Chapter Text
Shane couldn’t quite believe himself. He’d done it again, shut down, ignored Ilya’s feelings, acted like he didn’t care when really, he cared too much. He felt like the world’s shittiest boyfriend.
All he wanted to do now was curl up in Ilya’s arms and apologize until he physically couldn’t anymore, tell him how much he meant to him, that it wasn’t one-sided, that Ilya wasn’t just someone he loved but someone he chose.
But he couldn’t do that. Not right now.
They were both on the road for weeks, Ilya in Washington, Shane in New York. Opposite ends of the country, miles of silence between them. Shane tried to bury himself in hockey, but he couldn’t think straight. His game had fallen apart, missed passes, easy shots gone wide, too many penalties. He could feel the team watching him, the fans whispering, the coaches frustrated.
He couldn’t take it anymore.
Sitting in his hotel room, the city humming faintly outside the window, Shane opened his laptop and, before he could talk himself out of it, started looking up flights to Washington.
There was one in four hours. And another one back tomorrow morning.
“Fuck it,” he muttered.
He said it again. Louder this time.
“Fuck it.”
And once more, as if saying it enough times would make it less insane: “Fuck it.”
His fingers moved on autopilot. He booked the flights, told his coach he had a “personal emergency,” and grabbed his bag before he could change his mind.
He dressed simply, hoodie, jeans, and a plain black cap pulled low over his eyes. It was Ilya’s cap, actually. Shane had stolen it a few months back. The same black one with Ilya’s number stitched subtly in black on the back strap, unnoticeable to anyone but them. Ilya had never asked for it back, and every time Shane wore it, Ilya’s smile had grown a little wider.
Now, on the flight, Shane caught himself smiling like a complete idiot, replaying those smiles in his head. Then, just as quickly, he groaned and rubbed his face. What the hell am I doing?
He kept whispering his mantra — fuck it, fuck it, fuck it — all the way until the plane landed.
And then… panic.
Now what? The game wasn’t for three hours, the rink was at least that far away in rush-hour traffic, and he didn’t even have a ticket. Brilliant.
In desperation, he scrolled through his contacts until he found Wyatt Hayes’ name.
The phone rang twice.
“Hello?” came Wyatt’s voice, bright and warm as ever.
“Uh, hi Wyatt. It’s Shane. Are you… alone right now?” Shane’s voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through.
“Hey, Shane! Yeah, still at the hotel. About to head to the rink. Are you okay?”
“Erm—kinda. Is there any way I can get a ticket for tonight’s game?” Shane blurted in one breath.
There was a beat of silence. Then Wyatt said, incredulous, “Wait—you’re in Washington?”
“Yes. I—uh—I really need to see Ilya,” Shane admitted. He sounded desperate. Because he was.
Wyatt didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll see what I can do and text you the details.”
“Thanks,” Shane said quickly. Then, lowering his voice, “And please—don’t tell Rozanov.”
Wyatt chuckled softly. “You’re not here to psych him out before the game, are you?”
“No,” Shane groaned. “I’m here because I fucked up. And I need to apologize.”
Wyatt’s laugh came warm and easy through the phone. “Okay, that actually sounds like good intentions. Give me ten minutes.”
“Thanks, Wyatt,” Shane murmured, feeling some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
He caught a cab to the rink. The driver didn’t recognize him, thank god, and it was a quiet, long drive. The city lights blurred past as Shane stared out the window, heart pounding harder the closer they got.
An hour in, his phone buzzed.
Wyatt: at the ticket desk, say “ticket for Wyatt Hayes” and they’ll give you one.
Shane: thank you so much.
Wyatt: good luck.
Shane: thanks, Hayes.
Wyatt: guess I’ll see you later
Shane smiled faintly, pocketing his phone. It hit him then, he’d never actually watched Ilya play an NHL game in person before. The only times they’d been on the same ice, they’d been opponents.
Two hours later, he was at the rink. He pulled his coat tighter, cap lower, and made his way to the ticket desk. Everything was exactly as Wyatt said. Within minutes, he was inside, high in the stands, heart hammering as the puck dropped.
No one noticed him. Everyone was too caught up in the game.
Ottawa played well, even if the score didn’t show it. Shane couldn’t take his eyes off Ilya. He was brilliant, fast, composed, fiery. When Ilya got slammed hard into the boards, Shane’s stomach dropped. He wanted to run down there, to do something. But Ilya got back up, shook it off, and scored on the next shift, pure vengeance in motion.
Shane laughed quietly to himself when Ilya chirped the guy who hit him, that familiar, infuriating, loveable little shit grin plastered on his face.
When the game ended, Ottawa lost by one, but Ilya was the clear standout. Shane’s nerves returned full force. He had no plan, only the certainty that he needed to see him.
At the player entrance, security stopped him, until one of them recognized his face and moved aside to let him in.
Shane nodded quickly, heart in his throat, and they waved him through.
***
The locker room was quiet. Ottawa had played hard, but the sting of a close loss hung in the air. Ilya sat at his stall, still in half his gear, exhausted. His shoulder ached from the hit, his head ached from thinking. Mostly, though, he ached for Shane.
He’d been furious. Still was, a little. But more than that, he missed him.
He was halfway through unlacing his skates when the whispers started. Someone had come into the room. Ilya didn’t look up, he didn’t have the energy. Not until he heard someone gasp.
“hollander?”
Ilya froze.
He looked up slowly, certain his mind was playing tricks on him. But no, there he was. Shane Hollander, standing just inside the doorway, looking petrified.
“What are you doing here?” Ilya managed, voice quiet, disbelieving. Then he noticed Shane’s eyes, red-rimmed, glassy. “What happened? Is it David? Yuna?”
Shane shook his head quickly. “No, no, they’re fine. I just—” he took a breath, stepping forward, “Ilya, I’m such a dick.”
Ilya blinked, completely thrown. Not what he expected… but not wrong, either.
“Yes. You were,” Ilya said softly, though there was no bite in it.
“I shouldn’t have said those things. I know how much you’ve done for me, and I’ve been so selfish. Of course I’d choose you over hockey.” Shane’s words tumbled out in a rush.
“Hollander, it’s okay,” Ilya said, a small, reluctant smile forming.
“No, it’s not. I dismissed your feelings, and I should’ve fought harder after you kicked me out. I was just—” Shane’s voice cracked — “I was scared.”
Ilya stepped closer. “I know, Shane.”
“I was terrified people were going to find out about us,” Shane continued, eyes wide and wet. “And I stopped thinking about us.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya whispered, the anger melting from his voice. They’d both taken hesitant steps toward each other, meeting halfway. Ilya reached out, pulling Shane into a tight, grounding hug.
“I’m sorry,” Shane mumbled into his neck.
Instead of replying, Ilya pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, and then kissed him.
It wasn’t perfect, Ilya still had his pads half on, Shane was shaking, but it was real. Shane cupped Ilya’s face, Ilya’s hands gripped Shane’s hips, and the room erupted.
“Holy shit, Hollander!” Bood shouted. “Really? Rozanov? You could’ve picked anyone else!”
The locker room exploded with laughter and cheers.
Shane blushed, burying his face against Ilya’s shoulder.
“Back off, Bood,” Ilya said, grinning wide. “He loves me.”
And judging by the way Shane looked up at him, eyes soft, utterly in love, there wasn’t a soul in the room who could doubt it.
Later, after the chaos died down and most of the team had filtered out, Shane and Ilya lingered in the quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above them; the smell of sweat, soap, and cheap cologne clung to the air.
They walked down the tunnel side by side, hands brushing occasionally but never quite touching, people could still them. Shane was okay with being out to Ilyas team but not to the world, not yet.
At the door to the parking lot, Ilya stopped. He turned, eyes still a little red, but smiling. “You came all this way… for me?”
Shane’s throat tightened. “Yeah,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Always.”
Ilya stared at him for a long, quiet moment, then reached out, just a small touch, his fingers brushing Shane’s knuckles. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathed, smiling. “But I’m yours.”
"when do you fly back?" Ilya asked already smirking
"tomorrow morning" Shane smiles back
"hotel?"
"but your team..." Shane argues really hoping he doesn't sound convincing
"I dont think they are expecting to see me tonight" ilya beams.