Archive of Our Own

Shane knows this interaction is going to be an absolute pleasure when it starts with: “Excuse me, is this your seat?” 

It is, admittedly, his fault he’s in this situation. He was supposed to fly out with the team yesterday, but decided last minute to stay with his parents in Ottawa for an extra night and meet the others in Boston today for their game. They have a few days to condition and practice before the game, so it’s not like Shane needed to fly with them, and Coach Wiebe had basically thrown confetti into the air and made a wish on it when he asked to do something fun for himself for once. 

So Shane had gotten an extra night with his parents, which was lovely and soul-healing and very much needed. But now he has this. 

Reluctantly, he looks up from his phone. There’s an older lady standing next to the aisle seat that pairs with his window seat, chewing gum and looking annoyed by his slow acknowledgement. Shane is fully aware of his general lack of social awareness and antisocial-leaning behaviors, but this is probably the least he’s ever wanted to speak to someone in his entire life. 

Without meaning to, he glances down at his own lap and the empty seat to his right before meeting her eyes again. “Uh, yeah. This is my seat.” 

He means for it to come out as conversational, but even to his own ears it comes out sarcastic.

Her eyebrows raise concerningly high. “It was just a question.” 

Shane nods without replying again. Now more than ever, he’s unsure what exactly to say or how to guess what this woman wants him to say before he formulates a response. He gets the impression that if he doesn’t respond exactly how she wants him to, it’s going to turn into a shitshow. 

The lady continues after snapping her gum. “I came to ask if you would be willing to switch seats with me. This wretched airline wanted me to pay an extra $130 a piece for my tickets to sit here, which was out of the question, but now they want me to sit apart from my darling husband.” 

She points to the back of the airplane, and Shane, against his better judgement, follows the direction of her finger. It leads to a man who is sitting in economy, reading a book, and steadfastly ignoring that this woman exists. He thinks that if his dad ever did that to his mom, she would roundhouse him into oblivion for everyone to witness. While he’s thinking this, his brain does some mental math, and comes to an unfortunate conclusion. 

“Um, I don’t think that would work out. The person sitting next to me hasn’t boarded yet, and I can’t speak for them, so…” 

“What do you mean? It’s just a trade.” 

“Even if I agree to it, my seat buddy would also have to agree to it. I can’t give up their seat without asking them first.” 

“Oh, they won’t mind,” she says, waving off his concern. “Whoever it is, I’m sure that they’ll have no problem letting two people who have been married for thirty years sit next to each other on the flight.” 

Sweat pricks the back of his neck. He regrets not putting his headphones on before replying to the Centaurs’ group chat. It might have saved him from the agony of explaining addition and subtraction to a middle-aged woman on a Delta airplane. 

“Are you both sitting in economy?” 

“Yes, obviously. I already said the tickets were $130 more expensive! Each!” 

“...This is first class.” 

The woman leans closer, practically caging him against the window. His watch vibrates three times on his wrist to indicate a sudden spike in heart rate. She asks, “Are you trying to be a smartass?” 

“No. I’m just saying that even if I wanted to switch with you, whoever I’m sitting next to probably won’t want to give up their first class seat for economy.” 

“You would rather keep your seat than let a married couple sit together on a flight to see their grandchildren? You kids are all so selfish, putting yourselves first and ignoring the hardships of everyone else around you. My husband gets severe flying anxiety and can only make it through if I’m there to hold him steady.” 

Shane glances back again. The man still has his book open, but is now laughing with his seat partners, who also appear to be married and in good spirits. He assumes it would be unwise to bring this fact to her attention. 

“I’m sorry, but my answer is no. Someone else might be willing to switch if you ask.” 

“I can’t believe—this is unacceptable! I’m going to call the flight attendant over and get this sorted out right now!” 

Flustered and cornered, Shane injects his Captain Voice into the conversation. “Ma’am, I understand that you’re upset, but I paid for this seat and am going to stay here. You’ll have to find someone else willing to change places or just fly with the seat you booked. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.” 

She hisses like a goddamn tea kettle, and starts to say, “You are the most selfish man I’ve ever—” when another voice behind her says, “You are blocking my seat. Move.” 

Shane and the woman turn to assess the new arrival. It turns out that his seat partner is well above six feet tall, ripped as hell, and knows how to deliver an excellent bitch face. He’s also the hottest man that Shane has ever seen in real life, including a chance run-in with Jensen Ackles at a Stars game. 

The woman takes a step back, but doesn’t disappear like Shane hoped she would. Personally, if someone ever looked at him the way this man is looking at her, he would wither into a husk on the spot. 

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she says, with the same amount of audacity. “I’m flying with my husband, and these people forced us to sit apart because I wouldn’t spend $130—” 

He interrupts her. “Don’t care. I paid for this seat, so this is where I will sit. That is usually what happens when you pay for something, yes?” 

“Yeah, but—” 

“Oh, good,” he says, throwing her words back at her. “I am glad we are on the same page. Go take your seat before I call the flight attendant, or possibly security. I’m feeling generous today, but things can change quickly when stress is high, you know?” 

Her face goes from eggshell to strawberry and back, mouth opening and closing rapidly. Shane is afraid she’s going to have a conniption fit, is about to call over a flight attendant for real and put their AED kit to use, when the woman manages to spit out: “I hope you two are pleased with yourselves. Have a wonderful flight.” 

“Bye,” the man replies. He even waves, which Shane is determined not to laugh at. “We will have the best flight of our lives. I can’t say the same for your neighbors.” 

She scoffs, chews on her gum, and then literally stomps back to economy like a spoiled child. Shane turns one last time to watch her pass her husband, who doesn’t attempt to stop his conversation or ask her about the failed confrontation. When he looks back at his seat partner and savior, he’s greeted by the sight of the man hoisting his carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, biceps bulging, shirt hem lifted enough to show off the defined valley of his abdomen and mouthwatering happy trail. 

Shane’s brain dissolves into static. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. 

The man drops into his seat with a satisfied sigh, clearly pleased with himself. He grins at Shane like they’re best friends who perfectly orchestrated a plot to ruin some lady’s day. 

“She seemed nice,” the man says. 

Shane, reeling from being cornered to suddenly being free and gay, can only laugh. “Oh my God. You just saved my life.” 

“Ah, it was no big deal. I love being mean to people who deserve it. It’s special talent I have.” 

“I’m terrible at being confrontational. It’s almost always easier to give people what they want, but…” 

“But, you really wanted your first class seat.” 

“Exactly. I hate flying economy. Too little room, too much noise.” It’s a complete sensory nightmare, and flying first class or on the team jet is all Shane can tolerate now as a nearly thirty year old. “She didn’t understand that I would have to give her your seat, too. Or that you would beat my ass if I did.” 

The man laughs this time. “I would not have beat your ass—too pretty to mess with. That would be a worse crime than losing my seat to someone who thinks she is owed the world by everyone she meets.” 

Shane’s blush scorches his cheeks and ears, not unlike the burn of -20°C wind chill days in Canada.

“Can I tell you a secret?” the man asks. 

“Yeah, sure.” 

He leans closer and drops his voice, so only the two of them can hear. “I think she bought her tickets with the plan to ask to trade.” 

“I agree,” Shane says. “Can I tell you a secret?” 

“Of course.” 

Shane lowers his voice further and says, “I think her husband is excited they don’t have to sit together.” 

The laugh he gets in reply makes Shane’s breath catch. It’s unabashed and lovely, echoing across the calm environment of their cabin. For possibly the first time in his life, maybe besides his inaugural flight as a NHL center, he’s looking forward to the next two hours on an airplane. 

After gathering himself, the man says, “I’m Ilya,” and reaches out a hand. 

“Shane,” he replies, taking and shaking it. 

He’s surprised when the man—Ilya, what a stunning name—says, “Oh, I know who you are, Shane Hollander. I have been a hockey fan since I was born, and have lived in Boston most of my adult life. You do not need an introduction.” 

Shane can rarely, if ever, be described as ‘playful’ outside of messing around with his teammates or getting into a well-worn argument with his mom about Cup prospects. But something possesses him, like a remote controlling his mouth, and he hears himself ask, “You’re not… a Bears fan, are you?” 

“Who do you take me for? I am not a Bears fan, I am the Bears fan.” 

“Ohhhh. Maybe I will switch spots with that lady, after all. If you’ll excuse me—” 

Shane levers himself up, but drops back easily when Ilya pushes on his shoulder. 

“No, no, please, anything but that. What do you want me to say? The Centaurs are everything to me, I would die for them, my greatest and most secret desire in life is to marry Zane Boodram.” Ilya smiles widely at Shane, like he’s talking someone off a ledge. “Did it work? You will not leave me to deal with that terrible woman?” 

“I guess I can make an exception.” 

“Thank you. I promise to only shit on the Centaurs a few times during the game for your generosity.” 

“Are you coming to see it in person or watching from home?” 

Ilya puts a hand to his chest, seemingly offended again by this question. “I have season tickets, of course. The Garden owner knows me and my best friend Svetlana by name.” 

“I bet,” Shane snorts, though he’s not sure if this is a lie or not. He’s a little preoccupied by the idea that Ilya has seen him play in person before, wonders how many times he’s whipped Boston or been whipped by Boston with Ilya watching it unfold inside the arena. 

“I will make sure to boo extra loud for you and Pike when you are on the ice. Make you feel warm and fuzzy inside while getting torn to shreds.” 

Shane imagines Hayden getting booed at by this hot, loud (and Russian?) man while they’re already tense from playing against their rivals, and can’t contain yet another laugh. The casual smearing of his team should turn Shane off completely from their conversation, but Ilya’s nettling makes him want to rise to the occasion rather than flee from it. 

“I wouldn’t be too sure that your precious Bears are going to wreck us on Friday—our rookie has been kicking lots of ass. Especially the old guys, which Boston has lots of.” 

“Haas will get cocky in Boston,” Ilya argues. “Marly loves cocky rookies, and they never last long against him.” 

“Cliff Marlow? Guy’s too busy flirting with the puck bunnies to play seriously. The other Bears always have to scramble to make up for his sucky passes and fake-outs.” 

Ilya digs around in his pants pocket and produces his phone. “I’ll be sure to let him know you said that. Will get him heated for the game.” 

Shane starts to say, “Okay, you do that,” when he sees Ilya open up an on-going text thread with a contact titled Marly 😈. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. You actually know Marlow?” 

“Since I moved to Boston,” Ilya says, clicking the message bar. “What should I start with? I was thinking: ‘I’m flying with Shane Hollander and he wants you to know you are terrible at playing hockey,’ or maybe: ‘Shane Hollander just said you are old and a whore (not clickbait).’ Which is more believable?” 

“‘Shane Hollander says your friend is rude to their airplane neighbors and publicly shames middle-aged women without regret.’” 

Ilya giggles, beginning to type this sentence out. Shane grabs his wrist to stop the sentence at ‘friend’ and attempts to sound strict instead of delighted by this turn of events. 

“You can’t actually send him anything! He’ll try to get us both in the penalty box before the puck drops and it’ll mess up my strategic plan to win the Cup on Boston ice.” 

“That,” Ilya says, pressing his phone into Shane’s arm, “is not going to happen, Captain. Is a nice dream, though, and every good captain needs one.”

Shane gets so swept up in verbally sparring with Ilya that he doesn’t notice they’re about to take off until the pilot’s voice crackles over the speaker. They let their teasing go while she informs everyone of their expected arrival time in Boston Logan International Airport (12:40 P.M.) and gives the typical safety spiel while the flight attendants act it out, and then they’re preparing for departure. 

He pays attention to each instruction, and makes sure Ilya puts his phone on airplane mode at the same time that Shane does. 

“You are very interested in the rules here. You fly more than anyone else on this plane, I bet.” 

Embarrassed, Shane says, “Well, I usually fly with my team, so I don’t have to hear the rules on our plane. But I always like to pay attention on commercial flights in case any emergency protocols have changed.” 

He doesn’t get into the various scenarios that he’s imagined and reacted to since starting to fly regularly—making sure he knows how to properly put on the plane oxygen masks, how to use an AED machine, when it’s appropriate to use the emergency exits and when the front of the plane will suffice. Shane’s extreme anxiety has always kept him moving instead of frozen in place. 

He expects Ilya to tease him about this, but instead, Ilya smiles knowingly. “That’s very smart and responsible of you, Hollander. Captain is just another word for Daddy, isn’t it?” 

Shane has never been called Daddy in his life, and hearing it come from Ilya’s mouth makes him choke on his own spit. “Definitely not!” 

“I suppose that’s a better name for Pike. He has, what, twelve kids?” 

“Four.” 

“So he says. He is trying to make his own hockey team or something?” 

Shane asked Hayden that once during a Pike family dinner and Jackie laughed for an hour, much to Hayden’s distress. Now, he says, “As far as I know, they just really want a big family!”  

Ilya hums, tapping their shared arm rest. Absurdly, Shane wishes it wasn’t so large, that he had an easier chance of feeling the warmth of Ilya’s skin through their forced proximity. Sharing an economy seat with this man wouldn’t be so bad, he admits to himself and himself alone. 

The speaker crackles again, and Shane hears the pilot say, “Prepare for takeoff.” The seatbelt light comes on, and he’s quick to comply. Ilya doesn’t seem inclined to buckle his, though, and Shane requests, “Put your seatbelt on, man.” 

“No need. I’ve never gotten close to being thrown out a window on one of these. Against the law of physics.” 

“Wrong,” Shane says, gesturing for Ilya to buckle up. “Let’s go, Bad News Bears.” 

There’s an incredibly fond smile on Ilya’s face as he listens to Shane nag him about safety protocols, as if he didn’t just get done explaining that he could produce diamonds with the amount of anxiety and stress he carries on a daily basis. Ilya sighs, but goes through the motions of buckling his seatbelt, probably so Shane will stop staring at him like a neurotic beetle. 

“Maybe I wanted to play out a fantasy of mine.” 

“What? Dying horrifically in an airplane crash? I believe there are psychological specialists to help with that in your area. Boston is full of maniacs.” 

“Not that kind of fantasy, Hollander, a sexy one.” 

Shane’s mouth goes dry. There’s no way that someone as heart-stoppingly gorgeous as Ilya is electing to talk to awkward, hockey-famous-for-being-a-control-freak Shane Hollander about sex fantasies. 

“What kind of fantasy could you possibly have that involves not wearing your seatbelt on a plane?” He thinks it over for a moment. “Oh, wait, is this a Mile High Club thing? Do you know how many germs are in those bathrooms? And I bet you can barely fit in one by yourself, let alone with another person!” 

“Not that, not that.” Ilya says. He walks his fingers across the arm rest in the direction of where Shane’s hand sits. “I may have a fantasy of a man…” 

He likes men, he likes men! Shane’s suppressed id screams at him. “Yeah?”

“...being on a plane with me, and in this fantasy, I do not buckle my useless seatbelt…” 

Shane watches Ilya’s fingers walk closer, and still jerks when they softly prod at his wrist. “Uh huh…” 

Ilya leans across the arm rest, so that their faces are inches apart, so that Shane can intimately differentiate every shade of green and gold in his hazel eyes. He smells like coffee, woody cologne, and the faded, sharp bite of cigarette smoke. Shane is amazed he doesn’t whimper out loud. 

“And I toe the line of danger,” Ilya murmurs, brushing his thumb over Shane’s arm, “so that I can listen to the Ottawa Centaurs’ ridiculously beautiful captain lecture me on safety regulations and how it is physically impossible to fit two men in an airplane bathroom.” 

Shane lights up like a firecracker hearing these words. It’s mostly arousal, obviously, but also some indignation at Ilya’s continued teasing. He’s sure he’s never met someone else in his entire life that knows the exact words to get directly under his skin and plant a thorn there, something that burrows deeper the harder Shane tries to yank it out. 

“They implemented safety precautions on planes for a reason!” he insists, torn between laughing with or throttling this man. “And I never said it was physically impossible, just that it’s highly unlikely.” 

Ilya grins at Shane’s annoyed response, like it’s the exact one he was hoping for. “Should we test it out?” 

“You are unbelievable, Ilya.” 

Ilya wraps his fingers all the way around Shane’s wrist. “Mmmm, I like the way you say my name.” 

Shane figures he should ask the obvious next question. “What are you doing?”

The plane jerks forward, indicating that they’re about to start moving down the runway. Ilya says, “I get nervous on planes.” 

“Clearly not enough to wear your seatbelt.” 

“Take-off is scary. I need you to hold my hand so that I do not have a breakdown.” 

It seems easiest to just give into Ilya’s shameless flirting, though Shane cannot begin to fathom what Ilya deems flirtable within him. He takes a deep breath, flips his hand over, and watches as Ilya slots their fingers together. Shane’s are covered in callouses and a few scars from thousands of hours of practice and one memorable on-ice fight, but so are Ilya’s, and they fill each other’s missing spaces like his favorite pair of skates.

“Ah,” Ilya exhales, squeezing Shane’s hand. “Reality is always so much better than fantasy.” 

The engines roaring save Shane from having to whip up a comeback to that particular comment. The plane takes off down the runway, forcing everyone back into their seats, and he actually finds himself holding onto Ilya as the wheels leave the ground and the pressure of the cabin changes. He flies more than most Canadian citizens combined, but he hasn’t managed to get used to the rolling sensation in his stomach when a plane becomes airborne for the first time. 

Ilya squeezes his hand again and says, “Wheeee!” Shane laughs, hardly audible above the engines and his ears closing in time with the pressure change. 

When the plane levels out and the seatbelt sign dings off, Ilya lets go of his hand. He immediately unbuckles his seatbelt and stretches, like the belt was a complicated and restricting harness he was forced to get wrapped in before take-off. Shane rolls his eyes and pointedly ignores the cool air on his open palm. 

“I can’t imagine what riding in a car with you must be like.” 

“I only drive European sports cars. And speed limits are friendly suggestions.” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

When Ilya settles back in his seat, he doesn’t try to touch or hold any part of Shane again, and Shane isn’t sure if he should be glad or sad about it. But he does tone down the teasing and provides a seemingly genuine smile. 

“Now, enough about what makes me tick. I want to hear about what makes you tick.” 

“You don’t watch my interviews?” he jokes.

“Oh, I watch them, but I don’t listen much any more. You say the same thing in every one because those lame fucking reports only ask the same questions. I want to hear about Shane the person, not Hollander the captain.” 

Shane is getting serious whiplash from his emotions. Playful but shy, confused yet on the exact same page (hopefully) as Ilya. It’s rare for him to click easily with anyone, even his beloved teammates. It’s rarer still for him to feel comfortable or aware enough to flirt with that individual. But Ilya makes it so easy, makes him feel like all his quirks and literal interpretations of their conversation are only adding to his desire to flirt with Shane, like he likes that Shane is so literal. 

Thoughts whirling, Shane asks, “Um, what do you want to know?” 

“Everything. Anything you can think of.” Ilya pauses, then asks, “What would you do if you did not play hockey?” 

“Easy. I would coach hockey.” 

“That is cheating!” 

“Okay, then I would do administration work for the NHL or scout the rookies.” 

“You cannot pick something hockey related, the answer has to be completely unrelated to what you already do for work.” 

“I’ve never thought about it,” Shane says honestly. “Hockey has been my life since I was a kid. There was never another option.” 

“What if you got permanently injured?” 

“I never considered it or let it be an option.” 

Ilya snorts at his earnest responses, but not meanly. “You have to have hobbies or other interests? Maybe?” 

For really the first time in his life, Shane considers this type of question. A life without hockey at its center is never a possibility he explored. What would he do if he woke up tomorrow and it was all gone? If it wouldn’t completely annihilate him? 

“I like yoga,” he says eventually. “And I care a lot about personal training and wellness. I help the rookies with their training regimens and eating habits when they’re fully initiated so that they’re in the best shape they can be right from the get-go. I would probably be a personal trainer or health and wellness coach if I couldn’t play hockey. It’s very rewarding to see the guys fill into themselves and reach the peak of their abilities throughout their first season by training and eating right.” 

“See, now that is a good answer.” 

“What do you do for work?” 

“Administration for the NHL.”

“Dude, shut the fuck up.” 

Ilya points at the overhead compartment. “My work badge is in my bag. I will show you when the plane lands.” 

“You can’t show me now? That’s suspicious.” 

“I have to keep you coming back for more,” Ilya argues, as if Shane isn’t already halfway in love with him. 

“What do you administrate, then?” 

“Oh, I cannot say. It’s like that stupid spy phrase Americans like to use.” 

“‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you’?” 

“Yes. And I must keep you alive at all costs.” 

“So I can beat Boston’s asses?” 

Ilya glances at his mouth. “Among other things.” 

Shane stares back, feeling bold and overwhelmed and somehow, in some way, kind of beautiful. It’s totally possible that Ilya is only laying it on thick to try and fuck a NHL captain, a feat just about anyone would be proud of, but it doesn’t feel that way to Shane, renowned romantic misinterpreter. 

Ilya flattens his hand across the arm rest. “Next question.” 

His eyes are remarkable in the late morning sunlight that slips under the window covers. They provoke Shane to walk further out onto this tightrope between them, to set down his normal walls and masks and discover what lies beyond safety and unchanging routines. 

Shane takes a leap of faith. “Bring it on.”

~.~

The two hours from Ottawa to Boston go by in the blink of an eye, and suddenly, as Ilya is in the middle of telling Shane how he and Cliff Marlow became ‘BFFs for life,’ the pilot announces that they’ll be landing shortly and turns the seatbelt light back on. 

“I know, I know,” Ilya says, when Shane raises both eyebrows at him. “I am putting it on, stop treating me like one of your children.” 

“I don’t have children, I have teammates.” 

Ilya makes a capital C with one hand, and then adds his opposite index finger to the mix, transforming it into a D. “Whatever you say, Shane.” 

He’s mesmerized by the way Ilya’s mouth fits around the shape of his name. He’s noticed it every time since flying out of YOW, and dreads spending every day going forward without ever seeing it again. He’s told Ilya more about himself and confessed more of his deepest thoughts in the last two hours than he has with anyone besides his parents and Hayden in the last ten years of his life, and it leaves him unmoored and fragile. It seems unbearable to think about Ilya walking off this plane without ever talking to him again, a stranger who managed to work out of Shane his dreams for the future and why he still feels replaceable after years of success and accolades. 

Shane does what he does best and picks the situation over in his mind while they buckle up and prepare to descend into BOS. The pressure and engines render them silent once more, so Shane has time to flip through all of the possible outcomes this situation could have. Is it presumptuous to ask for Ilya’s number? Would Ilya be interested in talking to him once they’re off the plane and back to real life, or was this conversation more for the sake of evading boredom? Would Ilya still find him engaging to talk to after separating and getting back into his routines? Would it become painfully awkward painfully quickly and fizzle out immediately? 

Shane thinks and thinks and thinks as the wheels touch down, and the seatbelt sign clicks off again, and everyone begins to collect their luggage and walk off the plane. He almost asks about it as Ilya hands him his carry-on bag, then grabs his own, but words fail him. Ilya is too gorgeous and funny and genuine and Shane has no idea what the fuck to say to him, despite having talked to him for the better part of his morning. 

They file off the plane and down the jet bridge, and only when Shane can see the interior of the Boston Logan International Airport is he able to form a half-assed plan. 

“Hey, Ilya, I wanted to ask—” 

“Shane, would you want to—” 

They speak at the same time, then stop at the same time. Ilya laughs, and Shane does, too, nervous but alive with sudden hope. Was Ilya…? 

“You first,” Ilya says, smiling warmly.

Shane plucks up all the courage his genius hockey IQ has gifted him with. “I was wondering if you would maybe like to exchange numbers? I know we talked the whole flight, but it was a great conversation, and… I just thought…” 

“What hotel are you staying at?” Ilya asks, almost in a rush. 

Shane blinks. “The Hampton Inn near the Garden.”

“You come to my house tonight. I will pick you up at 5, if you are available. And then I will cook for you and we can talk more. I’m not done with you yet, Shane Hollander—there are many questions I have left to ask.” 

He watches Ilya’s lips curl around his name. He feels himself tip head-first into the unknown. “Like what?” 

Ilya holds out his hand. “Like, can I add my number to your contacts?”

He plies Ilya with his phone and watches, almost in a daze, as Ilya types around on it for a solid thirty seconds before returning it to Shane. When he gets it back, he finds that Ilya sent himself a text from Shane’s phone, and that his contact name is listed as Hollander’s Dream Man. 

“What is this?” Shane laughs; he doesn’t entertain the thought of changing it. “What am I going to be in yours?” 

Ilya types some more on his own phone, then flips it around. Shane’s contact reads: Daddy Centaur. “You unlock new name at next level.” 

“How do I reach the next level?” 

Ilya says, “I will tell you at my house tonight,” and Shane doesn’t know if he can even wait that long. 

Still, he has some decorum. “I think I get to ask you a question now.” 

“Go ahead.”

“Are you possibly a murderer? I feel like that’s something I need to address before being taken to your house at an unknown location in the city.” 

“What did I say before?” Ilya replies, brushing his hand along Shane’s arm. “‘If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’” 

“You might kill me anyway if I let you drive me around in your Porsche.” 

“No way. I will be driving the BMW—better for illegally navigating terrible Boston traffic.” 

“I think I need your last name, too, in case you try to abduct me and I need to send out an SOS to my team.” 

“Rozanov. R-O-Z-A-N-O-V.” Ilya says it with a Western flourish, and then with a Russian flourish for comparison. “On an unrelated note, I am open to hyphenating.” 

Shane could spend the whole rest of his day teasing Ilya and being teased by him, but now that airplane mode is off, Captain Mode is back on. His watch keeps vibrating with text notifications, and he knows he’s due for practice in about two hours. He has to leave now to get to the hotel and then the practice rink on time, because being late is very unbecoming of any captain, let alone the Centaurs’ goody two shoes captain. 

“Sorry, I really have to go,” he says, slapping his watch face. “But I’m available at 5. I have nothing planned for the rest of the night. At all.”

“I will see you then, Captain. With drift on.”

~.~

He manages to lock it down for practice, greeting his teammates with the expected level of enthusiasm and becoming the expected level of critical once they hit the ice. Afterward, he gets the usual invites to go out for dinner and drinks, and while Shane has gotten much, much better at agreeing to team bonding activities, it’s still not uncommon for him to beg off and spend the night at the hotel room or in a quiet restaurant by himself. 

Only Hayden notices that he seems eager to leave the rink. 

“You got a hot date or something, Hollander? You couldn’t get your pads off fast enough.” 

Shane considers lying. But, he reasons with himself, someone else needs to know where he’s going for safety reasons. Just in case Ilya actually is a serial killer who wants to turn him into a mantel piece or an umbrella stand. 

“I—think I might?” 

The speed and severity with which Hayden’s face changes makes Shane laugh. “No fucking way! Since when?” 

“I met him on the plane.”

“Today?” 

“That’s the only flight I’ve taken by myself in months, Hayd, so yeah. Today.”

Hayden looks like he’s going to kiss Shane on the lips out of excitement. He settles for throwing his arms around Shane and squeezing tight, like a mom sending their kid off to college. 

“Oh my God! This is the best day of my life! No one will bother you while you’re out, or I will personally make them clean Boston’s ice with a broom all night long. Consider your A taking full responsibility for the team. Don’t even look at your phone tonight, unless this guy is being a creep, then you have permission to call me so I can come over with Barrett and break his kneecaps.” 

Shane pats Hayden’s sides. “You’re choking me.” 

Hayden relinquishes his bear hug, but keeps his hands on Shane’s shoulders. “Seriously. We have a psychic bond that alerts me to your innermost thoughts. I will be able to tell if you’re thinking about work while you should be thinking about play.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“You will. Send me your location when you get to where you’re going and then put your phone on do not disturb. I expect an update in the morning telling me if you’re at his place or the hotel or I’ll come find you by 10 A.M. Got it?” 

He really does love Hayden Pike with all his heart. He takes care of Shane and begs him to break out of his shell while respecting his shell’s necessity at the same time. He couldn't ask for a better best friend. 

“Got it.” 

Hayden roughs up his hair and then climbs off Shane to give him breathing room. “You do got it. I’m telling Jackie every single detail of this conversation so we can giggle about it like teenagers watching their friends ask each other to prom.” 

“Thanks a lot.” 

Hayden practically skips out of the locker room, phone already in hand. “No, thank you. Jackie is going to love me for this.” 

~.~

As promised, Ilya picks him up from the Hampton Inn at 5 P.M. sharp in a vampy, sleek, black BMW. He looks equally vampy and sleek when he climbs out of the car and comes around to open the passenger door for Shane. 

“Alright, I’ve been convinced. She’s incredible.” 

“Her name is Thana,” Ilya says, grinning wolfishly. “Greek for ‘death.’” 

“Of course it is. Actually, I was thinking I could just get a Lyft to your place, which I know has to obey traffic laws and will have working seatbelts and brakes—” 

Ilya takes his hand and leads Shane closer to the door. “No, you will ride in my car, and I will treat you like precious cargo. I can be persuaded to accept stop signs as the law if you are with me.” 

“Oh, that makes me feel a million times better. Thank you so much.” 

Shane lets Ilya help him into the passenger seat like he’s a famous Hollywood actress from the 40s instead of a semi-famous hockey player. Ilya makes sure that he doesn’t hit his head on the way down, and makes sure that Shane has all his limbs inside the ride before closing the door, and only after asking, “Okay?” 

The inside of the BMW smells like Ilya: woody cologne, tobacco, and a faint layer of laundry detergent over the more notable scent of leather. Shane watches with rapt attention as Ilya slides back into the driver’s seat, his dark jeans molded immaculately to his thighs and ass, his jacket and shirt only a few shades lighter than the black interior. He’s sharper than he was on the plane ride, freshly washed and styled and in his element. 

Shane’s dick twitches, hard and sudden. They’ve barely started and he already wants to climb this man like a fucking tree. 

Ilya stares while changing the gear shift from park to drive. “You look pretty.” 

All he had that wasn’t one of his interview suits or athletic wear was a blue linen shirt and some navy slacks. It previously made Shane feel like he was getting ready to present a rushed powerpoint, but now it makes him feel powerful. Ilya’s eyes are glued to him when they should be focused on the road, dragging across Shane’s chest and down to his waist. 

“You do too.”

“Not as pretty as you.” 

With that, he pulls out into the chaotic Boston traffic, navigating around other people getting picked up by cars, fearless jaywalkers, and yellow taxi cabs who are also swerving around everyone else on the road. Shane has no idea where he should look: outside the window or at the delectable spread of Ilya’s body in a car he’s bonded to. Both present their own perils and salvations.

“How was practice?” Ilya asks, stopping at a red light. He catches Shane’s watchful eye and winks. “I said I would obey the law for you, Hollander. Can’t put the Centaurs’ papa at risk.” 

“I don’t know if I should tell you about practice. Marlow might take a particular interest in knowing our routines and plays.” 

“Marly can barely remember his own plays. He is dumbass, and would cuss me out for trying to talk about your routine instead of what conditioner Hayes uses to make his hair so luxurious or what the fuck ever.” 

Shane laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Are you sure you want to know, or are you just asking to be polite?” 

Before the light turns green, Ilya leans over the middle console, bringing their faces together. Shane inhales the calming cedarwood and amber of his cologne and melts further yet, warmth turning his body to jelly. 

“I want to know,” Ilya says. “I want to know everything about you.” 

Shane talks more than he has in his entire life, it seems, on the way to Ilya’s house. Even more than the plane, even more than the night he was suckered into playing Truth or Dare as part of Luca’s official Centaurs onboarding. What surprises him more than his own forthcoming responses is Ilya’s attentiveness; he asks appropriate follow-up questions, engages with the words Shane says, and offers bits of his own stories or opinions when the moment calls for it without steamrolling over Shane. 

Every sentence, every aspect of their inquiries, teasing, and playful disagreements, is effortlessly organic. Shane isn’t sure if it’s because his first conversation with Ilya started on such a comical note, or because Ilya just has that natural charm that makes it easy for him to talk to anyone. Whatever the cause, whatever led to him agreeing to ride in a near-stranger’s car to his house for a meal, he can't be too worried about it. It will either result in Shane reaffirming why he keeps his distance from most people, or hopefully result in something even better than dinner and a drive. 

Like his BMW, Ilya’s house is flawless and sleek when they pull into the driveway. Shane knows his mouth is agape and his eyes are enormous when Ilya helps him out of the car (“Do not even think about opening your door, I will just shut it and start over.”) but he can’t stop staring. It’s all windows and earth tones and sprawling, open architecture. It reminds him of the cottage: a place to be privately free and at peace. 

“Wow. This place is amazing,” he says. “Wow. Did you have this built, or did you buy it?” 

“Oh, just buy—I am not that creative. I am better at knowing something is perfect when I see it,” Ilya says, and winks at him again. 

He guides Shane inside and helps him shuck off his jacket, hanging it up by the door. And after Shane shucks off his shoes, too, Ilya takes his hand once more and leads him farther into the house. The entire eastern wall of the living room is windows, allowing the purple twilight to blend with the cozy glow of Ilya’s several lamps and the fancy electric fireplace that separates the kitchen from the living room. He takes in the modern kitchen with the bar/island set-up and the expansive oak dining table, and thinks, this is Ilya’s house for sure.

“This is kitchen. You get to sit there—” he points at the bar seating “—and continue to look pretty while I cook you a delicious meal.” 

He takes Shane around the fireplace and into the living room. There’s a huge sectional couch against the far wall, facing a similarly huge TV on the opposing wall. The room is filled with more sleek furniture and complimentary paintings and knick knacks and is a place Shane can easily envision Ilya relaxing after a long day. 

“Living room. Bedroom is around back.” 

Ilya’s bedroom is almost all window and oak as well, with what must be a super mega deluxe king bed resting in the very center of the main wall. Most of his books and fun belongings seem to be kept in the living room, so his bedroom is sparse, but no less cozy for it. 

“Amazing,” Shane repeats. He can’t imagine being lucky enough to go to sleep and wake up in this house every day, surrounded by nothing but nature and open space. The cottage is the only place he ever gets real, restful sleep for these exact reasons. “I hope your architect and contractor got paid the big bucks for their work.” 

“Trust me, they did. The NHL pays their administrators ‘the big bucks.’” 

Shane turns to him, which is probably a mistake. It brings him face-to-face with the owner of the bed behind him. 

“You actually do work for the NHL?” 

“I said I did.” 

“What department?” 

“Administration.” 

“Ilya!” 

Ilya laughs, high and bright in the safety of his home. “You are too easy to rile up. Come on—let me get you a drink and we can talk more about what I administrate to make life easier for you players.” 

He deposits Shane in one of the bar chairs in the kitchen, hand lingering until it’s physically impossible for them to keep touching. He rounds the long island counter to the refrigerator and opens the door, allowing Shane to see inside. 

“I have many options. Water, Coke, kombucha, beer, vodka, wine.” Ilya glances over his shoulder, mischief in his eyes. “There is secret option if you can guess the password.” 

“Is the password in English or Russian?” 

The mischief turns to glee. “I knew you were not just a pretty face, Hollander! Good job!”  

“Relax. Yours is one of the more distinct European accents.” Then, because he can’t help himself from being honest: “I also Googled the origins of your name. Apparently, it means ‘Strength of God.’” 

“And what does your name mean?” Ilya asks coyly, though he seems flustered. “I have a few ideas. Elegant, radiant, respectable.” He pauses to let Shane absorb the compliments, to let his flush go from pink to bright red. “Also probably genteel. That’s a new word I learned recently. You do not get into fights and do not like to taunt other players.” 

This takes another beat to sink in. “Hold on, are you calling me boring?” 

“If the puck scores.” 

“Just because I don’t want to waste my play time in the penalty box—” Shane takes a breath, realizing what Ilya is trying (and highly succeeding) to do. “Stop distracting me. I want a hint for the password.” 

“Do not prove me wrong after I have already said you’re not just a pretty face.” 

Shane taps his fingers on the cool marble countertop. “Please?” 

“Nope.”

“...Boston isn’t that bad at hockey?” 

“That sets you back ten points. Now I need extra password to unlock your drink.” 

Shane isn’t used to teasing that’s meant to include him instead of being at his expense. The flush wakes him up instead of scalding his heart. It makes him bold instead of desperate for air. 

“Pretty please?” Shane asks, widening his eyes. He watches Ilya swallow, feels the air between them pull like gooey caramel. “And—your driving skills are okay for someone who lives in Boston. I would trust you to get me from point A to point B.” 

Ilya bursts out laughing, turning back to the fridge. Shane thinks it’s only to hide his smile, to reset for the game they’re playing, but he hears Ilya moving things around inside and assumes he’s managed to win his mystery prize. 

Which turns out to be a crisp, frosty can of Canada Dry. Ilya sets it on the counter in front of him like it’s a grenade about to detonate, or one of those chain chomp things from Mario. 

“You were drinking it on the plane earlier,” Ilya explains. He seems flustered again, and maybe embarrassed by his choices. “I wasn’t sure if it was only because you were flying, but I thought I should get some for dinner tonight just in case… you like it all the time.” 

Shane is reminded, like being slammed head-first into the boards, of a saying that’s been going around lately: to be loved is to be known. It’s just a can of ginger ale, one that he happened to drink on their flight together and that happened to be his favorite brand, but Ilya had noticed. He had bought it on the off chance that Shane drank it regularly and not only to combat flying queasiness. 

“This is perfect,” Shane says, nearly whispering. “Thank you, Ilya.” 

Ilya turns away again, this time to definitely hide his face in the fridge. “Is no problem. Can’t let my guest suffer with only fifty other drinks to choose from.” 

Shane cracks the can open and takes a long, satisfied drink while Ilya starts depositing various ingredients onto the counter. He spies chicken, vegetables, herbs, and what he suspects is a package of fresh, expensive, same-day handmade noodles. 

“I am making pasta tonight. Is good recipe, low carb and high protein, exactly what you hockey players are obsessed with.” 

“I can’t wait,” Shane says sincerely. He would have eaten Taco Bell if Ilya bought it, just for the fact that Ilya wanted to feed him. “You can never go wrong with pasta.” 

“Except for whoever decided noodles with butter was an acceptable option. They deserve capital punishment.” 

“Aren’t you guys the ones who decided to make frozen fish salad a popular entrée and serve it regularly?” 

Ilya’s grin is visible even while looking down at the chicken. “That is fair.” 

Shane stares at the curve of his neck and wide planes of his back for much longer than is appropriate. It’s difficult to think of anything intelligent to say when all he wants to do is kiss the notch of Ilya’s spine or grab at the worn fabric of his jeans, especially where they cling to his hips. 

“So, do I get to hear the deets now?” 

“‘The deets’?” 

“About your job. I’m still not convinced you work for the NHL. This place leads me to believe you work in the stock market, or maybe for… someone you can’t publicly name.” 

This earns him another glorious laugh. “Are you suggesting that I am employed by the bratva, Shane Hollander?” 

“Who?” 

“The Russian mob.” 

“Oh.” Shane takes another sip of ginger ale, meets Ilya’s eyes when he looks over his shoulder, and says, “I’m not not suggesting it.” 

“You are too cute. As if I would ever let you into my home if I worked for the bratva. Seriously. Cute, cute, cute.” 

“Why not? I’m great at keeping secrets, since I barely want to talk to strangers anyway. I’ve never even had a diary.” 

“That I do not doubt. If I worked for the mob, I would never bring you home, because I would have to perform the American spy rule.” 

“Right. Got it.” 

“On them, not on you,” Ilya clarifies, sending Shane another lingering smile. “I would be worst—what do you call it? Quitter? I would never stay loyal to the bratva if you were in my life.” 

His gut flips. “Defector.” 

“Yes, that. I would be like John Wick and take out anyone who tried to do you harm. Which would probably lead to me being taken out, so a bad situation all around. I will stick to administration.” 

Shane jumps on the last piece of information like a dying man, desperate to change the subject to anything less risky than Ilya theoretically promising to kill people to keep him safe from the Russian mafia. 

“How long have you worked for the NHL?”

“About eight years. I moved to Boston for university as an exchange student, got my degree in business and financing, and then got lucky finding the job I did.”

Shane glances around the room, at the spectacular architecture and tasteful furniture and expensive art pieces, and says, “I don’t think you got lucky. I bet you worked your ass off to get your job and still work your ass off there every day.” 

Ilya’s shoulders tighten and loosen in quick succession, like a reflex he’s tried to get rid of but hasn’t managed to altogether squash. “I do my best.” 

“Try again.” 

He pauses the food prep and tilts his head in Shane’s direction. “What?” 

“You said you do your best. I said you work your ass off. I want you to try again, or. You know.” 

“Know?” 

“American spy rules.” 

Shane notices the new tension Ilya is carrying only when it leaves his expression, transforms it back to playful. He is confident and sexy when he declares: “I’m damn good at my job, and the NHL is lucky to have me.” 

“Damn right we are.” Shane holds his can up and then takes a drink, toasting to Ilya’s honor. “I want to hear about it. I’ve never gotten to talk to anyone who works behind the scenes that much.” 

“Yes, your spare time is usually spent talking to reporters and referees.” 

“You have no idea.” 

Ilya moves onto chopping vegetables after washing his hands, graceful in a way Shane has never been in the kitchen. “To put it simply, I handle visas and travel procedures for the players coming over from Russia. We are, as I have been told, a ‘hot commodity’ in the States, and those players alone require full time attention in order to ensure all teams are up to date on regulations. Especially when they head into Canada or to events like All-Stars or the Olympics. I work directly with the agents and teams to make it easy for the Russian players to come over and focus on their jobs.”

He whistles. “That’s amazing, Ilya. I can’t imagine how much red tape that job must require you to handle. I know I’ve never really had to think about the ordeal that comes with visas since I’m Canada-based. It must suck to handle that stuff just for players moving from Canada to the States or vice-versa, but I bet players coming in from Europe to our countries must be way, wayyyy worse. You’re a miracle worker.” 

“I am. But I love my job, and I love hockey, so it's a dream come true. It does not feel like work, most days. Except when I have to deal with France on the very rare occasion our paths cross—they think they are European embassy for some reason.” 

A thought occurs to Shane. “The NHL doesn't make you pay for your season tickets, do they?” 

“No, they pay for my tickets, and Sveta’s. As they should, since I make their lives a hundred times easier.” 

“And don’t you ever forget it.” 

“I will not, Captain.” 

There’s zero alcohol in Shane’s drink, and he hasn’t drank in months, but he’s starting to unwind the way he does whenever he’s convinced to indulge. The low heat of the fireplace and the easy conversation are doing wonders to coax him into lowering his walls and not put so much thought behind every word he says. The teasing is still present, but that feels softer, too, like a thin blanket covering the intimate bubble surrounding the kitchen. 

Ilya said that he wanted to know anything and everything about Shane. Shane has never been more full of questions to ask someone else, wanting to know anything and everything about Ilya as well, down to what socks he prefers to wear and if he believes making wishes on dandelions does any good. 

He goes with another easy question. “How long have you known Svetlana?” 

“Since we were very small children. She is my rock. My angel. And she knows more about hockey than anyone in the entire world, probably including you.” 

Ilya talks about growing up with Svetlana, and what living in Russia was like, and how they both came to the States for university without looking back. He doesn’t go into too much detail, but says enough for Shane to gather that his family is less than stellar and not part of his adult life. He also discovers that Svetlana is engaged to Rose Landry, one of Shane’s favorite actresses, and vaguely recalls an Instagram post about said engagement from some months ago. 

“She is a sweetie,” Ilya says about Rose. “You would love her. Very funny, very gay. Two best qualities for anyone to have, yes?” 

“You would know,” Shane teases, grinning wide. “I have one of those qualities, I guess. Go me.” 

Without having to be asked, Ilya pauses preparing the sauce to grab Shane a new can of ginger ale once his is empty. As he’s exchanging the cans, he trails a finger over the back of Shane's hand and says, “You are funny. You think seatbelts on airplanes would do anything to keep us from dying in horrible agony. Is hilarious!” 

“I bet you would take that safety vest and throw it right in the trash, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course! I have been able to swim since I was one day old!” 

Ilya talks about interning with the NHL right out of college, and Shane talks about being scouted while in high school. Ilya talks about how much he loves Boston, loves that it’s loud and chaotic and unapologetic, and Shane talks about how much he loves Ottawa, how it’s half his soul and how he’s never felt like he missed out on life by not leaving his hometown to play for Montreal or Toronto or possibly Detroit. 

While plating the pasta and producing a vibrant salad from the fridge, Ilya says, “I remember the first game I saw you play.” 

Shane colors immediately. “Good or bad?” 

“Both.” Ilya slides the pasta plates across the counter, one in front of Shane, one in front of the stool to his right. “It was five years ago, first Centaurs and Bears game of the season. We lost, and you scored three of the four goals that night.” 

He remembers that game; Hayden had nearly started a fight with St-Simon over a chirp about Jackie leaving him for the zamboni driver and Carmichael had gotten a penalty for tripping Dykstra, who ended up crashing into Barrett and Chouinard as a result. It had been a complete disaster, but they’d managed to smoke the Bears, anyway. 

“That was a rough game. Boston played super dirty.”

“It’s Boston,” Ilya says in explanation, which, Shane acknowledges, is totally correct. 

He slides their salad bowls across the counter, and then comes to sit down, a glass of wine in hand. The sight of him—dark jeans, dark shirt, gold necklace, clean facial hair, neat curls, comfortably barefoot, drinking carefully selected wine to pair with his dinner—moving to join Shane for a meal hits him like a shockwave. This is not just a friendly chat with a man he met on the plane today. This is a man that Shane is having dinner with, who invited Shane into his home to cook for him and get to know him, and who is irrefutably the most alluring, ethereal person he has ever shared the same space with. Shane has been flirting with this man for almost an hour; Ilya is sitting down to eat the food he made specifically for Shane, with the intent to nourish him and continue their conversation until who knows when. 

The boneless sensation and the warm, romantic atmosphere wrap around their shared counter space and amplify to a terrifying level as Ilya gets comfortable next to Shane. He should be terrified, but all he wants to do is hook their ankles together and melt into Ilya’s space, to smell his cologne under the scents of garlic and roasted tomatoes and taste the wine from his lips. 

If Ilya is also feeling overwhelmed by the sudden amalgamation of emotions and realities of this dinner, he doesn’t show it. He simply sits down and smiles at Shane. “Eat up. I hope you enjoy.” 

Shane moans when he takes a bite of the pasta. “Fuck. This is amazing.” 

“Thank you. I have perfected the recipe down to a science.” 

“I can tell. Holy shit, that’s good.” He doesn’t let himself stay overwhelmed, peering innocently over at Ilya. “What are your thoughts on sharing it with me?” 

Ilya purses his lips. “I think you know, Shane.” 

“American spy rules?” 

“You are very intelligent. Maybe you should work for the bratva.” He watches Shane take another bite, calculating every minute shift of his face as it expresses pleasure over the pasta, a bird of prey waiting to strike. “I can make it for you any time, though. That I would have no problem with.” 

Shane imagines more nights like this: watching Ilya cook, talking to him about anything that comes to mind, eating his food and sitting knee-to-knee with him in the glow of the fireplace and inviting kitchen lighting. Being completely separated from the bustle of the city and the NHL and doing nothing but connecting with someone who makes him feel safe and understood. 

“I would love that,” Shane says sincerely, and rejoices in a truly sublime sight—Ilya’s ears turning pink, something he can only see because they’re so close together. 

Ilya clears his throat and takes another sip of wine, cutting their intense eye contact. Shane wants to press his nose to the curve of Ilya’s throat and never come back out. 

“Was a dirty game,” Ilya states, going back to their previous conversation. “But your team handled it very well. I am a good enough sport to admit that.” 

“I’d hope so, after a 4-1 assbeating.” 

Ilya flicks his elbow. “Don’t test your luck, Hollander. I didn’t say your team was better than Boston, just that you handled them well.” He takes a bite of the pasta, hums, and waits for Shane to keep eating to say the rest of his piece. “I had seen clips of you here and there when I had the time to watch hockey between school and interning. I heard lots of talk about Canada’s generational talent, the genius who had drafted high above anyone else in his year. But I had never really seen you play until that night.” 

Shane can’t tell if he’s more afraid or desperate to hear Ilya’s thoughts when he asks, “And what did you think?” 

Ilya meets his eyes. He looks so gorgeous in the brassy, romantic lighting that it makes Shane’s breath audibly stutter. 

“I thought that it was like watching a god forced to live amongst mortals. It is too little to say that you are better than all other players in the league. It is the same as saying that ‘Hot Crossed Buns’ is not as good a song as ‘O Fortuna.’” 

Heat ricochets through every vein in Shane’s body. It’s as if he already drank the wine and Ilya is savoring the leftovers. Against his will or to his secret enjoyment, Shane has heard many times over the years that he’s a once in a lifetime talent for hockey, that until he retires, there will never be anyone on the ice who can compete with him. But those praises often come from a statistical standpoint, which he can appreciate more than anyone in the game (besides his mother). No one has ever complimented his talent and dedication to hockey like this, as though it is more art than tactical maneuvering of his hands and feet. 

As though it’s clear Shane plays hockey with his soul instead of his head. 

He’s at a loss for what to say. His teeth are closed around words too fierce for a first date (it has to be, Shane will lose part of his soul if it isn’t) and his mind is reeling with alternative routes he can take to say something intelligible to Ilya. 

Ilya saves him with a well-timed quip. “It’s ruined by playing on a team with people like Hayden Pike and Tanner Dillon, though. Ottawa takes one step forward with you and a million back with them. Yikes.” 

Shane laughs, unable to help it. “They have better stats than most of the Bears combined.” 

“Dream on. The Bears have won more Cups in the last decade than Ottawa has won since the team was made.” 

“And which team has won the last two Cups in a row, back-to-back seasons?” 

Ilya’s responding expression is much like the rest of him: a knife’s edge between ravishing and deadly. “You will not win a third time, Captain.” 

Shane presses their knees together under the table. “Watch me.” 

Twilight bleeds into true night while they eat and converse at Ilya’s island. The pasta disappears, and Shane gives the salad similar high acclaims, and somewhere in between Ilya finishing his glass of wine and Shane talking about the calamity of being all of eighteen years old and a rep for motherfucking Rolex, his right hand ends up loosely tangled with Ilya’s left on the counter top. Even though it’s just them in the house, their voices have naturally dropped to lower octaves, as if wanting to keep their conversation private in the middle of a packed restaurant. 

When more shadows than light are clinging to the exquisite cut of Ilya’s jaw, he finally notices, and seems to give in. 

“Any more to eat?” 

“No, I’m set. Thank you again—it was delicious. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me.” 

“I did,” Ilya says simply. He runs his thumb over Shane’s before standing up and gathering their dishes, gently pushing him away when Shane attempts to help. “You continue to sit and look pretty while I clean. Those are the rules.” 

“No they aren’t! The cook isn’t supposed to clean up.” 

“My house, my rules,” he sings. Ilya puts everything into his sink, stares at it for a beat, and then turns back around. “Actually, I’m not cleaning up either. It will take too much time, and there are still questions I want to ask you.” 

Shane scoffs, but his face is starting to ache from all the smiling he’s been doing. “What else could you possibly have to ask me? I’m very boring. I wake up, work out, play hockey, go to sleep, repeat. In my spare time I do yoga, read books, and go to museums with my parents. That’s about it.” 

Ilya looks offended on his behalf. “Did you miss our entire extended conversation, Hollander? You have told me many interesting facts and stories today. Like the one about Pike losing his twins at county fair and having to ask clowns how to get them back.”

“I have way more questions to ask you. You’ve seen and done so much, I bet you could tell me stories forever and still have more left even when we’re old and grey.” Shane takes a drink of his ginger ale as Ilya rounds the island again, coming back to their shared space. “I know you were working for the NHL when Scott Hunter came out. I’ve always wanted to know how the league handled it behind the scenes.” 

“Most people were great,” Ilya tells him, leaning against the back of his empty chair. “Lots of talk about how hockey culture was finally going to change for the better. The Commissioner was a fucking prick, but after he was fired—sorry, encouraged to resign—anyone who had negative opinions about Hunter and other queer players knew to keep their mouths shut. It was… it was great. After being born and raised in Russia, it was life changing, to see that kind of reaction.” 

Shane’s chest hurts, thinking about the reality of being queer for so many people in other parts of the world. Thinking about Ilya being scared in his youth and not being able to be himself until fully into adulthood. About other players not being part of a team like Shane’s, or having parents like his, and forced to partake in the archaic belief of don’t ask, don’t tell.

“It was one of the best nights of my life,” Shane admits. He can remember that night with perfect clarity, being surrounded by the Centaurs and their family members and watching Scott Hunter kiss his now-husband on live TV. Can remember the way his parents held him and told him that that would be him someday, fulfilling his greatest dream and being able to kiss any possible partner he may have at the same time. “The Admirals winning the Cup sucked, but—I guess the sacrifice was worth it.”

Ilya laughs. “Yes. It is very hard to accept that our world changed thanks to Scott Hunter. They should not let players who were alive during the moon landing compete, bad for everyone’s health and safety on the ice.” 

Shane has been able to see that smile up close all night (and for the majority of his morning) but it keeps kicking him in the gut. He glances away and sips the last dredges of his ginger ale, trying to control his obvious flush in Ilya’s presence. 

“Would you like another drink?” 

Shane looks back, unable to help it. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.” 

There’s a brief pause, as if Ilya is hesitating, before he asks, “Are you… wanting to return to your hotel? I know it’s late, and you probably have an early schedule tomorrow.” 

“I don’t. Have an early schedule,” Shane says, tripping over his words. “Or—want to leave. Unless you want me to?” 

Ilya leans in, bracing one hand on the countertop. “No. I would like you to stay, if you would like to stay. I could spend all night talking to you and it would not be enough.” 

Shane stares at his mouth, wondering how it’s possible that someone as stunning as Ilya could be saying these words to someone as plain as him. Everything feels muddled and dreamlike, warm and romantic, impossible and yet unquestionably, viscerally real. He often forgets what it’s like to want outside of the realms of hockey and personal wellness. 

Ilya makes it so easy to want things that Shane didn’t think he could have. 

“Are you sure?” 

Ilya’s other hand moves to cup his face. He brushes his fingers over where Shane knows his freckles reside, and then gently sinks them into Shane’s hair. 

“I have been trying to come up with a plan to meet you since that game in Boston,” Ilya says quietly, eyes tracing over his astonished expression. “I am very sure I could spend the entire night asking questions and talking to you, Shane.” 

Shane revels in the shape of his name on Ilya’s mouth once again, tucking it into the hot, bloody center of his heart. “Just talking?” 

Ilya’s answering laugh is more vibration than sound, a deep, sensual rumble. “Talking is only the beginning of the things I would like to do with you, sweetheart.” 

He tastes like aged wine and ambrosia when Shane kisses him, grabbing Ilya by his dark, expensive shirt to reach his lips. It’s both unbelievable and inevitable that they’ve ended up in this situation, that Shane has managed to occupy a space in Ilya’s thoughts large enough that he wants to talk to Shane, eat with Shane, kiss Shane, and has apparently been scheming ways to make this scenario come to fruition for multiple years. 

Shane feels wholly unworthy of such dedication and desire. Shane feels the immortal god Ilya has named him to be, powerful and desired and capable of having whatever he wants most in this moment, which is to let Ilya consume him. 

Ilya’s other hand slides into his hair as well, adjusting the angle of his head so that Ilya can lick into his mouth. Fire crackles across his flushed skin and heats his bones, until Shane has come completely alive, pulsing and sparking at the edges with want. He isn’t thinking about much else when he slides his hands under the hem of Ilya’s shirt, except that he’ll perish on the spot if he doesn’t get to feel Ilya’s stomach contract and expand with each breath he takes. 

His fingers dig into Ilya’s lower back, and his thumbs press into the hard muscle of his abdomen, greedy to feel his breathing, to catalogue the millisecond it becomes uneven from their deep kissing. 

When Ilya pulls away to try and catch his breath, Shane takes a long, hungry look at his face. His mouth is red and slick, and his eyes are more pupil than iris, giving him the appearance of an immortal god, of Apollo preparing to reign the sun. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” Ilya says, stroking Shane’s cheek. “I didn’t bring you here to sleep with you, if you are concerned about that. I don’t want you to feel pressured. My only intention was to spend more time talking to you.” 

Shane might die if he doesn’t get to taste more of this splendid man. “I appreciate that, Ilya. But I’ve wanted to kiss you since you told that rude lady to fuck off this morning, and it’s only gotten worse since you picked me up tonight in your goddamn BMW.” Because it worked so well before, he looks at Ilya from under his lashes and widens his eyes. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to. But kissing is only the beginning of what I want to do with you.” 

Ilya practically picks Shane out of his chair when he kisses him again. Where their first kiss was sweet and languid, perfect after so many hours of longing and flirting, this one can only be described as scorching. Shane finds his feet as Ilya’s arms find his waist, and lets Ilya lead him farther into the house, past the flickering fireplace, the cozy living room, and back into the private sanctuary of his bedroom. He must have the lights in his house on a timer, because both bedside lamps are softly glowing when they stumble through the doorway, allowing the warm, romantic aura of the kitchen to follow them.

Ilya keeps one arm banded across Shane’s hips and spreads his other hand out, so that it rests brazenly over the curve of Shane’s ass. His voice is deep and lush when he says, “Fuck, you are so beautiful. I cannot believe you are here with me.” 

“I can’t believe you want me here with you. I bet you could have anyone in the world.” 

“I have wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you,” Ilya whispers, kissing him again, open-mouthed and desperate. “I had no intention of wasting the chance fate gave me today, even if I only got your number. A chance is all I needed.” 

Shane lets Ilya untuck the linen shirt from his pants and push it up, hands dragging possessively over the skin of his back and shoulders, until he can pull it off Shane’s head. He’s worked hard for his physique, has spent more hours in gyms and rinks than he could begin to estimate, but Ilya’s gaze and the way he towers over Shane make him feel undeniably small. He’s discovering in real time that he loves it, loves feeling caged in and at Ilya’s mercy. Especially when Ilya says it again: “You are so, so beautiful. Who could ever want anyone else but you, Shane Hollander?” 

He’s dropping to his knees before making the conscious decision to do so. Ilya’s hands move to cradle the back of his head, and his low, sweet, “Shane,” makes him keen. It’s dark and safe down here, surrounded entirely by Ilya’s cologne and the heat of his body and the soft edge of his mattress against Shane’s back. He presses his face to the front of Ilya’s jeans, feels how hard he is just from kissing and touching Shane, and breathes in, smelling cedarwood, denim, and fabric softener. Lets Ilya’s warmth seep in and chase away any thoughts nonessential to want, want, want. 

Ilya doesn’t question his needs. He unbuttons his jeans and lets Shane pull them and his briefs down to his thighs, just enough to free his cock, and gasps quietly when Shane takes him into his mouth. He mumbles to himself in Russian while Shane works to take him all the way, until he’s right where he wants to be: throat stuffed full of Ilya’s dick, nose pressed to the trimmed, coarse hairs covering his pubic bone and the delicious slice of skin under his navel. The woody, dark scent of him is maximized here, settling a gauzy cloud over Shane’s mind, until all he knows is Ilya and full. 

Ilya cards his fingers through Shane’s hair, letting him have what he craves. The cloud spreads when Ilya says, voice gravelly, “Sorry if I kept you waiting.” Shane puts his hands where they were before, fingertips pressed to either side of Ilya’s spine, thumbs in the ideal place to feel each inhale and exhale he takes as Shane starts to suck his cock, encourages Ilya to fuck his mouth. 

He isn’t sure exactly how long he stays on his knees for, but it’s long enough to leave them aching when Ilya finally stops him. 

“We can do whatever you want tonight,” Ilya says; Shane is gratified by how unsteady he sounds. “But I’m going to come soon if we keep this up. Your choice, moy lyubimyy.” 

Shane loves sucking cock. He loves getting fucked more. He imagines Ilya spreading him out and splitting him open on the cock he just had in his mouth and whines for it, grinding into empty air. 

Ilya takes the lead again, and Shane finds himself on his back on the bed in between one blink and the next. Ilya’s eyes are wild, and his hair is starting to escape its style, curling around his ears and over his forehead. He holds Shane’s gaze as he kicks his jeans and underwear off, and unbottons his shirt, until he’s wearing nothing but his golden cross and a scorching expression. 

“I don’t think one night will be enough,” he says conversationally, as if he’s not physically and metaphorically stripping Shane down to his muscle and sinew. He gets the snap of Shane’s pants undone and pulls them off, then his briefs, and then each of his socks, a deliberate, torturous undressing that leaves Shane trembling. “If you keep me, I might not ever get enough. Would you be able to live with that?” 

Shane doesn’t know everything about Ilya, obviously, but he knows enough. Never seeing him again, or being touched by him, or taken apart by him, is entirely unacceptable. With Ilya’s hands resting on each knee, he spreads them, an admission and invitation in one. 

“You had me the second you took Canada Dry out of your refrigerator." Shane grabs Ilya’s pillows, tilts his head, and bares more than his skin. “And who said that I would get enough from just one night? I’m not exactly known for doing things casually.” 

Ilya has him folded in half .3 seconds after he says these words. His thighs push Shane’s back against the line of his torso, his hands wrap tight around his wrists to press them into the comforter, and he grinds their cocks together, a seamless, heavenly roll of hips and pelvis.

“You will be lucky if I let you out of my bed again,” Ilya growls, smearing a kiss along Shane’s neck. “Might have to call Wiebe and let him know you are retired as of tonight.” 

“Dude. Please do not talk about my coach while we’re having sex.” 

Ilya kisses under his ear next, playfully nipping the lobe. “Don’t call me ‘dude’ in my bed, Shane.” The next roll of his hips presses the head of his cock against Shane’s hole, and he forgets about their banter, crying out: “Ilya!” 

“Good boy. You are fast learner.” 

While his brain latches onto the ‘good boy’ comment and his blood pulses with need, Ilya reaches into the bedside table and collects some lube and a condom. This is typically when Shane starts to get nervous, but this time, it makes his need reach dizzying heights, knowing he’s moments away from getting the best dicking of his life. 

“Please, please,” he begs nonsensically, squeezing his knees around Ilya’s ribs. “Want it. I want you.” 

Ilya kisses his shin as he warms up the lube between his fingers. “You will have me, beautiful. Just give me another minute, okay?” 

He keeps kissing Shane’s leg while opening him up, first with one finger, then with two. When he gets to three, he gently twists and presses up until he hits Shane’s prostate, clearly delighting in the way Shane arches off the mattress and moans. 

“Ilya, please.” He’s scared he’s going to come if Ilya touches his prostate again, or runs his thumb over the base of his dick again, or does anything but get inside of him after minutes and hours of anticipation. 

Ilya listens and removes his fingers. “Okay, I’ll give you what you want. No tears—unless you are crying because I am fucking you so well, of course.” 

He hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper being torn open, and floats until Ilya is pressing the blunt head of his cock against the cleft of Shane’s ass. He doesn’t move any more than that until Shane makes eye contact and nods when Ilya asks, “Ready?” 

Ilya fills him in a single, steady movement, guiding his cock with one hand and keeping Shane’s knees spread with the other. Shane thinks he makes another pathetic whining noise at the stretch, but his head is filled with so much gauze that he can’t say for sure. By the time their hips meet, he’s so full he can hardly breathe, let alone think. 

“So perfect,” Ilya professes, kissing Shane’s twitching calf muscle. “I’m going to remember this moment forever.” 

Shane has to agree. The only sight comparable to Ilya’s molten stare and golden, muscled body hovering above him has been both occurrences of the Stanley Cup being handed over to him. 

He wraps his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and pulls him down for a wet, messy kiss. Ilya’s hips twitch forward with the change in angle, pushing him, somehow, farther into Shane’s waiting body, and Shane moans against his mouth. Pleasure lights up along every square inch of skin that Ilya worked to bare and bring to life between undressing Shane and preparing him for Ilya’s cock. 

He feels it everywhere when Ilya pulls out and pushes back in, arms shifting under his hold, eyes never leaving Shane’s face. 

“Good?” he asks, low and divine. 

Shane urges him to keep moving by pressing his heels to Ilya’s back. “So, so good. Fuck. Please don’t stop.” 

Ilya hikes Shane’s thigh farther up his side and does as he’s told. Once he’s been thoroughly assured of Shane’s comfort and enthusiastic consent, Ilya’s only thought seems to be on making him come systematically undone. He finds the right angle after only three thrusts, maneuvers Shane into the best position to achieve maximum results, and fucks him in hard, deep strokes that leave him utterly incapable of speaking. 

While he’s whining and moaning and probably drooling, Ilya has zero difficulty finding words to say. “Fuck, Shane, you are absolutely gorgeous. You were made to take cock the same way you were made to play hockey. Never meant for anything else.” 

“Ilya,” Shane gasps, holding him tighter. 

Ilya finds the stamina to move faster. “Again. Want to hear you scream it.” 

He wraps an enormous hand around Shane’s cock and starts jerking him, thumb rolling over the head on each upstroke. Shane sobs out his name, yells, “Ilya, Ilya, I’m gonna come—” into the holy space they’ve made with each other, and Ilya hits his prostate over and over and over again like he’s trying to make Shane unravel limb by limb. 

“Let me see it,” Ilya groans, kissing Shane’s chin. “Let me see what no other man will ever see again.” 

Shane comes so hard he sees stars, breath sawing in and out of his lungs with each pulse. He thinks he might actually be crying, but his orgasm goes on for an eternity and nothing else registers except the bright starbursts of pleasure and the scents of amber and soap and sex permeating the bubble surrounding them. 

He gathers himself seconds before Ilya comes, long enough to see that his control is hanging on by a thread, long enough to internalize the sweat glistening on his collarbones and the dangerous clench of his jaw. Shane feels like he comes all over again just seeing what he’s done to Ilya, that Ilya is trying to make it last as long as he can. 

Shane embodies every part the immortal god Ilya claims him to be when he commands: “I want to see you, too.” 

Ilya crushes their mouths together and kisses Shane hard as he orgasms, alternating curses and praises against his tongue. Shane takes everything he gives, clenching appreciatively around Ilya’s cock, relishing the last uncontrolled thrust of his hips. When he’s done, Ilya lets out a sigh and kisses Shane again, this time with great tenderness, unhurried and leisurely and perfect, perfect, perfect. 

When Ilya leans back to look at him, Shane’s face cracks open around a grin. He’s weightless with satisfaction and pure, simple joy. 

“So pretty,” Ilya murmurs, kissing over his freckles and the bridge of his nose. “You are unreal.” 

Shane kisses his chest in reply. “So I lived up to your expectations?” 

“I mean what I said on plane. Reality is always better than fantasy.” 

He doesn’t know how he’s meant to stand this, being so full of pleasure and serenity and… other things. He doesn’t know that he cares. He kisses the other man’s smiling mouth this time, presses his tongue against Ilya’s incisors, then asks, “Does this mean I get to level up and change my terrible nickname in your phone?” 

Ilya’s laugh fills him from head to toe. “Sure. You can either be ‘My Princess’ or ‘Marly’s Worst Nightmare’ now. Your choice.” 

“Wow,” he says, pretending to consider. “Those are great options. I was thinking ‘Shane Hollander.’” 

He gets a raspberry for his troubles. “Not a chance.” 

Shane kisses him, then quietly suggests, “What about the thing you said before?” 

“What thing?” 

“In Russian. When I was… you know….” 

Heat resettles over Ilya’s expression. “When you were on your knees for me?” Shane nods, and Ilya says it again: “Moy lyubimyy. My beloved.” 

“Would it be too much?” Shane asks, already feeling that he’s being too much, too soon, despite Ilya admitting he’s been planning to court him for years. 

Ilya casts his doubts aside with another kiss, by wrapping Shane up in his arms and holding him close. “No. It would be perfect.” 

Shane melts into him. “One more time.” 

“Moy lyubimyy.”

“Moy loo-bee-mee.” 

“Perfect,” Ilya repeats, though Shane's pronunciation certainly leaves much to be desired. “Shane Hollander, my beloved. I never thought that I would be able to say this.” 

“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane says, his heart near bursting. “My dream man.” 

~.~ 

When Shane rolls into practice the following afternoon, he’s greeted by several smirking teammates and a picture of Ilya helping him into the BMW, courtesy of Hazy via TMZ’s official website. The article’s caption reads: SHANE HOLLANDER: OTTAWA’S HOTTEST HOCKEY STAR AND BACHELOR SPOTTED WITH POTENTIAL SUITOR? 

“Your hot date,” Hayden assumes, looking pleased as punch. It’s Shane’s biggest scandal to date, other than the time he was drunkenly caught calling Dallas Kent a ‘cowardly fuckwipe’ on Bood’s Instagram story. 

“That lasted long,” Shane sighs, looking at the photo. It’s a great one, honestly, capturing their entwined hands and the glorious shape of Ilya’s ass in his favorite pair of jeans. Shane might frame it. “Well, boys, I guess the secret’s out.” 

Barrett presses a hand to his mouth. “You’re gay?” 

Dillon falls dramatically to his knees. “Someone asked you out on purpose?” 

Luca, who is standing closest to Shane, touches his elbow and asks, “You got into a car you weren’t allowed to drive?” 

“Okay, that’s enough. Everyone on the ice in five or we’re doing gauntlet drills for the next hour.” 

The party breaks up, laughs echoing throughout the locker room, but Shane is given several congratulations and “I can’t believe you did it”s from the guys, which secretly make him smile. He does love these boneheads, even if they can’t go more than two seconds without chirping him. Apparently, he stopped being scary the same night he called Dallas Kent a fuckwipe, because he was also drunk enough to duet “I Don’t Want to Wait” with Bood during karaoke. Which Wyatt Hayes was soooo kind to film and post on Bood’s behalf. 

Hayden claps him on the back before heading out to join the team. “I am actually very excited for you. I’ve been waiting years to plan double dates. How do you and your Russian beau feel about bowling?” 

Shane beams at his best friend. “That depends. How does Jackie feel about adding a new contact to the WAGs group chat?”