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Shane hated clubs. He hadn’t really been clubbing before Rose, but now he knew, he hated it. It was loud and sticky and he didn’t like how many people tried to make eye contact with him. But Rose liked them. And he liked Rose.
He did. She was smart and she loved hockey, and she was a movie star. And he liked that. Because he liked her, he really did. Really. He was watching her as she sat next to him in the VIP booth. She was beautiful with her soft sunny curls, and her bowed lips, and her blue eyes. His heart ached for those features, so reminiscent of someone else. Someone he couldn’t have. He hated himself a little bit more every time he looked at her, because really, she was perfect. She was everything anyone could ever want. And here he was pressed up against her in some awful club…thinking about Ilya fucking Rozanov.
He needed a drink.
“Gonna get another,” he whispered to Rose who had to stand to let him out, her silver dress was short and showed off her legs, he should have noticed. He should have thought about that, but he had barely registered it as he’d slid past her on his way to the bar.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Ilya certainly wasn’t thinking of him in clubs. Ilya wasn’t thinking of him at all. And when had he become Ilya? That day at his house? Or earlier? Had he been Ilya in Shane’s mind long before he’d ever said it aloud? He pretended he couldn’t remember.
Shane should have fucking known this would happen. He should have known it in Vegas when he’d gotten drunk for the first time and had immediately wanted to find Ilya. He should have known it again in 2014 when he’d folded so easily. Caving immediately to Ilya’s demands even after six months of being ignored. He’d felt pathetic typing out that text, We didn’t even kiss, because why would they? They weren’t lovers reuniting, they were fuck buddies. No worse, fuck enemies? Basically strangers. That was all Ilya wanted to be and that was okay. It was. But…then Boston. Then Ilya hiking him up on his kitchen counter top and kissing him breathless and asking him to stay. In a voice so sweet that Shane had thought he would melt right into Ilya’s mattress, he didn’t say no because he couldn’t say no, not to Ilya’s pleading eyes. But it was more than that, he couldn’t say no because this was all he’d wanted for years. More time. And he’d run away.
No. Shane reminded himself. He'd protected his heart, which was fucking stupid in the end because it was still broken. It felt smashed as he crossed the sea of sweaty bodies to the bar so he could drink enough to hopefully find himself attracted to the most attractive woman in the club.
He ordered a shot of vodka. It reminded him of Ilya. He hated that it did. He downed it. Raised his arm to order another when a hand caught his shoulder, “Shane Hollander?” the voice was accented in Russian. His blood went cold.
Shane whipped around to find himself face to face with a beautiful red haired woman. She was Rose levels of beautiful, striking in a way that immediately caught even Shane’s constantly divided attention. Her hair was piled atop her head in a chic updo, soft red ringlets coming down to frame her perfectly symmetrical face, she had warm caramel skin, and dazzling mischievous eyes. He hoped he hadn’t stared for too long, “Sorry, do I know you?” He knew he didn’t, but she looked familiar somehow. She was probably a fan, maybe he’d seen her outside the club?
She shook her head and extended a manicured hand, “Svetlana Vetrova.”
“There is a girl I like here very much, Svetlana.”
Fuck. No way it was that Svetlana. They were in Montreal for fucks sake. With the Raiders. His brain supplied unhelpfully. He tried to act normal, he took her hand, “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled at him, Shane sort of wanted to die, “I am friend of Ilya Rozanov, you know him?” Shane felt a flash of jealousy course through him at the confirmation that this was the Svetlana. Shane knew. Obviously he knew that Ilya slept with other people. He did, he had spent enough sleepless nights scrolling through gossip blogs looking at pictures of Ilya Rozanov and another girl, but Svetlana was not another girl, she was the only girl Ilya had ever mentioned. There were plenty of pictures of Ilya and random women, but there was only one who recurred. He suddenly realized why Svetlana looked so familiar. His gut twisted. It occurred to him that maybe Ilya said the same sorts of things to her about him, “But it’s nothing more than that. For either of us.”, except he knew Ilya didn’t. He knew Ilya had never even mentioned him to his other flings. He hated that. Hated that he knew her and that she had no idea about him. To her he was just Shane Hollander, hockey player, rival, she’d never have to be jealous of him because she would never know he existed.
He wanted to say no, he wanted to run away from this stupid club he was now certain Ilya Rozanov was also in, but he didn’t instead he barked out a pathetic “Ha,” and said, “not well.” he had to shout it. He felt like he was always shouting it.
“He has beaten you enough times you ought to remember.” It could have come off as mean if she wasn’t so charming, instead it was charismatic and flirty. She had the same cunning grin as Ilya, Shane could see why he liked her. She was decidedly not boring, she was nothing like Shane, “I want to buy you and your girlfriend a drink.” And she likes you very much. She waved to the bartender, “Rose Landry is with you, no?”
He blanched a little when she asked about Rose, was this what Ilya had meant when he said she knew everything about hockey? Shane tried not to hate the way she said girlfriend. He tried not to hate her accent. Tried to stop himself from getting jealous of the way Ilya could talk to her in his first language. “Y-yes. She’s uh,” he looked around, he couldn’t see their booth from the bar, “somewhere.”
Svetlana ordered three shots of vodka, “Loved her in Under Dark.” she said, pushing two of them towards Shane, “Do not tell Ilya, but you are my favorite to watch.” She winked at him, downed her own shot, threw him a casual, “See you around Shane Hollander.” and pushed away from the bar like she hadn’t just ruined his entire night.
Ilya. He wanted to scream. Svetlana had probably never had to call him Rozanov, had probably never known him as anything other than Ilya. She is old friend from Russia. She had probably been calling him Ilya since before he ever played hockey. His name in her phone was probably Ilya, and not Lily, and she probably had some stupid grinning photo of him as his contact photo that she never had to delete. She probably never even thought twice about it, his name, about whispering it against his throat when they kissed or into his mouth. She probably hadn’t ever freaked out and run away after calling him by something as simple as his first fucking name.
He watched her walk away. Tried to notice the things he was supposed to notice. Instead ended up only noticing how perfect she was, it wasn’t attraction he felt for her, it was pure unadulterated jealousy. So perfect and feminine and allowed to be here…outside…with him. He hated her. He hated himself for hating her. Knew he had no good reason to. She was allowed to fuck famous hockey players, even ones who sometimes looked at him like he hung the moon.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, took his shot, then Rose’s. He had to get out of here before he saw Ilya. He didn’t think he could handle it. Shane made his way back to their booth. Rose lit up when she saw him, it should have made him smile, but instead the pit in his stomach just got deeper.
“I’m sorry, I gotta go,” Once again he had to shout for them to hear, “I’m getting tired.”
“Go?” Rose grabbed his arm, she was warm and smiley, “Nooooo Shaneeeee! You have to dance with me first.”
That was the last thing he wanted to do, “I don’t know…” he tried to let her down gently, “I’m sore from the game…”
Rose got to her feet, throwing her arms around Shane’s neck, she was so soft and small and different than Ilya, “Come on Shaneee, one dance.” She kissed him quickly. He smiled. For all his failings he loved how genuine Rose always was. She knew what she wanted and she always got it.
He felt suddenly terrible for her. He caved, “One.” he said and he let himself be dragged onto the dance floor by Rose.
His heart was racing. He felt like he was on a rollercoaster. His eyes scanned the crowd for Ilya. Now that Shane knew he was here his mind could focus on nothing else. Not Rose dancing in front of him, not Miles dancing behind him. He felt their hands on him. Felt Rose drag her lips over her jaw, down his neck, and Miles, who was handsome beyond belief, kissing the base of his neck. He might have liked it if he wasn’t so distracted.
That's when Shane saw him. Ilya Rozanov, across the dance floor, pressed up against Svetlana in a way that ways absolutely filthy. The perfect bow of his mouth was wet against the cup of her ear. Her eyes were closed as they danced together. Shane was gonna be sick. “I have to go to the bathroom.” he heard himself say. His feet started moving before he could even process what was happening. That stupid innate magnetism between them pulled at him stronger than ever before. He must have looked like a fucking pervert standing there in the middle of the crowded dance floor staring at them. He didn’t care. He studied Ilya like a painting. Committing him to memory. He’d gotten so good at this, at taking mental photos instead of physical ones, of conjuring them up in the dark of the night when the coil in his stomach was wound tight and begging for release. He both wanted to remember this and forget it. Wanted to forget because here it was laid out in front of him, his worst fear: being just another notch in Ilya’s belt. Wanted to remember because, god, he wanted to remember everything. He collected moments between them like baseball cards, all pristine and untouched in perfect sleeves, even the bad ones. Even the rejections. Even the images of him with someone else, because Shane didn’t know how many moments like this he had left. How many more times would he be in the same place as Ilya? Could any of these stupid torturous moments across a room be their last? Would Shane spend their last moments together watching him kiss someone else? Would it kill him if he never got to touch Ilya again?
And then Ilya looked up.
Their eyes met. His heart picked up speed. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run to him. Wanted to get on his knees in the middle of this club and say he was sorry for running away. Couldn’t he tell? Wasn’t it written all over Shane’s face that if Ilya took even one step in his direction right now he would fold? Could everyone in the room tell that he would let Ilya pull him into whatever broom closet or filthy club bathroom there was and do whatever he wanted to? It must have been painfully obvious that he would.
Ilya’s eyes were dark and full of something Shane couldn’t quite place. He wanted a closer look. He wanted to explore whatever it was in those eyes. Ilya’s eyes had always been soft when they looked at him. It was the thing that Shane loved the most about him. How impossibly gentle he was with Shane. Only Shane. Ilya Rozanov the jerk, the womanizer, the asshole, but to Shane he was the man that kissed his shoulder softly and asked if he was okay over and over again. His hands were strong but his eyes were always gentle. Was he gentle like that with everyone? Was he gentle like that with her? Did he do that thing where he kissed her top lip and then her bottom lip and then both? Did she also feel like she was going to collapse when he did it?
Ilya moved so intentionally with Svetlana, his hands massive against her tiny frame, like he knew all the ways she liked to be touched. You know all the ways I like to be touched too. He wanted to scream, Only you. He hated feeling like a number. One of many lovers whose buttons Ilya knew how to push. A punch in his dance-card. It had been so much easier to pretend in the safety of hotel rooms, and secret fuck-buildings, and texts enthusiastically answered. It had been so easy to convince himself Ilya’s haughty gazes were only for him. That the way Ilya watched him was singular. Just for him.
Ilya was watching him now even as he kissed Svetlana. His eyes never left Shane. They were fused together across the crowded room. The pink light kissed Ilya’s high cheekbones making him look like some impossible painting instead of a man, he kissed Svetlana’s ear, her neck, her jaw, Shane couldn’t look away. Was Ilya turned on right now? Was he aching against her? Was it the sway of her hips against his that had done it or Shane’s eyes across the room? Ilya’s eyes were beckoning to him, hard and unreadable, but yearning all the same. He took a step forward, felt a hand on his back pull him back. Rose. Who had caught his wrist and pulled herself in front of him. He swore Ilya’s jaw tightened a bit as he bit kisses down Svetlana’s shoulder. Would she be able to tell he was hard? Would she somehow know it wasn’t her who had done it?
If she did know she didn’t let on, she pressed herself up against his front, and moved her hips. He should have liked it, but that wasn’t what had him bursting at the seams. Instead it was Ilya, who was tracing his hand up Svetlana’s stomach now bringing it up to squeeze her chest. The right hand. Always the right one with Shane too. It was like Shane could feel Ilya’s hands on him, moving up the length of his body, squeezing his peck, coming to rest in the hair just behind his ear, twisting and pulling the strands there making him moan. Ilya’s breath hot and heavy in Shane’s ear. His eyes almost fluttered closed at the thought, but he didn’t let them. Couldn’t bear the thought of breaking eye contact. The only contact he had. The only contact that mattered.
Everything stopped.
The girls moved against them. The music pounded in his ears. Lights flashed. The room slowed down. It was just the two of them. Standing there staring, alone in a crowded room. Shane’s mouth was dry, he could feel his pulse racing in his throat. Lust coiled in his stomach like a snake. He wanted to close the space between them. Wanted to crash their lips together, wanted Ilya to taste the vodka there and make some stupid quip about how shitty Canadian vodka was, and Shane would kiss him again to shut him up. Over and over. In front of all these people in this stupid club. He wanted everyone to know that it was different between them. That insidious jealousy rose up in him again. He wanted to show off. Wanted Svetlana to watch the way Ilya knew him. To prove to her that he did. That there were ginger ales in Ilya’s fridge because he’d been there. That somewhere in Ilya’s dresser were the clothes that he’d left in Ilya’s house. He wanted Ilya to kiss him the way he always had, with his hand steady on Shane’s jaw. Fingers dragging, scrapping, always pulling him closer, always touching as much of him as he could.
How did Rose and Svetlana not know? How did they not feel the heat between them? How he longed for Ilya, for his hands and his lips and, Oh, Rose was kissing him now. And he let her kiss him because maybe it would drive Ilya half as crazy as it was driving Shane. Maybe it killed Ilya the same way it killed Shane.
Would Shane and Ilya have even noticed if they did? He was sure Svetlana had noticed him, was sure she’d caught a glimpse of him through her heavily lidded eyes as she danced with Ilya. Rose probably had too, probably thought Ilya was watching her. Maybe Svetlana thought the same thing.
Rose was so soft and so gentle and all the things he was sure Svetlana was too. And maybe they’d never see each other again after this. Maybe they’d move on. Maybe Ilya and Svetlana would make it official after all these years. Maybe Shane would marry Rose Landry and they’d have a ton of kids like Hayden fucking Pike, and Shane would see Ilya a few times a year on the ice. Maybe they would face off and their eyes would meet and for one perfect moment it would be like it had been once. And he could pretend that Ilya was going to lean closer than necessary and whisper a room number. And every single time Shane would die just a little bit inside. Maybe those tiny deaths would somehow keep him alive.
Could he live like that? Rose’s fingers curled into the waist band of his pants, “Let’s get out of here.” She purred into his neck. Ilya’s eyes were still on him. Rose tugged at his arm, he let her lead him away. He held Ilya’s gaze though. Until the last second. Until the lust in Ilya’s eyes turned to pleading. A pleading he’d seen before, “Stay.” And again, “Shane.” A strangled “Hollander.” Shane was failing him again.
They were failing each other. Svetlana had turned towards Ilya, she tugged him down to look at her. Breaking their lingering gazes. Shane watched them disappear behind a wave of sweaty dancing bodies. Felt his chest tighten as he got further and further away from Ilya.
Rose kissed his neck the whole ride home and up the stairs. She shimmied off her dress. He played the role of lusty boyfriend perfectly. He chased her up the stairs. The same stairs he’d thought about chasing Ilya up time and time again, his stairs. In his apartment. His home. Not some stupid building with pillows picked out by some shitty interior designer, he wanted Ilya in his real apartment. With his junior medals and his dirty clothes and his stupid family photos.
He let Rose take him into her mouth. He pretended she was Ilya. He got through it, just barely. And later when he thrusted into her, he pretended the hands on his shoulders belonged to Ilya too.
It didn’t work, but they both pretended it did.
He came with the taste of Rose on his lips, but with Ilya’s name on the tip of his tongue.
****
Svetlana pushed him away. Ilya knew he was in trouble.
When she had turned to kiss him at the club, she’d found him distracted, barely aware of her. “Look at me…” she’d whispered in Russian. And he had. It had been impossible to tear his eyes away from Shane, but he did, “where are you Ilyushka?”
His breath hitched, of course she’d noticed, “Mmm I’m here.” He tried to play it off. Tried to match rhythm to her, to fall into step, but they were perpetually out of step now and he felt crushed by the scrutiny of her gaze.
“Ilya.” Svetlana was not stupid. Far from it. In fact, Svetlana was one of the smartest people Ilya had ever met. Always observant. Always noticing things no one else did. Not even Jane? You’ve been texting for years. I thought maybe it was serious.
Svetlana looked at him disapprovingly, the way only Svetlana did, and forced him out of the club.
He wondered how far they were behind Shane and Rose fucking Landry. Wondered if they’d stumble upon them crowded up in some corner fucking. He tried to picture Shane fucking someone. Rage bubbled up in him. He felt sick at the thought. Was he gentle? Aggressive? Fast? Slow? It tormented him suddenly that in all the years they’d been meeting up Ilya had never been fucked by Shane. Ilya who had never been fucked by anyone felt suddenly empty at the idea that Shane Hollander might be giving someone else a part of himself that he hadn’t given Ilya.
Ilya cursed himself. What was he fucking talking about? There were so many parts of Shane Ilya couldn’t touch. So many parts of Shane that Ilya hadn’t been invited to see. He could pretend all he wanted that there was something special between them, pretend that a tuna melt and a couple gingerales in his fridge in any way equaled actually knowing someone. What was Shane’s favorite color? His worst fear? His favorite childhood memory? These were things he had never been allowed to know. Or maybe they were things he had never allowed himself to ask? He had no idea which one was worse, but he knew both were equally pathetic.
Svetlana pushed him through some heavy metal door and into the cold Montreal night. He had always liked the air in Montreal. Crisp and clean. He appreciated the gentle way the soft night wind caressed his sweat slick jaw and just barely kissed at his lips as he turned his face to meet it. It reminded him of Shane. Every fucking thing reminded him of Shane these days. He was sure Svetlana wanted to talk. He didn’t.
He pushed her up against the cool brick of the alley wall as soon as he could manage it. Anything that kept him from having to fucking talk about it. He mouthed the spot at the base of her neck that she loved so much, she didn’t react, just put both hands against his chest and pushed him away, “What happened in there?”
He tried to play it off, “What do you mean?” he rested his hands on her hips and fluttered his fingers in the way she liked, she ignored him again.
“Don’t be an asshole. You know what I mean.”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t know what she meant because then it was too real, so instead he said, “You are anxious for no reason Sveta.” he lied. “I’m tired. The game took it out of me.”
“Bullshit.” She was not new to Ilya’s antics, saw right through them, “It was like I wasn’t even there.” There was hurt in her voice. Svetlana was not a jealous person, but she was a person. No one wanted to be ignored.
“Sveta…” her eyes held his, intense and searching, “I can’t do this here.” He said because her gaze was exhausting him and he couldn't talk about this here. Not with all his teammates just beyond the door. Not in Russian or any other language, “I was distracted. I am sorry.”
Svetlana was stalking away from him now, down the street, back towards their hotel. He followed her like he always did, it was only a few doors down from the club, “Distracted by Rose Landry?”
Ilya wanted to fucking scream. Rose Landry. He was fucking haunted by her. Everywhere he looked. Rose, Rose, Rose, Rose, Rose. Rose Landry in a new movie. Rose Landry advertising a new phone. Rose Landry feeding Shane fucking Hollander cake at her birthday. Wearing his jacket. Holding his hand. He felt suddenly offended, no he wasn’t looking at Rose Landry. He hadn’t even noticed her. Not with Shane standing right there.
He was thankful she wasn’t looking at him because it must have been written all over his face, “What?” He fought the offense that coated his mouth, of course Svetlana thought he was looking at Rose. She was a movie star. In another world, a world where Shane Hollander didn’t exist, he probably would have been looking at her. They were in the elevator of their hotel now, Svetlana was watching him closely, her arms crossed. He moved towards her, tried to peel back the layers of defense, but she was rigid against him and he quickly moved away again.
“You know her?” Svetlana asked as they stepped off the elevator and made their way towards their room.
Ilya wanted so badly to change the subject, “No.”
He could see Svetlana’s shoulders tense. She didn’t say anything else until the hotel room door clicked shut behind them, “You expect me to believe that?” She was speaking English again now that they were in private.
“It’s the truth, Svetlana.” He was fucking exhausted. From the game. From then night. From Shane’s stupid brown eyes.
“You should have seen yourself Ilya. I have never seen you like that before in my life. You were…you were somewhere else, you were with someone else.” She gestured to him as if to say, don’t lie to me not one thing about you is normal right now, he knew she was right. She’d never seen him act like this, hell he’d never see himself act like this. “You’re telling me it wasn’t her?”
“No! Fuck!” He was exasperated, “I don’t fucking know Rose Landry.” he felt that familiar anger rising in him again, “I don’t give a shit about Rose fucking Landry.” he’d been sitting on this for weeks, wanting to turn off every TV and delete every app that deigned to show him Rose’s perfect fucking face. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, he sunk to the edge of the bed, and caught his head in his hands. “I wish everyone would stop fucking telling me about Rose Landry.”
“So who?” Svetlana’s expression shifted then. The dominos were falling into place. Her eyes went wide, but her voice remained perfectly calm. “Shane Hollander?”
Ilya’s heart leapt in his chest at the mere mention, panic followed. Blooming like a flower in his chest. He didn’t say anything. What was he supposed to say? Lying to Svetlana was like lying to a bloodhound, she would sniff out the truth eventually. He just stared at his feet.
“You were staring at Shane Hollander?” Once again Ilya didn’t respond. “He said he didn’t know you…” she whispered more to herself than to Ilya, but Ilya couldn’t ignore the revelation.
“You spoke to him?”
“I bought him a drink.” Ilya's head spun. Svetlana had bought Shane a drink? Had he known? Had he known who Svetlana was? Had he known Ilya was there? How could he? “Told him I was a friend of yours.” Fuck.
Ilya groaned.
Svetlana was still putting the pieces together, “Shane…” she swallowed, “is he…Jane?” Her eyes found his, he nodded once. And there it was. Nearly ten years of secrecy crashing down in a heap at Ilya’s feet. Ilya burst into tears.
“Oh Ilya.” Svetlana had her arms around him instantly, pulling his large frame against her as if he weighed nothing. She stroked his hair as he sobbed into her shoulder. Ilya was not a crier, though it was not the first time Svetlana had seen him break down. She’d been there for him after his mothers death, had comforted him countless times in the dark of the night when everything got too heavy, in fact she was one of the few people Ilya had that had seen him in those moments. He clung to her now like a child would, tears soaking the silky black fabric of her dress.
He didn’t know how much time passed, but eventually she whispered, “How long?” And then quietly, “Fuck Ilya…it must have been years.”
Ilya was suddenly aware how insane it sounded. Ten years. Just under ten fucking years they’d been doing this. There was no good explanation for it. There was nothing he could say that would explain it away or make it sound like less than it clearly was. Svetlana was the only comparable relationship in his life, and what she and Ilya had was decidedly not the same. Svetlana was his friend. Maybe his best friend. She was his most trusted confidant and he loved her, he even loved kissing her, but Shane? Shane occupied his every thought. Shane made his heart beat fast and his palms sweaty. When he closed his eyes he saw Shane’s freckles like constellations burned into his eyelids. When Ilya thought about sex he thought about Shane arching beneath him, leaning his head back to expose his sweet neck, trying to get as close to Ilya as possible. And when he thought of comfort he thought of Shane’s earnest eyes, of his soft kisses in response to Ilya’s sarcastic deflection. He thought of Shane folding his clothes at the end of countless hotel beds. Ten years of perfectly folded pants. Ilya hadn’t tried, but he was sure he’d watched Shane so closely he could fold them perfectly too. Just the way Shane liked them. He was sure it was particular somehow just like everything Shane did. He wanted to be the person who knew all those particulars. When had that happened?
“Ten years” he heard himself say.
“Jesus.”
He scrubbed hand over his face, “I know.”
“Do you love him?”
Another question Ilya had been dreading. No. Yes. Probably? He didn’t fucking know. There was no easy way to tell. He knew he couldn’t get Shane’s stupid boring face out of his head. He knew he hadn’t picked up a cigarette in months because he always heard Shane’s annoying voice in his head when he tried to smoke, he knew that watching Shane kiss someone else had made him want to scream. He thought about what Svetlana had said in the car, You’ve been texting her for years. I thought maybe it was serious. Maybe it was? “Maybe."
“And what about him? Does he-”
He cut her off because he couldn’t stand to hear her say it. Does he love you? Of course not, Ilya was pathetic, but not stupid, “Well he’s fucking Rose Landry so what do you think?” It hurt to say like it was sharp around the edges. It tore him to shreds.
He could see them in his head like a nightmare. Just Shane at first. Beautiful and perfect against the backdrop of the club. So filthy the way he’d been watching them. Dirty. Perverted. Standing there eyes tracing Ilya’s hands as he slid them across Svetlana’s body. Shane’s mouth opening just a little when Ilya’s fingers grazed her bottom lip. Come here. He’d been beckoning him with his eyes, Tell me you want me, tell me you miss me, tell me I’m not losing you for good. Ilya had almost been convinced that he would until Rose had appeared and Ilya had been suddenly angry. He hated the way Shane’s body had moved with hers. Hated how Shane’s hands, usually small in his own, eclipsed hers easily. How his body subconsciously followed the sway of her hips.
“She is hot.” Svetlana said she was studying him closely, watching for his response.
“Fuck you. You’re not helping.” That seemed to give her the answer she was looking for.
“Maybe it does not mean what you think it means.” she said her hands had found their way into his hair, she twisted one of his curls around her finger, he tried not to think about the way Shane did the same thing when he thought Ilya wouldn’t notice.
He scoffed, “If you were fucking a movie star would you be thinking about some depressed fucking Russian?”
“That depressed Russian is also a world famous Hockey player, and an Olympian.” Ilya scoffed at that. A disgraced fucking Olympian with no medals, “I am saying: you love him and you have been fucking supermodels, and actresses, and me, what? He cannot do the same?”
“You don’t know him, Sveta.” Ilya shook his head. Shane was a good guy. A sweet person. No doubt a devoted boyfriend. “He’s so…good.” Ilya could hear the break in his voice. “He’s…kind and he’s, god,” he winced, he thought of the Olympics, of Shane’s eyes when he’d asked him if he was okay, of how he’d gotten nothing, but vitriol in return. He thought of that stupid text that Ilya never answered but that he still looked at sometimes when he felt empty, “he’s a way better person, than I have ever been.” Ilya swallowed hard, “He isn’t,” Ilya could barely fucking say it no matter how true it was, “sleeping around. If he’s with Rose, he’s with Rose.” And only with Rose. And Ilya knew that because he knew Shane. Even if Shane might never admit it Ilya had been on the receiving end of Shane’s endless adoration before.
Ilya had always felt sort of shitty about it. About the gleam in Shane’s eye. Shane was so bad at lying. He’d known that since their first encounter in the showers. He suspected there had always been strings attached. He liked to pretend they were Shane’s strings, some sweet adoration left over from Ilya being Shane’s first, strings like that were okay. Understandable. Ilya had always liked the way they made Shane desperate. Shane liked him. He could tell. He’d been on the receiving end of so many crushes. Maybe Ilya had liked it a little too much, the hunger in Shane’s eyes. The way Shane’s eyes lingered on his lips, tracing every single word, every change in them. The fact that Shane was waiting for him. That he knew Shane hadn’t so much as touched anyone else between their encounters. Maybe not even himself. He knew he was the only person Shane came apart at the seams for. Or at least he’d thought he had been.
Tonight, watching Shane rub up against his starlet girlfriend in the dark flashing heat of the club, Ilya hadn’t been so sure.
They looked so good together. Shane with the tight line of his muscle under his tshirt, and his dark hair, and those stupid freckles. And Rose with her bouncy curls, her perfect lips, and her perky ass. Anyone who saw them would think the same thing: What an attractive couple. Hell the media had plastered it all over every gossip column and instagram poll they could get their hands on. He’d seen the pictures. The way they walked down the street together holding hands effortlessly. No fear of retaliation.
He tried not to think about Shane and Rose doing domestic shit. He’d never wanted anything so badly in his life. That hour of hockey on the couch, the gentle presence of Shane across from him while he made them tuna melts, the weight of Shane asleep on his arm, those little stolen moments of domestic bliss that Ilya had gotten so few of and would probably never get again. Ilya tried not to picture how easy it was for her, Rose Landry and Shane watching movies on the couch, getting drinks with friends, sitting at the dinner table with Shane’s mom and dad reading The New Yorker or whatever boring thing normal boring families did. He tried to ignore the fact that Rose had probably already gotten to meet them while in ten years the only information he’d gathered about Yuna and David Hollander were scraps based on Shane’s one-off comments and random wikipedia articles skimmed angrily at 2am.
“But have you told him?” He wanted to laugh. Imagine. Shane, I love you so much it hurts. I can’t breathe, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. Leave your perfect girlfriend so you can hide under the covers with me in secret. I’m sorry it took me so long. I love you. Ya tebya lyublyu.
“No.” he said quickly.
“You should.”
Ilya thought of the way Shane had pulled away from him on the couch. He hadn’t been able to sit on it since, “No.” he barked out a laugh, “I can’t.”
“You-“
“I can’t.” Ilya hoped he was conveying what he was hoping to.
Svetlana placed a comforting hand along his cheek, he could feel the scratch of her acrylics against his stubble, “Ten years is a long time Ilyushka.” He didn’t meet her eye, “You might be surprised.”
But Ilya couldn’t live in might. He couldn’t step on maybes. Ilya couldn’t stand an ebb and flow. Maybe he wasn’t as strong as Shane. Maybe it hadn’t bothered him the same way. Maybe the idea of Ilya with other people didn’t even cross his mind. Ilya thought of Shane’s face when he’d brought up Svetlana, absolutely still and staring straight ahead, he thought about how he’d softened when Ilya had dipped his head and caught his eye and said, “I like you too.”
Ilya swore something had shifted then. He swore when Shane had crawled onto his lap and gathered them up in his hand that it was different than it had been. There was something aching and desperate behind it, something permanent in the weight of Shane’s nose against his. Something special about the way Shane peppered kisses across his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose while he stroked them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched with such care. And when he’d come it had been for Shane, at his request, into his hands, saying his name. It had felt honest to hear Shane use his first name. He’d wanted to kiss him forever afterward. Yes. Say my name. Tell me you want to know me.
And then it had stopped and Shane was gone. And Ilya was alone again. Confused and broken on his couch, and absolutely positive that whatever goodness Shane had seen in him, whatever spell that had made Ilya seem safe enough for someone as perfect and as calculated as Shane had broken. Dissolved into the air between them like hot breath against skin. Ilya felt tears rise up in him again. He wanted it.
He wanted to be Rose Landry. To kiss Shane in crowded clubs. To fuck him in bathroom stalls where everyone else could hear them. He wanted to take Shane on dates and tease him under the table and fuck him afterwards. He wanted to meet Shane’s parents. Wanted to sit like a good boy and listen to childhood stories about him while they ate fucking pasta or meatloaf or whatever.
But that wasn’t what Ilya did. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken someone on a proper date? Wasn’t sure if he ever even had. And Shane, god, Shane with his button down shirts and his polite smile deserved someone who would take him on dates. Someone who could love him in that domestic way he so clearly wanted.
That person was not Ilya.
“I’m sorry.” Svetlana said barely above a whisper. And what else could she say? He was fucked. He’d spent ten years falling in love with Shane Hollander and he’d spend ten more hating himself for it.
“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.” Svetlana said after a long time, when her gentle fingers had almost lulled Ilya to sleep on her chest, tear stained and exhausted, “You speak of yourself like you’re some awful thing.” She dipped down to place a kiss in his curls, “You are good too Ilya. Kind.” She moved so that one of her hands could trace Ilya’s fingers, “Gentle.” Ilya watched her watch him. She was careful with her words. , “I don’t know Shane Hollander.” She said obviously, “But I know he would be lucky to have you.” She smiled down at him then, nothing but light in her eyes, “And if he knows you even a fraction of the way you seem to know him then he would agree with me.”
Would he? He took a deep breath and relaxed into Svetlana. It was easy and natural and something he had done a million times. He pretended for a second he was relaxing into Shane instead. A familiar comfort rose up in his chest. It was easy to pretend here, in this hotel room like so many hotel rooms he’d shared with Shane, that nothing had changed. That in a few weeks when he played Shane in Boston Ilya would press him up against the boards and whisper his room number into Shane’s ear, and Shane would show up, like he always did, outside Ilya’s hotel room or Ilya’s home or wherever Ilya asked him to go because Shane wanted to. Wanted him.
Ilya opened his phone. The only notification was from AppleNews: a paparazzi video of Shane and Rose dipping into Shane’s apartment. His real apartment, not some secret fuck building. Ilya locked his phone, took a deep breath, and went to sleep.
He was absolutely fucked.