Chapter Text
Ilya Rozanov felt a different kind of tension settle under his skin.
It wasn’t nerves—not the kind he recognised, anyway. It didn’t carry the clean, electric anticipation that came before a game, or the familiar rush of anger he’d learned to use whenever hesitation threatened to slow him down. Those feelings had edges. They were predictable. He could usually see where they would take him and brace for the damage they left behind.
But this was something else entirely.
The adrenaline from the game still hadn’t fully left him. From the hit. From the ten long minutes where Shane hadn’t moved. From the hours afterward where he’d had to pretend his heart wasn’t still pounding in his ears. It lingered even now, settling in his chest from the moment they’d stepped out of the hospital, and it only grew worse with every step Shane took beside him.
Ilya had been avoiding the thought all night, pushing it aside with movement and irritation and the familiar habit of taking charge of a situation before anyone else could. Eventually, it forced its way through anyway.
This was a bad plan.
And it was. It was so fucking stupid. Reckless in a way that had nothing to do with the risks Ilya usually enjoyed taking. The kind that meant something had already shifted, and they were all simply pretending momentum would carry them across the gap.
For the first time since Cliff’s ridiculous idea had taken shape, he allowed himself to feel the full weight of what they were actually doing.
“This is—” Ilya began.
“Ah, it’ll be fine,” Cliff said, waving a hand as though Shane wasn’t leaning half his weight into Ilya just to stay upright. Then he turned back to his phone where he was still texting Cassie, chuckling softly under his breath.
Ilya clenched his jaw hard enough it ached as he let the unfinished words die in his throat. For one blissful second he considered stepping into traffic just to escape the helplessness clawing at his chest. He eyed the road for a moment. But instead, he tugged Shane a little closer and kept walking.
The sun had only just begun bleeding pale light into the Montréal skyline, and the streetlights were still on, carving hard white lines across the pavement. Shane’s hood was pulled low against the glare, his face pressed into the back of Ilya’s shoulder as they walked.
Ilya could feel the way his breath hitched every time he stumbled over his own feet. He had one of his hands fisted loosely in the back of Ilya’s hoodie—like he’d forgotten how to let go—and the thought was almost comforting, in a way. Because Ilya couldn’t seem to let go of Shane’s sleeve either.
He hesitated for half a breath. Then, because the Bears’ easy acceptance had given him a dangerous taste for being brave, he tugged on Shane’s sleeve until he was standing beside him, his arm sliding around Shane’s waist to keep him there.
A knot of tension he hadn’t known he was still carrying began to loosen at the contact. It left behind a fragile, startling thought. Because maybe it really could be this simple. Maybe nothing catastrophic waited on the other side of being seen. Maybe all they’d ever needed was the courage to take the first step and refuse to let go.
And maybe, Ilya thought as Shane’s grip tightened at his back, they were already past the point where turning back was even possible.
“We’re almost there, solnyshko,” he murmured—and it wasn’t even a lie. He could already see the bus parked at the front of the hotel, its exhaust fogging in the cold air. The engine idled with a soft vibration beneath the chassis, and the sight of it brought a quiet sense of relief. They were close enough now that he could finally get Shane somewhere warm.
“‘S fucking cold,” Shane murmured, shivering.
He turned toward Ilya and blinked slowly, still looking half asleep. His mouth tugged into a faint, stubborn pout as his head slipped down to rest against Ilya’s shoulder. “You’re cheating—somehow,” he said quietly. “Why’re you always s’warm?”
Ilya huffed a quiet breath, amused despite the tight knot still sitting in his chest. He shifted slightly, pulling Shane closer. “I am Russian,” he murmured as his hand slid higher along Shane’s back, rubbing once through the thick fabric of the hoodie. “I was born to far harsher weather than your soft Canadian winter.”
He smiled when Shane mumbled something half-grumbling back at him, and for a moment he actually forgot how to breathe when he looked at him. Because Shane was wearing his Bears hoodie, and the sight of him in Ilya’s clothes—out here in the open where anyone could see—was a dangerous kind of distraction.
The black joggers Shane was wearing were Ilya’s too, riding low on his hips in a way that felt almost indecent. The sneakers were the only thing that actually belonged to him. Even the vest beneath the hoodie was Ilya’s.
His eyes lingered on the sleeves shoved up over Shane’s forearms, on the flex of muscle and the faint bruises spreading across his knuckles. His ring finger was already turning purple, and Ilya couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his mouth as he glanced down at his own taped finger.
“Hm?” Shane mumbled as he looked back up at him.
His hair was still flattened in strange places from the hospital bed, stubborn cowlicks refusing to settle no matter how many times Ilya had tried to smooth them down with his fingers. The bruises along his jaw and neck were dark and ugly. His skin was too pale, making his freckles look like constellations scattered across it.
Shane looked tired, and honestly a little wrecked—but he was still, still so fucking beautiful.
He had no right to look that beautiful, Ilya thought, something warm and possessive flaring in his chest. “Krasivyy ty,” he murmured, because Shane never seemed to notice when he left him breathless.
And usually, Shane would have rolled his eyes and turned away to hide his blush whenever Ilya tried to compliment him. But he always listened. Especially when Ilya spoke in Russian. There was just something about it that felt more honest for both of them, when Ilya didn’t have to filter his thoughts first.
He half expected Shane to react the way he always did. Maybe he’d pretend he hadn’t heard him. Or change the subject. Or suddenly become very interested in something else entirely. But eventually he’d whisper something soft and shy back, leaving Ilya smiling like an idiot. Or fighting the urge to kiss him. Or to fall to his knees and replace that shy smile with a moan and Shane’s hand fisted in his hair, desperate to pull him closer.
Ilya would let him, because he was so fucking gone for him that he’d give Shane anything he asked for. But he was self-indulgent too, and he loved watching Shane come undone under his hands, in his mouth, on his fingers. He could listen to him cry out for hours. Watch him writhe and arch his back and claw at the sheets—or the wall, or the floor, or wherever they’d fallen into each other that time.
It was only when Shane was soft and wrung out, when his breath had fallen into that quiet hitching rhythm every time he tried to breathe, that Ilya finally relented and gave in to him.
He was so distracted by the way Shane’s mouth parted when he breathed that he nearly forgot they were standing in public. Ilya pulled himself back, his nose brushing Shane’s jaw as he fought the urge to kiss him right there. Part of him almost didn’t care if someone saw them. Another part of him just wanted Shane on the Bears’ bus so he could sit him down somewhere quiet and pretend this entire plan wasn’t completely insane.
“Hm?” Shane mumbled. He almost looked like he’d understood Ilya’s words, or at least the intent behind them. But maybe his head was still too sore to translate them properly, because he just looked at Ilya again, slow and a little confused.
Instead of answering, Ilya watched Shane frown. He looked frustrated, like the language he’d spent so long learning had slipped right out of his grasp. Or maybe like he’d simply forgotten how he’d ended up outside the Bears’ hotel in Montréal while the crowd beyond the bus watched them with something close to horror.
They’d all been pretending, very badly, not to be waiting for a glimpse of the defeated Boston Bears leaving their city. Their faces were too bright—with gleeful little smiles half-hidden behind their raised phones—and they were already recording before anything had even happened. But Ilya felt the exact moment their glee turned into disbelief when they recognised the captain of the Montréal Voyageurs in his hoodie.
“Oh my god,” someone whispered. “Is that Shane Hollander?”
“Why the fuck is he with the Bears?”
“—is that Rozanov?”
A ripple moved through the crowd as their phones lifted higher, cameras flashing when the bus door hissed open. Ilya acknowledged the crowd only once, with a brief, icy glare at the bright flashes that made Shane flinch. His hand tightened instinctively at Shane’s waist, pulling him closer before Shane could even step away. Then he adjusted his grip, one hand firm at Shane’s waist as he guided him up the bus steps.
He shifted to block the crowd from catching the strip of skin visible between the hem of the hoodie and the waistband of those sweatpants as Shane climbed the first step. Ilya followed close behind, angling his body to shield the worst of the bruising along Shane’s jaw and neck from the cameras—even as his own eyes lingered on that tempting flash of skin.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured in Shane’s ear, hands steady at Shane’s waist as they paused in the narrow aisle. His thumb pressed into the exposed skin at Shane’s hip as Cliff lingered outside with Ryan to distract the driver. Victor climbed up behind them, stumbling on the last step before catching himself.
“M’kay,” Shane hummed softly, sounding oddly pleased as he let Ilya guide him down the row of empty seats.
The aisle stretched ahead of them like a quiet tunnel, the overhead lights still off. Warm air sealed them away from the street and the noise outside, but Ilya could still hear the faint sounds of the crowd. He didn’t turn to look again, but he could tell by the way the flashes followed them through the windows that the crowd was still watching them, like they expected to find something worth capturing.
Maybe the sight of them together was enough. Maybe that was all anyone thought they were seeing—two rivals disappearing into the same bus after a fight on the ice, the Boston Bears dragging the captain of the Montréal Voyageurs across enemy lines for the night.
None of them seemed to realise that Ilya wasn’t kidnapping anyone.
He was simply taking Shane with him.
Ilya’s grip tightened slightly as they reached the middle of the bus. Even as the flashes kept reflecting off the glass, he refused to move his hand. He reminded himself what it meant to be seen by people who supported you—and what it meant to be brave after that moment had passed.
Let the crowd believe it was a stunt, he thought. Let them take their pictures and zoom in, looking for blurry proof that Shane Hollander was letting himself be taken. Ilya didn’t care. Or maybe he just couldn’t afford to care yet.
Because Shane was concussed and clearly wasn’t thinking straight. And tomorrow, when the adrenaline drained away, Ilya might very well regret how impulsive he’d been. But right now the only thing that mattered was getting Shane to the back of the bus, where fewer eyes could reach them.
He heard Victor curse behind him and glanced back over his shoulder, frowning when he saw him peering out the window with a scowl. “The paparazzi are still out there. They must’ve followed us all the way from the hospital—” he said, shooting Ilya a sideways look. “You know this is going to be online before we even leave, right?”
“Da,” Ilya said, unsurprised as he turned back toward the aisle, guiding Shane toward the back of the bus. The flashes kept following them, but he ignored them. “They were already watching,” he added after a moment. “Better they see something we choose than invent something worse.”
Victor studied him for a second longer, then huffed quietly through his nose.
“Ah. World thinks you’re friends now, non?” He said, glancing between Ilya and Shane with a small, knowing smile. “Very convenient word, ‘friends.’ Means whatever people want it to mean.” His eyes flicked briefly to where Shane was leaning back into Ilya’s chest, then back to Ilya’s face. “Public thinks rivals suddenly admit they’re friends after fight,” he said. “It’s a nice story.”
“Most people prefer a good story to a complicated truth,” Ilya murmured. His mouth twitched faintly as Shane’s hands tightened in the fabric of his sleeves. Ilya steadied him automatically, keeping one hand firm at his waist as he steered him toward the last row.
“Hm. Your bus is nice,” Shane mumbled, the words slurring as his head dipped forward. “Why did you, uh—” He blinked slowly, like the thought had slipped sideways before it reached his mouth. “Not fly?”
“Because LeClaire is old man with vendetta,” Ilya said quietly. “Decided this season we need more team bonding. Especially for the rookies. So now, instead of ninety-minute flight—we all suffer through four-hour bus ride like prisoners on field trip.”
“Oh,” Shane said. “That’s—nice?”
Ilya huffed something that might have been a laugh. “You are the only person in North America who would call this nice.” His hand came up automatically to steady Shane as his head tipped further toward his shoulder. “You are only saying that because you are not trapped in here with twenty idiots arguing over music and gas station snacks. Ask me again in three hours when Ryan and Victor start debating which Fast and Furious movie is more culturally important.”
“Tokyo Drift,” Shane mumbled instantly.
Ilya paused. “You—didn’t even hesitate.”
“‘S best one.”
“You are not real person.”
Shane hummed, pleased. “M’very smart.”
“Da,” Ilya murmured, his voice softening. “Very smart. Very concussed. Very wrong.”
Shane smiled at him as Ilya turned him around, stumbling slightly over his own feet, and it was only the camera flashes outside that stopped Ilya from leaning down to kiss him. Instead, he gently guided him into the window seat before Shane could apologise or try to insist he was fine.
His hands hovered for a moment, ready to catch him if he tipped forward again. But Shane just sank into the seat with a tired exhale, his eyes already fluttering shut as Ilya pulled the blinds down to block the crowd from watching him struggle to stay awake.
Ilya hesitated, then reached over to close the blinds on the seats in front of them. He did the same across the aisle, building a small pocket of darkness around them that eased some of the tightness around Shane’s eyes. “Okay?” He asked softly, watching as Shane’s dark eyes struggled to focus before settling on him.
“Hm,” Shane mumbled, already sinking deeper into the seat. For a moment it seemed like he had to remember where he was before he could place Ilya inside it. Then he smiled, his fingers tightening reflexively in his lap like they missed the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie in his hand.
“S’okay, Ilya,” he murmured. “Stop worrying. M’just tired.”
Ilya nodded slowly, but he stayed right where he was, fighting the sudden urge to go find Gilbert Comeau and break something essential inside his chest. It would be easier, he thought, than standing here watching Shane struggle to keep his eyes open.
The thought settled into the back of his mind with unsettling clarity. Not just anger, but the details—how he could do it, how he could make it hurt, how he could get away with it. Svetlana would give him an alibi if he asked. She’d probably insist on helping. And if that failed, there were always other options. His father’s old contacts. Alexei’s even shadier ones—the ones in places that even the Russian government didn’t ask questions about.
Ilya hadn’t actually spoken to his brother since their father’s funeral. But he’d reopen that door if it meant making Comeau regret ever touching Shane.
It would be almost disturbingly easy to make that impulse real. It might even be worth it. Maybe. Because this—Shane pale and blinking slowly, like the world kept slipping sideways beneath him—felt wrong in a way Ilya couldn’t laugh off or brush aside with a joke. And he hated how helpless it made him feel. Hated that all he could do was stand there, watching for any sign that something else might be wrong.
“Ilya,” Shane mumbled, and Ilya forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose.
Because choosing violence would be too simple. There were a hundred ways to make a man regret a moment like that. But revenge wouldn’t steady Shane’s hands or stop the faint tremor in his voice when he spoke. It wouldn’t bring the colour back to his face.
So Ilya stayed where he was.
The anger didn’t fade. It simply settled deeper, sinking into the quiet space behind his ribs where he stored the things he couldn’t afford to act on. It lost some of its heat there, hardening into something colder and far more patient. One of the only useful things his father had taught him was that fury was only useful if you chose carefully when to spend it. And right now, Shane mattered more.
“Ilyusha,” Shane sighed, his lashes dipping again. “Come sit with me?”
Ilya’s nose scrunched in irritation, because he usually loved it when Shane begged. But everything about this felt wrong. Too soft. Too unguarded. Like Shane didn’t have the energy to hide how much he needed him.
He shrugged their bags off his shoulder and crouched in front of Shane, digging into his own with hands just unsteady enough to piss him off.
Ilya pulled out his over-ear headphones and settled them carefully over Shane’s ears, adjusting them until they fit just right. His thumbs brushed along the line of Shane’s jaw as he checked that the seal was snug, lingering a fraction longer than necessary before he pulled his hands away.
“It’s too loud, da?” Ilya muttered, more to himself than to Shane.
The headphones were synced to his phone, but he didn’t start any music. Shane didn’t need noise. He just needed the world to quiet down. And maybe, Ilya thought, the noise cancellation would be enough to dull the sharp edge of everything pressing in on him.
He watched as Shane’s eyes slipped half closed as soon as the headphones settled into place, the tension in his face easing by degrees. His shoulders dropped. The hard line between his brows softened, like someone had reached out and smoothed it away.
“Better?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane nodded once, slow and heavy, like even that took effort. “That’s—yeah. That’s better,” he murmured. “Thanks,” he added softly.
As soon as Ilya slid into the seat beside him, Shane turned into him, leaning close while Ilya nudged their bags under the row with his foot. Ilya let out a soft, helpless breath that turned into a quiet chuckle. He lifted the armrest between them and shifted until his shoulder settled firmly behind Shane’s, offering something solid for him to lean against.
When Shane’s weight tipped fully into him, Ilya felt the tension finally begin to drain from his body in slow increments. He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the tight line of Shane’s mouth softening, the stubborn set of his shoulders easing now that he didn’t have to hold himself upright alone.
Then the sudden realisation hit him—because he didn’t have to imagine it anymore. Shane was right here. With him. Not half a city away. Not reduced to messages typed too carefully or the grainy glow of late-night FaceTime calls. He was pressed warm and solid against Ilya’s side.
And he was coming to Boston.
Something close to relief settled in his chest. But it felt deeper than that. Relief meant the danger had passed. This felt more like the moment after a risk had already been taken and the damage could no longer be undone. Because that was the other truth sitting beside it.
This plan was the kind of reckless that didn’t just flirt with consequences but invited them to stay. One photograph at the wrong angle, one headline written by someone who understood exactly what they were looking at, and ten years of careful distance could unravel instantly.
Careers had collapsed for less. And maybe the thought should have frightened Ilya more than it did. It should have made him pull back, put space between them, remember every reason they had spent a decade pretending they were nothing but rivals. Instead, Ilya only shifted slightly so Shane could settle more comfortably against him.
If the world wanted a scandal, it would find one eventually. For now, Shane was breathing steadily beside him. And that mattered more than whatever waited outside the bus windows.
“Hate me later, okay?” Ilya murmured, pressing a slow, absent kiss into Shane’s hair. His lips lingered there for a second before he lifted his head again, eyes flicking toward the closed blinds, where the occasional camera flash still scattered pale reflections across the glass.
“Hm?” Shane murmured without opening his eyes. “‘S too early for the alarm,” he slurred, lashes fluttering like he was trying to wake up anyway. “What time ’s it?”
“It’s far too early, solnyshko,” Ilya said, smiling helplessly. “I’ll wake you when it goes off later,” he promised, glancing briefly at his phone, where he’d already set an alarm for two hours from now, when he’d wake Shane to check his pupils again. “Go back to sleep,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
“Stayin’?” Shane asked softly.
“Da,” Ilya said. “I am staying right here.”
“I swear to god, I thought he was gonna hit me,” Luke said as he climbed the bus steps, half laughing as Artos shoved his shoulder from behind. “I’m never talking about Shane Hollander around him again. He’s fucking terrifying when he’s, uh—”
Ilya looked up, frowning.
“I—err—I wasn’t talking about you,” Luke blurted out immediately, then winced. “Shit. Sorry, Roz.”
“That didn’t help,” Artos muttered, rolling his eyes. But his gaze had already slid past Luke, sweeping across the mostly empty bus before it landed on Ilya. He blinked once. Then his face split into a slow, delighted grin. “Oh,” he said. “I thought Cliff was joking when he said you were getting him out of Montréal.”
Luke followed his line of sight. The confusion on his face drained almost instantly, replaced first by recognition, then by something closer to horror, or maybe awe, as his gaze found Shane. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “That’s actually Shane Hollander.”
He turned slowly toward Victor. “Why the fuck didn’t you warn me?” He asked, voice pitched higher than he’d meant it to, if the sudden flush creeping up his neck was any indication.
Victor cracked one eye open from where he was slouched against the window, elbow propped on the armrest like he’d been waiting specifically for this moment. “You wouldn’t have believed me,” he said. “Consider it hazing for the rookies,” he added with a quiet snort as his gaze drifted toward the back row, settling briefly on Shane. “Ah, bien—he’s finally asleep then?”
Ilya’s eyes softened, just barely, as they dropped to Shane. “Almost,” he murmured, watching the weight of Shane’s lashes against his cheeks. The slow, even rhythm of his breathing. The way his fingers were still hooked loosely into the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie like he needed proof Ilya was still there.
Luke looked from Ilya to Shane, then to Artos, then back again. “I thought you meant, like, emotionally getting him out of Montréal,” he said slowly. “Not physically abducting the captain of the Voyageurs.”
Artos snorted. “This is so much better.”
Ilya ignored Luke’s increasingly frantic attempts to disguise the fact that he was quietly losing his mind. His arm remained wrapped around Shane’s waist, his hand slipping beneath the borrowed hoodie so his thumb could trace slow, absent circles along Shane’s hipbone. But his eyes remained on the aisle, tracking every movement with the focus of someone ready to intervene if anyone stepped too close.
Luke noticed, and his voice instinctively dropped into something quieter. “He okay?”
“Concussion,” Ilya said. “He is sensitive to noise right now,” he admitted, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched them. “If you are going to ask questions, you will do it quietly.” He frowned. “Or not at all.”
Shane shifted at the sound of his voice, pressing closer without opening his eyes. A small, tired sound slipped from him, more instinct than intention, displeased with the way the chest beneath him vibrated each time Ilya spoke.
“Ty v poryadke, solnyshko,” Ilya murmured softly in Russian, the words meant only for him. He pressed another slow kiss to Shane’s hair, letting it linger just a fraction longer than necessary. When he looked up again, Luke and Artos were staring. Their expressions had gone very still.
Ilya’s gaze flicked between them in warning until both of them hurriedly looked elsewhere.
“I don’t have any questions,” Luke lied, seemingly unable to stop looking at them as his eyes darted helplessly between the two of them. Every time his gaze landed on Shane, he looked faintly starstruck all over again. “No, actually—I have so many questions. Is he wearing your hoodie?”
Luke blinked again, like that detail had only just processed. He frowned. “How did you even—how the hell did you get him into Bears merch?”
“He was cold,” Ilya said simply.
Luke stared at him. “That is not an answer.”
Victor’s faint smile widened. “It is, actually,” he said lazily. “You didn’t see them in the hospital.” His voice softened slightly, losing some of its usual dry amusement. “Have you ever watched two people look at each other and realised you were witnessing the sort of love most people spend their entire lives hoping for?”
He sighed faintly and leaned his head back against the seat. “It was so obvious it felt like we were intruding,” he added, a quiet chuckle slipping out under his breath. “Or maybe we’ve all just been idiots not to have seen it before. I mean, it was almost funny at first. Thinking Ilya was so gone for Shane Hollander that he’d accidentally come out to the team without even realising it. But—” He shook his head slightly. “Then we saw the way Shane looked at him.”
Victor shrugged, looking a little self-conscious under their attention. “It stopped being funny after that. It was impossible not to realise this isn’t some crush. Or some secret they’d been—uh, keeping hidden just for the thrill of hiding it.” His gaze softened as it drifted back to them. “It is very beautiful, non?”
“You are a poet,” Ilya said, his lips curving as he tried to hide the way something tight and pleased tugged at the corner of his mouth. “This is why your defence is so bad, da? Because all your skill is taken up by dramatic speeches.”
Luke blinked. “That’s cute,” he said faintly. “But none of that is helping me process the fact that Shane Hollander is asleep on our bus.” He huffed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, but there was no bite left in it.
“I always thought you two actually hated each other,” he admitted. “Like, genuinely. The chirping. The fights. The way you look at each other on the ice.” He shook his head. “Man, I was so worried when I got drafted to the Bears that I’d have to pretend to hate him too,” he added, blushing to the tips of his ears.
“We do not fight on ice,” Ilya said.
“What—never?” Luke asked.
“That’s not true,” Victor said. “Boston and Montréal are always fighting,” he added, frowning. “You two must have fought at some point.”
Ilya shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin, amused line. “No,” he said. “We have never fought on the ice. Chirped maybe. Teased each other. But never fought.”
Luke blinked. “Seriously?”
“I would not raise my hand to him,” Ilya murmured.
The words came out quieter than the conversation around them deserved. For a second his gaze dropped, something old and sharp flickering across his expression before he smoothed it away again. The memory of his father’s bruised hands at the kitchen table. The way his mother wore long sleeves even in the middle of summer, and none of them had ever questioned it.
Ilya looked back up.
“And Shane does not fight,” he added. “Not like that.”
Luke frowned. “I mean—he literally punched his own defenseman last night.”
“That was different,” Victor said mildly, watching Ilya more carefully now.
Ilya nodded once. “We argue,” he admitted. “Sometimes loudly. Sometimes in front of cameras.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced down at Shane leaning against him. “But that is not fighting.”
Luke rocked back on his heels, still staring like he was trying to reconcile ten years of highlight reels with the scene in front of him. “So all that rivalry stuff is just—what?” He asked slowly. “Like, performance art or something?”
Victor snorted.
“Is foreplay,” Artos said, grinning when Luke groaned and covered his face with both hands.
He clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder before slipping past him to shove their bags into one of the overhead compartments. He closed it carefully, taking far more care than usual not to slam it as the latch clicked into place. His expression softened with something almost fond when he snuck another glance at Ilya and Shane—like he’d stumbled onto a story he hadn’t realised he’d been watching unfold for years.
Then he climbed into the seat backward, resting his chin on his crossed arms over the backrest. Luke mirrored him without thinking, both of them turning to stare at the quiet, impossible sight of the two hockey legends curled together like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“This is actually adorable,” Artos said quietly. “Ochen’ milo.”
Ilya looked up at him, unamused.
Artos lifted both hands. “Respectfully. It’s very, ah—terrifyingly adorable, da?”
Ilya’s thumb was still tracing the same slow path along Shane’s hip under the borrowed hoodie, where none of them could see it. He could feel the steadiness of Shane’s breathing now, the way his weight had settled fully into him, the way each exhale warmed the fabric at his chest.
“He will be very embarrassed when he wakes up,” Ilya murmured after a moment, almost to himself.
Victor smiled. “Probably,” he agreed, closing his eyes with a tired sigh. “But I also think he’s going to wake up and realise this is the first time he doesn’t have to perform for anyone. He’ll see where he is. Who he’s with. And for once, none of it will need explaining away.”
Ilya’s thumb slowed for half a second before finding its rhythm again. “He will not like—”
“Hm,” Victor interrupted, letting his eyes close again. His smile was still faint at the corner of his mouth. “You ever notice how some people don’t really look like themselves until they feel safe?”
Shane shifted slightly against Ilya, a small adjustment that pressed his face deeper into the fabric at his collarbone. His fingers flexed once where they were curled into Ilya’s hoodie, and Ilya lowered his chin a fraction, instinctive and protective.
“He looks different like this,” Artos muttered, watching them. “Not like the guy we play against. Or the one on TV.” His head tilted, eyes lingering on the bruises at Shane’s jaw. “Or the model.”
Victor smiled to himself. “He looks like someone who’s very tired of being brave.”
Ilya swallowed. “He has been brave for far too long,” he said quietly.
Luke leaned forward until he was nearly tipping over the back of the seat. “So what happens now?” he asked breathlessly, arms crossed over the seat to keep his balance. “Like, practically. You can’t exactly just put him back on a plane to Montréal and pretend this didn’t happen.”
Ilya’s thumb stilled briefly against Shane’s hip before resuming its slow, absent circle.
“We wait,” he said at last.
“That’s it?” Luke asked, surprised.
“Da,” Ilya replied. “He wakes up. He remembers where he is. Then we’ll decide what happens next.” He sighed softly. “He’s going to be very, ah—overwhelmed when the concussion clears,” he admitted quietly. “There will be the league, the press, his team, his parents—” he closed his eyes at the thought, shaking his head slightly. “Everything all at once.”
Luke’s expression sobered slightly.
“He’d go along with whatever plan I came up with if I asked him to,” Ilya continued, his voice lower now. “Especially right now, when he is tired and hurting and would rather let someone else think for him.” His hand paused again against Shane’s side. “But I will not decide something like that for him.”
Victor hummed softly under his breath but didn’t open his eyes. Luke shifted slightly, like he’d expected a different answer. Something bolder. Something more reckless. Artos, on the other hand, just nodded slowly, like that made sense. Then he sighed into his crossed arms, frowning slightly. “But what if he wants to go back?”
Ilya’s gaze dropped again to Shane. A strand of dark hair had fallen across his forehead. Without thinking, Ilya brushed it back, his fingers careful not to wake him. Shane made a quiet sound at the contact and shifted closer, his hand tightening reflexively in the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie before settling again.
“Then I will put him on a plane,” Ilya said quietly. “And I will not make it harder than it already is.”
“You really love him, huh?” Luke murmured, leaning even farther over the seat. But his attention snapped away when the bus steps creaked again.
“—you know you don’t need to tell your wife everything,” Ryan muttered as he followed Cliff up the steps, their voices carrying ahead of them. “You’re allowed to have some self-control.”
Cliff didn’t even look up from his phone. “I have loads of self-control,” he said. “Just not about my wife.”
Ryan rolled his eyes, then grinned as he clocked the two rookies perched backward in their seats. He nudged Cliff as they approached, clapping Luke on the shoulder when they came to a stop beside them.
“Ah,” he said dryly. “I see you’ve found our hostage.”
“Oh,” Luke snorted. “Should’a figured you’d have something to do with this.”
Cliff finally glanced up. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “How the hell did you two keep this quiet if you’re like this the moment you get alone?” He flicked a glance at the rookies. “Or almost alone,” he added, frowning. “What the hell are you lot doing?”
Luke straightened instinctively. “We’re ogling Shane Hollander,” he said. “Respectfully.”
Artos nodded. “Very respectfully.”
Ryan grinned. “Aw, you made them blush,” he said, pinching Luke’s cheek until he slapped his hand away. “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. He’s so pretty, huh?” He snorted when Ilya glared at him. “Man, trust Ilya to pull someone like Shane Hollander as his secret boyfriend. Oh! But you should’ve seen Cliff’s face when he realised Hollander’s passport was in his bag. I thought he was actually gonna kiss him.”
Cliff rolled his eyes as he slipped past them to the seats in front of Ilya and Shane. “Fuck off,” he muttered.
Victor cracked one eye open. “You did look a little emotional,” he offered mildly.
Luke blinked between them. “Why would he have his passport in his bag?”
Cliff waved a hand without looking up. “Long story, rookie.”
Ryan laughed and gave Luke’s shoulder a little shake. “Because, apparently, the man travels like he’s expecting to be kidnapped at any moment.” He shot Cliff a sideways look. “And apparently Roz isn’t the only one obsessed with him. Did you know Cliff reads his interviews and actually remembers the shit in them?”
“Oh my god,” Luke breathed. “We’re actually kidnapping Shane Hollander, aren’t we?” He frowned. “Are we gonna get arrested for this? ’Cause my mum specifically said not to get caught if I did anything illegal.”
“It’s not kidnapping if he comes willingly,” Cliff said.
Victor shot him a look. “Ah. So that’s how you’re planning to adopt strays?”
Ilya, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the sleeping weight against him, said quietly, “You will all be quiet now.” His voice was calm, but it carried easily down the aisle, the kind of quiet authority that made people listen before they realised they had.
Luke froze mid-whisper.
Artos sighed and nudged him back down into their seats. “Luke,” he said gently. “You can, uh—freak out later, da?”
“I’m not freaking out,” Luke lied. “I’m being a supportive ally who is totally not freaking out that Shane Hollander is sitting at the back of our bus.”
Ilya closed his eyes briefly, the long-suffering patience of a captain settling over him. When he opened them again, Luke had the decency to look slightly ashamed. Ilya hoped that would be the end of it, but of course it wasn’t. Every few seconds one of them twisted in their seat to sneak another glance toward the back row, whispering to each other in voices that were trying very hard to be quiet and failing spectacularly.
Ilya fixed them with a flat, unimpressed stare until they finally turned back around and behaved.
Behind them, more of the team filtered onto the bus in a slow, exhausted procession. Gear and bags thudded softly into overhead racks. The air filled with the quiet rustle of jackets and the low murmur of tired voices. But most of them fell silent halfway down the aisle, their eyes drifting toward the back row as the same slow realisation settled across their faces when they saw Shane asleep on Ilya’s shoulder.
Someone let out a low whistle.
Someone else muttered, “Holy shit,” under their breath.
A few of the veterans just shook their heads, faint smiles tugging at their mouths as they slid into their seats without comment. Until Patrick paused in the aisle. He took one look at the back row and let out a loud laugh, clapping a hand over his mouth when multiple voices hissed at him to be quiet.
“Jesus,” he muttered, looking around at them all before turning back to Ilya. “You sure you didn’t forget to tell us you got hitched sometime in the last ten years as well?”
“Fuck off,” Ilya muttered, not even looking up.
“What?” Patrick said, spreading his hands. “You rock up after going missing for the whole night looking like a scene from The fucking Notebook.” He snorted. “I swear to god, if you got married and didn’t tell us—”
“No one got married,” Ilya said, his eyes flicking down to Shane’s bruised knuckles.
“Yet,” Ryan muttered helpfully from beside Cliff.
Ilya didn’t even look at him as he said, “I will have you running bag skates until you forget what oxygen feels like.”
Ryan snorted. “Worth it.”
Patrick squinted at them for another second, clearly tempted to keep digging, before shaking his head. “Alright,” he said finally. “I’m not asking any questions I don’t actually want answers to.” He continued down the aisle and dropped into the seat beside Frank.
Frank took one glance over Patrick’s shoulder toward the back row, blinked slowly, and then quietly pulled his hood back up over his face and replaced his earbuds without a comment.
The simplicity of that reaction settled over Ilya with something dangerously close to awe. Because there had been the initial teasing, the raised eyebrows he’d expected—but there were no more questions. No staring. No whispered jokes. Just quiet acceptance, folded neatly into the rhythm of a team too tired to make a spectacle out of something that clearly mattered.
The bus itself was quieter than it usually was. Not silent, exactly. It never was with this many bodies crammed into such a narrow space. But it had settled into the kind of hush that formed when everyone understood, without being told, that something fragile was being protected.
Not that Shane was fragile, Ilya almost smiled at the thought. No. Shane was possibly the strongest person he’d ever met. But strength didn’t mean he never needed to be held. Or that he never needed to be looked after. Especially when he got too far into his own head. When he worked so hard to fold himself into the version of a man hockey expected him to be. When he hid every softer need behind “discipline,” so no one could accuse him of being anything less in a sport that treated softness like a flaw.
Ilya’s thumb brushed slowly over the bruises along Shane’s jaw with his free hand. Here, at least, Shane didn’t have to be that version of himself. There was no Captain Hollander. No Voyageurs number twenty-four. There was just Shane—Ilya’s Shane—who was quiet and soft and a little overwhelmed when the world got too loud.
Someone who forgot how to pretend when he was tired. Who leaned into Ilya’s touch without thinking. Who let himself be held without trying to make it look like strength. Someone who trusted Ilya enough to fall asleep in his arms without worrying about who might be watching.
“Are we actually kidnapping Shane Hollander?” Marcus asked as he stopped in the aisle.
“We’re not kidnapping him,” Cliff repeated, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah. I googled it,” Luke added helpfully. “As long as the person consents, it’s not illegal.”
“Of course you did,” Brad muttered.
“Fuck off, Brad,” the whole bus said in unison.
A splatter of laughter followed as Brad rolled his eyes at the old joke, but it died almost as quickly as it started. Because Shane had frowned faintly in his sleep at the sudden noise, and Ilya’s glare snapped up so fast it was almost violent.
The Bears shrank back into their seats when they caught the look on his face—the sharp edge of it enough to remind everyone exactly why half the league called him The Russian Menace. It wasn’t because he chirped, or because he was damn good at getting under other peoples skin and in their heads. It was because when he decided someone had crossed a line, the consequences were rarely negotiable.
The bus went noticeably quieter.
A moment later, coach LeClaire climbed the steps, phone already in his hand as he drafted an email to the Bears’ PR team. He didn’t look up at first. He just started counting heads automatically as he moved down the aisle, his attention split between the screen and the familiar shapes of his players.
His gaze only lifted when someone made a low, startled sound and scrambled back into their seat. It swept lazily over the bus and snagged on Ilya for half a second. Long enough to register his captain sitting unusually still in the back row, but not long enough to clock the extra body tucked against his side.
Frank’s voice cut across the bus before LeClaire could look any closer. “We’re all here, coach,” he said. Then, with exhausted sincerity, he added, “Can we please just get the fuck out of Montréal?”
LeClaire grunted but kept counting anyway.
Halfway down the aisle, he slowed and frowned. “Why isn’t the music playing?” He asked. “You argued about that stupid playlist for three weeks when I said we were taking the coach. I’m pretty sure it’s the only reason you assholes didn’t riot.”
Someone coughed to cover a laugh. Someone else let out a breath that sounded too loud in the sudden quiet. Elbows nudged ribs as quick, guilty looks passed between them. A few of them glanced instinctively toward the back of the bus, all silently wondering how the hell they were supposed to keep Shane Hollander a secret in the back row.
But Cliff didn’t even lift his head from his phone. “Got a headache, coach,” he muttered, pitching his voice rougher than usual.
“Same,” Ryan added, far less convincingly.
“‘S too early,” Victor mumbled, half asleep.
“Game was brutal,” someone offered from the front. “Fucking Voyageurs, man. Always hate playing against them.”
Shane hummed in quiet, sleepy agreement from the back.
Luke made a small choking noise and immediately tried to pretend it was a cough. “Err, I had too much going on in my head after the game,” he said quickly, eyes wide. “Couldn’t get to sleep after.”
Artos nodded solemnly beside him. “Da. I couldn’t sleep in terrible hotel bed either. It was, ah—what is word?” He frowned, wrestling for the correct phrase in English. “Like waves,” he added, demonstrating the shape in the air with his hand. “Not flat. Is, how you say?”
“A piece of shit?” Patrick offered from the back.
“Da,” Artos said, pointing at him. “Is that.”
In the back row, Ilya barely moved, save for the slow, absent sweep of his thumb against Shane’s hip. His gaze stayed fixed on LeClaire, his shoulders tight. He realised what was happening about three seconds before the rest of the Bears did.
A few of them started to rise from their seats, like they could physically intercept the moment before it unfolded. But LeClaire had already taken another step down the aisle. Then another. He looked up—and stopped the moment his eyes locked onto the unmistakable sight of Shane asleep on Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya very deliberately didn’t tighten his hand at Shane’s waist. Didn’t pull him closer. Didn’t do anything that might read as guilt, panic, or possession. He simply held LeClaire’s gaze and waited for the inevitable questions while Shane kept sleeping, his breathing slow and even where his face pressed into the fabric at Ilya’s collarbone. Every exhale was warm against his skin. Every inhale reminded Ilya, with painful clarity, that Shane was still here.
And that mattered more than whatever happened next.
“Coach,” Ryan said too loudly, jumping to his feet. He winced immediately and dropped into a frantic whisper. “Uh—before you say anything, please just listen to us first, okay? And inside voice,” he added desperately, hands raised like he was trying to talk someone down. “We’re using our inside voices right now. Shane’s, ah—he’s sensitive to noise right now. So no shouting,” he finished weakly. “Please.”
LeClaire blinked at him.
Ilya registered, dimly, that half the team was now nodding with quiet, urgent intensity. A few of them even raised their hands slightly, looking like they were about to confess to something far worse than sneaking a Voyageur onto their bus, just to pull LeClaire’s attention away from the back row.
He felt a strange, sharp flicker of gratitude at that.
“Look. We can explain,” Cliff said quietly, watching as LeClaire’s gaze slid past him again. “Okay, yes,” he admitted with his own wince. “We may have accidentally acquired a very concussed Shane Hollander from Montréal General Hospital. But it’s not as bad as it sounds—”
“Oh my god,” someone whispered.
“—he was cleared for discharge, so the league can’t penalise him for going AMA during concussion protocol,” Cliff rushed on. “And the hospital said he can travel as long as he’s monitored. We have the paperwork,” he added, patting his jacket pocket like he was prepared to produce evidence.
“He’s got a concussion,” Ilya added quietly. “But no, ah—no spinal damage. No fractures or broken bones.” His jaw tightened as he glanced down at Shane. “Someone needs to be with him. And the Voyageurs have already shown how well they protect their captain.” His hand tightened slightly at Shane’s hip, more out of instinct than intention. “He shouldn’t have to deal with them right now.”
LeClaire’s gaze dropped back to Shane. He took in the bruising, the pallor, the way Shane didn’t stir despite the low murmur filling the bus. His eyes lingered on the oversized hoodie, the sleeves pushed halfway up Shane’s forearms. Then his gaze shifted to the arm wrapped around Shane’s waist. To the slow, absent movement of Ilya’s thumb against his hip. To the fact that Ilya hadn’t looked away from him for more than a second since LeClaire had stepped onto the bus.
Some of the heat drained from his expression.
“And the clothes?” He asked.
“He was cold,” Ilya repeated.
A couple of Bears coughed to hide their laughter, but LeClaire didn’t smile. He just stared at Ilya, and for a long moment said nothing, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and the slow, dawning realisation that this wasn’t a joke.
“And you thought,” he said slowly, “the best place for him to recover from a head injury was on my bus.”
“In Boston,” Ilya said, nodding. “Da.”
LeClaire’s left eye twitched. Then he looked past Ilya. Past Shane. Past the back row entirely, like he was counting to ten in his head and had lost track somewhere around four. He scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned quietly. “Tell me,” he said slowly, “that the Montréal coaching staff knows where their captain is.”
Ryan looked at Cliff.
Cliff looked at the ceiling.
LeClaire closed his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You realise,” he continued, reopening them to fix Ilya with a flat, exhausted look, “that if Montréal realises their captain disappeared from the hospital and resurfaced on their rival’s bus, this is going to become my problem.”
No one on the bus seemed brave enough to answer that. Half the team had suddenly discovered an intense interest in their shoelaces, the floor, the ceiling—anything except their coach’s face.
“I already know I’m going to regret asking this,” LeClaire muttered, his eyes still on Ilya. “But does Hollander know where he is right now?”
Shane made a small sound at the mention of his name, his brow furrowing faintly against Ilya’s shoulder.
Ilya’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Not really,” he admitted.
LeClaire closed his eyes again. “Of course he fuckin’ doesn’t.” He sighed heavily and dragged a hand down his face. “How the hell did you even get him here?” He muttered. Then his gaze sharpened again. “You know someone can’t consent when they’re concussed,” he said bluntly. “You’ve had concussions before, Rozanov. You know how foggy it gets. You barely remember half of what happens for the first few hours.”
Ilya didn’t look away. “I didn’t trick him,” he said quietly. “He wanted to come with me.”
“He’s concussed,” LeClaire repeated.
“Da.”
“That’s not helping your argument.”
Ilya inclined his head slightly, accepting that.
“In all fairness,” Ryan said, “the nurses said he’d been asking for Roz before the doctors even finished their exam.”
Cliff nodded. “Yeah. Like—specifically. You should’ve seen his face when Ilya walked into his room—” His eyes shifted, glancing briefly at Ilya and Shane before he turned back to LeClaire. He shrugged. “Hollander definitely wanted to come with Roz. And he’s not so scrambled that he doesn’t, like, recognise people or know what he wants.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that,” LeClaire said. “A concussion doesn’t mean someone forgets their own name. It means their judgment’s shot to hell.” He sighed through his nose and watched them through narrowed eyes. “Why the hell did none of you call literally anyone in Montréal to keep an eye on him?”
He looked around the bus, his gaze narrowing as he took in their guilty expressions. He inhaled slowly. The silence stretched just long enough for the team to start bracing for the moment he started shouting—about their stupidity, about how idiotic the plan to steal their rival’s captain was, or maybe just which one of them he was going to make an example of first.
But then, to everyone’s shock, he started laughing. It wasn’t his usual booming laugh, just a thin, disbelieving wheeze he tried and failed to smother with the back of his hand. “You absolute fucking idiots,” he muttered under his breath, wiping his mouth.
Louder, he asked, “Is he going to throw up on my bus?”
“No,” Ilya said immediately. Then, after a moment, “Uh. Probably not. Maybe.”
“He hasn’t yet,” Cliff said. “And Roz is keeping an eye on him. He’ll be alright. We all know how Ilya worries and tries to cover it up by being an asshole,” he added, grinning when a few of the Bears snorted in agreement. “Look. It’s just a bit of fun to mess with the Voyageurs. Like when the Rangers hid Crosby’s skates. Everyone laughed. No one filed a complaint.” He winced. “Err. Well—mostly.”
LeClaire shot him a look. “That was equipment theft. This is—” He gestured helplessly toward the back row. “Are you trying to tell me you’re attempting to steal another team’s captain as a prank?”
“No,” Ryan said immediately.
“Yes,” Luke said at the exact same time.
Cliff closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “Hollander didn’t want to be alone. Roz didn’t want him to be alone. And they’re, uh—friends. Like really good, close fuckin’ friends. His parents aren’t picking up the phone from fuckin’ Mexico, and he was miserable in that hospital all by himself.” He shrugged helplessly. “So yeah. We stole him.” He looked around the bus with narrowed eyes, like he was daring anyone to tell him it had been the wrong call. “Because fuck the Voyageurs, man.”
LeClaire’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.
“It was a group decision,” Ryan added far too quickly. “It was all very democratic. You’d have been so proud of us, coach. No one raised their voices or spoke over each other. And we’re being supportive. It’s, ah—a team-building exercise. Which you love,” he added. “You know, apart from the bit where we bullied Roz into it. And the part where we broke into the hospital to kidnap—”
LeClaire pointed at him. “You. Shut up. And stop panicking. You’re terrible at it.”
Ryan’s mouth clicked shut immediately, and he dropped back into his seat beside Cliff, looking vaguely relieved.
LeClaire opened his mouth to ask another question, but they all froze when Shane shifted again. They watched him press closer into Ilya’s side, his fingers tightening weakly in the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie as he frowned.
“Ilyusha,” he murmured sleepily. “You said—you said we were going t’ sleep,” he added in Russian. “Turn the noise off and come to bed.”
A few rows up, Artos choked, staring determinedly out the window.
Ilya lowered his head slightly. “I’m right here,” he murmured in Russian. “I’m sorry, solnyshko. I will turn the noise off soon.”
Shane hummed faintly and settled again.
LeClaire snorted despite himself. “He’s still not talking in English?” He murmured, scrubbing a hand over his face before walking the rest of the way down the aisle. He braced one hand on the back of Ilya’s seat and peered at them like the scene might vanish if he blinked too hard.
Fuck it, Ilya thought as he watched him. They could go to one of Shane’s many apartments in Montréal and hide there until the concussion eased enough for him to fly to Boston instead. Though he admitted, quietly to himself, that getting Shane to agree to this terrible plan a second time would probably require Ilya fucking every last scrap of common sense out of his head first.
Which, admittedly, was not the worst plan he’d ever had.
But maybe not a great one.
Or maybe a brilliant one.
“Hm,” LeClaire said, and Ilya saw the exact second the pieces rearranged themselves into something that made sense. “Friends, huh?” He murmured, his mouth twitching into a smile.
“I love him,” Ilya corrected softly.
A few heads snapped toward him with frantic little gestures of no, no, no, but Ilya ignored them, watching as LeClaire exhaled through his nose, long and slow. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t even look offended. He just shook his head once, almost to himself.
“Does he know that?” LeClaire asked.
“Da,” Ilya said, still watching him carefully. “It’s been—a long time. I would be upset if he didn’t know.” His thumb moved once more against Shane’s hip, the motion slow and automatic. “We were eighteen the first time I kissed him,” he added quietly. “He pushed me into a penalty box and told me it was a terrible idea.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But he kissed me back anyway.”
“Please stop being cute,” Victor muttered from across the aisle, still half asleep.
LeClaire’s mouth twitched. “Okay,” he said eventually, leaning back slightly. “That’s a hell of a better fuckin’ reason than a prank,” he added quietly, glancing down the aisle before looking back again. “I caught your post-game interview, y’know? Thought you were just playing it up for the press.”
His gaze drifted to where Ilya’s hand rested at Shane’s hip. To the faint tremor still running through Ilya’s fingers now that the adrenaline was draining away. “But obviously not,” he said with a quiet sigh. Then, dry as ever, he added, “Please tell me you at least brought his fuckin’ passport. Because there’s no way we’re actually smuggling Shane Hollander across the border.”
Cliff’s voice answered, brandishing Shane’s passport like a prize, but Ilya didn’t hear the words over the relief flooding his veins. He was still watching LeClaire, trying to read the shape of this reaction, bracing for it to turn sharp or dismissive.
It didn’t.
Instead, LeClaire rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “I don’t want any more information,” he said. “No. Nope. I’m not asking any questions that will make me legally responsible for whatever the hell this is, Marlow.” He glanced back down the aisle. “Is this why no one’s playing that horrible playlist?”
“Our music is not horrible,” Luke scoffed, crossing his arms as he sank deeper into his seat. “Cardi B is culturally important.”
“So,” Ryan said carefully, “we’re good?”
LeClaire looked at Shane again. Then at Ilya. Then at the entire bus of grown men trying very hard to act like this was completely normal instead of completely insane. A breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh. “If PR asks, I saw nothing. I know nothing,” he said. “And if the Voyageurs call about their missing captain, this bus broke down in Vermont for six hours and we know absolutely nothing about where Shane Hollander is.”
He pointed at Ilya. “You,” he said. “Keep him hydrated. And if he wakes up panicking because he doesn’t know where he is, keep him calm. You hear me? And if he so much as looks worse, you tell me immediately and we go straight to the nearest hospital. I don’t care where we are.”
Ilya nodded.
“Look, Rozanov—Ilya,” LeClaire corrected himself, softer now. “This isn’t Russia, kid. No one’s going to give you shit for this over here. Well, some people might, but they’re all assholes anyway.” His eyes flickered to Shane again. “He’s been through enough with fuckin’ Pelletier as his coach. He deserves something good. And you’re a good kid.”
Ilya wasn’t sure he was what anyone could call “good,” but he forced himself to nod anyway. Because he couldn’t answer that without saying too much. Without admitting what Shane had swallowed for years just to survive that locker room. The slurs passed off as jokes. The expectation to laugh them off. The careful way Shane had erased entire parts of himself until he was something inoffensive and marketable and safe.
LeClaire’s mouth curved into the faintest grin. “Make sure you give him a proper tour of Boston when we get home, yeah?”
Ilya nodded again, and when LeClaire turned and walked back up the aisle the tension drained out of him so abruptly it left him lightheaded. He looked down at Shane again, who was completely unaware that Ilya’s entire life had just, very quietly, been given permission to change.
Ilya bent his head and pressed his mouth gently into Shane’s hair.
“Okay,” he murmured, too soft for anyone else to hear.
CODA: CLIFF
Luke leaned toward Artos and whispered, “We absolutely kidnapped Shane Hollander.”
Artos nodded gravely. “Da.”
“Ugh, can we go now?” Marcus called from the middle rows. “Preferably before Hollander wakes up and Roz is free to try killing us all again. ’Cause, man, he looks pissed right now.”
“His boyfriend’s concussed,” Patrick said. “Leave him alone.”
A couple of the guys laughed, quiet and relieved.
LeClaire opened his mouth to respond, but his phone started ringing in his hand before he could speak. He glanced at the screen and groaned. “Fuckin’ PR,” he muttered, already turning toward the front. “I swear they never fuckin’ sleep. It’s five in the fuckin’ morning. What could be so important they couldn’t write it in a damn email?”
He kept grumbling as he moved up the aisle.
The driver had already climbed into his seat, and LeClaire dropped into the front row behind him to answer the call before it rang out. “Hello?” He said, jaw tight. “No, I haven’t seen social media yet. We’ve only just—” He sighed, rubbing his temples again. “Yes. No. Of course I know public perception is important.”
The bus doors hissed shut. The engine purred to life as they lurched forward, easing out of the lot while the crowd outside surged closer. Phones flashed. Jerseys pressed against the windows. Faces blurred into streaks of colour as they pulled away from the hotel.
A quiet, collective breath of relief moved through the bus.
“Well,” Cliff said into the quiet, “thank fuck for that.”
“I thought you said LeClaire would be cool about it,” Ryan muttered.
“I did,” Cliff said, nodding as he dropped into his seat like a man who’d just outrun a train. “But it was still fifty-fifty how he was actually gonna react.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Honestly, it’s probably only his rivalry with Pelletier that stopped him from ripping us a new one.”
“Hm.” Ryan said quietly. “You really think this is going to work?”
“Yeah,” Cliff grinned, teeth flashing. “What’s the point of stealing Roz’s boy to Boston if no one knows he’s here? There’s no way we’re keeping Shane Hollander off the ice for long,” he added with a frown. “And there was no way we were going to keep it from LeClaire for the whole ride, either. No. He was going to find out eventually. Probably better it happened now.”
“Besides,” he added, “Hollander should get to enjoy the city, right?” He leaned back, warming to the idea. “You ever walk through the South End on a Sunday morning? Pride flags in every window. Couples holding hands like it’s the most boring thing in the world.” He grinned. “The way nobody even blinks if two guys kiss on the sidewalk. Boston’s so aggressively queer it’s almost stupid they’re still hiding.”
Ryan blinked at him. “You’re not just talking about stealing Shane for a couple of days, are you?”
Cliff sighed. “They’ve been hiding for ten fuckin’ years,” he said quietly. “Don’t you think that’s long enough? Roz has been in our locker room, at our weddings, at half these guys’ kids’ christenings—and he never felt safe enough to tell us.” He frowned. “I get why Roz’s boy was hiding in Montréal. They’re all bigoted fuckin’ arseholes. But us?” He shook his head. “Nah. I’m going to make it impossible for Roz to ever leave.”
Ryan frowned. “Cliff. That sounds awfully close to outing them.”
“I’m not gonna fuckin’ out them,” Cliff snapped. “I’m not an asshole. It’s their choice or whatever. I’m just giving them options. And maybe a soft launch.” His eyes narrowed as he considered it. “Maybe I’ll just make those options so aggressively appealing they won’t want to walk away.”
“They?” Ryan asked, eyebrow raised.
Cliff rolled his eyes. “Ugh, yes, them. Roz’s boy is a nightmare to play against, but—c’mon. You can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to play on the same team as Shane Hollander.”
Ryan stared at him. “Oh my god. You’re actually trying to recruit hi,.” He pointed at Cliff. “You laughed at Roz for doing the same thing last night, and now you’re actually doing it.”
“I’m just trying to create a welcoming environment,” Cliff huffed. “If that environment happens to include a conveniently open roster spot—” He lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug. “Well.”
“But we don’t have an open spot,” Ryan said, confused.
“Our first line’s been shaky since Price left last season,” Cliff replied. “And yeah, Hollander plays centre right now. Roz would rather die than give that up, even to him. But between the two of them? Hollander’s the one who could shift positions without it rattling him.”
“Look. I’m not trying to be subtle here,” he continued, voice dropping into a near-whisper. “I’m being practical. If we want Shane to stay in Boston, we need to give him a reason to. And no offence to Roz, but hockey’s going to be a big part of that.”
Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face. “You do realise he’s still the captain of the Voyageurs, right?”
Cliff snorted. “When has Shane Hollander ever cared about doing what he’s supposed to?”
“Err—always?” Ryan said. “He’s Shane Hollander.”
“Yeah. Well. Shane Hollander has also been in a secret relationship with Roz for ten years. I think it’s a pretty safe bet he’s a little different than he lets people think.”
“You really think he’d actually leave Montréal?” Ryan asked quietly.
Cliff’s grin softened into something more thoughtful. “I think—a guy doesn’t spend ten years hiding the love of his life unless the place he’s in makes that feel necessary,” he said slowly. “And I think if someone shows him it doesn’t have to be like that, he might start asking himself some questions.”
“Hm,” Ryan said, smiling faintly. “Yeah. Roz isn’t exactly subtle about wanting him to stay.”
“No,” Cliff agreed softly. “He’s not.”
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the engine and the occasional rattle from the overhead bins.
“Do you think Shane has figured it out yet?” Ryan asked.
Cliff huffed a quiet breath. “No fuckin’ chance. Look at him.” He tipped his chin toward the back row where Shane was still curled against Ilya’s shoulder, breathing slow and even while Ilya’s hand moved in quiet, absent circles at his hip.
“Roz is probably right to wait until his head’s clear before telling him,” Cliff admitted quietly. “That’s not a conversation you drop on someone with a concussion.”
Ryan followed his gaze. Shane barely stirred when the bus shifted into gear, his grip tightening briefly in the fabric of Ilya’s hoodie before settling again. Cliff watched the steady, absent movement of Ilya’s thumb for a moment longer.
“Though,” Cliff added more quietly, “Roz seems to know exactly how to handle him. You don’t get that comfortable with someone unless you’ve loved ‘em for a long time.”
Ryan glanced back too. “It’s almost sweet.”
“It’s fuckin’ tragic,” Cliff corrected. “Ten years is a long time to think you’re alone.”
The thought lingered with him far longer than he’d expected. It sat heavy in his chest as the bus hummed around them, and his thoughts inevitably began to thin into something quieter, more reflective. Almost without thinking, he angled his phone through the gap between the seats to steal a quick picture before anyone could pose or pull away.
Cliff hesitated, his gaze drifting past the screen to where Ilya sat with Shane folded into him.
Ilya’s eyes narrowed on him, instantly suspicious. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Cliff tilted the screen so he could see. It was a quiet photo, just the two of them in the back row of the bus. Shane half-curled into Ilya’s side. Ilya’s hand steady at his waist. But Ilya stared at it longer than Cliff expected.
Maybe, Cliff thought, because there just weren’t any pictures of them like that. Not anywhere. Maybe there were a few buried deep in their camera rolls, taken late at night and deleted before anyone could see. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly what they’d done to keep their relationship hidden.
He tried to imagine what it would feel like to have ten years of loving someone with no record of how you’d grown together. No milestones caught in bad lighting. No accidental candids. Nothing you could point to and say, “we were here, and we were so fucking happy.”
He thought of Cassie. Of the thousands of photos cluttering his phone. Her asleep on the couch. Her laughing with a drink in her hand. Her flipping him off from across a kitchen he’d renovated badly. A whole life documented without thinking twice about it.
And these two had none of that.
Sure, there were photos of Rozanov and Hollander everywhere. Across rinks. Across seasons. Mid-chirp. Mid-glare. A thousand frozen moments of distance and carefully performed rivalry. But there was nothing that looked like this. Nothing that showed what they looked like when no one was watching.
“It’s a good picture,” Cliff said quietly, before hesitating. It would be easy enough to delete it. To pretend it had never happened. But something about that felt like helping the world pretend this part of their lives didn’t exist. “I could post it,” he offered, trying to keep his voice light. “That crowd’s probably already online talking about how we kidnapped their captain. We might as well, ah—confirm or deny?”
“Shit, man,” Ryan murmured as he glanced at the photo. “There’s no way in hell anyone can deny you’re friends if they saw that.” He let out a low whistle. “It’s cute,” he added, his nose scrunching up even as he grinned. “But it’s hardly fuckin’ platonic or whatever you’re trying to sell.”
Cliff rolled his eyes. “It’s a good picture.”
“Yeah,” Ryan agreed.
Both of them watched as Ilya shifted up from where he’d been slouched in the seat, adjusting Shane more securely against his shoulder without waking him. For a moment he said nothing, simply staring at the image on Cliff’s screen.
Something about it made Ilya’s chest ache. Maybe it was how unapologetic and soft Shane looked in the photo. Or maybe it was the way he was folded into Ilya’s side, as if the years between them had finally collapsed into something uncomplicated for once.
Ilya looked tired beside him, half slumped in his seat with Shane leaning against him. Which wasn’t surprising after playing a full game and then staying up long enough to kidnap Shane first from the hospital and then from Montréal itself. The light caught his eyes at a strange angle, making them look bluer than he remembered them being.
But there was something softer there too, something that never existed when cameras were pointed at him in public.
And Ilya knew, with uncomfortable certainty, that Shane would hate it. Not the photo itself. Shane had never minded how Ilya looked at him. But once something like that existed out in the world, it couldn’t be taken back. Shane had spent ten years making sure the world never saw them like this—but he couldn’t even argue about it now, not when he was concussed and half asleep, barely aware of where he was.
Ilya knew all of that.
He could list every reason it was a bad idea. Just like he knew that if Shane were clear-headed, he’d probably make Cliff delete the photo before the thought ever crossed his mind to post it. Even if Ilya would catch that familiar sadness in his eyes later, when he refused to look at his own phone where they’d erased a hundred pictures that looked exactly like this one.
The thought made something tighten painfully in Ilya’s chest. Because he had spent ten years loving Shane and pretending it was something else. Ten years of cameras catching every glare, shove, and smirk between them on the ice while the truth never made it into a single frame.
Just this once, Ilya thought. Because surely just one picture wouldn’t hurt?
“He will hate it,” Ilya said quietly. His thumb moved once more against Shane’s hip, slow and absent. Then his mouth curved, small and stubborn. “Da,” he murmured. “Yes. Do it.”
Cliff posted it a second later, letting the internet glimpse two exhausted hockey players tangled together in the back of a team bus, without a hint of rivalry in sight.
Cliff Marlow posted a new image to instagram:
Completely hypothetical…but which is more impressive? Stealing Crosby’s skates, or stealing Shane Hollander from the @Montréal_Voyageurs?
Cliff’s phone started buzzing almost immediately.
Ryan leaned over his shoulder, already grinning. “Oh, this is gonna be chaos,” he said gleefully, watching the comments multiply on the screen. They were coming so fast the screen jittered as it refreshed, and Cliff was half convinced the glass might actually crack under the pressure.
There were already blue checks scattered throughout the thread. Other players. Analysts. Fans. A couple of celebrities who had clearly never watched a full hockey game in their lives but loved the aesthetic. Someone had already zoomed in on the placement of Ilya’s hand and drawn a red circle around it in the shape of a heart.
Cliff was almost certain he saw Rose Landry’s name flash past with a string of hearts, but it vanished almost immediately beneath the flood of incoming comments before he could confirm it. Then former Bear Ryan Price dropped a single wide-eyed emoji. Scott Hunter posted three fire emojis and nothing else, which somehow felt louder than an entire paragraph.
And then Hayden Pike arrived in the comments.
Hayden_Pike replied to Cliff Marlow’s post:
Did you assholes actually kidnap Shane?
A moment later, from the same account:
Someone please explain to me HOW my best friend vanished from his hospital bed and reappeared on the BEARS bus?
I left him alone for ONE NIGHT.
He has a fucking concussion.
I swear to god, if Rozanov is behind this, tell him I’m getting on the first fucking plane to Boston just so I can fight him in his own fucking city.
Also…why is he wearing Boston merch. Explain that part to me slowly.
And then, a few seconds later:
Actually, fuck all of that. If he asked to go with you I’m going to be so unbelievably mad at him.
Followed by:
Someone just tell me he’s fucking conscious.
And that you didn’t CARRY him onto that bus.
Ryan cackled as he read the rapidly incoming comments. “Oh my god, he’s spiralling,” he said, delighted.
Cliff’s shoulders shook as he scrolled. “Wait, wait—isn’t that Pike’s wife?”
Ryan leaned in closer. “Oh my god, it is.”
Jackie Pike replied to Cliff Marlow’s post:
Shane. Sweetheart. Just blink twice if you’re being held against your will.
A second line followed almost immediately.
@Hayden_Pike, stop threatening people in comment sections.
Also, if you’re reading this, Shane...bring me back a cannoli from the North End. The good ones please, not the tourist ones.
The bus dissolved into loud laughter, but Ilya wasn’t paying them any attention. Not to the phone, the picture, or the comments. He was looking at Shane—half slumped into his side, hoodie pulled up, lashes resting against his cheekbone.
“You are going to yell at me, solnyshko,” Ilya murmured under his breath, fond and unapologetic all at once. But Shane only shifted in his sleep, pressing closer as Ilya’s thumb moved in a slow, absent circle over the curve of his hip.
The internet would likely spin it into headlines before they reached Boston. Ilya had no doubt it would curdle into crude debates about tampering and professionalism and narrative control. Panels of boring white men who had never shared a bus seat would dissect their body language through a screen like it was a penalty call and not two people existing without permission.
Or fans who thought they had the right to own the story of them. Who mistook access for entitlement, and chemistry for something they could vote on.
Ilya refused to let that matter.
Because even if no one else understood what it truly meant, for the first time in ten years there was proof that Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander had once been this close without pretending otherwise. Proof, Ilya thought, that the rivalry had never been the whole story. That beneath the noise and the bruises and the bright arena lights, there had always been someone else they chose to protect first.