, slowly becoming cold. A line of cold ginger ales lay in wait in the fridge, with one singular can of Coke sitting in the very back behind them. A hook rested gently on the wall next to the front door, waiting for their owner to return and place a very boring pair of keys on them. A candle sat on a dresser next to an old CCM ad and a silver Prospect Cup medal. And a pair of figure skates rested in a dusty corner of the closet, strangely free of dust themselves.

At the table, Hayden sighed softly. “I miss him so much already.”

David nodded in agreement and turned to Yuna, both of their eyes misting over again.

“I hope,” she began, her voice cracking, “that wherever he is, he has a good game of hockey in front of him.”

Ilya smiled softly. “Or at least some ice and a pair of skates.”

* * * * *

After everyone had left, Ilya found his way into Shane’s room. Later there would be memorials and funerals and long road trips back. But for now, it was just him and Shane.

Ilya found his way into Shane’s bed in the darkness and reached out beside him, finding only cold sheets. The pain hurt less than before. Not because the pain had changed. Just because he was tired. Ilya burrowed himself deeper into the sweatshirt that he was still wearing. It still smelled like eucalyptus shampoo and something else that was so undeniably Shane.

On Shane’s side of the bed, Ilya noticed a pair of glasses sitting on the bedside table. He smirked and reached across to grab them, putting them on for a moment and peering into the dark room. The things that were far away were hard to see. Ilya took the glasses off and placed them gently on the pillow next to them with the lenses faced toward Ilya. 

Ilya let out a long sigh and flopped back onto his own pillow, curled up and looking in the direction of the glasses.

“I am sorry I let Marly into your house. I know it was already trouble to have one Raider in your home.” He paused and took a deep breath. His voice was a little bit raspy. “It was a long day today, Shane. I think tomorrow will be even longer. I don’t like all of these long days, Shane. It makes the time so slow.”

His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark as he spoke. The room slowly came into focus around him, familiar now in a way it hadn't been that morning.

“I met your parents today, Shane. It was good. They miss you a lot.” 

Ilya felt a small teardrop slide across his nose. He hadn’t thought he had any left.

“Say hi to my mama, okay?”

Ilya reached out a hand and ran his finger along the rim of the glasses.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

“And Hollander,” Ilya said softly into the open room, closing his eyes. 

“See you next season.”