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“Shane, you’ve been involved in a pretty intense rivalry with Rozanov since you were both drafted. This game marks the first time you’ll ever play on the same team. How do you think that rivalry will translate on the ice?”
Ilya stills. They’ve both been roped into doing some press before the game, so he’s standing close enough to Shane to hear the question.
Seeing him react to the question, the journalists around him pause, and he could swear they all start honing in, probably hoping for a good soundbite.
Shane seems to take a second to think about his answer, and it’s enough to get Ilya’s heartbeat pulsing faster.
There’s something different about Hollander ever since they’ve made it to Tampa for the All-Star game. He’s clearly more comfortable in his own skin, and somehow, Ilya’s pretty sure it has little to do with the new wardrobe. In fact, it feels like it’s the other way around. Like the wardrobe upgrade is the result of the change in confidence, and not the cause of it. It’s also one of the only times where Ilya can remember Shane being the one to not only seek him out, but also do it in public. He’d just walked in, sat down next to Ilya, and from that moment on, it was as though the reinforced brick wall that had been standing between them for years was simply gone.
Ilya’s pretty sure Shane showed more vulnerability in that single discussion than in any of their clandestine meetings. He was self-assured and flirty in a way that was wholly new.
Between that and the news that Shane wasn’t dating Rose Landry anymore, Ilya feels both elated and completely off balance.
“The rivalry is real, but there’s something people always seem to forget. Rozanov and I have been playing against each other since we were seventeen, and we’ve been compared and contrasted since we were fifteen or sixteen?” He glances at Ilya, who nods. “Fifteen, I think.”
Shane goes on. “I’m going to sound arrogant, which is usually his gig, but I don’t have many peers on the ice. Rozanov is the only player in existence I can really go head-to-head with. We’ve been trading first and second place in pretty much everything since the day we met. I’m a competitive guy, so I’ll admit that winning against him makes me really happy, but I’ll also say there isn’t a player I’ve spent more time studying.” Shane says, glancing at Ilya.
Ilya can’t help but glide a little closer.
“I’ve spent my career learning to read him on the ice so I can win. I’m as curious as anyone as to how that’s going to translate, working together instead of against each other. Since he’s agreed to move to the right wing for the game, we’ll be on the same line, and I’m sort of sorry for the poor saps on the other side.”
“Rozanov? Do you want to comment?” The journalist prods him, and Ilya moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Shane.
“What he said.” He answers with a smirk, remembering a much earlier press conference where Hollander had stepped in to help him out. He shifts his weight and taps his foot against Shane. A glance tells him he’s not the only one remembering.
Shane is shaking his head, an amused grin on his face.
Ilya desperately wants to kiss that grin off. Unless he’s reading things wrong, and there’s little chance he is, he’ll get the opportunity to soon enough.
“Hollander is best player to beat. It will be fun to play with him for once.” He adds a little more seriously.
“We’re sort of an exclusive club. Honestly, the only person in the league who can understand my life is standing right there being a smug asshole. We’re both considered generational players, we have the same type of pressure to succeed on our shoulders, and we’re both pretty much guaranteed to get asked about the other at least once a week.” Shane jokes. “I think some of the rivalry has been a little overblown. Maybe it was true when we were hotheaded teenagers with something to prove, but I’ve certainly grown up since then. I’d say we’re more frenemies than true rivals.”
Ilya raises a brow at that comment. What is Shane trying to do here?
“Are you saying you’re friends?” A journalist blurts out.
Shane shakes his head. “Look. There’s enough hate in the world already. I’ll always enjoy beating his ass, and I don’t have a problem admitting I get a rush every time I do, but I’ll also enjoy the trash texting and having someone around good enough that I have to actually get better so I can win. Honestly, having someone to bitch at or with is pretty great.”
Ilya can’t help himself. “Is weird. Usually, I would say something like he has no chance to win tonight. I’m better. But we’re on same team.”
The crowd chuckles.
“How about this? I’m really looking forward to outscoring you tonight, Rozy. I’m sure I’ll really appreciate the assists.” Shane all but taunts him with a smirk.
Ilya shakes his head mockingly. “Poor delusional Hollander. I score more tonight.”
“Remind me who has more Stanley Cups again?” Shane turns back to the watching journalists. “Clearly, we’re still as competitive as ever.”
“Is that what the trash texting is like?” Ilya can’t see who asks the question, but he has no intention of answering.
Shane doesn’t seem to have the same problem. “Depending on who’s ahead in points, it can get a lot less PG-rated. I also think using cyrillic alphabet to bitch me out is a bit of a cheat. Sorry, Rozanov.”
Oh fuck. Everything Shane has just said is true, but it’s certainly out of context, and it doesn’t come close to encompassing the breadth of their texting. He has to get out of there before he either starts laughing or drops to his knees in front of Shane.
“You’re Canadian, of course, you would apologize.” He says. Shane must have seen something on his face and realized it was time to go because he looks back at the crowd.
“Time to wrap this up, guys. We’ve got a game to get ready for, and I need to remind Rozanov exactly which one of us got chosen as the captain for this team.”
Ilya is surprised when Shane starts subtly herding him out, but he’s too stunned to complain.
Or too turned on. Hard to tell, really.
He waits until they’re almost back to the locker room before he speaks up. “What the fuck was that?”
“Don’t you ever get tired of the same bullshit over and over again? The second I sat down beside you at the bar, every eye in the room was on us, expecting a fight or an argument. The moment we’re in the same room, on or off the ice, they’re all waiting for us to explode.”
Shane starts reaching for him before he remembers and stops himself. “If anyone turns a corner and sees us talking, there’ll be a fucking alert that there’s going to be trouble. One, it’s never been true, even at the very beginning, even when we’re pissed, and two, that’s not the kind of guy I am. We might have a little too much fun checking each other into the boards, but we’ve never fought each other physically. Outside of chirping, we don’t even argue in public that much.”
Ilya aches to feel those fingers on his skin. “No. You’re boring Canadian. Except against Scott Hunter, yes?” He says instead of reaching back. Ilya knows, just as well as Shane does, why they don’t fight in public. It would be immensely harder to hide their connection if they did. They’re too familiar with each other’s bodies, have mapped the lines of muscles and scars in ways they couldn’t justify. They’re both also aware of how easy it would be to slip up and divulge a little too much if they got into a heated argument around other people. They’ve been doing this for too long not to know the sore spots.
Truth is, they don’t really fight in private either. Despite the competition and their wildly different personalities and backgrounds, they have a lot more things in common than people would believe. They’ll freeze each other out, or there’ll be more of an edge to their chirping, but that’s usually as far as they ever take it.
Shane flushes at the mention of the fight with Scott Hunter, which is enough to make Ilya curious.
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you before trying to change the narrative. It’s your life and your reputation, too.” Shane changes the subject, and Ilya hums in answer. “We could meet after the game? Talk it through?” He offers, and Ilya can only send him a smirk before looking him up and down, very obviously checking him out. The flush deepens, but Ilya doesn’t think it’s from embarrassment, which is another very interesting development.
Still-.
“How about a little bet? Remember Vegas?”
Something bleak and a little dark flashes over Shane’s face. “Yeah, I don’t think we remember that night the same way. Might not be the best reference.”
Ilya frowns. “What do you mean?”
Shane shakes his head. “Nothing I’m willing to discuss, especially in a hallway right before a game.”
Ilya puts a pin in the thought, promising himself to get back to the subject eventually. He’s clearly missing something, and he really doesn’t like it.
But time’s limited, and Shane’s right. This isn’t the place or the time for any sort of private discussion. They’re already tempting faith by having this talk in public, because Shane’s right when he says the mere fact of them standing together would cause reactions.
“How about one with less points gets on his knees?” He proposes instead. It’s very low stakes, but they both get off on the competition, so it’s still worth it.
Shane smirks and steps into Ilya’s space. His voice is low when he says. “Given how much we both like to get on our knees, no one’s losing anything.” This time, the darkness is definitely heat, and the sight of it, compounded by the feel of that hard body so close, sends a shiver across his back. “But I’ll take that bet. Bring it.”
Shane steps back with something knowing in that dark gaze that has Ilya swallowing hard before he follows the other man into the locker room.
Most of their temporary teammates are already in uniform, and it doesn’t take long for the two of them to finish suiting up. Proving Shane’s point about the rivalry, their stalls have been placed as far opposite each other as possible, and Ilya finds himself grateful because only the knowledge that it would be impossible not to get caught staring keeps his eyes averted. Shane has always been one of the most gorgeous people he’s ever met, along with the hottest, and Ilya has certainly never been able to resist him.
“Listen up.” Shane steps forward, and Ilya swallows. He’s only ever seen Shane acting as captain from the opposite side, and the up close and personal version he has in front of him has him thanking the layers of equipment that help conceal the effect it has on him.
He’s always known the other man was compelling, and Shane Hollander’s reputation for leadership is nearly peerless. No one was surprised when he was named captain of this team, despite his age. Ilya has never outright doubted the rumors, but his own personal interactions with the man have lowered some of his expectations. While he would never call Shane submissive, the other man absolutely gets off on giving up control to Ilya. He takes orders beautifully, but Ilya has long since had an inkling that he was the exception rather than the norm.
The man standing in front of him is not only in control, he’s also magnetic with it. Every player in the room is spellbound, and Ilya is no different. He’s seen the way people straighten up whenever Shane walks into a room, but this is next level, from the most experienced veteran to the newest rookie.
If there’s a part of him mindlessly wondering if he could get Shane to replicate the attitude in a more intimate context, well, no one has to know.
“Everyone knows who’s winning this game. We know. The other side knows. The press and the public know it too.” He looks at each man in turn, holding their gaze for a few seconds. If he lingers on Ilya a beat longer than on anyone else, it would probably be chalked down to either that fucking rivalry, or, once the soundbites are made public, on the newly outed friendship. “Doesn’t mean we don’t do our best. I say we teach them a lesson.” Shane smiles a little predatorily, and Ilya has rarely been as attracted to someone as he is right then.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I plan to have fun tonight. So let’s go fuck’em up, and don’t forget to enjoy the game.”
The room is amped up, particularly for a game that has no impact on rankings. They all file out, bumping Shane’s offered fist. Ilya lingers a few seconds too long, meeting and holding that dark, steady gaze. “They’re probably going to regret putting us on the same team, so it might be the only shot we get at playing together. Think we should show them just what we can do?” Shane asks.
Ilya’s voice is a low rasp when he answers. “Yes captain.”
**
Shane wins the bet.
If Ilya thought playing against Shane Hollander was the greatest rush of his regular season, playing with him is a wet dream come true.
Shane had been right when he’d mentioned being curious how those hours of studying each other would translate tonight.
Ilya couldn’t give an estimate of the time he’s spent watching tapes of Shane on the ice. He hasn’t been able to watch a live game in person since the 2014 Olympics, and there’s more than one reason for that. Watching the precise play Shane is renowned for rarely fails to get him half hard. Doing it in public has always felt dangerous, but he could watch in the privacy of his own home without fear of disclosing too much.
Tonight, all that time spent studying each other’s game paid off.
They were pure magic on the ice. Ilya has heard more than a few mutters about them sharing a brain cell for the evening, but the truth of it is in how well they know each other. Working together feels like foreplay, and just like it does in the privacy of hotel rooms and stolen moments, they move together effortlessly. They can read each other’s body language and somehow manage to always know exactly where the other one is.
It pays off, and Ilya is buzzing with the thrill of it for hours. He thinks he might just have played the best hockey of his life, and the thought of the upcoming meeting with Shane is keeping him amped up.
Showering is an exercise in self-control. It reminds Ilya sharply of that CCM shoot, and it would be nostalgic if he weren’t having so much trouble controlling both his libido and his eyes.
They’ve shared a lot of showers throughout the years, often using them for a second round before one of them left. If he concentrates hard enough, he can pick out the familiar smell of Shane’s bodywash, and knows all too well how that golden skin would look, wet and under his own hands. But this is only the second public shower they’ve shared, and unfortunately, Ilya’s body has a bit of a Pavlovian response when it comes to Shane and showers (does it still count as Pavlovian when the reflex had always been there, even that very first time?)
Better to avoid looking, because a single glimpse would pretty much blow their secret wide open.
Sending his room number to Jane is the work of seconds, but he can’t stop himself from looking at Shane when he sees the man reach for his phone. He catches the flash of a smirk a second before Shane glances at him, offering the barest hint of a nod in answer.
Getting to his room, however, is almost as hard as keeping his eyes to himself. Everyone wants to talk to one or both of them, either about the pre-game press junket or about the game itself.
They work the room together. Sometimes separating for conversation, but always gravitating back to one another’s side eventually.
Ilya’s always had a sort of preternatural sense of where Hollander was in any room they happened to share, and tonight is no exception. Being able to pinpoint when the other man needs backup is new, though.
But they both do. And here too, they seem to complement each other. Their tolerance levels to different people or questions are wildly different, but they find ways to tag in the other one whenever they get impatient with a conversation.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Shane leans into him, his voice pitched in a way that cuts through the noise but still gives them some privacy. “I’ve got about thirty minutes before I murder someone. You could head out, and I’ll follow within that thirty?” He says.
Given how impatient Ilya’s been to get his hands on him, that half hour feels a little too long, but they can’t leave together, and he knows he needs to leave first if he wants to limit the amount of time Shane spends in the hallway outside his room. Keeping his hands to himself takes a Herculean effort when all he wants is to touch, so he simply nods and starts making his way out.
It takes a very long twenty-five minutes for the knock to finally come.
The moment it does, Ilya has the door open and is tugging Shane into the room.
A push has Shane pressed against the wall before he could blink, and Ilya on his way down to his knees. This is the first time they’ve been alone together since what Ilya has privately dubbed ‘The Tuna Melt Clusterfuck,’ and he’d started to believe it would never happen again.
“Fuck.” Shane gasps out, his fingers sinking into Ilya’s hair.
He knows he’s a bit rough as he opens up Shane’s pants, but he feels more than a little desperate, and Shane doesn’t seem to mind.
Ilya swallows him down to the root the moment he has access. It’s made a little easier by Shane not being at full mast yet, but that doesn’t last. He has one hand pressed to Shane's hip to keep him in place against the wall, while the other one glides up under the flowery fabric and across the hard planes of Shane’s chest.
The shirt is impeding his sight, and he tries to push it up, but since he has no intention of stopping what he’s doing, it’s entirely ineffectual. Something must still translate to Shane, who bites back a moan and undoes a few buttons, just enough to allow himself to tug the offending garment over his head, dropping it to the ground. His hands move back, one carefully holding the back of Ilya’s head, the other grasping his shoulder almost desperately, nails digging in.
The dichotomy is hot as fuck, and Ilya hopes Shane will leave marks on his skin. He groans, the mere idea of it heating up his blood, and buries his nose in the neat patch of pubic hair, swallowing around Shane.
“Roz.” It’s breathy and not quite the name he’s been dreaming of hearing again, but it’s still enough to send a shiver of heat down his spine.
The blowjob might be one of the sloppiest he’s ever given, but he can’t seem to be able to get enough. Not enough of the familiar taste, not enough of the whispered curses falling out of Shane’s mouth.
He wants everything the other man has to give. Ilya looks up and finds Shane staring down at him, lip half bitten.
“I won’t last.” He can see Shane swallow. “I need you to fuck me.”
He gives a minute shake of his head. As desperate as he is to come, and as much as he wants to bury himself in Shane’s ass, he thinks he might need this more. He’s pretty sure he can coax another round out of the man anyway. Instead of answering, he drops the hand he’s been groping at Shane’s chest with to his own pants and frees himself, moaning at the first touch of his own hand.
“Fuck.” Shane can clearly see exactly what he’s doing, and he arches his back in a way Ilya is intimately familiar with. It’s a surefire way to tell Shane is close to the edge, his body chasing that last little push before he comes.
When it happens, Ilya’s climax is about a second behind Shane’s. He swallows every last drop, greedy for more.
The wave is barely receding when Shane hauls him up. He might be smaller than Ilya, but he’s no less strong, and if he wasn’t still shaking with the force of his orgasm, the effortless way he’s being manhandled might have finished him off instead.
Shane tugs him into a deep, hungry kiss, and Ilya lets himself fall into it. When it ends, it’s with both of them held close together, foreheads pressed, and still panting. “You fucker, I really wanted to feel you in me,” Shane complains, and Ilya smirks. “Night still young. Time for more.”
Shane gives a whisper of a groan. “Besides. Had bet to settle.” Ilya’s answer prompts a chuckle.
“I’m usually the one who gets on my knees that fast,” Shane comments with a tiny bit of hesitation. It’s technically true, but a lot of the time, Shane is merely faster than Ilya. He has absolutely no problem admitting how much he likes sucking off the other man. That’s also been true since their very first time, back when Shane couldn’t last long against the onslaught.
“Was very hot today.” Ilya raises his head and meets those questioning brown eyes. “I needed this. Been thinking about it all weekend.” He finally says. This time, the brush of lips is whisper soft.
“Me too,” Shane confesses.
Ilya palms the back of his head, tilting Shane’s up a little. “Bed?”
He gets a nod and a kiss.
They both finish getting rid of the remaining clothes they’re still wearing, Ilya wiping his hand clean on his own discarded shirt.
Shane makes a face at the sight, but doesn’t bother commenting.
Ilya opens the bed and pushes Shane into it, draping himself over him as soon as he has the other man where he wants him.
He feels skin hungry still, and since Shane doesn’t comment, simply raising a hand to start playing with Ilya’s curls, it’s pretty clear he doesn’t mind the position.
They lay there for several long minutes, Ilya basking in the moment.
Finally, he can feel Shane seemingly brace himself. “Can we talk?”
Ilya stills at the request, unable to stop himself.
Shane gives a little tug on the curls. “Or at least I have some things I need to say, and I’d appreciate it if you could listen? You don’t have to say anything.”
Ilya breathes out. It’s not even that he’s surprised. Given everything that has happened since the last time they’d been together, something like this was bound to happen.
He just thought he’d have more time.
“Da.”
“I have a story to tell you.”
This isn’t going the way he’s been expecting, but Ilya nods.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy. The boy was raised as the child of four cultures and in three languages. He grew up loved and insulated from the world’s harshness, at least until he was old enough to start school. That’s where it started. See, the boy’s grandparents came from Japan when his mom was a kid herself, and they settled in Montreal. They spoke Japanese and enough English to get by, but no French. It was important to them that their children find their places in this new country, and that started with learning the language. So their three kids were put in the Quebec French school system. They grew fluent, and while the parents learned the language through them, Japanese was still the language of home.” Shane stops himself, pressing a kiss to the top of Ilya’s head. “The boy’s mother met and fell in love with a native English speaker, but since Canada takes bilingualism seriously, they were both comfortable in each other’s language.”
“For the boy, the language of home was a mix of all three. His parents used mostly English with each other, but his mother would use French with her brothers and their wives, and Japanese with her own parents. So when it came time for the boy to start school, there was a discussion on which system would be better. Living in Ottawa made it easier to choose either one. They finally decided on French schooling. The written language is harder to learn, and since they used English at home, it would give the boy a good chance at being completely fluent in both languages, hopefully helping him integrate with other children.”
Ilya glances up and sees that Shane seems to be looking at something far away.
“Only, no matter the language, children aren’t kind. The boy was too white for the asian kids, and too asian for the white ones. It was an early lesson on cruelty that would only settle deeper with time. His dad had played hockey in University, and it’s how he’d met the boy’s mother, so they put skates on the kid as soon as he had some sort of balance, thinking it would give him a built-in group of friends.”
Helpless, Ilya can do nothing but press a kiss to Shane’s chest, moving so he could look at him more easily. The fingers in his hair didn’t stop their motion.
“Hockey was easy. It made sense when very little else did outside of his family. And the boy was good. The sort of good that got him noticed.” Shane looks down and offers the shadow of a smirk. “By the time he stepped onto a plane to Regina for the World Junior Championship, he’d learned several life lessons. The main one, the one that would stay in the back of his mind for years to come, was that being different was dangerous. His race, his language proficiency, and his abilities on the rink could all be liabilities as much as assets. They all kept him apart from the rest of his peers.” Shane takes a moment to breathe before continuing. “He’d been all but living in locker rooms for years before puberty hit, along with the first inkling that girls would be problematic, and he’d heard the slurs before he understood what they meant. He was already the target of some pretty intense bullying, and he couldn’t deal with another thing that would mark him as different. From that one lesson on the risks of being different came a few others. If you became the best at what you did, if you were indispensable, it would help keep you safer because people would be invested in what happened to you. Of course, the kid hadn’t realized that being indispensable was a double-sided coin, but that understanding would eventually come.”
It aches, and some things are slowly starting to take shape in Ilya’s mind that are breaking his heart.
“Making himself small and unremarkable off the ice helped. Don’t make waves, don’t create scandals, be polite, work hard, keep quiet.” There’s something darkly amused in that gaze that Ilya doesn’t like. “Be boring.”
Oh, how that one hurts.
“The kid was short for his sport of choice despite being over average for half of his genetic pool. He also had a body type that tended to be lean unless he put some serious work into it. His coaches had him on an intense physical training regimen and specialized dieting by the time he was a teenager, all in the hope of bulking him up. All that attention meant it only took a couple of black eyes appearing after a game before his parents put him in self-defense classes.”
“Shane.” He whispers, something lodged in his throat. He gets a kiss to the forehead in answer, and it’s so tender, he has to blink against the onslaught of feelings.
“Wait, the next part is where it gets interesting.”
Ilya’s starting to doubt that very much.
“Within six months of boarding that plane to Regina, the boy had learned a few new lessons. Despite what he’d been hearing for most of his life, he wasn’t the best hockey player. He wasn’t drafted first, against everyone’s expectations. The guy who had, the one he’d been hearing about for years, was just as good as rumors said. He was also hard to look away from. As the boy sat on the floor of a hotel gym, struggling not to stare too much, not to lean forward and taste the infuriating smirk he was getting, he realized just how fucked he was.” There’s a little tug on his hair, and Ilya lets himself lean into it, remembering that night.
Newly eighteen and high on knowing he’d been first pick, on knowing he would be able to get out of Russia, away from his family. Beating Hollander had already felt like a rush, and yet, nothing had prepared him for that moment in the gym. He can still see Shane, some childhood roundness still present in his face, but already the sort of stunning that was rare to see in person. He’d been leaner then, but his sweat-soaked clothing had displayed hard muscle that had made Ilya a little hungry.
He’d been an asshole to the other boy, just like he’d been in Saskatchewan, and he’d known it. There was something about the dark eyes and the scatter of freckles across cheekbones and the bridge of a nose that had made English even harder to grasp. He’d wanted to lick at the sweat pooling in the hollow of a throat, wanted to strip the other boy out of his clothing and see if all that gorgeous skin was equally flushed.
He’d gone back to his room, where bringing himself off in the shower had been embarrassingly easy. He’d tried to convince himself it had everything to do with looks and with beating Hollander for the second time in a row and nothing to do with how it had felt, meeting those eyes.
With the hindsight of eight years and dozens of hotel rooms, he knows better. Still, something had changed after that late-night meeting, and it had taken him a while to realize it.
“No matter what I did, what I told myself, I couldn’t stay away.” Shane continues, the switch to first person jarring. “The sex was too good, no matter how often I thought you were an asshole or how often I swore it would be the last time. I’d still all but throw myself at my phone every time I thought you might be texting me. I’d still arrange my schedule around our games against each other, no matter how much I hated doing it. I shattered myself once or twice. Cared too much from far earlier than I should be willing to admit. Let things happen when I should have spoken up for my own well-being.” Shane’s other hand joins the one combing through his hair.
“I was just coasting through it on autopilot, bullshitting myself into thinking it was casual. Until you asked me to stay. I wanted to, more than nearly anything, but I knew it was also the one thing that could destroy me. Fuck. You cooked for me. Just happened to have on hand a drink I know you don’t like and would have no reason to keep in your place. You talked to me, and you held me like I mattered. It was-” Shane stops himself. There’s so much swimming in those dark eyes, and Ilya’s helpless. He hauls himself until he can press his mouth to Shane’s.
It’s gentle and achingly perfect. He closes his eyes, sinking into the kiss. It doesn’t last long, but it shakes the entire foundation on which he’s built his defenses against this man. “Sweetheart.” The Russian slips out before he can hold it back. He turns them on their side, hooking his leg over Shane in an attempt to keep him close. The other man lets him do it, picking up his train of thought. “When you used my name, it was like waking up from a long dream. Suddenly, I realized I was in way too deep, that I’d ignored every lesson I’d ever learned.”
“So you ran,” Ilya says.
“I ran. And while I ran, I met a woman. Probably the first woman I’ve actually liked. Someone who likes me back. Who understood the pressure of the public eye, but who could stand with me under all those stares. Someone who would allow me to not be different. Rose would have kept me safe when I couldn’t do it myself. She would have been a great partner. She’s a great person, a great friend.”
Ilya swallows back the hurt. “But you’re not compatible.” Is all he says.
Shane snorts. “Don’t let it go to your head, but successful sex happened only once, and I’m pretty sure it was because you were in my head and I had something to prove to myself.”
“In your head?”
“After we saw each other at the club. I took her home, and all I could see was the way you looked at me on that dance floor. The way you touched that woman, like I wanted you to touch me.” Shane closes his eyes. “And when we were done, it felt like I cheated. On you. Despite not being in anything resembling a relationship. Despite knowing how many people have shared your bed since this all started.” He snorts. “It did force me to accept that I’m just completely gay. Enough so that Rose basically came out for me.”
“I was angry.” Ilya blurts out.
“That I ran?” Shane asks, and Ilya shakes his head.
“No. Sad maybe. Disappointed?” He mulls over the truth he’s only realized recently. “Running, it’s what we both do. Sometimes, it’s small things, and sometimes it’s big. I ran after Sochi. I shouldn’t have pushed that day at my place.”
“Don’t excuse things.” Shane points out. “I ran like a coward.”
“I don’t excuse it, I understand it. It came out of nowhere, no warning. You don’t like change, and you had no way of expecting it. That was mistake. I should have known, but I did not think.” He shrugs. It had hurt, but his head had understood almost as soon as Shane had left.
His heart had been another story, though, but his memories of the six months of complete silence he’d once forced himself into had tempered the hurt somewhat.
“Why were you angry then?” Shane asks, and Ilya is somehow unsurprised that they seem to be on the same wavelength.
It doesn’t make it any easier to put his anger into words. He isn’t sure he knows the right ones in Russian, so English is going to be almost impossible.
“I know how you taste, how you sound, how you feel. This I learned in hotel rooms and empty buildings, in shadows and stairwells. I did not think you like women, not much anyway, but she gets to know you in restaurants and clubs. In photos and dancefloors. She gets more in a few weeks than me in years.”
There’s no judgment in Shane’s eyes when he asks. “You were jealous?”
He’s not quite ready to answer that question up front. The truth is, yes, he’d been jealous. It had burned through him like a wildfire. The photos he couldn’t get away from had been bad enough, but seeing the real thing in that Montreal club had been devastating.
He can still offer up some part of the answer. “You wouldn’t be happy.”
“Because she’s a woman or because of the media circus?”
Ilya hesitates at the question. How much of Shane’s intensely private tendencies were natural, and how much came from spending his entire life making himself smaller? “Both.” He finally settles on. “You hide me for years, and I’ve never seen you look at a woman.”
Shane sighs. “So much of my life is public. I can’t sneeze without it ending in the news. I hide everything I can get away with. From how much Japanese I can actually speak, to my family members, the glasses I need for reading, or the people I hook up with.”
The plural implied in “people” isn’t helping Ilya’s jealousy, and the desire to ask about it burns.
“I hide the martial arts and anything about my mental health that doesn’t relate to hockey directly. The less I give away, the safer it is.” Shane pauses for a breath. “That doesn’t mean I like having to do it. It’s fucking exhausting a lot of the time.”
Ilya frowns. There’s an emphasis on safety that he really doesn’t like or understands and as much as he wants to continue the current thread of discussion, he feels like he has to ask now. “Why is it safer?”
Shane considers him, quite clearly trying to decide how much he wants to share. “The earliest racist slur I can remember was when I was 8. It wasn’t the first one, but it was the first time I understood. I got my first black eye about six months later.”
That’s-
“I’ve been cornered in showers by guys who want to check if the rumors about body hair and dick sizes are true. It’s rarely a single person because that kind of bully tends to get more courageous as a group. I’ve heard every cliché, slur, or racist comment you can imagine. Some of it is disguised as chirping, but honestly? A lot of guys don’t even bother pretending.”
Ilya stiffens. “In showers?”
“Usually it’s just comments, but yeah. Showers, locker rooms, gyms, saunas. Once, it was a fucking stairwell. Those were the white kids. The Asian ones were pissed that I have a Western name because apparently it means I can avoid the bullying.”
“But you don’t. Avoid it.”
“It’s better than it used to be. I rarely have to worry about physical attacks happening because I’ve outscored someone. It was different when I was a kid. I was too good. There was a lot of resentment for a long time, and it was a handy excuse for a lot of guys. But that’s something I’m sure you’ve had to deal with too.”
Ilya shakes his head a little. “There was some of that, but my father is police. I was bigger and taller than most people. Helps.”
“I was always the shortest kid on the team. Puberty took its sweet fucking time to happen.” Shane snorts. “I remember thinking that you looked like an adult while I still looked like a kid, despite me being a month older.”
“When?”
Shane hums. “In that alley, the first time we talked, but you had a massive growth spurt at some point in there that sort of pissed me off.”
“You did not look like kid.” Ilya scowls. He gestures towards Shane’s face. “Maybe a little round in the face still, but body was all grown up. More lean, maybe?”
He gets a grin in answer. “I didn’t manage to start bulking up until I was like eighteen. I was terrified it would affect the draft. My size did make me the fastest on the ice, and I had the stamina and flexibility parts down, but not much actual muscle.”
It makes Ilya scowl even more. “You were pretty. I wanted to have you on that gym floor.”
He can see Shane swallow at the comment, and there’s a slight pulling on his hair from the way Shane’s grip tightens.
It makes him want to purr, and something must have gotten through on his face because Shane’s eyes darken.
“For the record, being called pretty would be considered an insult by a lot of guys.”
Ilya frowns. “What?”
“I’ve been called a pretty boy since I was a kid, and it was rarely a compliment when it came from another player.” Shane shrugs. “Pretty is usually applied to women. It’s several steps down from the usual homophobic bullshit, but there’s an element of sexism to it.”
“I called you pretty yesterday. You did not react.”
Shane raises an eyebrow. “You did hear me when I said I speak three languages, right?”
“Da,” Ilya answers, perplexed.
“My Japanese is about on par with your English. My grandparents’ English and French are about the same level. Both sides of my family have a tendency to choose partners who turn any family event into the United Nations. I’ve spent my life surrounded by non-native speakers of whichever language is being spoken. We’re all really good at charades and at guessing words by context only. I knew what you meant.” Shane explains with a wry grin.
It sort of blows Ilya’s mind. “United Nations?”
“Let’s see. On the Yukimura side, we’ve got Japanese grandparents, French-speaking uncles, and a Haitian aunt. I’ve got some cousins who are probably going to add some more diversity, but it’s still in progress. On the Hollander side, it’s mostly English, but my grandma is first-gen Italian, and one of my uncles lives in Peru with his half-Peruvian kids. There’s also a fourth-generation Dane who likes to just throw it in there to confuse everyone.” There’s both amusement and exasperation in Shane’s voice. “Any family event is guaranteed to include people using at least two languages in the same sentence at some point. I’ve never had a problem understanding you.”
If he thinks back on it, Ilya can’t remember a moment when Shane has ever been impatient with his grasp of English. In fact, he can remember several instances where the other man had either restated something differently or explained a word Ilya wasn’t familiar with, never drawing attention to what he was doing. He’d also intercepted questions whenever they had shared press conferences that included vocabulary he didn’t know or accents he had trouble understanding. It had always been so seamless that Ilya had rarely realized what was happening.
“What does first-gen mean?” He asks, his mind reeling.
“I’m technically first-gen on the Japanese side. My mother was born in Japan, even though the family immigrated when she was pretty young. My paternal grandmother was the first generation born in Canada after her parents came from Italy.”
“Is crazy.”
Shane snorts. “Sometimes, absolutely. Usually? It’s fun. Our family traditions are all over the place.” He shrugs. “It’s normal to me. It’s always been like that.”
There’s a beat. “You’ve got no idea how hard it’s been not learning Russian.”
“What?” Ilya asks with a frown.
“I have some books I bought years ago, using the Sochi Olympics to justify it to myself. I’ve been avoiding them since I got off the plane.”
“Why?”
“Why I bought them, or why I haven’t opened them in years?” Shane asks.
“Both.” Ilya prods him.
“I did buy them around the time I got the invitation to Team Canada, but that was only a good excuse to myself. The truth was that the guy I’d been hooking up with for years tended to slip into Russian mid-fuck. He also tended to chirp people in that language. Why haven’t I started learning? I was already way too emotionally involved, and it would have meant accepting that.”
“How is it problem?” He has a few ideas, but he needs confirmation.
Shane pauses. He stares at Ilya for a long moment, clearly debating something with himself. When he speaks, it’s softly but no less potent for it. “Because learning languages is something I’ve seen my dad and uncles do for their wives. It was done out of love and the desire to make the other person comfortable. A way of saying ‘I want to always be able to understand you, I want you to know you’re my person, and it’s not fair if only one of us uses their first language while the other has to do everything through a translation filter.’” He gives a little tug on Ilya’s curls. “I wasn’t ready to admit anything to myself, much less anyone else. Especially you.”
Ilya swallows hard. “And now?” He asks, the words almost getting stuck.
“Now I need to ask what you want from this, from me,” Shane says gently.
Ilya can feel tears gathering, but he still pushes through. “Is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Russia.” He answers.
“Are we talking about your family and friends or about the country’s attitude towards queer people?” Shane prods him.
“Both.” He’s not quite sure how to continue, how to explain how conflicted he is when it comes to Russia. “I love them, but I do not like them very much.” He settles for saying. “My country is difficult to like sometimes, especially for queer people. The laws are bad, and it’s getting worse. The media doesn’t help. I don’t know what would happen if I were found out.” He winces. “Probably nothing good.”
“And your family? Given how you’ve avoided the subject any time I’ve brought it up, I’m guessing it’s also difficult?”
Ilya sighs. He’s well aware that he’s more or less run from this discussion for years. He’s used it to ice Shane out more than once, and while he regrets it, finally opening up isn’t any easier. Shane considers him, before he untangles himself from Ily, sitting back against the headboard. Ilya doesn’t have the time to complain before he’s hauled into the man’s lap. Now pressed chest to chest, with Shane’s arms wrapping around him, cocooning him in warmth, Ilya finally lets himself speak of things he’s been holding back for years. He sinks into the hold.
“Very. My father is old. Old in his head and old body.”
“You mean conservative? Old-fashioned?” Shane confirms.
“Yes. Traditional. He was police. Thinks women should be at home, and children not heard. Queers don’t belong in public.”
“Shit,” Shane mutters, pressing his lips to Ilya’s temple in comfort. “Was he violent?”
Ilya muses it over. “Not physically. Words were harsh. Was not good father. He expected impossible things.” He snorts. “Is better now. He forgets things.”
"Alzheimer's?”
“Da. I think he is dying.”
“Which probably makes you even more conflicted. You’re here, and you can’t do anything. You mentioned a brother once. Is he helping?”
Ilya snorts at the idea. “Alexei is father’s son. Also police.”
“So an asshole?” Shane deadpans, and Ilya snorts again, appreciating this man and the way he can see right through Ilya. He spent years cursing that very ability when he was trying to hide from his own feelings, but now that it’s being used to help him out, he’s glad for it.
“He hates me. I pay everything, and he hates me more.” And then, he lets himself confess the secret he’s been holding on to for years. He thinks Svetlana might know some of it, but he’s never let himself say it out loud. “I never want to go back. I need to be there, but I hate it.”
Shane tightens his hold, and his voice is quiet when he speaks up. “What about your mom?”
Ilya shakes his head, blinking to hold back the threatening tears. “She was a good mother.” He says. “Can’t-”
Shane shushes him. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. I’m just sorry Russia is so fucked up.”
The words are so unexpected that a burst of laughter escapes Ilya before he can even realize it’s coming. He finally looks up and meets that dark gaze that somehow never fails to make his stomach flip. Helpless, he leans forward and presses his mouth to Shane’s, who opens up like he’s been waiting for it.
“I love you.”
The words slip out, unplanned, and probably way too early. They settle in the space between them, and Ilya could swear time stops for a few heartbeats. They’re suspended in a moment he wasn’t expecting, and some part of him knows he should probably be freaking out, and yet, he’s not. This man has been an intrinsic part of his life for so long. He’d politely walked into his life, with an offered hand and a sincere compliment in a way that was so Canadian it should have been painful.
Instead, that introduction became a benchmark in Ilya’s life, the way finding his dead mother was. There was a before and an after Shane. No matter what happens to either of them, he would always be written into the fabric of his life, there in every beat of his heart, infused into his very being.
The future will probably start scaring him pretty soon, but his feelings won't anymore.
Shane stares at him for those few heartbeats before an inhaled breath breaks the momentary peace. Ilya isn’t surprised when his head is tugged down or when Shane claims a kiss.
And it is a claim. It’s everything neither of them has managed to say before. Affection, respect, love. It’s finally acknowledging a sense of connection, of belonging, they’ve both worked hard to deny. It’s infinite and solid in a way nothing else Ilya has ever known.
It’s everything that will carry them both through what’s to come as a unit that wouldn’t be broken. A memory Ilya will spend his life cherishing.
Shane finally breaks off, murmuring. “Can’t believe you said it first.”
“Have heard nothing back yet, Hollander.” Ilya challenges softly, eager for the words, but content to wait for them if Shane needs it.
There’s a spark of competition in the man’s eyes, and Ilya has a fraction of a moment to brace himself.
“I love you too.” The Russian is flawless and nearly accentless. It settles in his bones in a way English might not have, and Ilya swallows the wave of gratitude and love that sweeps through him.
“I thought-.”
Shane offers him a gentle smile. “I did manage to learn a few things before the Olympics. I can also ask for directions, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got a decent grasp on swearing.” He smirks. “You’re responsible for most of the swearing. Between sex and chirping, I’ve picked up a lot from you by now.”
“How?”
Shane shrugs. “I’ve got an ear for languages. I’ll probably always understand it better than I’ll speak it, but it’s a useful ability in my family. Learning Cyrillic freaks me out a little, but I’m hoping it won’t be too bad since I can read Japanese.” He waves his hand. “Mostly. There are like a million characters, but I manage. Your weird alphabet can’t be any more difficult.”
Ilya snorts at the snark before he sobers up. “Us, this. Is still impossible.”
Shane sighs and leans back into the headboard. “A few weeks ago, I had a long discussion with Rose.”
Ilya stiffens.
“She’s a friend. Nothing else, but she’s decided I’m her gay best friend, so she’s going to still be around. I think you’ll like her, at least if you give her a chance.”
Ilya hums in answer, not quite ready to agree.
Shane rolls his eyes. “I was spiraling a little. All-Star was coming up, and I didn’t know how I was going to deal with not only seeing you but also playing on the same team. I asked her for a sanity check.”
Ilya snorts.
Shane continues, clearly amused. “I told her the bare bones, and she asked a ton of very uncomfortable questions. I’m pretty sure she knows who you are, but I never mentioned you directly.” He hesitates. “Some of our issues are a little too specific. I probably should have been more careful.”
He breathes in. “Eventually, it came down to 2 things. The first one was a question. ‘Could I really walk away completely?’ My answer was no, and hers was ‘yeah, you’re both bullshitting yourself if you really think it’s ever been casual.’”
With a frown, Ilya asks. “What?” He doesn’t exactly disagree, but he wonders how someone who hasn’t been in either of their heads for the last eight years would know.
“Basically? Casual is supposed to be something easy and convenient. Nothing we’ve been doing fits anything close to that description.”
Ilya has to nod because Rose was absolutely right. “And the second thing?”
“A bit of a rant, actually. She reminded me that while the entertainment world isn’t quite as closeted as the NHL anymore, it’s still only queer-friendly for a few people who’ve had to pay their dues to get any sort of tolerance. She said she knew plenty of closeted queer couples in happy, long-term relationships, some of them long-distance. Said it wouldn’t be easy, but it would be possible if we’re willing to communicate, compromise, and put in real work.”
Frowning, Ilya asks. “How?” He’s admittedly a little distracted by the way Shane is drawing mindless patterns on his thighs, but he can’t see how they can overcome everything that keeps them apart.
“I don’t want to spend however many years we have left until we both retire, having to be content with seeing you every few months like we’ve been doing so far. I’ll learn to deal with it if it’s the only way I can have you, but it won’t be my first choice. I’m willing to adjust my schedule so we can find more time to be together, and I think I’d be comfortable with making some sacrifices if they’re needed. I don’t have a plan yet. The Russia issue isn’t going to be easy to deal with, but I’ll do some research and try to figure it out. I just want you.”
“I want you too.” He doesn’t really see a path that would give them what they want, but Shane’s confidence makes him want to find one.
“Will you give this a chance?” Shane asks, something that looks like careful hope shining through.
There’s only one answer to give. “Yes.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” Shane asks.
“Sure.”
“Is there a way you could come spend some time at my cottage this summer? I know it might be tough given your dad, but I think we could use some time alone to talk things through and make a plan. I’d like to be able to fall asleep with you for at least a few consecutive nights.”
Ilya’s tempted to agree outright, but knows it’s not that simple. Moscow to Ottawa isn’t exactly an easy commute, and things are difficult in Russia. He can hear the steady decline in his father’s condition, and Alexei is proving to be even more of an asshole than Ilya has always believed.
Still. The idea of uninterrupted days with Shane is too tempting to ignore. “Will be hard to justify, but I will try.”
“Any way you could book a meeting you absolutely have to attend in person? Something that could delay your flight out?”
“Maybe. I will have to think about it.” It’s not a bad idea. If he could book something a couple of weeks after his usual departure date, it would justify pushing his flight back rather than splitting his stay in Russia.
“We have a few months to come up with something. We could also make lists?”
“What lists?” Ilya asks.
“The things we want, from the strict minimum to the ideal, dream situation. The things we’re willing to change or sacrifice. Ideas we have on how we could see each other or for solutions for your legal status.” Shane shrugs. “I’m going to research everything I can think of.”
“Is good idea.” He’s already planning on doing the same.
“Do you have a non-Russian email address? We’ve been using mostly texts, but we can call and email. Start planning some things out? I’d rather have any serious discussion in person when we can, but it would be better than nothing?”
“I love you.”
Because what else is there to say when Shane Hollander is obviously prepared to go to a lot of trouble to give Ilya exactly what he hasn’t dared dream about for years? A real shot at a relationship he still thinks half impossible but desperately craves anyway?