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Shane exited the showers after practice, wrapping a towel round his waist. His legs ached, but it was a good ache, and he hadn’t pushed himself so far that he’d still be sore for the next match, which he sometimes did.
Everyone was in various stages of getting dressed, trading jabs and discussing their odds against New York. Shane didn’t like to make predictions, he thought that sort of thing tempted fate, but he was quietly confident. New York was a hit and miss team at best, and even if Scott Hunter played better at home, he wasn’t in his prime anymore. Shane could walk all over him on his best day, not that Shane would ever say that out loud.
“Holy shit,” JJ said suddenly, staring at his phone. “Guys, look at TMZ.”
Shane rolled his eyes. He was never one to care about celebrity gossip. Nonetheless, at least half of the team started reaching for their own phones.
“Oh my God.”
“Rozanov?!”
That caught Shane’s attention. “What about Rozanov?”
JJ passed Shane his phone. Shane nearly dropped it when he read the headline, his stomach plummeting.
Exclusive: “My Secret GAY Relationship With Ilya Rozanov” - Ex Boyfriend Spills Dirty Details About Hockey Player
“Seriously? He’s a fucking cocksucker?” someone cackled.
Shane flinched.
“He’s such a primadonna, I dunno why anyone’s surprised.”
“Uh, let’s cool it down, boys,” Hayden said disapprovingly.
“Shut the fuck up, Pike,” Drapeau replied, gleeful. “This shit’s hilarious. Do you think Rozanov takes it up the ass?”
Shane didn’t want to hear anymore. He was still staring at the headline.
“Fuck, fuck, there’s pictures!” Comeau exclaimed.
That made Shane start to scroll. He knew who it was immediately - Sasha. The coach’s son. Rozanov had mentioned him a few times. But they hadn’t even been eighteen when they were fooling around. Shane didn’t think publishing this should even be legal.
The article was salacious and vulgar. Sasha was quoted talking about how he and Rozanov used to have sex after Rozanov had finished training, how the secrecy had been hot but “now he felt it was important to be honest and authentic”. A snide comment about how Rozanov moved to America and never contacted him again. A story heavily implying Rozanov blew him in his car after he got his driving license.
Then the pictures. Jesus. Most were innocent - Rozanov looked so fucking young, only sixteen or seventeen, his cheeks rounder and his limbs slightly too long for his body, not the perfectly-proportioned form that Shane knew. They had him in his hockey gear, an arm thrown around the boy who must be Sasha, laughing. Another of them in their school uniforms, ties badly tied and shirts untucked, standing with a few other boys. Then, the worst one. Granier than the others, obviously taken on an early-2000s phone. A selfie, of Rozanov and Sasha in a bed, just their faces and bare chests, Rozanov grinning as Sasha bit his earlobe. Not explicit, but damning nonetheless.
Shane suddenly felt sick, and like he really, really shouldn’t be looking at this. He shoved JJ’s phone back into his hands.
Wilson nudged him, grinning. “What do you think, Cap? Do you think Rozanov takes his hockey stick home at night?”
“Fuck off,” Shane snapped, throwing on his clothes as quickly as possible. “I don’t- I don’t want to think about that.”
He was an awful person. He should say something better than that.
“Let’s give it a rest, guys,” Hayden said firmly. “It’s… y’know, that article’s none of our business.”
“You’re a fucking stick in the mud, Pike.”
“Piss off, Drapeau.”
Shane grabbed his bag. He felt dizzy, and like he wasn’t getting enough air, and he needed to get out of this locker room like, right now. He pushed past his team mates, making some excuse of having an ad shoot he needed to get to, and rushed to his car.
Shit.
His head hit the steering wheel. Breathe in, breathe out, In, out. In, out.
He was okay. No one knew about him.
But Rozanov, God. It was the worst thing possible. Some prick looking for his fifteen minutes, and now-
Shane needed to call him. But not here. He drove home, speeding for the first time in his life. He had his phone out the second he was through the door, clicking on Lily’s contact. It rang for a long time, and Shane thought it was about to go to voicemail. Rozanov probably didn’t want to talk to him. They’d never even talked on the phone before, and Shane was probably the last person he wanted to hear from at the moment. Then the line connected.
“Hey,” Shane said quickly, breathless. “It’s me.”
“...Hello, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice was deep and solemn.
“Are you okay?”
A short laugh echoed down the phone. “What do you think?”
Shane cringed at himself. “Right, sorry. Stupid question.”
“Is fine.” Rozanov sighed. “I am okay, I suppose… I do not know.”
“I’m… I’m sorry.”
“Why? You are not the one who sold story.”
Shane clenched his phone tightly in anger. “It’s a fucking disgrace,” he spat. “It shouldn’t even be allowed… Jesus, Rozanov, I- I don’t even- The whole thing is so-”
“Hollander, calm down. You are okay. Is nothing to do with you.”
Shane nodded, moving to sit down and keeping the phone pressed to his ear. “I know,” he muttered. “But… it’s not fair. You haven’t done anything wrong. That- that traitorous fucking leech of shit is the one who- who-...”
“Yes.” Rozanov said, and Shane didn’t know how he was acting so calm, when it felt like Shane’s heart was pounding in his throat. “But I am one who has to deal. You are safe, though. You know that, yes?”
It was ridiculous that Rozanov was comforting Shane right now. But it was exactly the sort of ridiculous thing he would do. And he knew Shane - he probably knew how panicked Shane was, how seeing the article had sent him into an egoistic panic attack. And now he was calming Shane down, Jesus shit. Shane should be comforting him right now.
"I know that,” he said, even though he had still needed to hear it. “I’m worried about you.”
“Oh.”
Shane didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “Have you spoken to anyone, like your teammates, or- or coaches?”
“No. Coach keeps calling, but… not right now.” Rozanov’s voice was taut. “Too much right now.”
Shane frowned. “So you’re alone?”
“No, I’m talking to you.”
Shane’s heart clenched, a mix of sadness and stupid, selfish pride that Rozanov had apparently answered his call and no one else’s. “I’m sure the Bears will be decent about it,” he said.
“Maybe. Hopefully. Not my biggest problem right now.”
“What’s that?”
“Home.”
“Is your family-”
“Definitely not, but not what I mean,” Rozanov said. He was so stoic, Shane wished he could just see his face. He thought he’d understand better, how Rozanov was coping, if he could see him. “Will not be safe for me to go back now. The government will be… unhappy with me.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Yes, shit,” Rozanov replied sarcastically. “...Not huge problem, not yet. But I have been lazy, putting off getting American citizenship, must do that quickly now. Must find a lawyer today.”
“You don’t need to do that today,” Shane told him. “You should, like, take some time. Process, or something.”
“No, no time for that. I have game this week, what if I get bad injury? Like, career-ending? Then I lose visa and am forced back to Russia.” His voice shook a little, on the last word. “Would not be good.”
“That won’t happen.”
“Probably not. But it could.”
Shane was chewing on the inside of his cheek, suddenly terrified. “...Okay,” he said, thinking hard. “You should call your coach back, talk to him. See what the Bears want to do about this. I’ll find you a lawyer, the best one. And, um, you have to take some test to get citizenship, don’t you? Let me google, I’ll send you the questions so you can start learning. And do you have a green card yet, even, or are you literally still on a work visa?”
Rozanov was silent for a while. “...Is not your problem, Hollander,” he said eventually. “You do not need to do all this. I will manage.”
“Fuck off,” Shane growled. “I’m not letting- fuck- I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, okay? Don’t even fucking try and keep me out of this.”
“But-”
“I fucking mean it.”
“...Okay,” Rozanov breathed. “I will call Coach, then.”
Shane nodded. “Tell me what he says,” he instructed.
“Yes, I will.”
“Good, thank you.”
“No, thank you. You are…” Rozanov let out a small exhale. “Such a nice Canadian.”
“Asshole,” Shane said, but it came out softer than intended.
~~
Ilya hung up, and pressed the phone against his cheek for an extra second. He hadn’t even realised how awful he had felt until Hollander had settled him.
Hollander was too good to him, really. This was Ilya’s mess, borne from his own stupidity, and he should be the one sorting it out. He didn’t know what he was fucking doing though, and it was such a relief to hear Hollander start making plans on the phone, figuring out how to fix things for Ilya. Hollander wasn’t stupid, he was smart and responsible and competent. Ilya actually felt safe, leaving things in his hands.
He just felt like such an idiot. He’d known what a bad idea Sasha was, even as a teenager. Such obvious trouble, even then. But he had been so angry when he was younger, had loved the idea of disgracing his father and his family so much that the risks hadn’t even bothered him. Sasha had never been trustworthy, but it hadn’t mattered, Russia enforced the secrecy for them.
He gathered Sasha had moved now, finally got a new passport, and decided to cash in on the story. If Ilya was smarter, he probably could have stopped this. Paid Sasha off when he entered the MLH and forced him to sign an NDA or something. But honestly, Ilya had come to America and immediately done everything possible to forget about Moscow.
It was his fault. He’d made the stupid choices, and then let them linger in the background of his life like they wouldn’t come back to bite him. He had to deal with the consequences now.
He wasn’t really thinking properly. Like his brain only worked in short sentences. He didn’t even feel panicked, like he should. Just empty, except for a vague pit of tragedy somewhere deep inside.
He’d been given a job, he remembered. So he took a deep breath, preparing himself, and called Coach LeClaire.
He picked up after only a single ring. “Rozanov? You finally found the time to call me back?” he said. He sounded pissed.
“Yes.”
“...How are you doing, Roz?”
“Am okay. I no longer like TMZ.”
Coach chuckled. “You’re joking, that’s good.”
Ilya hadn’t been joking, but he didn’t say anything.
“...So, I talked to the PR guys,” Coach said cautiously, when Ilya remained silent. “They’ve drafted a statement for you to make, and then one for the team.”
“I have to talk about it?”
“Sorry, kid, I think it’s too big to ignore.”
Ilya clenched his jaw. “Okay. I do as told. What am I supposed to say?”
“Well, uh… gimme a second, I have it right here…”
Ilya waited.
“Okay. So, they say, uh, copy and paste this into your notes app, so it looks like you wrote it. I guess that means I’ll email it to you. And then post it to your social media - they said Instagram is best, and to leave comments on, at least at first. You can turn them off if it gets bad.”
“Okay.” Ilya was familiar with the typical notes app apology. “Tell me what it says, Coach.”
“Right, sorry. It says… Recently, a private relationship I had many years ago has made its way into the public eye. I have always taken my privacy very seriously, and it is disappointing that someone I once trusted has chosen to betray it like that. Being gay is not something I wished to share at this time, or in this way. All I want to do is play hockey and be judged for my performance on the ice, and I fully intend to continue to play the game to the best of my ability. I hope the fans will accept that and understand that my personal life does not change who I am as a player… Okay, that’s it.”
“Alright.” Ilya thought about it. “I am not gay, though.”
“Kid,” his coach said gently, “I know you might not be ready, but-”
“No, I mean I like both. Um, bisexual.” Ilya knew the word, although he wasn’t sure he’d ever actually said it out loud before.
“Oh. Oh, okay… Well, I think you can change that bit, if you want.”
“Okay.”
Coach sighed. “I’m sorry, Roz,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. This shit fucking sucks, and I’m sorry, alright? But we all support you, you know that, right?”
“Okay.” Ilya swallowed thickly. “Thank you. I am sorry too.”
“You don’t need to apologise.”
“I have caused big problem.”
Coach laughed. “Roz, I remember when we signed you, I thought you were gonna cause problems - I thought it would be strippers and secret babies, but…”
“There have been some strippers,” Ilya admitted. “No babies, though.”
“Yeah, okay,” Coach said fondly. “My point is, you haven’t been a headache for me, not really. You train hard, you play well, you’re a good Captain. And this? Not your fault. It’s a shitty thing that happened to you, okay?”
“...Okay,” Ilya said. He felt like he was made of glass.
“And we’re gonna get through it. Post the statement, and then just stay off social media for a while, alright? You just gotta block it out and ignore it, and eventually all the excitement will blow over. This is the worst part.”
“Okay,” Ilya repeated. He certainly didn’t want to see what twitter was saying. “You send me statement soon? I will post today, yes?”
“Yeah, I think that’s what they want.”
“Okay. I will.”
Coach sighed again. “I’m sorry, I wish I could say something better,” he said. “Have you spoken to any of the team?”
“No.”
“You should. And if anyone tries to give you any shit, you let me know.”
“Okay.”
“What about talking to your family?”
Ilya shook his head. “No family now.” He didn’t need a phone call to confirm that.
“Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You got anyone with you at the moment?”
“No.”
Coach huffed down the phone. “You’re starting to worry me here, Ilya. Can you give me more than a word or two?”
Ilya looked around his empty house. He didn’t understand what his coach wanted. He was agreeing to everything, doing as he was told. He couldn’t do much more. “Do not worry, Coach. I have… someone helping me.”
“Oh? Someone?”
“Not… not like that. But they are helping.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t pry. I’ll let you go, but you call back if you need anything, alright Roz?”
“Yes. Goodbye.”
“Bye, Roz.” Coach hung up, an email notification coming through a second later. Ilya copy and pasted it onto his notes app, changing the word gay to bisexual but otherwise leaving it as it was. He screenshotted it, sending the photo to Shane first.
Ilya: *attachment*
Ilya: this is what team wants me to say
Ilya: you think is okay?
Jane: looks good to me
Jane: is there anything else you want to say?
Ilya: no. i want to say nothing
Jane: i know, im sorry
Ilya: i will post now, then, if you think is good idea
Jane: yeah. just do whatever your team says, at least for now
Ilya: okay
Jane: *link*
Jane: *link*
Jane: these are the qs for a citizenship test. you can read through them, and do practice tests
Jane: the second link is just a russian website with all the same info. I thought it might be easier for you to learn stuff in russian, but i dont know. whatever works for you
Ilya had to bite down on his knuckles suddenly to stop himself from crying. Hollander was so very thoughtful. Ilya didn’t know what he had done to deserve it all.
Ilya: thank you. will start studying.
Before he lost his nerve, he posted the screenshot to his instagram, and immediately turned off notifications for all social media. Then he opened the second link Hollander had sent him, and started reading bullshit about US history and government.
~~
Shane spent the next few hours researching all the available immigration lawyers on the East Coast. He put together a list of seven that had the best reviews and had worked on quick cases for big clients before - they all cost an arm and a leg, but that was hardly something he was worried about right now.
Rozanov had been working in the US for years now, and was in a highly-skilled occupation, so on paper he was eligible to apply for citizenship. The fact he’d never applied for a green card seemed like it might make the process drag, but Shane figured that was for the lawyers to sort out.
He sent his list, and all their contact information, over to Rozanov. He didn’t get a reply right away, but tried not to worry about that. It was probably a good thing for Rozanov to be away from his phone right now.
Then he braved social media. He saw Rozanov’s post, and took a quick look at the comments underneath it. Most were supportive. A few were cruel. Shane clicked away quickly. Rozanov’s name was trending on twitter as well; Shane didn’t even try looking at what people were saying there.
The Bears had posted their own statement. Brief, just saying they supported their Captain and asking for everyone to respect his privacy. Shane was glad about that, at least, but it wasn’t public statements from companies that were going to be the problem for Rozanov. The locker room, players from other teams, rival fans… those were the things that Shane was worried about.
He wondered if he should do something publicly. Press the like button on Rozanov’s post, maybe. They were rivals, but Shane didn’t have to pretend to hate Rozanov for this, did he? Or would Shane involving himself just bring more scrutiny? Maybe the best thing to do would be to ignore it, and not give everyone more things to talk and speculate about. Nothing to speculate about when it came to Shane.
He didn’t know.
He just felt so bad that Rozanov was going through all this. And another part of him, the part of himself that he hated, was so glad that it was Rozanov and not Shane. Shane thought, if it was him who had been exposed, he would be completely falling apart right now. He wouldn’t be able to cope. And he wouldn’t even have the whole Russia shit to deal with on top of everything.
Rozanov was so fucking strong, and Shane didn’t know how he did it.
He only realised once it was already dark that he’d forgotten to eat since breakfast, when his stomach started to growl insistently. He couldn’t be bothered to cook, he felt so exhausted, so he settled for cereal. He ate at his kitchen island in the dark, the only light coming from his phone.
The Voyageurs group chat had been going crazy all day. Most of the team seemed to think it was funny. A few (mainly Drapeau) appeared genuinely vicious about it. Shane had a new respect for Hayden, the only one actively pushing back against the jokes. Shane wasn’t brave enough to do that.
He knew he should. He was the Captain, and this was his team, but the thought terrified him. He would be too obvious, and then they would notice, they would know and they’d be making those same jokes about him.
Shane was a fucking coward. He wanted to stand up for Rozanov, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He knew, if the roles were reversed, Rozanov would be standing up for him, but Rozanov was fearless like that. And Shane was useless, and letting him down because he was too worried about himself.
~~
That evening, there was knocking at Ilya’s door, and Ilya eyed it suspiciously. Paparazzi breaking private property laws, perhaps, he thought. Or a crazed, angry fan. Either way, not good. But the knocking continued, so Ilya moved to his computer, checking the feed from the security cameras.
He blinked in surprise. It was Marlow.
He thought for a few seconds, unsure whether he wanted to speak to his teammate right now. But it didn’t look like Marlow was going anywhere. And Ilya would have to face him at some point. He went and opened the door.
“Roz, fuck.” Marlow stared at him. “What the fuck, man? Didn’t feel like picking up the phone?”
“...No.”
Marlow glared at him. “Made me drive all the way over here, you shit. You know there’s like a million paps on the street?”
“I guessed.” Ilya crossed his arms. “What do you want?”
“Jesus Christ, you’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
Marlow’s expression turned pained. “I didn’t mean- fuck, man, will you just let me in?”
Ilya hesitated for a while. “...Okay,” he said eventually, stepping back.
Marlow entered, and Ilya led them to the sofa in the living room.
“You want drink?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m good. Want to see how you’re doing.” Marlow sat down, gesturing for Ilya to do the same.
Ilya did, reluctantly. He stared fixedly out of the window. “Am fine.”
“I’m really sorry, man.”
“You are not…?” Ilya trailed off, wrapping his arms around himself.
“I don’t care,” Marlow said quietly. “I mean, I’m angry it happened, but I don’t give a shit about where you put your dick, Roz.”
“Okay. The others?”
“Uh, shocked, mostly. No one ever suspected… Anyway, they’re surprised, yeah, but no one’s mad at you. We’re all here for you, whatever you need. Jesus, that sounds so gay.”
Ilya finally dragged his eyes over to Marlow, raising an eyebrow.
Marlow winced. It was almost comical. “Shit! Sorry, I probably shouldn’t say shit like that anymore, right?”
“Is okay,” Ilya said, deadpan. “Is true, we are having a very gay conversation.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, I still have standards.”
Marlow snorted, grinning a little. “Do you? Cause that Russian bitch seems like a real shit pick.”
Ilya sighed, grimacing. “Yes,” he agreed. “Sasha is hideous bitch.”
“Don’t feel bad. I’ve had my old girlfriends talk to these fucking gossip outlets about my teenage dick, people like that are the fucking worst. Just never normally makes this much news.”
“Did you… did you see statement?” Ilya asked.
“Yeah. The whole team has liked it. Like I said, we’ve got your back.”
“Is it- what are people...”
Marlow hummed. “Lot of fucking talk,” he said carefully. “Nothing too crazy, though.”
“Okay.”
“I think the MLH said something official, that they accept all their players and are proud to have you as an athlete, or some shit like that.”
“Okay.”
“...You dealing with it all, man? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya said at once. Then, “Maybe. I think so. Perhaps not.”
“Can I do anything?”
Ilya shook his head. “It has happened. Cannot be fixed now.”
“Yeah, but- nothing’s gonna change, alright? You’re still Captain, we’re still gonna be a team. You won us the Cup, remember. All anyone cares about is doing that again. Tomorrow… we’re all just gonna go to practice and train like it’s any other day, okay? Like nothing’s even happened.”
Ilya took in a deep breath, felt it rattle in his chest. “Yes. I would like that very much, thank you.”
Marlow punched his shoulder. “Good. Now get me that beer, you promised you were gonna watch Breaking Bad with me.”
“You… want to stay?” Ilya asked.
“Yes,” Marlow said simply.
Something stuck in Ilya’s throat. “Okay. Thank you,” he said. “I will get beer.”
~~
The next couple of days were hell on earth. Shane couldn’t go online - all of his feeds were clogged with talk of Rozanov. Shane didn’t want to read a single word of it. It was still the biggest topic among the team as well.
They’d had to have an emergency meeting with the Voyageurs PR team, had all been given explicit instructions to not say anything provocative when they were asked about it during press, had all been given these sheets of paper with phrases like “respect for all fellow athletes” and “my focus is only what happens on the ice”. They weren’t bad, Shane supposed, but they all felt so empty. He wanted to yell something, that it was unfair and cruel and everyone should shut up about it, but he took the paper and recited his lines instead.
Rozanov had texted him saying he’d book a meeting with one of the immigration lawyers, at least. Shane was trying not to bother him, but the situation was making him feel insane.
Two days after the article was published, the Bears had their match against Toronto. Shane didn’t get to watch it, because he was flying to New York to play the Admirals. He turned on the highlights as soon as he got to his hotel room though.
“He looks like shit,” Hayden commented, from his side of the room.
Shane had to agree. Rozanov was looking pale, bags heavy under his eyes. He sucked in a breath as he watched Rozanov drop his gloves and suckerpunch one of the Toronto players, breaking his nose with one hit. The commentators were saying Rozanov got into three fights during the game.
“Yeah. Guess that’s not really a surprise.”
“And fighting even more than usual. You think the Toronto guys are bringing it up?”
Shane could only imagine the sorts of things they were saying. “Probably.”
Hayden sighed heavily. “It’s a shit situation. Never thought I’d feel bad for fucking Rozanov.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you need the commentary, or can you mute it? I wanna call Jackie.”
Shane muted it.
He barely slept that night. Hayden snored peacefully, but Shane spent most of the night wide awake, staring into the darkness. He was already awake when the alarm went off, and reached for his phone, hoping he had missed a notification while he pretended to sleep
No such luck. He opened his messages with Lily, but still nothing new. The last message had come three days ago now, after he had sent Rozanov the info on the lawyers he had found.
Lily: thank you. will make appointment tomorrow
Shane groaned, staring at his phone. Three days without texting Rozanov was not supposed to be this hard - they often went weeks without talking, but all he could think about was that fucking game yesterday, and Rozanov throwing punch after punch on the ice, and if Rozanov had even bothered to ice all the bruises he was sure to have.
But it wasn’t Shane’s place to ask him about all that. They weren’t dating - they hooked up when they were in the same city. And Rozanov had enough going on at the moment, he didn’t need to deal with Shane hassling him as well.
He switched his phone off, going to open the curtains and force Hayden to wake up.
He was twitchy the whole day, even on the ice as he was warming up. He wasn’t used to that; normally, whatever was going on outside, as soon as Shane stepped onto the rink he could focus. But he kept thinking about Rozanov, doing the same thing yesterday, and not understanding how he’d managed to play a whole game with his head held high.
The game went crap. They won, but barely, and Shane didn’t even score, leaving the ice with just two assists.
Fuck this, he thought. He didn’t care anymore, he needed to see Rozanov. He refused the offer to go out in the city with his team and celebrate, making some excuse about going to see some random relative who lived in New York instead. Then he was googling the nearest car rental place on his phone and hailing a cab.
He was sat in the rental and entering Rozanov’s address into the GPS system before it occurred to him he should call the other man and inform him of Shane’s plans.
“Hollander, how was the match?” Rozanov asked when he picked up the phone. “I have not seen yet.”
“Fine,” Shane replied. He couldn’t care less about the game right now. “Are you doing anything this evening?”
“No? Practice has finished, I am home.”
“Good. I’ve rented a car, I think I can get to Boston in about four hours.”
“...Hollander.” Rozanov sounded wary. “You are not coming here.”
“Yes I am,” Shane said. “I’ve already told the team I’m not flying back with them.”
“It is not necessary.”
“I need to see you.”
The phone went quiet for a minute. Shane wondered if he was pushing too much. They didn’t do this - didn’t go out of their ways to be in the same place, they never needed to see each other. Their relationship was supposed to be one of convenience.
But Jesus, Shane had spent the last three days wanting nothing more than to see Rozanov, to hold him, to tell him to his face that things would be okay. He didn’t think he was able to wait the month it would take before Boston came to Montreal again.
“...You should go back to your hotel,” Rozanov said finally, sombre. “Would be very stupid to come to see me right now.”
“But-”
“There are many photographers outside my house still. You do not want those headlines, especially with- with what they are saying about me. Stay in New York.”
Shane ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Fine, so we don’t meet at your house. I’ll book us a hotel room or something.”
“And risk getting spotted? No. That would be even worse.”
“Rozanov, I want-”
“I know. Is nice of you to offer. But is not worth the risk. Stay away, Hollander.”
Shane scoffed. “Rozanov, I haven’t slept in like seventy-two hours,” he snapped. “All I can fucking think about is you, and you’re still speaking like a fucking robot, you haven’t insulted me once, you’re acting- like a different fucking person, and I need to see you, okay? Or I’m going to go fucking crazy.”
“I don’t…” Rozanov took a shaky inhale. Shane thought for a terrible second that he might be crying. “I don’t feel like sex right now,” Rozanov said, voice thick. “So no point in you coming.”
That sentence made Shane so angry that he lost any control over his mouth. “If you think I give a shit about sex right now, you’re the dumbest fucking asshole on the planet,” he hissed. “I want to see you, you idiot. God, do you think I only care about your dick?”
“I- I don’t know,” Rozanov said in a small voice. Rozanov never sounded meek, and that made Shane feel incredibly guilty. He took a few seconds to calm himself down.
“Sorry,” he said, eyes closed. “I’m not trying to be a jerk.”
“I know.”
“I just want to see you, okay? Not- not to hook up, or anything. Just to… see you.”
Shane definitely heard the sound of sniffling over the phone.
“Maybe…” Rozanov said slowly, “if you would be okay with it, we could meet at Marlow’s house? I’ll tell him not to ask questions. It would be safe, no cameras.”
Shane bit his lip. He didn’t know Rozanov’s teammate - he knew what conclusions would be drawn, though. There was no reasonable explanation for Shane to be driving four hours to see Rozanov.
“You do not have to,” Rozanov said, when Shane didn’t say anything. “Forget it, was stupid idea.”
“You trust him?”
“Yes. Has been very good to me, since.”
Shane nodded. He was a coward, but he could be just a little bit brave right now, he thought. For Rozanov. Marlow was only one person. He’d been okay with Rozanov. And Shane had been so fucking spineless up until now. “Okay. Send me his address.”
~~
Ilya called Cliff immediately. “Marlow? I need favour, please.”
“You do? Yeah, anything. What’s up?”
“I need to come to your house.”
“What? Course you can. You want to hang out?”
“No. There are still cameras at mine, and I… I need…”
“Need what?” Marlow asked.
“Hollander is driving to Boston,” Ilya said. Better to just get it out, he thought. “To see me. We need somewhere we will not be spotted.”
There was a very long silence on the other end. Ilya held his breath.
“...Hollander?” Marlow asked eventually. “Are you talking about Shane Hollander?”
“Yes.”
“Why would-”
“No questions.”
Another long silence.
“...Yeah, sure,” Marlow breathed out. “You can use my place.”
Ilya swallowed back a sob. “Thank you. Will come over in a few hours.”
“Alright.”
“Thank you.”
Marlow let out a small huff. “Stop saying thank you, it weirds me out.”
“Sorry.”
“Jesus, sorry is worse, don’t say that either. Is Hollander going to make you start acting normal again?”
“I don’t know.” Ilya probably shouldn’t say more. “He is driving whole way to come see me, though. Very nice of him.” He blinked away the tears that were swimming in his eyes. He needed to get himself under control.
“Yeah. Yeah it is.”
“Thank you, Cliff.” Ilya hung up the phone. Suddenly, four hours seemed way too close, when he hadn’t shaved in days and kept crying or almost crying. This was definitely the least sexy Hollander was going to ever see him, even worse than that night a couple of years ago when Ilya got into a bad fight on the ice and turned up to Hollander’s place with a black eye and split lip.
He should shower, probably. He hadn’t, after practice; he felt weird about using the team showers now, and preferred to wallow in his grime once he got home. But he definitely needed to shower if he was going to see Hollander.
So he showered, and shaved, and even cut his fingernails. It made him feel a little better, maybe - more steady, at least. He couldn’t quite bring himself to eat. He dressed in an oversized hoodie and sweats, then went outside and chose his least-distinctive car. Just a black Mercedes. Hopefully it wouldn’t draw too much attention.
Leaving his driveway, he drove onto the highway instead of heading to Marlow’s, driving for half an hour until he was sure he had shaken off any paps that were trying to follow him. Only then did he turn around, re-entering Boston and driving to Marlow’s house.
Marlow definitely looked weirded out when Ilya turned up at his door, but stood back, letting him enter.
“Sorry,” Ilya said, “I’m early. Hollander won’t get here till nineish.”
“S’okay,” Marlow said. He shifted uncomfortably, and Ilya stared at his shoes. “Wanna, uh… watch TV or something?”
“I guess so.”
So they went to the living room, and Marlow queued up the next episode of Breaking Bad. Ilya wasn’t really paying attention, but it was good to have something to distract from the painful awkwardness.
“So, um,” Marlow said, when they had finished an episode and the intro song for the second was playing. “I left condoms and lube in the spare room. Just so you know.”
Ilya whipped his head around. Marlow’s gaze was fixed determinedly on the telly, even as his ears turned red.
“You did what?”
“I dunno. You guys need that stuff, right?”
Ilya stared at his friend. “I’m not using your house for a hook-up, Marlow.”
“Fuck off, I’m trying my best here, okay?” His cheeks were starting to flush as well.
Ilya shook his head, looking back at the TV. “Whatever. It’s not-”
“We don’t need to talk about it.”
“Yeah, okay.”
They watched two more episodes before the doorbell rang. It made Ilya startle, and suddenly, he was terrified. Marlow glanced at him in concern, and got up slowly.
“I’ll get it.”
Ilya watched as Marlow left the room, and heard the front door open. His heart pounded.
“Uh, hello.” Hollander’s voice sounded strained. Ilya knew he must hate doing this. He’d still done it though.
“Hey.” Marlow didn’t sound much more at ease. “He’s just, um, through here.”
There were the sounds of footsteps approaching, and then Marlow was in the room again, Hollander just behind him.
Ilya gulped at the sight. He looked tired, but still so pretty. He always looked pretty. Ilya was very aware how pathetic he must look right now.
“Hi,” Ilya said nervously, still sitting on the couch with his knees drawn up near his chest.
“Oh, Ilya.”
Ilya’s vision went blurry, even as he smiled. “Shane.”
Then Shane was pushing past Marlow and hurrying over, wrapping his arms around Ilya. Ilya cursed, burying his face in Shane’s neck and inhaling deeply.
“God, I’ve missed you,” Shane whispered.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Me also.”
Marlow cleared his throat, and Ilya felt Shane stiffen. He opened his eyes, looking over Shane’s shoulder at his friend.
“I’m just gonna… go hang out in my room,” Marlow said, backing away.
Ilya nodded.
“I’ll put my headphones on.”
“Oh my God, fuck off,” Ilya yelled, but Marlow had already left.
Shane relaxed again, and Ilya returned his head to the spot it had been in before, where he could block out the rest of the world, and the only thing around him was Shane. Shane’s hand started petting him, stroking his back and toying with his hair.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane murmured. “It’s all been so shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. You’ve been handling it so well. You’re so fucking strong, Ilya.”
Ilya held him tighter. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. I needed to see you.”
“You did not have to. You’ve been too nice to me, I am idiot.”
“No, no.” Shane withdrew enough to force Ilya to look at him, and Ilya moaned quietly in complaint. “You’ve had to deal with so much,” Shane told him, “I don’t know how you do it all.”
“...Is okay,” Ilya said. “I am fine.”
“Are you?”
“I…” Ilya shrugged, fiddling with the cuffs of his hoodie. “Team has been okay, surprisingly.”
“What about everything else?”
Ilya shrugged again. “Went to meeting with the lawyer,” he said. “She thinks I will get citizenship. She says she will…” he waved a hand. “Fast-track, or something. I don’t know. She used a lot of complicated words, I didn’t understand everything.”
“That’s okay, that’s not you. No one understands lawyers.”
Ilya smiled gratefully. “I suppose. But she thinks I will get passport. And, ah… if I lose visa before, she is ready to file emergency asylum application. So I would not get deported.”
Shane took a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into Ilya’s scalp for a second. “...Okay,” he said. “That’s- that’s good.”
“Yes. You found good lady.”
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane said. He sounded so sympathetic, and Ilya thought if anyone else spoke to him like this then he would punch them. It felt warm coming from Shane though.
“Come back here.” Shane opened his arms, and Ilya settled back into them, resting his head against Shane’s chest.
“I am okay, now you are here,” Ilya whispered.
“I’m here, baby, of course I’m here.”
Ilya felt something sickeningly sweet flood him when he heard the pet name. He screwed his eyes shut and, embarrassingly, whined.
Shane’s fingers started playing with his hair again. “I saw the highlights of your game yesterday,” he said cautiously. “You got into three fights.”
“I won three fights,” Ilya corrected.
“Were they being…?”
“Not by the end.”
“What were they saying?”
Ilya glanced up at him. He knew, with certainty, that he could not tell Shane what the other players had been chirping at him, or Shane would take all those insults and give them to himself. “Nothing original,” Ilya said dismissively. “I can handle them.”
“I know you can. I’m still sorry you have to.”
“I know you are,” smiled Ilya. He squeezed his arms around Shane’s waist. “Do not worry about me, I know how to handle meathead hockey players.”
Shane looked sad. “Yeah, cause you’re fucking tough. I… I’m sorry, I’ve been such a coward.”
“What do you mean?” Ilya frowned.
“Some of the guys on my team, they’re… they’ve been saying all this shit about you, and I’ve just- just- let them. Because I’m a coward. I’m sorry.”
“Oh.” Ilya had never expected Shane to be fighting his battles for him, especially not about this.
“Even Hayden is telling them to cut it out, and I just… can’t. I want to, but…”
“I will make you deal.”
“What?”
“You don’t say anything to them,” Ilya said. “You wait, and tell me, so I know whose teeth to knock out on ice.”
“Ilya, you can’t just-”
“Yes I can,” Ilya said. “And I can defend myself. I do not need knight of shining arms.”
“Shining armour.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You tell me who is worst, yes? I will knock them out.”
Shane seemed hesitant, so Ilya raised his eyebrows, as if to say go on then.
“...Drapeau’s the worst,” Shane muttered. “Then Comeau.”
“Good. I’ll make sure to punch them next game.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking insane.” Shane’s palm found his jaw, his thumb stroking Ilya’s cheekbone. “Hey,” he said gently, “I know you said you didn’t want to do anything, but-”
Ilya tensed up. “Sorry,” he said.
“No, not- I didn’t mean… I was going to ask if I could kiss you?”
“Oh.”
“...Would that be okay?”
Ilya nodded, and Shane leaned down, kissing him softly. It was nice, not like they usually kissed, hot and heavy and demanding. This was different. Ilya felt like he was something precious.
~~
Shane’s left side was starting to cramp, but he still didn’t move. He and Ilya had kissed on the couch for a while, and then just… sort of cuddled, until Ilya fell asleep, curled into Shane’s side. They’d never done anything like that before.
He thought Ilya might have been crying a bit, at least for a while, but he hadn’t mentioned it. Shane had just held him close and let him be until his eyes closed and he had drifted off.
And Shane really should be leaving right about now. He thought it was probably about one in the morning by now, and he should go and find a hotel so he could catch a couple of hours of sleep himself, before driving to the airport and booking the first flight back to Montreal. But Ilya was sleeping so peacefully at his side, and he had looked so exhausted. And honestly, Shane was really savouring this opportunity to just hold him and watch him.
He looked so much softer when he was asleep. No sarcastic smirk or taunting eyes, all the hard lines of his face seemed to relax into something almost angelic.
He was startled out of his stupor when the hallway light suddenly switched on, and Marlow entered the room in just his boxers and a vest, rubbing his eyes blearily.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, stopping when he saw them.
“No, uh, I’m sorry,” Shane said, quickly extricating himself from Ilya’s grip. He found a cushion to lay Ilya’s face down on and stood up, taking a few steps away.
“I was just getting a water, sorry. I’ll be gone in a second.”
“No, it’s- it’s your house.” Shane couldn’t meet his eyes. “Sorry. I should be leaving anyway.”
“Leaving?”
“Yeah. It’s got late.”
“Did that dickhead seriously not want to take the guest room? I made the bed and everything!”
That made Shane’s gaze shoot up suspiciously. Marlow sounded oddly offended.
“Guest room?”
“Yeah, I told Roz to take it. Course he had to be a bloody martyr and choose the couch instead.”
Shane couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You made up the guest room?” he asked again. “For Ilya and- and-”
“And you, yeah,” Marlow said impatiently. “I know I’m not a genius or anything, but I’ve got more than two fucking braincells. It’s not like you’re here as a fellow captain.”
Shane swallowed, and suddenly realised Ilya was still asleep, so he walked over to Marlow, trying to keep his voice down. “Yeah,” he said, “I figured you’d know. I just didn’t think you’d…”
“Roz is my friend,” Marlow said stiffly. “Yeah, it’s all a bit fucking weird, but at this point I couldn’t give a shit. I need him to stop acting so sad and start being Roz again. And if you can help with that, then fuck it. I don’t care.”
Shane nodded. “Thanks,” he said, grimacing. “I dunno if I’m all the help you’re hoping for, though.”
“When you walked in this room, it was the first time he’s smiled since that article dropped. I dunno what the fuck you two are, or when it happened, but Roz cares about you, apparently. And you seem to care too, so who am I to complain?”
“I do care about him,” Shane admitted, even as felt his cheeks go up in flames. “Lots.”
Marlow gave him a look. “Don’t go to a fucking hotel. Wake Roz up and go and take the fucking guest room, Jesus Christ.”
“...Um, yeah, alright. Thanks.”
Marlow patted his shoulder awkwardly, and took his glass of water and left the room. Shane sighed - he’d had to have a lot of conversations today, they tired him out more than playing a game did. He went back over to the sofa, shaking Ilya’s shoulder gently.
“Hngh?” Ilya grunted.
“Come on, sleepyhead,” Shane said. “You can’t sleep here all night, you’ll fuck your back up.”
Ilya blinked, confused. “Are you going?”
“No, not unless you want me to.”
“No, please.”
Shane smiled, helping him to his feet. “Come on then,” he said. “Bed.”
~~
When Ilya woke up, he was confused, because someone was pressed against his back, their arms wrapped around his waist. Then he remembered the previous night, and relaxed again. Shane.
He rolled over, and it must have woken Shane up, because he was blinking his eyes open.
“Hi,” Ilya said, and there was a question in there somewhere.
“Hey,” Shane murmured, smiling at him.
“How are you?”
“‘M good. You?”
Ilya nodded. “You are pretty in morning,” he told him, and got to watch Shane blush.
“Shuddup.”
“Is true.”
Shane kissed him, quickly, and then sighed. “I probably need to go soon. I’ve already missed morning practice.”
“Yes, I know. Thank you for coming.”
“I wanted to.”
Ilya stared at him. He wanted this man, he realised. Not just for sex a few times a year. He wanted to call Shane every time something went wrong and have Shane help him fix it. He wanted to see him wake up again. He wanted Shane to call him baby again, and he wanted to kiss him for hours, and he wanted to make him laugh.
“Maybe I return favour,” he suggested nervously. “I have day off next Sunday, could make quick flight to Montreal.”
Shane’s eyes widened.
“Or not, we don’t-”
“No, come,” Shane said. “Definitely come.”
The sudden wave of nausea receded. “Okay.”
Shane grinned, and Ilya pulled him into another kiss, this one deeper.
“Ilya,” Shane groaned, “this is gross, we haven’t brushed our teeth.”
“I do not care,” Ilya replied, licking his way into Shane’s mouth. “Want you.”
Shane relented, and Ilya climbed on top of him, kissing him insistently. Shane was making all of these great noises, and Ilya was learning Shane sounded deeper in the morning. It was a brilliant discovery. His hand crept between them, and started tugging Shane’s sweatpants down.
“Wait, wait,” Shane panted. “We don’t have to-”
“I know,” Ilya said. “Want to.”
“Are you sure?”
Ilya rolled his hips once, pressing his erection into Shane’s thigh. “Obviously.”
“Oh, fuck. Okay.”
Ilya grinned, shoving down his pants and then Shane’s as well. They probably didn’t have time for sex, but he could get them both off. They never lasted long when they were together anyway.
Shane squeezed his hips impatiently, and Ilya kissed him again, wrapping one hand around both of their cocks. Shane shuddered, his mouth going slack, as Ilya began to stroke.
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane stuttered out.
It was good, but the drag was a bit too dry. Ilya leaned away, ignoring Shane’s disappointed moan, and pulled open the draw of the nightstand. He grabbed the bottle of lube and drizzled a healthy amount onto his hand.
“Um, how the fuck did you know that was there?!” Shane asked, sounding perturbed.
Ilya smirked at him. “Because Marlow is very supportive friend.”
“He did not leave lube for us,” Shane said flatly.
“He is cheap, I normally get the flavoured stuff. But I suppose this will do.”
“Oh, God,” Shane grumbled, “this is so embarrassing.”
“Is not,” Ilya purred. “He knew I would not be able to resist such a beautiful man in bed with me.”
“Fuck, just- I don’t care, just touch me.”
Ilya was very happy to do that. He gripped them both again, and yes, that was so much better. Shane’s lovely little noises started up again, and Ilya didn’t want to stop hearing them, so he kissed Shane’s neck instead, licking over the smooth skin with his tongue.
“Fuck, fuck-” Shane’s hips were starting to jolt forward messily, and Ilya knew he was close. He squeezed tighter.
“Come, sweetheart,” he whispered, and Shane spurted all over his hand, Ilya following a second later.
Ilya rolled off him, breathing heavily, and hid his face behind his arm. He peered at Shane over his elbow. “Good?” he asked hopefully. He didn’t know what he was asking about - the orgasm, the name, them. Maybe everything.
Shane covered his own face with his hand and laughed. “Yes. Good.”
Ilya thought, just maybe, things might actually turn out okay.