Chapter Text
1. Stormclouds Don’t Smile
Cliff Marlow doesn’t mind Boston. It’s cold, wet, and windy – so, a lot like Canada, actually. Whatever. He doesn’t give a fuck where he lives, as long as he gets to play hockey.
His mom cares. She spends hours researching Boston real estate, debating the merits of Brookline and Beacon Hill. Eventually, she forces Cliff to buy a condo in the North End.
You’ll like it, honey. There’s good Italian food there.
That’s good enough for Cliff. Carbs, chicks, and hockey. The three essentials.
Boston agrees. The city is built around sports – literally. The Big Dig is no joke. Nobody stresses about fashion, including the girls, who are fairly laid back. There’s food everywhere.
Dream scenario.
Cliff likes to take public transit to games, which is stupid for a few reasons. First off, it’s never on time. He’s always rushing to the arena, blowing off the press and slamming on his skates.
He gets recognized, too. Sometimes it’s nice – a chance to meet hometown fans. Sometimes, strangers in opposing team jerseys threaten to beat the shit out of him. That’s less nice.
Still, he takes the T. It’s a ritual – and hockey players love ritual.
When they play Montreal, though, Cliff takes an Uber. He hates it, but he can’t risk being late. Not when his boy needs him.
Ilya Rozanov is an asshole. In spite of this – or maybe because of it – he’s Cliff’s best friend. He was drafted to the Bears a season before Cliff, the same year Shane Hollander was drafted to Montreal.
The media is obsessed with pitting Rozanov and Hollander against each other. It’s a sharp, grating thorn in the side of their otherwise idyllic careers.
Thus, the Uber. If Cliff isn’t there to diffuse the Montreal situation, Roz will throw a punch during warm-ups.
Cliff finds his unruly captain in the locker room, staring at a cinderblock wall. He calls Ilya’s name. No reaction. Roz is either drowning his panic in Russian EDM or ignoring him.
Undeterred, Cliff smacks the headphones off Roz’s head. Across the room, a rookie winces.
“I said, were the reporters dicks today?”
Rozanov looks up at Cliff with a blank expression.
“Is scary Hollander is here, no? Will play well against Hollander? What do you think of Hollander’s –”
“I get the idea.” Cliff waves, cutting off Rozanov’s rant. “Let’s just go out there and kick his ass, okay?”
Watching Rozanov on the ice is like watching an assassin stalk his prey. He scopes out the other team during the anthem. It drives their coach insane.
Try to at least look interested, Roz.
Why? Is not my country.
If Roz smells weakness or, God forbid, fear, he makes a point of skating circles around the weak link before opening face-off.
Once the puck drops, he doesn’t shut his fucking mouth.
Cliff loves it.
Tonight’s victim seems to be Shane Hollander. No shock there. It’s always Shane, every time they play Montreal.
Rozanov smirks, leaning into the face-off.
“Backhand improving, Hollander?”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
Hollander wins the puck. Cliff groans.
They make it to the second period without a fight. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a Boston vs. Montreal record.
It’s all going well, until Rozanov shoves Hollander into the boards, grabbing his jersey.
Cliff spits, coming to a stop. “What the fuck?”
Next to him, Price shrugs. “Fuck if I know. Guy’s off his rocker.”
They watch for a second, taking in the sound of Rozanov’s rant. Cliff sighs. “Let’s go get our boy.”
Rozanov and Hollander receive two penalty minutes each. They refuse to make eye contact, even in the box.
In the end, Boston ekes out a win, thanks to a brutal slap-shot by Rozanov.
It’s a buzzer beater. Cliff expects Rozanov to grin – to cheer, at least. Instead, his friend nods. Like winning is an obligation, not an accomplishment.
Cliff’s heart twinges. He looks up. Once again, Rozanov’s seats are empty.
The NHL’s favorite bad boy. Successful. Rich. Alone.
And too broken to smile.
*
Lily
give me two hour
Jane
Who’s asking?
Lily
sore loser, i see
Jane
Fuck you.
Jane
Yours or mine?
Lily
buzz at penthouse when you’re here
*
Shane hates going to Ilya’s penthouse. But he does it.
Every single time.
Because, apparently, he’s a slut where Ilya Rozanov is concerned.
Shane buzzes, checking his surroundings for photographers. The door springs open; he slips inside.
Ilya grabs Shane as he steps out of the elevator, smashing their lips together.
“Such a mean bruise,” Ilya whispers, tracing the blooming welt on Shane’s back.
Shane scoffs, pulling back. “Some dick gave it to me during a hockey game. Got offended when I called him a cheater.”
“For the third time. After two warning.” Ilya shrugs, making the action look graceful. Shane hates him. “Deserved it.”
Shane shoves Ilya. “Dirty talk on the ice is low, even for you.”
Ilya steps closer. Shane shoves him again, getting a sick rise out of watching Ilya stumble.
A beat.
Ilya stares, watching Shane intently. Then, in one, fluid motion, he slams Shane onto the couch, pinning his arms above his head.
Asshole.
Infuriatingly, Shane can feel himself getting hard. From being pinned down. By Ilya fucking Rozanov.
That’s great. A new personal low.
Above him, Ilya grins.
Despite himself, Shane grins too. He knows Roz has hook-ups in every city. Probably grins at all of them.
But for one, shining moment, Shane lets himself believe he’s special.
2. Captains Don’t Beg
“C’mon man,” Hayden begs. “How bad can it be?”
“Absolutely not.” Shane clicks on his turning indicator. “I don’t care how many times you ask, Hayden. We are not discussing my sexual preferences.”
Hayden groans, slumping into his seat. “Jackie wants to set you up with one of her friends. How else do you want me to vet people?”
“Here’s an idea,” Shane offers. “Stop trying.”
“Great. Perfect. Do you want to tell Jackie to fuck off, or should I?”
Shane winces. “I owe you one.”
Hayden turns to his friend, shocked. “You’re really going to hang me out to dry?”
Shane checks the speedometer, eyes firmly on the road. “Yes.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll assume it’s something scandalous...”
Shane shrugs. “That’s fine.”
Pine trees whizz past. “Like feet.”
“Go right ahead.”
Hayden laughs. “God, Shane. It really is something wild.”
*
Hayden badgers Shane through the entirety of Canada and the continental United States. When that doesn’t work, he badgers him through the off-season. At his house. At the cottage.
Until, finally, in a shitty Embassy Suites, Hayden rolls over and asks:
“Are you just, like… gay?”
Hayden’s not sure why he asks. The thought has been bugging him for a few weeks. Not bugging like – Jesus, he’s not homophobic. It's just that he’s running out of kinks. He’s resorted to googling obscure Victorian sex rituals. It’s either something truly insane, or something hiding in plain sight.
Shane chokes, panicked. Hayden stares at his best friend. “It’s fine if you are, you know. I won’t tell anyone.”
Like a damn breaking, tears roll out of Shane’s closed eyes. “Yeah,” he eventually admits. Quiet. Resigned. “I’m gay.”
They’re not the type of friends that hug. But Shane looks small on the shitty hotel mattress. Shaking. Terrified.
Hayden can practically hear Jackie yelling at him.
Get your ass over there, Pike. Hug your damn friend.
He jumps onto Shane’s bed, weight sinking the mattress, and throws his arms around Shane. “I don’t give a shit, Shane. You know that, right?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Shane admits. “I know that’s shitty. You’re a good guy. It’s just –”
“Terrifying.”
Shane nods. “That.”
“Well, it’s fine.” Hayden looks around, at a loss. “Want to get gross takeout and watch Mission Impossible?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. “I really fucking do.”
*
It takes Hayden a couple of weeks to adjust. He’s never had a gay friend before; he’s not sure about the protocol.
He desperately wants to make Shane comfortable – Hollzy developed a skittish look in his eye after the night in the motel. Thing is, Hayden has no idea how to fix it.
“Just be normal,” Jackie suggests, waving a spoon of tomato sauce. “What did you guys talk about before he came out? Hockey? Rant about game tactics and power-plays. Nothing’s different.”
Except, it is different. Hayden and Shane have talked about hockey plenty of times in the past few weeks. Shane is no more at ease.
What else do they talk about?
The answer strikes Hayden. He pulls out his phone.
Hayden
Drinks 2nite?
Shane
Read 17:13
Shane
Yeah, sounds cool. My place at 8?
Hayden pumps his fist. Perfect. A nice, private place for some good, old-fashioned boy chat.
He gets there early, fishing pole and cooler in tow. Shane waves from the dock, holding a line and smiling. He’s always more relaxed at the cottage.
They have a great evening. Hayden falls off Shane’s jetski three times. A few hours later, they sit on the deck, beers in hand.
“So,” Hayden starts, doing his best impression of casual speech. Clearly, he’s a bad actor, because Shane shoots up, eyes wide with alarm. Hayden forces himself to continue. “What’s your type? You know… with guys.”
Whatever Shane was expecting, it wasn’t that. His hands freeze. He turns to Hayden.
“Pardon?”
Hayden waves his hands. “I just… I tease you about girls. Or, I did. It’s our thing, you know? I try to set you up. You blow me off.”
He sighs. “I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid. But Jackie keeps telling me to be normal. So I’m being normal. I’m trying to set you up. Just with guys, this time.”
A soft, fond expression slips onto Shane’s face. “That’s… really nice, actually.”
“No shit,” Hayden says. “I’m a nice guy.”
Shane shoves him, laughing.
Hayden picks up his beer, deciding to push it. “Go on, then. What’s your type?”
Shane looks sad again, kicking his toes in the water. “I, uh… He trails off. “God, I’ve never said this out loud.”
Hayden stays silent, letting Shane speak at his own pace. He’s good at that.
“I like bigger guys,” Shane blurts out. “Stronger, taller. Look like they can throw me around a bit.”
“That’s unexpected.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “That’s part of the problem, actually, with this,” he gestures wildly, “thing. Being gay is hard enough. Being like… the smaller one, or whatever. It’s a whole other level.”
Hayden lets out a long, low whistle. “Jesus. I had no idea.”
“It’s a thing in the gay community. Nevermind the fact that I’m Hollander. Big, tough hockey player. I cried once after a game and it went viral for a week.”
Hayden leans in, bumping Shane with his shoulder. “I hope you find someone, someday. Who makes you feel safe with… All that.”
Shane nods. “Me too.”
*
“You like that, Hollander? Fucking —“ Ilya twists, changing the angle, then slams back into Shane. He loses his grasp of English, slipping onto Russian.
“Очень красивая, мой Шлюхоч —“ He inhales, bottoming out. Beneath him, Shane is writhing, a mess of pre-cum and lube. Fuck, he’s pretty like this.
“Please,” Shane begs. “God, I need you –”
Ilya wants to lock Shane in this penthouse and keep him for weeks, until he’s blissed out and sated.
Wants all kinds of stupid things, when it comes to Shane.
Wants a future. Wants something worth protecting.
He can’t have that. But he can have this. Shane, desperate and needy, lying underneath him.
3. Demons Don’t Rest
Barrett isn’t sure what to expect when he gets traded to Ottawa. The team has a mixed reputation. Horrible at hockey, good with people.
Thing is, Ilya Rozanov, asshole extraordinaire, recently joined the team. It seems unlikely that a single player will ruin the locker room vibe, but Troy knows better than to write off the possibility.
Learned that the hard way, thank you very much.
So, imagine his surprise when Ilya Rozanov greets him with a grin and pat on the back.
Later, the team invites him out for drinks after practice. Rozanov joins, after some prompting.
“Dude, you never come out with us.” Hayes shoves his captain, frowning.
“Is not true. Went out two weeks ago.”
Two weeks? Isn’t Rozanov a notorious partier?
The pub is dark and rowdy, a mix of drunk tourists and drunker regulars. Rozanov — who Troy should really stop thinking about — barely touches his drink. He’s quiet. Leaves early.
“Is he always like that?” Troy says, more to the group than to anyone in particular.
Boodram shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“For what it’s worth, we’re as confused as you are,” Hayes adds. “We were expecting a shit-storm when he transferred. Guy’s an asshole on the ice. But he's okay, otherwise.”
Troy nods, suspicious but relieved.
As the season goes on, mistrust fades into friendship. One random Sunday, Troy Barrett realizes Ilya Rozanov has become his best friend.
He’s sitting on the couch, thinking about coming out, when it happens.
The guys are chill; Troy thinks they’ll be nice about him being gay. Still, it might be good to test the waters.
You can tell Roz.
The thought strikes him, unbidden. Bizarrely, Troy doesn’t hate the idea. Somewhere between the trade and now, he’s come to trust his asshole captain implicitly.
In fact, Rozanov is the person he most wants to tell.
Problem is, Roz is always busy. He disappears after home games. Spends half his time fulfilling sponsorship contacts, and the rest glued to his phone.
So, it feels like fate when Troy finds the Russian chilling in an empty locker room, late on a Friday, stretching.
Troy plops down on a bench, kicking away a stray chunk of ice.
“I’m gay,” he says, voice wavering.
Rozanov freezes, looking up at Troy. And grins?
“I know,” Roz says, switching to the other leg. “Is pretty obvious.”
Troy laughs. “Dude, fuck you. I was nervous.”
Serious now, Rozanov shakes his head. “Shouldn’t be. This is good team. They won’t care.” He smirks. “Harris will be thrilled.”
“You’re not, like… weirded out?”
Rozanov grins. “Would be hypocritical of me, I think.”
What, what?
After a tense, loaded moment, the Russian shrugs. “I am bisexual.”
*
They play Boston a few weeks later. Not for the first time, Troy is struck by how different Roz is in public. He flips off a reporter who asks about his rivalry with Shane. Troy has to physically restrain him during warm-ups. Warm-ups!
Roz is a menace on the fucking ice. He taunts Hammersmith into punching him, then skates off, spitting blood and scoring on the power play. He racks up five penalty minutes over the course of the game, but deserves around twenty.
After the buzzer, he throws a sweaty arm around Troy’s shoulder. “We’re going out tonight. Marlow knows good clubs.”
Troy is usually a pub kind of guy, but he plays along. Watches Roz down shot after shot. He skips the VIP area, going straight to the DJ booth and commanding the turntable. Troy is pretty sure their night out will be all over Instagram by tomorrow.
He can’t reconcile the playboy animal in front of him with his friend who cries over dogs.
Rozanov doesn’t chill after games the way Ilya does. He doesn’t settle down, or bother with friends. He gets drunk every night, and plays like a maniac the next day.
It must be exhausting, to live your life in a box built by the media.
*
“-- take it slow tonight?”
Shane smiles, poking his boyfriend’s chest. “Of course we can.”
Ilya spends long, tender minutes easing Shane into it. Adding enough lube to erase the pain. Gently pressing fingers inside, until Shane is shivering and begging for it.
Ilya kisses him gently. “I’ve got you, Солнышко. Will give you what you need.”
He presses in, and fuck it’s a lot. But it’s the good kind of burn, and Shane adjusts. Loves feeling like this – full and loved.
4. Menaces Don’t Make Hospital Visits
JJ having a great Tuesday. It’s a strategy day – his favorite kind. Plus, Hollzy invited him and Pike over for dinner. They usually meet at restaurants, where they get hounded by the press, or at Pike’s, where kids are constantly interrupting.
Hollander’s private cottage, in contrast, is secluded and quiet. Perfect place to have a few beers and shoot the shit.
They finish practice on a high, with a shooting drill that has JJ grinning. Half an hour later, they pile into Hollander’s sensible Jeep Cherokee, freshly-showered and starving.
Shane gets quiet as the drive goes on. JJ tries not to think too much of it – he’s used to Shane’s moods.
Dinner is well-cooked and under-seasoned – exactly as JJ expected. It’s comforting, almost, to know that no matter how famous Shane gets, he’ll always be the guy who eats bland salmon.
A few drinks later, Shane clears his throat. “So, uh… There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you guys.” He swallows, clearly nervous. “I know it’s going to be a shock, but please hear me out. Promise me that, at least.”
What the fuck?
JJ nods quickly, watching Hayden do the same. “Anything you need, Shane.”
His friend looks down, hair falling into his eyes. “I’m gay,” he says. “I guess that’s a good place to start. Hayden knows. JJ, I want you to know too.”
It’s a shock, but not, like. A shock. Shane’s notoriously private. Rarely linked to women. He fumbled Rose Landry, for fuck’s sake. Putting it all together, it probably should’ve been obvious.
“That’s fine, Shane.” JJ smiles. He’s a bit hurt that Hayden found at first, but whatever. Shane told him eventually. That’s what matters.
Weirdly, there’s still tension in Shane’s posture. JJ grabs his hand, squeezing. “You can relax, Hollander. I don’t care.”
Shane closes his eyes. “I’m seeing someone.”
Hayden looks shocked. JJ is secretly relieved – he’s not entirely out of the loop, then.
“That’s great,” Hayden responds, enthusiastic. “What’s he like?”
“You… actually know him.” Shane is pale. Is he sweating?
“It’s Ilya.”
Silence. Then:
“Ilya Rozanov —“
“Tell me you’re kidding —“
Shane shakes his head. “I’m not.”
JJ exhales, stunned. He can feel the weight of the moment in the air — feel his friendship with Shane hanging by a thread.
“How long?” He chokes out.
Shane smiles, a bit of color coming back to his face. “Forever, really.”
Hayden’s brows knit. “The fuck do you mean, forever?”
Shane stares at the table. “From the day we met, it was — something.”
Holy shit.
Shane Hollander is in in love with Ilya fucking Rozanov.
JJ takes a deep breath. “You ever thrown a game for him? Missed a pass, or let him score?”
Shane snorts. “Makes me play harder, if anything. When the skates are on, we’re rivals.”
Leaning back in his chair, JJ thinks through their games against Boston and Ottawa. Shane always skates like he’s possessed. Slowly, JJ nods. “Okay.”
Hayden shakes his beer can. “You got anything stronger? This calls for, like —“
“Tequila?” Shane offers.
Hayden grins. “Perfect.”
*
“So, hang on,” Hayden slurs. They’re three shots in; the liquor is starting to catch up with them. “When you snuck out in Boston, you were going to —“
“Ilya’s penthouse,” Shane confirms.
JJ cackles. “Goddamn, man. Who knew you were such a freak?”
“Rozanov, probably,” Hayden says, downing another shot. “Right, okay. Is he any better off the ice?”
Shane drums his fingers on the table. “Sometimes. Not always. He’s still Roz, you know?”
“You like that, though,” JJ exclaims, catching a glint in Shane’s eye. “You like that he’s a little dangerous.”
“Maybe.”
Hell will freeze over before JJ considers Rozanov a friend. But, if Shane loves him, he can try to punch the guy less next time they play.
*
As JJ suits up for their next game against Ottawa, he realizes he has no idea what to expect. Under normal circumstances, he'd shake hands with his friend’s boyfriend. Introduce himself. But this is Rozanov, not a stranger, and they’re meeting on the ice. JJ can’t even allude to his relationship with Shane.
Fortunately — or unfortunately — Rozanov starts the game by slamming JJ into the fucking boards. JJ looks at Shane, raising an eyebrow.
This is your fucking guy?
Hollander shrugs, skating after Rozanov.
JJ exhales. So, that’s how they do this. They play like nothing has changed.
As the game continues, Rozanov is, if anything, on his worst behavior. He
punches one of the Metros in the first. Troy Barrett pulls him off the guy, looking exhausted.
He checks JJ from behind in the second, trying to steal the puck. It ends up soaring into the box, leaving JJ and Rozanov to face-off.
The Russian grins. “See you for drinks, да?”
JJ is not looking forward to meeting him for a beer after the game, but he promised Shane. It’s probably too late to back out.
Rozanov runs his tongue over his mouth guard. “How does it feel to lose every face-off with me. Bad, no?”
“You dick —“
JJ loses the face-off.
He switches lines, breathing heavy on the bench. Is this how Shane feels every game? Whiplash and secrets? It can’t be easy.
They’re near the end of the third, now. They just need to maintain their lead, and the game will be over.
Hollzy surges forward, kissing the edge of the rink.
JJ sees the hit coming.
Shane doesn’t.
His body hits the ice with a dull, sickening thud.
Medics rush onto the ice, wasting no time. Hollzy is unresponsive, bleeding into his helmet. JJ leans over a basket, heaving.
When he can stand, he looks for Rozanov. Shane is gone — deep in the tunnels of the stadium, strapped to a body board.
Rozanov is pale. He’s staring at the ice. No — not at the ice. At Shane’s blood, freezing onto the icy surface.
Their coaches call the game. There’s barely a minute left, and no one feels like picking up their sticks. JJ grabs Hayden and gets an Uber to the hospital.
Shane’s parents are with him, so JJ and Hayden linger in the hall, pacing.
Half an hour later, the door to the private corridor opens. Rozanov strides through. He’s freshly showered – wearing clean clothes. It rubs JJ the wrong way.
“Better things to do than check on Shane?” He drags an eye across Rozanov’s body, lips curled in disdain.
Rozanov scoffs. “Get the fuck away.”
And you know what? No.
“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you through that door,” JJ says, blocking the entrance.
Rage contorts Rozanov’s features. “Fuck you.”
He shoves JJ, slamming him into the wall. “What do you want me to do? Tell my team I cannot do post-game speech because I’m in love with Shane Hollander? I would — don’t give a shit. But Shane does.”
Rozanov lets go of JJ’s shirt, stepping back. “You have no idea how I feel. What it is like to watch him fall. Now, move. Or I will move you.”
JJ steps aside. Hayden nods at Rozanov, who mutters something in Russian.
*
Ilya steps into Shane’s hospital room, sagging with relief when he sees his boyfriend sitting up, talking to his parents.
Yuna turns, smiling softly. “Ilya. You made it.”
He waves a hand. “Of course.”
Ilya runs a hand through Shane’s hair. “You scared me, мой любовь.”
Shane winces, trying to face Ilya. “ Didn’t mean to.”
“Is fine,” Ilya says. He leans in, risking a gentle kiss. “Your friends are outside — worried. If I do not make team flight…”
Shane nods. “I know.”
Ilya lets himself stay close to Shane for a second, listening to his heartbeat. Then he straightens and forces himself to walk out the door.
5. Enemies Don’t Kiss
Svetlana loves Ilya Rozanov. It’s never been romantic between them, but he’s a good fuck and a respectful guy. Perfect combination.
When she hears he has a boyfriend, she’s a bit disappointed. Dating in Boston is the tenth circle of hell. It’s not easy to find someone who’s consistent, respectful, and aware of where the clit is.
Whatever. He moved to Ottawa, for fuck’s sake. She should’ve known there was a guy.
Ilya rented an apartment, solely to create private space for her to meet his boyfriend — ridiculous, but not surprising. The building is spacious, with modern accents and an industrial vibe. As floors tick by on the elevator screen, she toys with her long, acrylic nail.
Svetlana knocks. The doors open, and she’s greeted by — Shane Hollander?
Ilya stands behind him, grinning.
“Илья, что за хрень?” She slips into Russian, shock knocking the English out of her.
“ведь знаете Шейна Холландера, верно?”
She coughs. “Yes, Ilya. I know Shane Hollander. What the fuck is Shane Hollander doing in your house?”
She looks at Shane, then at Ilya. Then at Shane.
“Holy shit,” she exclaims. “Илья, tell me you have the good водка.” Then, realizing she’s being rude, she pulls Shane Hollander into a hug. He’s made of pure muscle. She winks at Ilya over Shane’s shoulder.
They trail into the kitchen, Svetlana and Ilya chattering rapidly in Russian.
“Sorry,” she says, slapping a shot in front of Hollander. “Just need to get out a few more holy shits in my mother tongue.”
Shane laughs. “No, it’s fine. It’s kinda nice, actually, to watch him speak Russian. He sounds —“ Shane waves his hands, searching for a word. “Different. Happier. I’m trying to learn, but, you know. Hard language. I have some catching up to do.”
It’s then and there, after discovering that Shane Hollander is learning Russian for her boy, that Svetlana decides they should keep him.
It’s not just that he’s learning it.
It’s that Shane noticed. He took the time to realize how Ilya struggles in English conversations — how hard it is, living your life in translation.
“So,” she drawls. “How long has this little disaster been brewing?”
“He’s Jane.” Ilya stares at her as he says it, watching Svetlana’s reaction.
Despite her shock — and the small, lonely twinge of hurt — Svetlana forces herself to laugh.
She wishes Ilya told her sooner, but she won’t make him regret telling her now.
“Nice to meet you, Jane.” She lets her voice get rough and husky, enjoying watching the Canadian blush.
Ilya looks instantly jealous, which is both charming and stupid. Par for the course.
They have a fun evening. It feels like the setup to a threesome, Svetlana thinks, laughing. An interview that goes both ways, between Svetlana and Shane.
She leaves drunk, satisfied, and slightly turned on.
*
The Uber drops her off at her apartment around eleven. Svetlana dumps her keys in a bowl and heads to the bathroom, kicking off her heels on the way. After forcing herself to wash her face, she throws on ratty pajamas and crawls into bed.
Her laptop glows, lighting up her dark room. She types, the keys making a faint, clacking sound.
Shane Hollander.
She hits search.
Svetlana clicks on the first result. On screen, Hollander is a different person. Intense. Serious. A far cry from the soft-spoken, gentle guy she met.
He stares at Ilya, leaning in for a face off. And he wins.
Hollander shoots off like a rocket, weaving through the defense and slamming a humiliating shot into the back of the net.
Fuck.
Toying with her curls, Svetlana goes back to the search results.
Hollander High IQ Moments
Wearing Canada red, Hollander lags behind his defense. When the big men miss a stop, it should be a breakaway for Sweden — but Hollander is there, reading the pass. Like he knew it would happen. Like he was waiting for it.
Svetlana’s only seen one other person play hockey like that. Ilya Rozanov.
Speaking of.
She types a new query. Hits search.
Rozanov/Hollander Rivalry Timeline
Sure, why not? That’ll work.
Baby-faced versions of the boys appear. It’s shitty, grainy footage from their first Prospect Cup.
She watches them slam each other into the boards, fighting for every inch. When they think no one is looking, they steal glances at each other, and pure, childish wonder fills their expressions.
*
“Fuck,” Shane groans. Ilya has him splayed out, face down on the couch. They played a rough game tonight — full of physical contact and penalties.
Even during their most violent games, Shane loves playing against Ilya. It can be lonely on the ice. His teammates don’t quite get it. Not like Ilya.
Sometimes Shane thinks that’s what drew them together in the first place.
“You think too much,” Ilya says, running a hand down Shane’s back and slapping his ass. Not hard, but not soft either.
It’s the kind of possessive touch that sets Shane’s body on fire.
Some nights, they like to take it slow. Not tonight. Tonight, Ilya slams into him with a delicious, rabid kind of ferocity.
6. Lovers Always Smile
Ilya never thought he’d be excited for his first All-Star Game after being outed. But here he is, sweating in the Florida heat, opening a car door for his husband.
Shane steps out of Ilya’s Porsche, wearing an Armani suit. Black pants, black jacket, shades. No shirt. A thrill runs through Ilya. He’s always been attracted to his husband, but seeing him act like a hotshot does something to Ilya.
For his part, Ilya is wearing Saint-Laurent ready-to-wear. Loose, leather trousers kiss a lace shirt at his waist. He smiles, waving to fans, and takes his husband’s hand.
They enter the press conference together. A few old timers in the press box sneer.
Fuck them.
Ilya lounges, draping a lazy arm over the back of Shane’s chair. Their agent gives a thumbs up, cueing the first question.
“Mr. Rozanov, it’s been a controversial season. Several retired players have called for your removal – and for the institution of a morality clause in NHL contracts. Would you like to respond?”
“No,” Ilya says.
The word is soft and delicious in his mouth.
No, I don’t care to respond. No, I don’t give a fuck about washed-up bigots. No, you don’t get to hear me get angry.
Ilya leans in. “Next question.”
Shane squeezes his thigh.
It took thirteen years to get to this table. To earn the right to be Shane and Ilya.
It was worth every damned second.