Chapter Text
The air in the Montreal club was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and the rhythmic, bone-deep thrum of a bassline that Shane could feel in his teeth. It was supposed to be a fun night, celebrating a win and distracting himself from the disaster that was his personal life, but Shane felt like a live wire.
“Shane, man, stop looking at your phone like it’s about to explode,” Hayden said, leaning in to be heard over the music. He nudged Shane’s shoulder with a sympathetic grin. “You’re off the clock. Just try and enjoy the night, okay? One drink. No hockey talk.”
"I'm fine," Shane lied, pocketing his phone. The screen was still blank–no text, no apology, just the echoing silence of their fight. I don’t care if you sleep with other people. The words felt like a bruise.
He tried to follow Hayden’s advice, but it was hard when it felt like he was the center of gravity in every room he entered. Within twenty minutes, three different women had approached him, shouting over the music to ask for his number or a dance. Shane turned them down with the practiced, polite “I’m focused on the season” bit he’d perfected years ago. It was the safe answer, the one that didn't raise eyebrows.
Restless, he moved toward the bar to grab a water, needing a second away from the pulsing lights of the dance floor. As he reached for a napkin, he collided straight into a tall brunette man in a crisp white button-down.
“Whoa, sorry about that” the stranger said, steadying Shane by the shoulder. He had a friendly, easygoing face and didn't seem to recognize Shane as the captain of the Voyagers immediately, which was a relief.
“My fault,” Shane said, offering a genuine, tired smile. “It’s crowded in here.”
“Tell me about it. I think I've been stepped on three times just trying to get a gin and tonic.” The guy laughed, and for the first time all night, Shane felt the tension in his shoulders drop an inch. He just looked at Shane like he was another guy at a bar. “I’m Lucas.”
“Shane.”
“Nice to meet you, Shane. You look like you’re having about as much fun as a guy waiting for a root canal.”
Shane felt a dry laugh bubble up. “Is it that obvious?”
“A little. You’re holding that water like it’s a lifeline.” Lucas leaned against the bar, turning to face him. “Rough week?”
Shane’s thumb traced the rim of his glass. I literally do not care. The spiteful part of his brain–the part that was tired of being the perfect version of himself, the part that was bleeding from Ilya’s indifference–whispered: Why not? Why not flirt back? Why not take the advice and see if the world ended?
"Rough month," Shane admitted, his voice dropping a register. He leaned in a little closer, the noise of the club pushing them into a small, private pocket of space. “Let's just say someone told me I should be 'enjoying' my night off. I'm just not sure I know how.”
Lucas’s expression softened into something sympathetic. “Well, step one is putting the water down. Step two is forgetting whoever gave you that advice for at least twenty minutes.”
He reached out, his hand landing firmly on Shane’s shoulder. It wasn't a tentative touch; it was steady, warm, and lingering. Lucas leaned in to whisper over a sudden swell in the music, his face inches from Shane's. “You're a handsome guy, Shane. You shouldn't be spending your Saturday night sulking at the club.”
Shane didn't pull away. He didn't lean in, either, he stayed perfectly still, his heart hammering against his ribs for all the wrong reasons. Of course not. If that is what you want. Ilya’s voice lingered in his head. It was a backhanded permission Shane had never asked for. It felt less like freedom and more like Ilya was handing him a map to an exit he didn't want to find. Shane had stormed out of the house in Ottawa two nights ago, a horrible waste of a rare night they could have had together. He’d spent the drive back to Montreal gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached, waiting for a text that said I lied, please come back, but it never came.
Now, standing at the bar in Montreal, Lucas’s hand was a warm, heavy pressure on his shoulder. He looked up at Lucas, a ghost of a smile on his lips, wondering if this was what ‘wanting’ was supposed to feel like. It felt hollow. It felt like treason.
“You're really quiet, Shane,” Lucas said, leaning in closer. “I feel like I'm losing you to whatever's going on in that head of yours.”
Shane looked at Lucas. He doesn't own me, he thought, the spite tasting like copper in his mouth. If Ilya truly didn't believe in the concept of belonging to one another, then Shane shouldn't feel this crushing sense of betrayal just by standing here.
“I'm just thinking about a fucking moron I know,” Shane muttered, the insult sliding off his tongue with a new, jagged edge.
“Ouch,” Lucas chuckled, his grip on Shane’s shoulder tightening as he misread the tension for interest. “He must be a real piece of work to keep your attention away from a night like this.”
Shane didn't pull away. He wondered if this was the freedom Ilya wanted for him. He looked up at Lucas, a small laugh letting its way out , just as a smartphone flash captured the scene.
The flash snapped Shane out of his haze. The heavy thrum of the bass suddenly felt intrusive rather than numbing, and the warmth of Lucas’s hand on his shoulder transitioned from a distraction to a weight. Shane blinked, the sharp mental image of Ilya’s face in Ottawa–cool, detached, and maddeningly logical–flickering out as he pulled himself back to the present.
“I uh… I should probably go find my teammates before they think I've gone missing.” Shane said, his voice a bit breathy as he finally gently stepped out of the hold.
Lucas looked a bit surprised, his hand dropping back to his side, but he gave a gracious shrug. “No worries, Shane. Catch you around.”
Shane didn't look back. He found Hayden by the exit, ignoring the way his heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. He wasn't thinking about the crowd or the scattered flashes of light from the dance floor. He was thinking about how much he hated that Ilya had been right–he was a free man, and yet, that freedom felt like ash.
As he climbed into the back of a car, he pulled out his phone one last time. Still no text from Ilya. He shoved the device into his pocket, leaning his head against the cold glass of the window. He didn't think twice about the guy at the bar or the conversation they’d had. It was just ten minutes of meaningless noise in a night meant for forgetting. The photo had caught him off guard, but he just assumed someone was showing a friend that they saw Shane Hollander at the club. To Shane, it was a non-event; he hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't taken the bait, and certainly hadn't slept with other people like Ilya had suggested he could.
He had no idea that while he was staring out at the Montreal skyline, a single, grainy image was already being uploaded to twitter. In his mind, there was no “evidence” because there was no crime. He was just Shane Hollander, going home alone, still waiting for the man who claimed not to own him to finally say he wanted to.
–
@NHL_Nightlife:
Spotted: Voyagers captain Shane Hollander letting loose at ‘Ciel’ tonight with the team. Looks like the Golden Boy is finally enjoying the single life. 🥂🏒 #ShaneHollander #Voyagers #MontrealNightlife
–
The photo was perfectly timed to look damning: the stranger’s hand was still on Shane’s shoulder, and Shane was looking up at him, eyes bright and mouth open in a laugh that looked far more intimate than it actually was.
Ilya sat in the silence of his own home, the heat of their argument in still prickling his skin. He had told Shane that he didn't believe in cheating because he didn't "own" him–that as long as Shane’s heart belonged to him, it wouldn't be unreasonable for him to want to explore sex with other people. It was a lie he’d been telling himself continuously, a way to handle the distance and the fear of Shane eventually wanting more than what Ilya could give.
But seeing it was different from theorizing about it.
He was staring at his phone, the screen’s glow the only light in his dark flat, when the notification popped up. It was posted from a Montreal nightlife account, mentioning Shane Hollander.
His stomach did a slow, sickening roll before he even clicked the link.
The photo was grainy, but he’d know the line of Shane’s shoulders anywhere. He was leaning against a bar, looking flushed and loose in a way he only ever was when he thought no one was watching. A man–tall, anonymous, and far too close, had his hand firmly planted on Shane’s–his Shane–shoulder. Shane wasn't pulling away. In fact, he was looking up at the stranger, mid laugh, his face inches from the other man's.
Looks like the Golden Boy is finally enjoying the single life
Deep down Ilya knew it couldn’t be anything damning. The photo was innocent enough to anyone with looking at it with a naked eye. They weren’t out yet and Shane was rarely seen flirting with anyone, especially not with a man. But Ilya knew. He knew what he said to Shane and based on the photo, it looked pretty fucking obvious that he was taking his offer.
It had been two days since their fight in Ottawa, Shane stormed out and hadn't said a word to Ilya since. He thought he was being reasonable by offering Shane freedom. Now, looking at the way Shane was laughing with the man at the bar, Ilya realized he was only fooling himself.
He felt a jagged, manic energy begin to take root in his chest. He didn't want to be “reasonable” anymore. He didn't want to be the man who didn't believe in ownership. He wanted to crawl across Canada and pull Shane back by the throat. The freedom he’d given Shane felt like a death sentence. He stared at the stranger's fingers digging into the fabric of Shane's shirt, and for the first time in his life, Ilya stopped pretending he could handle sharing.
He didn't send a text. He didn't demand an explanation. He just stared at the photo, his grip on the phone tightening until his hand cramped, the possessiveness he tried so hard to fight was finally breaking its chains.
The next morning, Shane woke up with the kind of emotional hangover that only a fight with Ilya could produce. He felt lighter having ignored the freedom he’d been offered, unaware that the internet had already branded him a free agent. He pulled his phone from the charger and dialed Ilya’s number, hoping to patch up what he had left behind.
“Hey,” Shane said, his voice scratchy with sleep. He was leaning back against his headboard, already feeling a bit guilty for the three days of silence that followed his exit from Ottawa. “I'm heading to practice in an hour. Just wanted to check in.”
On the other end of the line, the silence was so heavy Shane actually checked to see if the call had dropped.
“Ilya?”
“I am here, Shane,” Ilya finally said. His voice was tight, vibrating with suppressed energy.
“You okay? You sound... off.”
“I am fine. I am exactly as I should be,” Ilya snarled. Shane could hear the frantic tapping of a pen or a finger against a hard surface. “Did you have a good night? At the club? I assume it was... productive.”
Shane frowned, a flash of annoyance cutting through his morning fog. “It was fine. Hayden wanted me to go out. It was loud and crowded, so I left early. I’m glad to be back in my own bed.” He paused. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Acting like what?” Ilya’s breath hitched. He was thinking of the hand on Shane’s shoulder, the way Shane had looked up at that stranger– the way he’d looked like he was finally taking the advice Ilya had given him. “I am being reasonable. I told you I do not mind what you do. I am keeping my word.”
“Jesus, Ilya, are you serious?” Shane sat up, his confusion turning into genuine irritation. “I called because I wanted to check in with you, not fight.” He let out a long sigh. “You’re being incredibly tense for someone who ‘doesn't care.’”
“I do not care,” Ilya lied, his voice climbing an octave. “I hope you enjoyed yourself. I hope it was exactly what you wanted.”
Shane let out a sharp, frustrated breath. He hadn't even seen the photos yet, so Ilya’s behavior felt like a random, unprovoked spiral. “Whatever. I don't have time for this today. You better not act like this when we play each other next week. Otherwise I’ll just stay at the hotel.”
“The hotel,” Ilya repeated, the word sounding like a threat in his mouth. “Yes. Of course. You should go wherever you feel most... free.”
“I'm hanging up now,” Shane snapped, rubbing his temples. “Fix your attitude before next week. I'll see you then.”
Shane ended the call, tossing his phone onto the mattress. He was annoyed, but he figured Ilya was just being his arrogant self. He had no idea that just two hours away, Ilya was staring at the black screen of his phone, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest.
Shane hadn't said it.
Usually, even when they were fighting–even when Shane was at his most stubborn–he would end a call with a muttered “Love you”. Today, there had been nothing but the clinical click of the line disconnecting.
Ilya’s mind had always been his own worst enemy, and it was beginning to tear the silence apart.
He didn't say it because he’s thinking of him. He didn't say it because he’s finally realized that freedom feels better than the weight of me.
He paced the length of the living room, his movements jagged and restless. He’d told himself that as long as Shane’s heart belonged to him, the rest was just mechanics. But he’d been lying then, and he was drowning in the lie now. Seeing that man’s hand on Shane’s shoulder had triggered a visceral, primal reaction that logic couldn't touch.
What if it was better? What if it wasn’t complicated? What if he realized he could do better than me?
If Shane’s heart still belonged to him, he would have said it.
Ilya went back to the laptop, zooming in on the photo until the pixels blurred. He looked at the way Shane was tilted toward the stranger. He looked at the lack of space between them. He felt a wave of physical nausea so strong he had to lean against the desk. He had spent years pretending he was the cool, detached one, the one who could handle the time they were apart.
But the reality was that he was losing his mind. The thought of Shane in a hotel room in Montreal or worse, his home with someone else because of Ilya made his blood turn to ice.
“I don't own him,” Ilya whispered, the words sounding like a joke.
He didn't believe it. He wanted to own every breath Shane took. He wanted to mark every inch of skin that a stranger had dared to touch. He looked at his calendar, counting the days until Shane arrived. He wasn't going to be "reasonable" when Shane got here. He was going to be a problem. He was going to make sure that by the time Shane left him, he would never even think about freedom again.