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When Ilya asks Shane about liking girls, it’s a last ditch effort to get Shane to come to his senses. Ilya finds himself in much too deep, wanting too much.
It’s a bad idea, talking about this. About girls. He should stay quiet, enjoy the company, let the time they spend together be enough.
Realistically, it won’t ever be enough.
His heart beats fervently when he asks anyways.
Maybe if Shane likes girls, he could convince him to try to leave this thing they’ve gotten themselves tangled in together. Ilya could finally let his heart break apart, and then he could maybe fix the lingering ache, the longing, when he needs more but can’t have.
As it is, his treacherous mouth doesn’t say anything to end it. He can’t. He should. He doesn’t want to. It asks Shane to stay, instead.
Shane’s always been the one who’s better at resisting things. He’s not the one addicted to cigarettes, or known to party, or prone to recklessness. He’s reliable, he’s boring. He keeps himself closed off, restrained. And if he’s smart, which he is, he’ll be the one to leave.
Ilya doesn’t want to let the hope swell in his chest when Shane obliviously bluffs through admitting he likes girls too, but it does anyway. As if Ilya doesn’t know his tells. He can see how stiff and uncomfortable the questioning makes him, so he changes the subject. Gets to hold Shane close to his chest and wish for more.
And then Ilya almost fucks up and says something stupid like Shane, I love you. He doesn’t even need to, considering Shane figures it out in a single word, before he could even get the rest of the sentence out, and Shane’s haunted expression says everything.
It makes it all the worse, when this is the moment Shane finally realizes their mistakes and leaves.
—
When Ilya says his name, his first name, out loud, something inside Shane’s chest breaks. The shock of it shoots through his limbs not unlike an ice bath. Wakes him up to the delirium of it all.
The thing is, Ilya never calls Shane, “Shane.”
It’s always, “Hollander” this, “Hollander” that. Sometimes “Jane” over text. “Jane” is nice. Something familiar.
Shane decides immediately that he doesn’t like the shape of his name in Ilya’s mouth. It sounds so wrong in a way that he can’t put words to, won’t put words to. It feels wrong.
No one but his parents call him Shane, except for sometimes Jackie and the kids. But their relationship is different, it feels different when they say it.
Ilya says “Shane,” like it means something to him, like Ilya’s truly seen him in his entirety for the first time, and then there’s static in his head and behind his brow bone and he thinks distantly that he has to leave, he has to get out of there.
So he does. He makes up an excuse that falls flat in both of their ears and books it.
Leaving doesn’t help. The pressure remains.
—
Shane gets back to the hotel room and he can’t really feel the tears rolling down his face, but Hayden’s hovering is enough to know he’s not holding it together.
He says something, asking what’s wrong, but Shane ignores him. He’s standing in the closed doorway, pressing his palms against his eyes for far too long until he finds himself stepping back clumsily and sliding down onto the floor.
He tucks his head between his knees and tries to will himself back into the shape of a human being.
Shane doesn’t know how to tell him that he couldn’t handle his fuckbuddy saying his first name. How it felt like a betrayal. How he doesn’t even know if he likes girls. How Ilya could pick any woman he wants, and how Shane’s too fucked up, the situation is too fucked up, and they could never be together in a way that Shane wants. How Ilya might want, too. How hurt Ilya looked when he was leaving. How much he still wanted to stay, even when everything felt like a mistake.
How there must be something terribly wrong with him, he knows there is, and maybe everyone’s figured it out except for him.
Instead, Shane says, when he knows his mouth can form into something coherent, “I fucked up.”
And Hayden asks, “Lily?”
“Yeah”.
“That sucks.”
“Yeah,” Shane exhales.
“I’m sorry, bud,” Hayden replies, handing him the box of tissues.
They don’t say anything else that evening.
Shane doesn’t think he had any words he could say, anyway.
—
Rose Landry comes into his life like a breath of fresh air.
Shane thinks the last few weeks have been a bit of a nightmare. A big ball of something—a gaping maw he cannot name— has carved itself into his chest and it might drive him crazy.
If he thinks too hard, he can’t remember when it hasn’t felt like this, but that can’t be right because it feels so, so much worse right now.
He’s started checking himself when good-looking people make themselves known in his periphery. He tries looking more closely at women, getting self conscious that he’s being like his teammates. They’re always so pretty and feel so unattainable and separate. Sometimes he passively notices men, even noticing gay men giving him eyes, but it’s not like he wants to sleep with them so it doesn’t register.
The problem might be that he doesn’t really know how to feel about a lot of things until he’s processed what’s going on in his head, and oftentimes that processing never ends. So when he sees someone objectively attractive it only gnaws at him instead of bringing clarity. It gets too weird and he forces himself to stop thinking about it.
The real problem remains: there is only one person, ever, he knows he truly wanted. Still wants.
It’s absolutely fucked.
He’s not gay. He’s not, okay?
The night he meets Rose, Shane’s a little tipsy in the way that approaches an uncomfortable loss of control, and he has another beer in his hand that he probably shouldn’t drink because he hates how untethered being under the influence makes him. He already has a level of disconnect anytime he steps off the ice, of which alcohol always makes worse.
But the night stays young and Shane wants to try something new. He’ll try anything to stop the mess in his head.
Plus, Rose feels like someone who could maybe ground him.
She smiles at him and at once she’s a planet and he’s been floating aimlessly through space. There’s a nervousness in his stomach, and she’s so, so pretty, yet she still has a casual tomboyish grin on her face. He thinks he could maybe stare at her for a while. There’s no heat behind it, not in the way he’s felt before, but she seems different. Cute.
They flirt, and Shane is surprised by how easy it feels. He’s ashamed to say that he’s never really learned how to talk to women, growing up surrounded by teammates and his parents and not much else, and finds himself happily and comfortably talking to her. Like they’re both people and equals and there’s no pretenses. Like he can breathe, just a little bit.
–
They date, and it’s nice.
He’s not telling her about the ‘Are You Gay?’ quizzes that he’s been taking. How often the results are inconclusive because he doesn’t know what to pick.
He’s not telling her how nothing makes sense. How he doesn’t know who he is. How it feels like there’s only one person who could ever connect to him or how he fucked it up and he’ll probably never meet anyone who who gets it like he did. How being called her boyfriend sounds impossibly wrong.
One time his result said that he is “Gay and Homophobic” so he’s not sure about the accuracy of these tests. Another weird one called him “Straight with Lesbian vibes” and he got even more confused by that, and swore off opening any more private browsers.
Best to stick to the inconclusive. Plus, Rose is really pretty, so of course he likes her.
—
Rose has a hunch that Shane does not like her. As friends, yes, but not romantically or sexually.
In fact, she has a different theory altogether, although this theory feels insane.
But the more she thinks about it, the more she has to do to convince herself otherwise. She shouldn’t assume, of course she shouldn’t assume, but the signs have been adding up one by one.
“Hey, I’m not mad,” she reassures, after starting the conversation that both of them had been avoiding.
“I know it’s a problem,” Shane says. “I’m sorry, I promise it isn’t you.”
“Do you find me attractive?” she asks outright.
“Sure,” Shane replies. “You’re beautiful.”
“Sure,” she echoes.
She pauses. Tentative, but too curious not to ask. Skirts around with a slight subject change. “Hey, have you ever watched ‘Honey’?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it,” Shane says, definitely unsure of why the conversation is shifting, but looking relieved. “Why? You were in it, right?”
“Just a background role, when I was a teenager,” Rose answers. “Do you know Mia Ruben?”
“No.” Shane says, “I mean, I don’t think so.”
“She played the main character.” Rose says. “She’s trans.”
She could have gone about that better, but at least she’s trying.
“Okay?”
“Do you know what trans, transgender, means?”
“Yeah, vaguely,” Shane says.
Rose decides to just say it outright. Shane tends to like when she’s direct. “I kinda think you might be.”
“Might be what, transgender?”
“Yeah.”
“Um,” Shane says. Blinks. Swallows. Brows furrow, in the cute way they tend to do when Shane thinks too hard. “What makes you, um, think that?”
Rose shrugs. She doesn’t have concrete evidence other than the obvious vibes she’s picking up, and even if she did, Shane is clearly about to fall apart.
“I’m not.” Shane decides abruptly. “I’m not,” he repeats, with the air of someone trying to convince themselves of something.
Rose realizes, with a sinking feeling, that this might not have been the best move. “I’m sorry, I know I’m overstepping. It’s just, you’ve been kinda miserable. And I don’t know how to help. I want to help.”
Their dinner spot is pretty private, but Shane looks exposed and vulnerable and altogether not doing so well with the information neatly packaged in front of them.
“I don’t— I uh,” Shane stammers, “I should go.”
“Okay,” she replies.
“Hey,” she says, placing her hand gently over Shane’s, “hey.”
Shane stops fidgeting. Squeezes his eyes and pulls his gaze away from the floor to force himself to look back at her.
“Are you okay?” Rose says. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you, I mean, I meant to ask, but I didn’t want to upset you.”
Rose continues, “we’re good, okay?”
Shane says “yeah, we’re good,” with a shaky exhale, and ducks away before answering the first part.
—
For the second time this year, Shane leaves like he’s running from something impossibly big.
—
When home, pulls up a private browser and types “am I trans” into the search bar.
—
The results don't have to mean anything. These quizzes are not always accurate, they specifically warn whoever takes them that they aren’t always accurate.
The words that blink back are pretty damning though.
—
She texts Rose a couple days later. Sorry.
I think you are right about me.
An hour later she tacks on a request.
Can you call me Jane?
—
Rose sees the most recent text and calls before thinking things through. Not that thinking about it would stop her, even though it’s almost 1am and she’s sure both of them are tired. She certainly hasn’t been sleeping the best.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” Jane replies, almost in a whisper.
“I like it. Jane.”
“Kinda cliché, to go for a rhyming name, right?”
“Nah, it suits you. A cute name for a cute girl.”
Jane gives an amused huff.
“I’m being serious,” Rose says. Lets the words linger. “How are you doing? Like actually?”
“Eh. Could be better. Still processing, I think. I mean, obviously still processing. You could have worked up to it,” Jane replies.
“Yeah,” Rose winces, “fair.”
“I’m not upset with you, though.”
“You can be,” Rose says, and she means it. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Eh,” Jane says, “I enjoy your company too much.”
“Well, I like your company too, Jane.”
“I’m glad,” Jane replies, in a matter-of-fact way that would be odd if it were anyone else. “How are you doing?” she asks.
“Could be better,” Rose says. “Could be worse though.”
“Yeah,” Jane agrees.
“For the record, you are the cutest girl I’ve ever dated. I mean, if you identify as a girl.”
“I— yeah, I think I do.”
“Okay, nice.”
“I guess.”
“I’m sorry, again, I shouldn’t have said anything before you were ready, or like, in the right place to hear it.”
Jane exhales and Rose can hear it warble into the phone microphone.
“It’s okay,” she says, “I mean I had to figure it out eventually. Or, I guess, have someone figure it out for me.”
“Sorry!”
“Stop apologizing,” Jane huffs, “you’re going to sound more Canadian than me.”
“You got me. Out-Canadian-ing my girlfriend is exactly what I set out to do every day.”
“Oh,” Jane says. “Um.”
“What? Are you breaking up with me?” Rose says lightly. Teasing, in the way she’d talk to a friend. Because, she realizes, that they’ve been friends this whole time, good friends, and the romance had always been forced. Even if Jane is really cute.
“I thought you were breaking up with me earlier,” Jane says. “I mean, you’re straight right?”
“Yeah,” Rose says, “like mostly straight, unfortunately.”
“I, uh— I am too.” Jane replies. “Mostly straight.”
“Oh.” Rose says. “Oh.”
“What?”
“Have you ever, like, been with a guy before?”
“Rose!”
“Don’t play coy with me, Hollander. Answer the question.”
“Yes, okay? Yeah.” Her tone is smitten, something Rose had never heard in her voice before.
“That good, huh?”
Rose hears an exasperated groan over her phone's speaker.
“Don’t think you can get out of giving details. I mean, I'm gonna give you some space tonight, cause things are new, and I’ve already been way too pushy, but I’m expecting you to spill. And also, go shopping with me and do, like, girl stuff.”
“I can do that,” Jane says. Rose can hear her smile.
“And don’t you think you can get out of this friendship anytime soon, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. You’re stuck with me, Hollander.”
Jane lets out an amused snort. “That makes you stuck with me, too.”
—
Jane knows she’s overthinking things. She’s nervous, alright? She doesn’t even know if Ilya will get it, but she wants to try.
She’s pacing a hole into Ilya’s hotel room floor until she stops abruptly. Decides that she needs to just speak and let the words fall out.
“Rose and I weren’t compatible.”
“Compatible?”
“It didn’t work out.”
Ilya raises his eyebrows, in sarcastic disbelief. He’s such an asshole, sometimes. Jane thinks she might love him.
“She's straight.”
“Okay?” Ilya says. “This is not news.”
“I uh,” Jane starts. Tries again. “Rose thought I was trans.”
“Okay.”
“Trans as in transgender.”
“I know what that means,” Ilya says seriously.
“Oh.”
“Do you think so?” he asks.
“That I’m trans?”
“дa.”
“Yeah,” Jane wrings her hands together. “I think so.”
“Okay,” Ilya says softly, gesturing towards her, grabbing her hands to stop the twisting and to pull her closer. Until she ends up straddling his lap and leaning her forehead against his shoulder, and it’s the safest place to be in the world.
“I don’t know what to do, Ilya,” she murmurs, finding it hard to breathe.
“Hey, don’t do that, look at me,” Ilya holds her face gently. “Breathe, please, дорогая.”
She clings to him closely, like he’s the last one tethering her to earth. In a way, he kind of is.
“I can’t, I can’t be like that,” Jane chokes out, like she has any choice in the matter.
“Why not? You already like me,” Ilya says. “Is impossible, yet you do it anyway. What’s one more thing?”
He looks at her so fondly, and she knows that life is going to be so very complicated for the both of them. But together, against all odds, they might be able to make it all worth it.
“It’s not impossible at all, to like you,” Jane says. “It’s very easy to do, actually.”