Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

November 2016

"Oh God, Shane-"

Shane can still hear the way Ilya- no, Rozanov breathed out his name as he came, panting with short, bated breaths as he rested his forehead against Shane's own. He could still almost feel the ghost of Rozanov's touch as they held each other and waited for their hearts to stop racing so fast.

Except, Shane did not think his heart would ever stop racing, and it hadn't from the moment he walked out of Rozanov's house. His heart hadn't stopped racing on the 45 minute walk back to his hotel, and it hadn't stopped racing all the while he jogged up twelve flights of stairs to the hotel room he was sharing with Hayden.

Hayden Pike, his best friend, who could read him better than anyone else- well, almost anyone else. His parents and Rozanov were probably just slightly ahead, but Hayden knew him pretty damn well. Shane couldn't even begin to imagine what Hayden would think if he found out where Shane had gone and shit, he couldn't even begin to think of a plausible reason to give to explain why his heart was beating out of his chest.

Shane was sure he must be as pale as a ghost right now, and he was sure that his heart was beating so loud that Hayden must be able to hear it, even through the thick hotel door. Shane was especially sure that Hayden would be able to sense something was wrong with him when he remembered the way he had responded.

"Ilya," he had breathed out in a whisper. And then Ilya had kissed him in such a raw way that could have been an apology, or a promise. Shane wasn't sure, and he hadn't stayed to find out. Especially not when he pulled back and saw the shock on Ilya's face and the slight downturn of his lips. He wouldn't- no, couldn't sit there and listen to Ilya tell him it was a mistake. Not when it meant... nothing. It meant nothing.

Because rationally, Shane knew it was a mistake. Rationally, Shane knew all of the reasons that him and Ilya- Rozanov could never work. He had them all meticulously written down in a journal that he kept locked in a shoebox hidden in the back of his closet among the boxes of all the other Reebok shoeboxes he had gotten from his partnership with them.

Except every single time he met with Rozanov, planning to finally put an end to whatever this weird thing was between them... he just couldn't.

And he sometimes hated himself for it.

Because he planned out every little thing in his life, from his schedule and gameday routine down to every bit of food he put in his body, but Rozanov was his one variable. Rozanov was the one uncontrollable part of his life. And sometimes late at night when Shane had trouble sleeping, which wasn't very often but usually coincided with the nights before Boston came to town- or Montreal flew to Boston- Shane thought that the only time he ever felt truly alive, besides while he was playing hockey, was while he was with Ilya.

He could barely even remember what he'd said after. But he could so clearly remember the way Ilya had said it.

"Hollander."

And there it was, his last name. His last name that he had never hated so much than in that moment. His last name that he had never really hated before until it felt like a broken promise. Until it felt like regret.

And Shane just had to leave. He just had to. So he did.

Because that Hollander brought him back to the ice. With that Hollander, he didn't hear Ilya, he heard Rozanov. He heard Hayden, and JJ, and Comeau, and Drapeau, his Coach, the media...

And like a thousand tiny little shards of glass, he heard the things that people would say about him- say about them if they ever found out. And he knew, of course he'd known all along about these things. But for some reason, when he looked into Rozanov's striking icy blue eyes, this time it was different.

He could not stay.

No matter that we wanted to. No matter the fact that each step he took away from Rozanov left a tiny little shard of glass in its wake covered in tiny little pieces of his heart. He had run away.

Shane took a deep breath that did little to calm the racing of his heart and opened the door.

Hayden's head snapped up as Shane entered the room. "Man, I really was not expecting you to be back here tonight," he laughed as Shane stepped further into the room, but as the light washed over Shane's face, the laughter seemed to have died in Hayden's throat. "Dude, are you okay?"

A million thoughts raced through Shane's head at once, the most prominent one being how does he know? And he tried, he really did but he couldn't stop his eyes from welling up with water, threatening to overflow as all of the sudden I made a mistake flashed to the forefront of his mind.

But then Hayden was up and immediately with his arms around Shane, and he just couldn't hold it in any longer. The tears flowed from his eyes as he let his best friend hug him, let Hayden comfort him in the way he wished Rozanov could. And he let himself cry harder knowing that Rozanoz never could, or probably would, do that. He struggled to inhale a breath as Hayden guided him toward the bed and they sat down.

"Shane- what happened?" Hayden asked softly. So soft, so gentle, almost as if Shane would break if he spoke too loud, and maybe he was right. Maybe Shane would break, maybe he already was.

And as Shane's brain raced through the possibilities of things he could say, ways he could explain what was happening without explaining, panic surged through him and his breath quickened. How could he have been so stupid? "I- I can't, I can't talk- It's too much-" he stumbled through his words and he wondered if this was what Rozanov sometimes felt like trying to find the right words that he didn't know, the words that just didn't exist in his vocabulary at the moment and maybe wouldn't ever.

"Did something happen with Lily?" Hayden asked gently, and God if that didn't make Shane cry harder. It seemed like that was all the explanation Hayden needed as he mumbled, "Man what a bitch. The night before a big game? Cold as ice."

Shane wanted to protest, he wanted to argue that no- it wasn't Lily, it was him. Or maybe, it was neither of them, or both. Maybe they had just been doomed from the start and he was such a fool for letting it get to this point. But Hayden seemed content to take that for an answer, and Shane didn't want him to press anymore so he let it be.

At some point, Hayden had put on a movie, Shane guessed. They sat and watched the movie in silence. Hayden had moved back over to his bed, and Shane had gotten under the covers of his own, checking his phone to see no new messages from Lily because of course there wasn't. There was one from his mom in the family groupchat wishing him a good night of rest before the game tomorrow. He responded with a quick thanks before plugging his phone into the charger and shutting off the lamp beside him, falling into a restless sleep.

Chapter Text

Ilya knew he had fucked up the moment he'd said it. But in the moment, he hadn't been able to help it.

He had known earlier that day when he had double checked his refrigerator to make sure the Canada Dry ginger ale he had bought the day before hadn't sprouted wings and flown away. And he had known when he had researched easy recipes of things he could make that fit Hollander's strict performance diet earlier that week that they were playing a dangerous game.

It was a game that had been fun at first, of course. Since they were so competitive with each other, neither of them had wanted to tap out first. But sometimes games are dangerous, and Ilya knew very well that this had not really been a game for a long time.

The two of them were Rozanov and Hollander, and that was all they could ever be. Ilya knew that. They were Hollander and Rozanov to the public, to the media, to their teammates, to their coaches, and they were supposed to be that to each other as well.

But Ilya had called him Shane. And then Shane had left.

And God, Ilya was mad. He was mad because he didn't want to feel anything else but anger, wouldn't let himself feel it.

He wouldn't let himself remember the way Shane had panicked. And it wasn't that Shane panicking was unusual, if anything it was rather unusual for him to not. But this time, it was a different kind of panic.

And fuck, he must have known. He must have seen the pathetic way Ilya looked at him and said his name and known that it was no longer a game. But it could be? Ilya could still take it back, he thought. Maybe he hadn't heard.

"Hollander."

He had said, his voice lower and accent thicker than normal.

"I... uh, I shouldn't stay. I can't. We can't. This is..."

The words were burned into his mind. And he heard it in the silence, he knew what he'd meant.

A mistake.

He thought they were a mistake. And maybe they were. But Ilya liked-

No.

He wouldn't think about it any longer. He couldn't afford to. They were on the cusp of playoff contention and Ilya needed to focus on that. He needed to focus on beating Shane Hollander and the rest of his sorry ass Voyageur team.

And the way that he felt about all of this could wait. It could wait and be dealt with at a later date when hopefully Ilya didn't feel like curling up into a ball and letting all of his emotions consume him.

Ilya did not text Jane before the game. And he was pretty sure that Hollander probably did not care. He convinced himself that he did not care. And that was why he didn't text.

When he played like shit in warm ups, he convinced himself that it was just an off day and he would be okay in the game. And when Marlow clipped his shoulder on a drill because maybe Ilya wasn't fully paying attention, or when he missed an easy backhand into the goal- he still convinced himself it was just an off day and had nothing to do with Shane Hollander and his stupid freckles.

He sat in the locker room before the game, staring at a random spot on the wall opposite him.

"Roz, you good?" Marlow asked from beside him. Cliff Marlow, his partner in crime, esteemed wingman, and probably his best friend from the Bears wanted to know if he was good.

And of course, Ilya convinced himself he was telling the truth when he replied, "Never better. We are going to fuck Montreal."

When he skated to center ice to take the faceoff against Hollander, he schooled his features into a neutral expression and refused to make eye contact with him.

"Good luck, Rozanov." He heard Hollander whisper, and God- he hated him. So polite. So damn polite all the time, even after he had basically ripped a hole into Ilya's heart the night before- no. He would not think about that right now.

"Yes. You will need it." Ilya replied shortly. The puck dropped, and Ilya won the face off.

By the start of the third period, the game was tied 2-2. Ilya was playing like shit, and so was Hollander.

Boston's two goals had both come from Hammersmith off of assists by Marlow, and Montreal's had been scored by Comeau and Pike.

And Ilya hated that Pike had scored this game and he had not.

Since their faceoff at the beginning of the game, Hollander had not attempted to speak to him. For that, Ilya was grateful. He wasn't exactly sure what the two of them really could say to each other right now, and he didn't really want to find out either.

It had been pretty clear last night when Hollander had practically run out his front door that things were over between the two of them and- well, Ilya would deal with how he felt about that later. In the meantime, he had a hockey game to win. He stretched out his shoulder as best he could in the bulky pads they wore, watching as the second line danced an intricate push and pull with Montreal, waiting for his opportunity to hop back in the game.

Montreal always hit hard, but for some reason he felt like tonight they were hitting harder than usual. Especially the few times he had come into contact with Pike. And while he knew that of course Pike didn't know anything- because Hollander would never tell him. And at this point was there even anything to tell?

He was definitely going to be sore tomorrow, and he was definitely going to curse Pike for that last hit into the boards.

The Bears finally caught a break with Ilya back out on the ice when he stole the puck from none other than Pike, obviously in the middle of some elaborate play the Voyageurs had schemed because there was no one in Ilya's path toward their goal- except Drapeau, of course. He took off racing down the ice, and as he pulled his stick back to take the shot, found it odd he had gotten to this point.

Because yes, he was a great hockey player- a really fucking great hockey player. And yes, he had been drafted first overall. And yes, he had won the MVP and the Stanley Cup just two years ago... but Shane Hollander was just ever so slightly faster than him. Only because he was slightly smaller and quicker on his feet, of course. But 99 times out of 100, Hollander would have caught him and been there to make his shot just ever so slightly more difficult. But he wasn't there.

And after taking the shot, and the buzzer blaring. Ilya turned to realize Hollander wasn't even remotely nearby. And it almost made him smile knowing that Hollander was just as off his game as Ilya was.

There were no more goals scored, and so the game ended, 3-2. Bears win.

It was the type of win that Ilya normally loved. Because a game where he scored more goals than Hollander was maybe not entirely rare, but always special. Yet, for some reason, Ilya didn't really feel like a winner.

He didn't feel like a winner when Hollander just barely grasped his hand, muttering an obligatory, "Good game," and he didn't feel like a winner when his team celebrated in the locker room after... and okay, maybe he felt a little bit like a winner when he had seen the murderous glare on Pike's face as he had shaken his hand earlier...

He honestly felt like a whole lot of nothing, but he wanted to try and feel something, so when Marlow asked him if he was coming out with the rest of the single guys on the team to one of their usual spots-

Despite the fact that maybe, just maybe if he hadn't called him Shane last night... maybe he would be texting Jane to come over for a bit before the Voyageur's flight headed out the next morning. Despite the fact that he really didn't feel too much like celebrating. Despite the fact that if he found someone to hook up with that night, he knew he would be picturing those stupid freckles the whole time, Ilya said yes.

Chapter Text

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Marlow said when they had been at the club for about an hour, and Ilya had already turned away three girls. And of course, he hadn't been rude about it... he had bought them drinks and sent them away to go back to whoever they had come there with.

He just hadn't really been interested.

And so Ilya nodded, though he felt bad that Marlow was going home without anybody, and maybe Marlow was a better friend than Ilya really deserved.

Marlow called them an uber back to his place, and Ilya took in the view of the city. His city, he supposed, though it hadn't really ever felt much like home. But Ilya also couldn't say that Moscow had ever felt like home either, at least not since his mother had passed.

Ilya sat down on Marlow's couch as the man himself rummaged through his liquor cabinet, making a satisfied grunt as he pulled a bottle out from the back. It was a bottle of Russian vodka Ilya had brought back for him the last time he'd been in Moscow. Marlow brought it over, along with two lowball glasses. "Guest bedroom is clean, you can stay if you want." Marlow grumbled as he filled their glasses.

They settled into a comfortable silence as they took in the view from Marlow's penthouse apartment. It almost made Ilya miss his old apartment, the one he'd rented when he first joined the Bears.

The one he moved out of when he decided that an apartment was too public. When he decided he wanted a space that was more private to be alone with his thoughts, at least he told himself that, but deep down he knew that it would add a level of comfort to his encounters with-

"Roz, talk to me man." Marlow breathed into the silence. "First, you play like shit. Then you pass up on three hot as shit girls to do what? Stare at your drink all night? Not to mention, you look like shit."

"Oh thanks, Marly." Ilya snapped, annoyed but not at Marlow. Annoyed in a way he couldn't even really explain.

"You know what I mean, Roz." Marlow replied, snapping right back at him. "Tell me what the fuck is up, dude... I just want to help." The last part came out softly, and suddenly, Ilya felt bad.

"Is nothing." He replied neutrally, waving his hand in the air in some sort of gesture as if to emphasize that it was truly nothing. And he wanted to talk to Marlow, he was sure Marlow would understand. In fact, he was willing to put money on it- hell, he would bet one of his fancy sports cars that Marlow would understand. But Ilya could not tell him.

He simply could not.

Because Hollander would be so angry at him if he ever found out that Ilya had told someone, and selfishly, Ilya wasn't ready to say it out loud yet. He wasn't ready to acknowledge that he and Hollander were done. He wasn't ready to acknowledge the stupid game that he had started- and lost. He wasn't ready to acknowledge that the only contact he may have with Hollander from now on were the fleeting moment at the games were they lined up to take those sacred faceoffs against each other. And he certainly wasn't ready to acknowledge that when Shane Hollander had run out of his apartments just 24 hours ago, it felt kind of like goodbye.

Marlow sighed, and Ilya felt terrible.

"You can always talk to me, you know-"

Marlow was cut off by a long vibration. It was Ilya's phone, face down on the coffee table. The two men exchanged glances.

There were very few people who could break through Ilya's do not disturb. He could count them on one hand.

His brother, and given that it was barely 8 am in Moscow currently, his brother was likely still asleep from the events of the night before.

His father, who for entirely different reasons was probably still asleep.

Jane, who Ilya couldn't imagine could possibly be calling him right now.

And that just left two. His coach and his agent.

He picked up his phone hesitantly as Marlow shot him a look of confusion. It was his agent.

Ilya picked up the call. "Hello?"

And then the floor dropped out from under his feet.

"Ilya, TMZ has contacted me for a statement. They have pictures of a man leaving your house. It's blurry, and you can't quite tell who it is, but you can kind of make out the Voyageur's logo on-" And Ilya stopped listening to the rest of whatever his agent was saying because this was Hollander's worst nightmare. 

And sure, of course it could have been fine. There were many hockey players in the league on different teams who were friends. 

But Ilya knew how crazy hockey fans were, and he knew that visibility be damned, there were people out there who would be able to connect that it was Hollander by build and height referenced by trees or some shit and- oh, they were so totally screwed. Because sure, maybe nobody would figure it out. It would be a huge jump to assume that just because Shane Hollander was spotted leaving Ilya Rozanov's house that they were secret lovers having a years long affair. But if the reporter was contacting Ilya's agent, there must have been something pretty damning about the photo.

And if the story leaked, every interaction between the two of them from then on- hell, probably even some of their past interactions- would be under strict public scrutiny. And Shane would lose it. And Ilya just couldn't have that.

"No." He whispered, nearly dropping the phone, standing up and walking to the sanctuary of the guest bedroom as Marlow shot him a concerned, questioning look.

"Look, Ilya. I'm not here to question what- or who- you do with your personal life, I'm just here to fix things. And thankfully, I've been able to maintain a working relationship with the reporter who bought the photos and-"

"So they can fucking go away?" Ilya questioned roughly, interrupting his agent.

"I-" Ilya heard a sigh, "Not exactly."

And his head was rushing and spinning and scenarios were dancing through- Hollander was totally going to kill him.

"We can... bury the story per say, but it's going to cost us." His agent informed. It was a gentle voice, no- not gentle, but informative maybe.

"How much? Whatever it is, I will pay." Ilya said dismissively.

"It's not quite that simple, Ilya." His agent sighed on the other line. "I'm lucky this reporter knows you as one of my clients and reached out to me first, so we can get ahead of this, but... the only way he'll scrap this story is if we give them a ... bigger one."

And God, it was too much English for Ilya to fully understand what any of this broad language meant, and Ilya had half a mind to bring Marlow in to help him decipher it. He took a deep breath and- ok, they needed something to cover this up? But it still didn't fully make sense to him because-

"Ok. What story is fucking bigger than Montreal player leaving Boston player's house?" Ilya sighed into the phone. Suddenly, he was glad that he had switched from a Russian agent to an American agent this year. And suddenly, he was extra glad that he probably overpaid the shit out of his agent. And he was especially, incredibly glad when he thought about the devastated way Hollander would have reacted if he had woken up to a fucking TMZ article depicting him leaving Ilya's house- he would have maybe died, and he certainly never would have spoken to Ilya again.

"Have you heard of a pap walk?" His agent asked. And suddenly, there were details and elaborate explanations and a time and a place which Ilya was glad that his agent texted him to confirm because most of it had gone in one ear and out the other.

Tomorrow afternoon, O Ya, 7 pm.

The restaurant was apparently the place where some famous people named Blake and Ryan - whoever they were- had their first date, and Ilya thought it was kind of ironic that it was a Japanese restaurant but he didn't dare say that out loud.

And when Ilya walked into the living room where a concerned Marlow sat expectantly, and the only thing he could think to say was-

"What the fuck is a pap walk?"

Chapter Text

Shane was late.

Just a little bit late, no more than five minutes, but he hated being late, and he most certainly was. And he knew his parents wouldn't blame him, they probably wouldn't say anything about it, but it bothered him. It was the type of almost irrational bother that he couldn't quite explain. But when he parked his car and turned off the ignition, he sat for a moment because- he was already late.

Hayden hadn't said a word after the game, not that Shane had really let him. He had basically gone straight from the locker room to media- where they asked him in both French and English to talk about what went wrong tonight and how he felt that Ilya Rozanov had scored more goals than him. Shane had to bite his tongue to refrain from saying that Rozanov himself had only scored one goal, and as a matter of fact, it wasn't just Shane who had played like shit tonight. And then he'd gone straight to bed once they got back to the hotel.

So no, Hayden hadn't said a word. He had just given Shane that sort of downturned smile, laced with pity before he'd turned out the light and gone to sleep. It was the type of smile that you give to your friend when they're going through a bad breakup except Shane wasn't going through a breakup because him and Rozanov had never really been together- they never would- and that was painfully clear after tonight.

Rozanov had barely even looked at him the whole game, and the only words he'd spoken?

"Yes. You will need it." Shane remembered.

It wasn't so much the words as it was the tone. It was his usual smug, cocky, asshole voice that he'd use when he was chirping the other Voyageur players. The hard edge of it was the same as if he were speaking to Hayden or JJ. And Shane had never realized it before, but he kind of understood how Rozanov was able to incite so many fights with players across the league just by speaking to them. It was because his voice was cold, it was grating, and it was so smug that it filled Shane with rage. Especially when Shane realized that it was different than the way he normally spoke to him-

Fuck.

He couldn't deal with this right now. He was back in Montreal, and his parents had driven all the way up here to meet him for dinner, and now he was ten minutes late.

He walked into the restaurant his parents had chosen, an upscale seafood restaurant with private dining spaces so they could talk without fear of being overheard and plenty of food Shane could eat. It was a nice place, and Shane was excited to see his parents even though he really didn't have much of an appetite.

Yuna and David stood to hug him when he joined them at the table, his mom already beginning to run him through the next month's schedule of brand shoots, promotions, and posts he would need to make on his social media. She smiled at the sight of his Reebok shoes even though Shane felt rather silly wearing sneakers with his slacks and button down shirt. He was so lost in thought, replaying moments from last night's game, replaying moment's from Rozanov's house when-

"Shane, honey. Are you listening to me?" his mom asked, her face pinched with concern.

"Yuna, maybe just let him breathe for a second." his dad said kindly, placing a comforting hand on her forearm, "He's had a long stretch of away games, and I'm sure he's tired."

His mom smiled slightly, placing her hand on top of his dad's and squeezing slightly before saying, "You're right, you're right. I'm sorry, Shane, honey- how are you feeling?"

He had appreciated his dad, at first, for getting his mom to stop momager mode, but now he was kind of cursing his dad for doing so. Because that was really the last question he wanted to answer at the moment. For as much as Shane hated being late, he hated lying to his parents even more, and there was no way to explain how he was feeling to them without lying a little.

Confusion. Anger. Regret.

Sadness.

It wasn't fair. It really wasn't fair, but he knew he'd made the right decision when he heard how cold Rozanov had been on the ice.

He didn't care, because of course he didn't care. It was simple to him, just sex. And yes, he had said Shane's name, but Shane was almost 99% sure at this point that it hadn't really meant anything, and he just couldn't have his fears confirmed, so of course it had made sense to run.

"Fine." He lied through his teeth, subtly flexing his jaw. He thought he'd said it rather convincingly, but the knowing look his parents exchanged immediately after betrayed that just a bit. "I'm just frustrated about the game." He added and saw his parents relax their shoulders a bit. He knew that would work. Because what else could he possibly be so wound up about except the game?

"Well, at least you weren't the only one off your game last night." His mom remarked offhandedly, and she had said it in the kind of breathy way that almost made it seem like a joke, but what was that supposed to mean?

"What do you mean?" Shane asked quickly, maybe too quickly by the look his parents exchanged once again.

"Just that Rozanov also played below his usual standard last night," his mom said carefully, evenly almost. Her careful, perceptive eyes watching him, searching for a reaction.

"Oh." Shane had replied, "Right, of course." Of course. Because of course his mom hadn't meant it in any type of way. Because of course, his mom was probably the biggest hockey fan he knew- hell, she had ESPN alerts on all the time... So, of course, she had noticed after years of watching the Bears and the Voyageurs play that Shane was playing way below his usual standard, and so was Rozanov.

Sensing that there was something up that Shane maybe wasn't up for talking about, his dad stepped in as he usually did exactly when Shane needed him to and began talking about his current project at work.

The food had just arrived, a plate of a beautiful baked cod with a double side of sauteed garden vegetables for Shane along with a refill to his ginger ale, when Yuna's phone buzzed. It wasn't an unusual occurrence, but the way her eyes widened in surprise before she schooled her features back into neutrality- was.

"Well," she exclaimed, letting out a somewhat breathy, surprised laugh. "Maybe that explains why Rozanov was off his game last night."

And Shane's stomach dropped to the floor. He felt his body go ice cold as adrenaline flooded through his veins and the worst possible scenarios ran through his mind- except, no.

It couldn't be. Because his mom hadn't mentioned anything about Shane. "What is it?" he asked, using all of the energy he had left in his body to sound calm, neutral, unbothered even. But nothing could have prepared him for the way his stomach dropped even further when his mom handed her phone to him and narrated as he read the headline.

"Apparently, Rozanov has finally settled down."

And Shane could vaguely hear his mom and dad laughing and theorizing if this would provide a distraction enough to affect his play for the foreseeable future. And Shane wanted to believe it was fake, after all, he'd been with Rozanov not even 48 hours ago. But staring him right in the face alongside the headline 'Boston Bear's Superstar Hockey Player Ilya Rozanov and X Squad Franchise's Starring Actress Rose Landry Spotted On Date Night In Boston' was a picture of Rozanov, hand in hand with none other than Rose Landry... and they were both smiling.

He scrolled through the five photos that had been captured and was almost disgusted by how absorbed in each other they appeared to be. Suddenly, Shane felt like he was going to be sick, but he forced it down and handed the phone back to his mom. He finished most of his dinner and laughed at all of his dad's jokes and responded to all of his mom's inquiries. He kept on a brave face and told his parents he loved them before they drove off, but when he got into his car, it all finally hit him.

Shane hated the way his brain was racing, wondering all of the stupid little details like how had they even met and what did she see in him which, if he was honest was more like what did he see in her?

And God, fuck the performance diet. Shane could not be alone with his thoughts tonight, not when the one person who could quiet them-

He wouldn't finish that thought.

When he finally got back to his apartment, he left his shoes by the front door and went straight to the back of the pantry where he kept the leftover alcohol from all of the team parties he had hosted at his house- brought, and left, by other people of course. He picked out a decent looking bottle of vodka and grabbed a can of ginger ale from the fridge. And when a little voice in his head told him that Rozanov would yell at him for ruining the vodka by diluting it- well, he told that voice to shut up.

And then Shane drank. He tortured himself by putting on a replay of the previous night's game. He tortured himself by watching the stupid mistakes he made, mistakes that in the end had cost them the game and potentially a higher seed come playoffs. He went through can after can of ginger ale, mixing it with the vodka until his head was fuzzy and he stopped being able to make out the numbers on the jerseys on the screen. And he liked it better that way when he couldn't immediately tell which one was Ilya even though he really still could because he had basically memorized his build and the way he glided so effortlessly across the ice.

He liked that he could use the excuse that his vision was blurry because his head was spinning because he'd drank way too much vodka and not because there were tears forming in his eyes threatening to fall. And he didn't really know why, because he honestly didn't really even like Ilya that much, he just liked hooking up with him and the way that nobody else quieted mind quite like Ilya did and he liked that Ilya had stocked ginger ale at his apartment because-

Fuck.

Shane had decided to drink tonight because he thought it would quiet the thoughts, not make him deal with the truth. And suddenly, he was pulling up his phone and drafting a text to Lily.

'Does she make you happy?'

His thumb hovered over the little blue arrow that would send the text.

But Shane was a coward. So instead, he called Hayden.

Hayden picked up on the second ring, and fuck, when did the tears start falling?

"Shane?" Hayden mumbled, his voice low and rough with sleep.

"Hey Hayd," Shane managed, though even in his drunken state, he could tell his voice sounded wet with tears.

"Oh shit, dude, are you okay?" Hayden asked sounding more awake now.

Shane thought for a moment. And then another moment. "No." he whispered.

"I'm on my way buddy."

Shane didn't deserve him.

Chapter Text

Shane woke up with a pounding in his head as the night before came back to him in flashes and-

Shit.

He'd called Hayden. He stood up, as quickly as his body would allow, and fighting down a wave of nausea, he made his way down the stairs. And he honestly had no idea how he'd made it up the stairs. The night was coming back to him in bits and pieces, but he hadn't quite gotten to that part yet. As soon as he stepped off the last stair, he was almost tackled to the ground by two little ... kids?

"Oh fuck, sorry Shane," Hayden cursed as he ran over to grab Jade and Ruby, the two little kids who had just collided with Shane's legs. "Jackie and the kids are here by the way." Hayden explained as Shane finally processed the smell of eggs, bacon, and coffee coming from his kitchen, and fuck, he felt like an asshole. They were back in Montreal for the next four days before flying off for their next away game and of course, Hayden didn't want to miss out on crucial time with his family.

"Hi Shane," Jackie spoke warmly from the kitchen, "There's advil and a glass of water for you on the counter."

Shane managed to walk the few steps from the bottom of the stairs to the counter without his world completely spinning out. He swallowed the pills quickly and then chugged the rest of the class. "I'm sorry Hayden," he said weakly, "And Jackie, I'm sorry to you too. I know you guys don't get much family time during the season, and I'm sorry for messing that-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Hayden soothed quickly in total dad mode, "Don't worry about that, bud."

"You're part of the family," Jackie added sweetly, reminding Shane again just how lucky his best friend was.

Hayden and Jackie exchanged a look and uh oh. Shane had no idea what that look meant, but he was sure he was about to find out.

"Breakfast is done. Why don't I take the kids outside to get their wiggles out while you two eat?" Jackie suggested, picking Arthur up from the floor where he'd been toddling at her feet and calling for the girls.

"Great idea, babe" Hayden replied enthusiastically, walking over to give Jackie a quick peck.

Shane couldn't help feeling like he was in trouble with his parents. In the moment it almost felt like he was the Pike's fourth kid, and Jackie was taking the rest of them on walk so they didn't hear their older brother getting scolded. Shane's mind raced with the possibilities of what Hayden might be about to confront him about. He remembered very little from after he'd called him to come over.

He had opened the door when Hayden had knocked, and even then in his drunken state, he'd been sure he'd looked a mess. It had been confirmed when as soon as stepping into the foyer, Hayden said, "Dude what the fuck happened to you? You look like shit."

"Swear jar," Shane remembered muttering as he walked back to his Shane sized indent on the couch where he'd thrown off his blanket to open the door. The game had finished twenty minutes ago and auto played some Voyageur fan podcast doing an in depth analysis of their scheme and addressing what had gone wrong. The pieces Shane was able to process honestly sounded like a load of bullshit, and for a second he had felt like tweeting a challenge to those stupid podcasters to try and even score an unmanned goal on ice, but even drunk, he knew that was both a terrible idea and a PR nightmare.

When Hayden had seen the state of the coffee table, littered with empty cans of ginger ale and a bottle of vodka that Shane had drank a significant amount of, he sighed. "Oh you're so fucking lucky we don't have practice tomorrow morning."

Shane had just mumbled something intelligible even to himself and waved his hand in the air inconsequentially.

Shane guessed that sometime after that, Hayden had helped him up from the couch and into his bed, and probably slept in Shane's guest bedroom. Hayden, who was now staring at him expectantly with some mixture of pity and confusion in his eyes.

"Now that you're, uh, sober," Hayden started, laughing slightly though it died out quickly. "Shane, you know I'm always here for you, right?"

Shane nodded.

"And you know that Jackie and I love you, right? I mean, you're like my brother, and I care about you a lot, but... I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on." And the las part, God- the last part, it almost pained Shane the way Hayden was basically pleading with him, begging almost just to tell him what was wrong so he could try and help.

And he knew Hayden wouldn't judge him, he'd known that the whole time he'd been keeping this secret. It wasn't just that he was afraid, it wasn't just that he had never told anyone else before that maybe, just maybe he might not really like girls... There was a part of him that was embarrassed, and a part of him that was still protective over Rozanov. Because of course Hayden wouldn't care that Shane was- well, not straight. But Hayden would care if he felt like Rozanov had played Shane, which at this point Shane wasn't even really sure where he stood about that whole thing, because obviously Shane had been in Rozanov's bed two nights ago, and now it seemed as though Rozanov had some epic love affair with Rose freaking Landry... And if Hayden knew that Rozanov had ... affected Shane so deeply, he was sure Hayden would start some sort of fight with him at the next game, and then of course Marlow would get involved which would mean JJ had to get involved which would get Hammersmith involved and it would just end up in a huge Bears-Voyageurs mess that would let Rozanov know that Shane wasn't as unbothered as he wanted to appear.

"I-" Shane started, not even really sure what was about to come out of his mouth.

"And please, don't lie to me, Shane. Because you're terrible at lying, and I would really rather you just say nothing if you're going to lie." Hayden interjected quickly, "Sorry, I'll let you speak now."

And God, Hayden was a really good friend, and Shane really, really did not want to lie to him, so he told him so. "I really, really don't want to lie to you, Hayden," he admitted, he tried to keep his voice low and steady, even and neutral, but- "I just don't know how to tell the truth about this." And he knew his bottom lip was trembling slightly and his voice wobbled a bit at the end, and from the way Hayden had gone slightly out of focus, he knew his eyes were slowly welling up with tears, and he really, really didn't want to be but-

Fuck.

Shane was scared.

Hayden rushed over to Shane and wrapped his arms around him, "Hey, whatever it is, buddy. You can tell me, or not tell me. I promise I won't look at you any differently, and I told Jackie to bring a shovel- it's in the trunk of the car. Just in case we need to bury a body for you." Hayden joked.

Hayden and Jackie, who had never judged him. Hayden and Jackie, who had him over for dinner at least once a week during training. Hayden, and Jackie who put up with his bird food. Hayden and Jackie, who apparently were ready to bury a body for him. And suddenly, before his brain had even processed the words coming out of his mouth, Shane's lips were moving and he was saying, "I think I'm gay."

And shit, that was a big step. Shane had barely even really admitted it to himself in his own head that he had never really been interested in girls, at least not in the way where he could picture ten, twenty years down the line. Not in the way where he could picture inviting them to his cottage for the summers, or over to Jackie and Hayden's for dinner during the year. Not in the way where he wanted to learn every single little thing about them, and he certainly could not picture them in the bedroom.

And probably what scared him the most was that he could not picture a girl meeting his parents, but he could picture someone meeting his parents. It scared him almost to death that when he thought about his greatest, deepest desire in the world- it was him, his mom, and his dad sitting at the dinner table in the cottage where they had spent every summer growing up. It was them, sitting at the table with Ilya Rozanov.

But that wasn't a possibility for Shane, because Ilya Rozanov was dating Rose freaking Landry. Of course he was. The two of them made so much sense together, the biggest star in hockey and the biggest female movie star since... Shane didn't even know. It wasn't a possibility, and it wasn't even one of his pressing, major concerns right now because as much as it stung, he was sitting in front of his very real, very present best friend, who he had just admitted to being gay to.

"Okay." Hayden replied slowly, his eyebrows raised in questioning as if he expected Shane to continue, and of course there was more to the story, but Shane wasn't sure if he was ready to get to that part yet, so he shrugged his shoulders. "Is that it?" Hayden asked.

Shane shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't quite a yes, but it wasn't a straight up lie either, and that was all of what Shane could manage at the moment, at least without totally freaking out.

"Oh," Hayden sighed out a long breath as if he'd been expecting something far more scary. "Well, you know I love you no matter what, so..." And as if the gears were turning an clicking into place in his head, Hayden cocked his head to the side and said, "But, Lily then... is she a he? Or is she a she and that's the problem? Or is she a-"

Shane cut him off with a burst of laughter, shaking his head. "She's a he, but please don't ask me any more questions. I'm not ready- when I'm ready to talk about Lily, I will. But it's just- too soon." And there it was again, Shane was balancing so carefully between the truth and a lie.

"Thanks for telling me, Shane." Hayden whispered quietly. And even though Shane knew that it wouldn't be a problem, he couldn't help but smile at how nonchalant and yet perfectly supportive Hayden had been.

They sat in silence for a couple moments before Hayden broke it by saying, "Now let's eat before breakfast gets cold, I'm fucking hungry."

"Swear jar," Shane muttered under his breath with a smile as they filled their plates and began to eat.

Chapter Text

From what Marlow had described to him about what a pap walk entailed, Ilya had expected it to be entirely unpleasant. Bright flashing camera lights in your face, not to mention some random girl on his arm, tasked with controlling his facial features to appear "infatuated" or- at least, not completely bored out of his mind.

Really, Ilya had expected it to be a quick thing. They would walk into the restaurant and sit in a private dining room on their phones until a respectable amount of time had passed for them to leave, and then they would do it all over again with the lights, cameras, and the flashing all the way back to the 'getaway car'.

What Ilya hadn't expected was to have none other than Rose Landry on his arm. And even more surprising, he kind of liked her.

Whatever her agent had told her about why Ilya was really doing this, or if they even had told her anything at all. She was the perfect picture of grace and humility despite her broad fortune and notoriety. She was an actress after all, but Ilya got the feeling that she wasn't putting on a show.

Her car had picked him up from his apartment and on the ride there, she had thanked him, genuinely thanked him, for doing this with her. And when they had gone into the private room of the restaurant, she had set her phone face down on the table and asked him questions about himself. As if she actually wanted to get to know him.

She had grown up in Detroit with a pair of brothers who'd played hockey all throughout their high school years, so she understood the intricate rules and exceptions of hockey which Ilya found intriguing. And of course she was beautiful, she was a world famous movie star after all, but it didn't feel like she expected anything from Ilya besides a desire to learn about his life.

And Ilya found that kind of refreshing, and he found himself kind of liking her company because he couldn't really remember the last time he'd met someone outside of the hockey world who had cared to get to know him just for him without wanting anything from him in return.

Before the night had ended and they'd left their private dining room, Rose Landry had held out her hand and given his a firm shake. "Pleasure doing business with you," she commented with a slight smirk on her face, "I have a feeling you and I are going to be very good friends, Ilya Rozanov."

And so they were.

Rose was renting a penthouse in downtown Boston while she finished up filming a couple reshoots for her latest project. It was a historical drama film that Rose described as 'Oscar bait' whatever that meant.

On days when the Bears had home games, Ilya would wake up and go to morning practice or walk through. Then he'd go home and eat lunch before driving back to the arena for the game. After the game, which Rose would attend, wearing his #81 Rozanov jersey, they would go out to dinner or he would come up to her apartment to kill some time before exiting.

And for two weeks, it was a nice routine. For two weeks, Ilya was so busy between nonstop traveling for away games and brief stops home, he was so busy having wine nights at Rose's apartment and learning all about stupid American pop culture from her, that for a little bit, it was easy to forget about what happened the last time the Bears and the Voyageurs played each other.

At least, that was what Ilya liked to tell himself.

The truth was that in the past two weeks, Rose had become a very close friend of his. Because of her genuinely curious nature and somewhat annoying persistence, Ilya had told her things that very few people in his life knew.

But even though he had fun with Rose, and even though it definitely wasn't like that and neither of them wanted it to be- sometimes, it was really nice. And sometimes, Ilya wished he could have something like that but for real.

And even though logically he knew he could have something like that but for real... there were probably hundreds, if not thousands of women in Boston who would be very willing to have something like that with him. Deep down, Ilya knew he didn't just want something like that.

But he didn't let himself think about that because every time he did, he felt like someone was closing their fist around his chest and squeezing hard and all of the sudden it would get hard to breathe.

He didn't let himself think about that because he always played shitty hockey when he was sad and thinking about that night two weeks ago made him sad.

He just couldn't ever let himself think about it ever because it wasn't a possibility. Shane had made that very abundantly clear when Ilya had practically begged him to stay, and he'd still left. And maybe if he just didn't let himself think about it, it would eventually stop hurting so bad.

That's what he told himself at least.

"Oh fuck off, Rozy" Marlow exclaimed in the grumbling way he normally did when he was both pissed and amused at the same time. They had a rare day off after a gauntlet of games, and their coach had given them the day for some rest and recovery. "Pick a different color."

Rose had suggested a game night with wine, and Ilya was somewhat surprised by the realization that he actually liked wine even though he already protested.

"Oooh! You should invite your friends and we can do a wine night with games at my place!" Rose exclaimed.

"Why is it always wine night? It makes me feel like a boring fucking American with two car garage and three kids." Ilya replied, feigning annoyance.

"Well, I'm not drinking straight vodka with you because no matter what you say, that is disgusting. Plus you know you love our wine mom nights so stop pretending to complain," Rose sighed. "And don't forget to bring Svetlana!"

So Ilya had brought Svetlana and Marlow, his two closest friends in Boston, who also both knew about his contractual arrangement with Rose, to her place for game night. They were currently playing a very competitive game of Uno where Ilya had just changed the color to red, and he hadn't even used his +4, so he wasn't sure what Marlow was so heated about.

"I'm not going to fucking pick another color. I play color change card, and I chose red, so color is fucking red." Ilya replied, and okay- maybe he was getting a little heated too, but in his defense, it had been a long game.

Every time one of them got close to winning, the others collaborated to change the color, reverse the order, or play a devastating +2 or +4 card.

"You literally fucking changed it to red last time," Marlow groaned as he began picking up cards, growing his deck of 2.

"Yes. Because I have a lot of fucking red cards, Marlow." Ilya explained, elongating the words as if Marlow were a toddler.

"Okay guys, calm down," Svetlana soothed as Marlow finally put down a playable card after drawing eight. She laid down a red skip card with a wink which skipped Rose's turn and added, "Uno, by the way."

Rose rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "You've got to be kidding me!" while Ilya and Marlow cursed under their breath.

"Okay Marly," Ilya started, "what color do you need, I can probably change it?"

"I can't do anything to stop her!" Marlow sighed.

"What do you mean? You just pick up eight fucking cards and they all suck?" Ilya asked exasperatedly. He was trying not to be a sore loser, because after all it was just a game, but he had one color change and one +4 left in his hand and he had also been about to win and now they had to try and change the color to one they were certain Svetlana didn't have. "Whatever," he grumbled as he laid down a red 2.

Marlow laid a blue 2 on top of his card as they all waited with anticipation to see what Svetlana would do.

A smirk spread across her face as she put down a blue 4. Ilya congratulated her and tried not to be upset. He did a good job. Mostly.

He lounged back on the couch as Svetlana and Marlow started bickering about what their next game should be. Rose was smiling softly as she watched them, and Ilya was really glad they all got along so well. He'd been sure Rose and Svetlana would love each other, and he'd been right. They had clicked immediately the first time they'd met and honestly had Ilya questioning if he had been a ghost for how little they'd acknowledged him.

Svetlana and Marlow had met briefly a few times when he'd brought her along to team banquets, but this was the first time him and Rose had met and the first time they'd all hung out together as a group.

"Your friends are very cool," Rose hummed softly, glancing at Ilya with a relaxed smile.

"I am glad you like Marlow, he was very nervous to meet you." Ilya replied, raising his voice slightly on the last part to get Marlow's attention. He received an elbow in the side which he kind of deserved, but it was worth it. And clearly Marlow wasn't upset with him given that he went right back to arguing with Svetlana.

Rose gave a small smile to that and added, "He is very funny, and you already know I love Svetlana."

"Yes." Ilya spoke thoughtfully, "I think sometimes you are going to fake break up with me to fake date her instead."

Rose threw her head back in laughter, "Imagine what a scandal that would be," she joked. For a second, Ilya did. It seemed Svetlana overheard what they had been saying because she added in to the conversation.

"Here probably not so much," she shrugged, "But I would probably not be able to go back to Russia."

For a moment, a contemplative quiet settled upon the group. Ilya knew that. Of course he did. And he could only imagine how much bigger the scandal would be with the history that he had with Hollander-

But there was no point in thinking about that. There was no point in wasting time fearing over something improbable- no, impossible. Hollander had made that very clear. And suddenly, there it was again. Somebody had reclaimed his heart in their fist and this time they were squeezing harder than they ever had before.

Ilya vaguely registered Svetlana making some joke about how she would be honored to be Rose's fake girlfriend even though the two of them had ranted many times to both Ilya and each other about the pains that came with being straight women. He vaguely registered Marlow's joking "Oh God, get a room," as the two of them began to jokingly flirt with each other. But his mind was still stuck on a very boring Canadian with very stupid freckles who would make it very impossible for him to go back to Russia if anybody found out even a fraction of Ilya's feelings- No.

Ilya took a long swig of his Merlot and tried to redirect his brain to think about their upcoming games. Home vs Buffalo, then Home vs Tampa Bay, then away at Toronto, then away at Montreal and fuck, this wasn't helping. He took another long swig of Merlot and Rose bumped him with her shoulder.

"Seems like someone is thinking about a two car garage and three kids," she murmured under her breath.

"Fuck off Landry," Ilya groaned because now he was thinking about that and God, maybe he hated being wine drunk.

"You know, even though you're telling me to fuck off, I feel kind of honored you used my last name." Rose said brightly.

"Oh you should," Marlow nodded seriously, "That's how you know you've made it in the hockey world."

Fucking finally, Marlow and Svetlana had decided they were going to play some long board game called Catan next. And even though Ilya thought the premise honestly seemed kind of stupid and very American, he gladly accepted the distraction of the multiple hour long game because he needed to distract himself better. And it worked. A little bit.

An hour later when he was yelling at Marlow to stop being a greedy motherfucker and trade him some stone so he could build a city, he was so focused on winning the stupid game that he barely thought about the stone well at Shane Hollander's cottage in Ottawa that he'd seen in that stupid documentary that had released last week.