Chapter Text
Shane is in a post-game interview when his world stops.
He’s just answered a question about Montreal’s offensive strategy going into the game. Clean passes, avoid penalties, draw defenders wide. It had worked and the Voyagers had beat Colorado soundly, 4-1. Shane had scored two of the goals and assisted on a third. It was an impressive win against the reigning Western Conference Champions.
Usually, Shane would be eager to boast about the win to Ilya. But ever since their fight- since Ilya told Shane to leave- winning feels hollow. Losing feels better, somehow. As if Shane deserves to lose after being so selfish. Ilya gave up everything for him- his home, his team, and to some extent- his happiness. Hockey. Ilya gave up hockey- good hockey- for Shane.
And Shane just kept taking and taking and taking- unknowingly and heedlessly.
The worst part is that Shane hadn’t even realized his selfishness until their fight.
I already chose you, Shane.
Every day since, Shane reminds himself that Ilya deserves better. But every time Shane considers coming out, he panics- fear threatening to drown him whole. The Voyagers know he’s gay, but in a relationship with Rozanov? They would bench him. Trade him… hurt him, maybe.
The shame is almost more overwhelming than fear.
A ripple goes through the room of reporters, then suddenly all of them are on their phones. A woman gasps. Shane swears he hears the word ‘Ottawa’ and ‘crash’. But no one is paying attention to him anymore.
“What’s going on?” he asks into the microphone, feeling strange at the role reversal. Usually, he’s the one being asked questions.
No one answers. And this time he knows that he hears the word ‘Ottawa’ and ‘Centaurs’.
The volume in the room has grown too loud. Reporters are typing frantically. Some are leaving the room, phones to their ears.
Shane slams his hand down on the press table, “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
Rachel, a local Montreal journalist, jumps at the loud bang. Her eyes look a little watery and Shane feels his heart sink.
“It’s not confirmed yet, but…” she glances down at her phone. Shane fights the urge to jump over the table and grab it from her, from any of them. “There are reports out of Tampa that the Centaur’s plane has crashed.”
When Shane was a young teen, he hated the feeling of his sweaty socks and his mouthguard never fit quite right. The smell of the rink after a long weekend gave him a headache and the eyes of parents pointing at him, saying, ‘Yes, that’s him,’ made him sick. When things got too overwhelming, too big, too much- Shane would freeze. His mind would just stop, overloaded. It never happened on the ice, but sometimes on a car ride home or when he was alone in the locker room. His body would just stop.
But that’s nothing like how Shane feels now.
There are reports out of Tampa that the Centaur’s plane has crashed.
Shane doesn’t freeze, he stands, leaving the press room without a word. His body moves, like it knows what to do. His brain does not.
Before he knows it, Shane is back in the locker room. The Voyageurs players are all looking at their phones. There is no victory celebration, only sharp conversations and worried looks.
Maybe someone says something to him- Shane doesn’t hear.
His pre-game suit and tie are hanging perfectly pressed in his locker, but Shane only bothers to grab his bag and phone.
It isn’t until the parking lot, that Shane realizes someone else is there.
“Shane!” Hayden yells. He is running, hair still soaking wet from a shower he must have jumped out of. “Shane, just wait!”
Shane starts the engine of his Jeep.
“Shane,” Hayden gasps, holding the driver’s side door open. “Where are you going? Let me come with you, please. Shane, I-”
“I’m going to Tampa,” Shane says, even though he hadn’t actually had a plan until Hayden asked. But the plane was supposed to land in Tampa, right? That’s where he would go. To Tampa. To Ilya.
Hayden’s eyes widen. “Okay, okay. Let me just grab my stuff.”
“No. I have to go,” Shane grabs the handle and pulls the door from Haydens grasp.
“You can’t go by yourself, Shane. Not like this. Not while you’re like this,” Hayden tries to reason.
“Like what?” Shane demands.
“Shane, you don’t even know if they made it to Tampa.” Shane flinches, but Hayden continues. “You should wait here, or at the airport I guess, until we hear more. What if they aren’t even in Florida?”
Shane hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought of much really. Just the fact that Ilya might be dead and he had wasted years being scared. Scared of scrutiny. Of the world. When really, he should’ve spent those years telling the world to fuck off and loving the best man he had ever known proudly.
In the end, Hayden jumps in the passenger seat without his things and they drive to the Montreal Airport.
Hayden spends the ride frantically checking his phone for updates and glancing at Shane, who hasn’t said a word.
“Do you even have your passport?” Hayden asks.
Shane has a moment of panic, before he realizes that he packed his bag last night in preparation for the Voyagers’ upcoming road trip. Yes, he has it.
________________
Hayden and Shane stand in the Montreal Airport, staring up at the Departures Screen, trying to ignore the obvious looks they are getting from passersby. This is a hockey city afterall, and Shane Hollander is a common name in most Montreal households.
“Fuck,” Hayden curses at an alert on his phone. “Atlanta. The Centaurs plane made an emergency landing in Atlanta, Shane.”
Shane feels his heart pounding against his ribs. Together, they scan the screen. It is luck, or maybe fate, that there is a direct flight to Atlanta leaving in forty-three minutes.
Hayden offers to go with him, but Shane refuses. The road trip starts tomorrow, and their coach is already going to be livid at Shane for leaving without notice. Hayden reluctantly agrees, then gives Shane a much-needed hug.
“Be safe, man. I’ll call your parents and let them know where you’re headed.”
“Thanks, Hayd,” Shane says. He just needs to see Ilya. He needs him to be alive. He needs a fucking miracle.
“I know Rozanov and I don’t get along, Shane, but I see the way he treats you. I see how much he loves you and how much you love him. I hope he’s okay. I hope they all are.”
Shane nods but finds that he can’t reply. Not if he wants to stay upright in the middle of the airport.
A sort of strange fog settles over him as he boards the plane. He takes his seat and for the first time since the press room, opens his phone.
There are multiple missed calls from his mom. Then a text, saying that Hayden had called and that she would text with any updates. Shane doesn’t respond.
He calls Ilya. Straight to voicemail.
Only when the flight attendant asks for devices to be put into Airplane Mode, does Shane see the Instagram messages.
His heart doesn’t stop, it shatters.
Ilya’s last words.
Shane stares at them, reading them over and over.
You are the best thing in my life.
I love you. Always.
Realization hits him slowly. There is no Hollander without Rozanov. There is no Shane without Ilya. There is only them. And right now, Shane’s knows that if Ilya is dead, he will die too- slowly, painfully. Grief will drag him right into the ground.
Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart.
________________
Wyatt Hayes is sitting in the waiting room of the Emory University Hospital in Atlanta. He and his team were supposed to be on the ice in Tampa twenty minutes ago, but things change. Planes apparently do fall out of the sky.
His angry Russian captain in sitting next to them, as they wait for one of the rookies to be discharged. It had been a brutal five hours- concussion screenings, stitches, broken bones set and tears shed. Rozanov and Haas had been the only one with head injuries.
“Blat!” Rozanov shouts into the waiting room, throwing a nearly full coffee cup in the trash.
“Cap?” Hayes questions, glancing at the black line of stitches across Rozanov’s forehead. They still look intact. His own arm is in a sling, thanks to a dislocated shoulder.
“Phone, Hayes. I need my fucking phone!”
“I know, Roz. Coach said he’s working on it. For you and Bood.”
Rozanov begins to pace and runs an angry hand through his hair, his curls sticking out at all angles.
“You can borrow mine.” Hayes reaches for it, but Rozanov cuts a sharp motion through the air.
“No, doesn’t matter. I don’t know number.”
The Russian looks close to tears and Hayes feels a deep thud in his chest. Rozanov needs to speak to someone, to let them know he is alive. If he hadn’t been able to call Lisa as soon as the plane landed- abruptly, harshly, and on fire- he would have lost his mind. Wyatt shudders at the thought.
There is a sudden commotion at the nurse’s desk. A man is shouting- well he is talking loudly and somewhat politely.
“Ilya Rozoanov. I know he is here. I need to see him. Now.” The man taps his clenched fist on the desk and his voice cracks, “Please.”
Wyatt feels like maybe the plane did crash and this is all a very weird afterlife, because the man pleading with the nurse is Shane fucking Hollander. Shane Hollander is in Atlanta. Shane Hollander is in a hospital asking for Ilya Rozanov.
Rozanov makes a sound like a wounded animal.
Wyatt jerks his head to look at his captain.
Drawn by some invisible string, Hollander’s eyes find Rozanov across the room. He blinks once, then he’s moving, practically running towards them.
“You asshole!”
The Russian is frozen, like a deer in headlights, as the Captain of the Montreal Voyagers points a finger at him and shouts, “You fucking asshole!”
“Woah!” Wyatt stands, putting himself between the two. “Calm down, Hollander. What are you even doing-”
But Hollander veers around him, and for a moment Wyatt feels like they are back on the ice. The stupid Voyager has no problem making a fool out of defenders with his sharp skating and speed.
It’s like he has let an easy save slip past him, and Wyatt attempts to snatch Hollander with his good arm.
But it’s too late.
Hollander grabs the front of Rozanov’s shirt and yanks. Rozanov just lifts his hands as if in surrender and lets Hollander drag him forward. There is no anger in his eyes, only an emotion Hayes can’t place.
“Hollander-”
“You fucking asshole,” Hollander repeats, but this time it’s not a shout. His hands shake on Rozanov’s shirt. “I was so scared, Ilya. So, fucking scared.”
Wyatt blinks.
Ilya?
Rozanov’s hands fold on top of Hollander’s. “Shane. I’m sorry, moy lyubimyy. I’m fine. Am okay, Shane. I’m sorry I scared you.”
Shane?
“Ilya, baby. I can’t. I can’t-”
Baby?!
Maybe Wyatt’s the one with the concussion, because what?
“Is okay, is okay.” Rozanov pulls Hollander’s forehead to his chest. He speaks softly into Hollander’s hair. Maybe in Russian.
Hollander shakes.
Suddenly, Wyatt realizes he is witnessing something maybe he shouldn’t be.
Wyatt meets Rozanov’s eye over the head of glossy black hair. He knows he must look shocked. But Rozanov is crying. And Shane Hollander is crying is his arms. And he feels like the floor just dropped out from underneath him.
Wyatt gives Rozanov what he hopes is a reassuring look, then turns his back on them. He slides to the left, doing what he can to block them from view of the nurse’s desk and the other people in the waiting room. There are curious eyes everywhere, but thankfully no one has their phone out.
________________
A flood of warmth fills Ilya at Hayes’s small gesture. He knew the Centaurs were good. Just like he knows the shock in Hayes’s face is surprise, not disgust.
Shane still has a death grip on his shirt, but Ilya doesn’t care. He keeps him close- kissing his hair, his ears. Tears have made his shirt damp.
After a shuddering breath, Shane raises his head. “I love you so much, Ilya. I’m sorry, for everything. I- I chose you. Always. I’m sorry I ever let you think differently.”
“Is okay, moy lyubimyy. I know.”
Shane reaches upwards, but Ilya grabs his wrists to stop him. A flash of hurt crosses Shane’s face.
“We are not alone.”
“I don’t care,” Shane says. Surprise jolts through Ilya at the certainty in his boyfriend’s statement. “I don’t care who sees, Ilya. Please.”
Ilya’s lips are on Shane’s instantly. They taste like salt. The kiss is rough and demanding and Ilya can feel Shane’s desperation in the way he pulls at his curls.
Mine, the kiss says, mine. I love you and you’re mine.
Regretfully, Ilya pulls away and a small noise of disappointment escapes Shane.
“Shh,” Ilya says, but doesn’t really mean it. He runs a knuckle along those beautiful freckles.
“I love you,” Shane whispers. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya drops his forehead to Shane’s. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
________________
Across the room, a door swings open. A nurse pushes Luca Haas in a wheelchair. Coach Wiebe is at her side, nodding at instructions for the rookie’s recovery. The kid had been knocked out during the landing, but unlike Ilya Rozanov, he hadn’t woken up upon arrival at the hospital. Dark purple circles were deepening under the kid’s eyes, a result of his nose breaking on the plastic tray table. He won’t be playing for at least a month. Rozanov, on the other hand, passed most of the concussion tests. Weibe vaguely wonders if there is a way to cheat the tests- certain that if it were possible, Rozanov would manage it.
Coach Wiebe thanks the nurse and steers the wheelchair towards his other players. The scene that greets him is completely unexpected.
Wyatt Hayes is standing like a bodyguard in a corner of the waiting room. Behind him two men are locked in an embrace, foreheads touching and eyes closed.
Hayes’s eyes widen comically and he clears his throat, unnecessarily loud.
The two men break apart with a jolt.
Coach Wiebe nearly trips as he recognizes the dark-haired man.
“Am I dead or is that Shane Hollander?” Haas asks dopily.
“You’re not dead, Haasy,” Wyatt assures.
Wiebe’s eyes dance between the two elite captains. “Uh, would someone care to explain?”
“Shane Hollander is my angel. I must be in heaven,” Haas says dreamily.
The kid is on good drugs, real good drugs.
“Haas, hush,” Wyatt admonishes behind a smile.
But Wiebe’s question goes unanswered, so he tries again. “Hollander, care to explain why you’re not on your way to Buffalo?”
“I’m right where I’m supposed to be,” Hollander snaps, then seems to flinch at his own rudeness. “Sir.”
No one misses the way Rozanov inches closer, making their shoulders bump. His hand slides to the back of Hollander’s neck. And when the Russian meets his coach’s eye, it’s with a fiery protectiveness.
Oh, Wiebe thinks dumbly, as the puzzle pieces click together neatly.
“I see. Should I expect a call from Montreal’s coaching staff?”
Hollander flinches. “I don’t know- maybe? I left without telling anyone. Hayden, he will try to cover for me, but-” Hollander looks up at Rozanov with a pained expression. “People on the airplane recognized me and I wasn’t really thinking clearly. I wasn’t discreet.”
“Is okay, solnishko. We will figure it out. Yuna, she will help.”
Yuna, as in Yuna Hollander?
For a moment, Wiebe studies them. They’ve both obviously been crying and while Rozanov’s hair is always a bit wild, Hollander looks like he has just taken off his helmet. He is wearing a Montreal Voyagers compression shirt, sweatpants, and his socked feet are visible in sandals. Wiebe does the math quickly and comes to the only reasonable conclusion- Hollander left directly from his game.
“I’m sorry,” Hollander whispers.
Rozanov shakes his head. “No, no apologies. Not for this.”
“If I do get a call, what would you like me to say?”
Hollander and Rozanov stare at each other for a full minute, engaging in a silent conversation. Wyatt rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Haas is outright drooling over Shane.
“I don’t care what you tell them, Sir,” Hollander says in a strangely bored voice. Rozanov’s eyes widen. “The Voyagers know I’m gay and they’ve made it clear it’s a problem. So, tell them whatever you want. Tell them I came to see Ilya. That we are in love, that we are-”
“Shane-” Ilya gasps.
“-together. Tell them that if they want to bench me, I don’t care. Because I have Ilya. And that is enough.”
They are silent. Processing. No one looks more stunned than Rozanov.
Over the last seven hours, Shane feels like he has finally woken up. Nothing will ever be as important to him as Ilya Rozanov- not even hockey. A decade spent, paralyzed by fear. But the scariest moment of his life was thinking Ilya was dead.
Ilya is thinking that an alien has inhabited his boyfriend’s body. Weeks ago, Shane refused to go to a barbeque with him, with the Ottawa players. And now, he’s willing to tell the Voyagers to fuck off?
Ilya studies Shane, looking for something wrong, but he doesn’t find anything. Shane stands with his shoulders taunt, his chin high. He looks proud and defiant. He looks like the Shane that Ilya fell in love with at faceoffs. The Shane that held two Cups above his head. The Shane that introduced himself to Ilya first when they were still teenagers.
A memory of their trophy room surfaces.
You are Shane fucking Hollander.
Shane Hollander has led Montreal to hundreds of wins, he’s been Captain almost his whole career, he’s a MLH MVP and he has been in love with his rival for over a decade.
It was about time he started acting like it.
Wiebe coughs, breaking the silence. “Well, I don’t think that will go over very well, but I’ll make sure they get the message. Maybe an abbreviated version.”
Wyatt laughs and even Hollander cracks a small smile.
Rozanov is just looking at Hollander like he’s grown two heads.
“What?” Hollander snaps.
“Who are you and what have you done with my Shane?”
“Thinking that the love of your life is dead really puts things into perspective,” Shane shrugs. Shrugs. And Ilya feels his last ounce of willpower shatter.
He kisses Shane, quick, hard.
“Noooo,” Haas whines, “Shane is my angel!”
“Jesus,” Wyatt curses and begins pushing Haas’s wheelchair towards the exit. “It’s okay, Haasy, we will find you a new angel. One that’s not already taken by a scary Russian.”
“Okay, boys,” Wiebe says awkwardly, “Let’s get back to the hotel, yeah?”
________________
The ride to the hotel is short in the van the Centaurs rented to shuttle the team back and forth from the hospital. Shane and Ilya sit in the back row, holding hands. Haas is still sad that his angel was kissing someone else. Wyatt is doing his best to console him around laughter.
Wiebe makes eye contact with the Voyager in the backseat. “Hollander, have you already made travel plans for getting back to Canada?”
The question seems to catch Shane off guard. Because no, he has no travel plans. He had only bought the one ticket to get to Ilya. Nothing else mattered at the time.
“Coach, can he -”
Wiebe waves a hand in their direction. “Don’t worry, Roz. I’m on it. Flight leaves at seven forty-five tonight. I’ll get him added to the flight list.”
“Thank you, Coach,” Ilya says, giving Shane’s hand a squeeze.
The idea of flying back with the whole Ottawa Centaurs team suddenly overwhelms Shane. But Ilya anticipates Shane’s panic and is already pulling him close, kissing his temple.
“They are good,” Ilya promises, “It will be fine.”
The hotel is nothing special, but the lobby is blissfully empty, and they get to Ilya’s assigned room without fanfare.
“What first? Shower, food or nap?” Ilya asks.
Instead of answering, Shane just wraps his arms around Ilya’s waist in a tight embrace.
“I think shower first. You stink, moy lyubimyy.”
Shane retaliates with a playful bite on Ilya’s chest. “I know, asshole. I left during the press conference.”
Ilya pushes Shane back, just to look at him. If there’s one thing he knows about his boyfriend, it’s that he likes things clean. Very clean. So, for Shane to have gotten on a five-hour flight, still sweaty from a hockey game? He must’ve really been out of his mind with worry.
Not for the first time, Shane is staring at the stitches on Ilya’s forehead.
“Are you okay? Really?”
Ilya shrugs, but Shane knows it’s for show. “I was scared. Very scared. And I do not remember the landing. Only remember waking up in the hospital.”
“Concussion?”
“Yes, but not a bad one. I can still play.”
Shane nods, but there is something sad behind his eyes.
The shower is hot and they take their time scrubbing each other, indulging in soft touches and long, loving kisses. They order room service and fall asleep with the plates still on the bed. Thankfully, Shane is too tired to comment about eating in bed but has enough forethought to set an alarm.
________________
The energy on the Centaurs plane is tense. Gone are the jokes and playful banter about seating arrangements. Instead, most of the players are looking at their phones- texting loved ones or trying to distract themselves. Legs are shaking against the thin plane floor and more than one of them has already ordered a beer for after takeoff.
Haas, Wiebe, Hayes, and Rozanov are nowhere to be seen. But Hayes texted Bood, saying they were picking up Haas’s meds at a pharmacy and would be there soon.
Ten minutes later, Haas boards the plane. He’s a little wobbly and Hayes is right behind him, using the arm that’s not in a sling to steady the kid.
The Centaurs explode into cheers and clapping.
“Haasy!”
“Looking good, Haas!”
“Damn, Wyatt. If Lisa needs a shoulder to cry on, I’m available!”
“Hayes, how’re you feeling man?”
“Our best player, in a fucking sling,” Tory Barrett jokes with a mock head shake.
“Don’t tell Roz,” Bood chuckles.
“Don’t tell Roz, what?” the Russian accent cuts through the noise. And if possible, the boisterous shouts get even louder at the sight of their captain.
Bood is about to make a joke about the stitches in Roz’s forehead. But when another man steps into view, the words die in his mouth.
For a moment, the entire plane goes quiet.
Then-
“What the fuck?”
“Is that-”
“Hollander?”
“My angel!” Haas cries from somewhere in the back. Hayes face-palms.
Rozanov’s face is carefully blank as he walks to a row of empty seats near the front. Shane Hollander- the Shane Hollander- trails behind him, his face also giving nothing.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that Hollander is wearing a Centaurs hoodie that is at least two sizes too large and red sweatpants.
“I’m sorry, did we make a trade while the plane was crashing?” Bood looks around at his teammates frantically.
What is going on?!
“Wiebe, you fucking madman!”
Sure enough, Coach Wiebe steps into the aisle. He raises an eyebrow but takes a seat without a word.
“Roz, what the hell?”
“This is a joke, right?”
“Hollander-”
“I’ll be right back,” Rozanov murmurs to the Voyager Captain, who nods and stands in the aisle like a lost puppy.
Rozanov stalks to the back of the plane.
Two rookies are in very last row, looking startled at their captain’s sudden presence. Roz leans across to the rookie in the window seat, extending a fist.
“I love you.”
The rookie is momentarily confused but catches on quickly. They bump fists.
“I love you,” Roz repeats to the other rookie.
One by one, Rozanov fist bumps his teammates, telling them he loves them- just like he does when they are leaving the ice. Win or lose. But this time it means something different- I’m glad you’re alive, it says. I’m glad we are teammates. We are okay. We are whole.
“I love you,” he says to Bood.
“I love you too, man.” Bood fist bumps him back, but his eyes are searching.
“I answer questions after a nap,” Rozanov says and then moves on.
“I love you,” Roz taps Barrett’s fist.
“I knew it,” Barrett replies in a whisper. The Russian menace winks.
Eventually, Roz makes it back to Shane Hollander.
The Centaurs hold their breath.
The Voyager’s Captain smirks and then has the audacity to say, “Do I get an ‘I love you’ too?”
Even from ten rows away, Evan Dykstra can see Roz’s shoulders straighten.
“Oh my god-” someone mutters.
Bood is certain that Rozanov is going to throw a punch.
But Rozanov’s face splits into a wide grin and the look he gives Hollander is…soft?
“Ya tebya lyublyu, Shane”
“Ya tebya lyublyu, Ilyushka,” Shane replies. He’s never used the name before. Svetlana taught it to him over text, implying that it was special. So, Shane has been saving it for the right moment.
Ilya blinks- momentarily stunned. Then something like utter adoration crosses his features. He doesn’t think twice, just grabs Shane by the back of the neck and presses their lips together.
“Woah.”
“Oh my god,” Bood gasps.
“Noooo!” Haas shouts.
Dykstra spits out the Gatorade he’d been sipping.
The kiss is short and sweet, and it tells the Centaurs more than words ever could. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov kissing is not new- it is a habit, it is normal. And it is tender.
Shane pulls away with a smile and motions to the window seat.
“Ah, no,” Ilya shakes his head.
“But you complain if you don’t get the window seat.”
“I do. But last time I sat in window seat, I watched the plane catch fire.”
Pain crosses Shane’s face, but he takes the seat and Ilya follows suit. Aware of their audience, Shane runs gentle fingers through Ilya’s curls, once, twice and then drags him closer. Ilya goes easily, resting his head on Shane’s shoulder with a sigh.
________________
They are about an hour from Ottawa when Ilya wakes up. Shane is still dozing against the window. There are quiet conversations happening around them. It sounds like there is an argument of card game rules.
With a sigh, Ilya stands. His eyes catch Bood’s, then Barrett’s. They are watching him, waiting.
“Fine,” he says loud enough that most of the team can hear. “I’ll answer your questions now.”
As if they are children being told they can go to recess, the team jumps up from their seats and crowds around Ilya and Shane’s row.
Shane wakes at the commotion, but he gives Ilya a small smile. This is okay.
“What do you want to know?” Ilya demands, as if they don’t want to know everything.
“You two are together?” Bood glances between them, “Like for real?”
Ilya snorts, “Yes, dumb question. Next.”
“How long?” Barrett asks calmly. He may be the only one that had known, or suspected, about the two rivals before today, but he still wants details. Harris will want them too.
“Uh, boyfriends for two years,” Ilya says.
“Two years?!” Bood yelps.
Shane chuckles.
“What’s funny, Hollander?” Dykstra asks.
Shane and Ilya share a knowing look.
Turning to face them fully, Shane says, “Boyfriends for two years, but Ilya and I have been together- or something I guess- for more than that.”
“Like how long?”
Shane scrunches his nose, but it’s Ilya who answers, “Eleven years. Since before rookie season.”
The admission hits them like a punch to the gut.
“Eleven years? Eleven fucking years?” Bood cries.
Barrett suddenly wishes he hadn’t asked. Because while his teammates seem excited about this news, all it does is make him sad. Sad that Rozanov and Hollander have kept their relationship a secret for so long. He understands why. Sometimes he understands a little too well.
“I think it’s obvious, but this is a secret, right?” Hayes asks, “We won’t tell anyone, Roz. Not if you don’t want us to.”
The question makes Shane uncomfortable. Ilya runs an agitated hand through his hair.
“Yes, it is a secret for now,” Ilya says.
There is something he’s not saying.
Unfortunately, Shane had checked his phone at the hotel. It was full of social media notifications, hundreds of texts, and multiple missed calls from Montreal staff. He had called his mom back, but no one else.
“There are pictures of me on the flight to Atlanta, and someone got a blurry photo of me walking into the hospital. I’m not sure it’s a secret anymore,” Shane mutters.
“We say we are friends,” Ilya says with a cold sort of composure. “We only come out when we want to, Hollander.”
The fierceness in Ilya’s voice draws Shane’s gaze. God, he loves this man.
“We won’t say a word,” Barrett promises.
Shane smiles halfheartedly. “Thank you.”
There is an awkward silence.
Ilya speaks first, “Shane is why I moved to Ottawa. I spend the summers at his cottage, and his parents love me more than him. There, any more questions?”
“I think that’s enough,” Coach Wiebe’s voice calls from the front of the plane. “Rozanov, you look like you’re going to fall over any minute and Hollander, you’re not much better. Have a seat, boys.”
________________
The plane lands in Ottawa without incident. A crowd has been allowed to gather on the tarmac of the small airport- family of the Ottawa Centaurs, eager to see the team safe and sound.
Zane Boodram is first off the plane. As the rest of the team exits, the energy in the crowd grows.
They are okay. They are safe. They are home.
Ilya Rozanov is last off the plane. Or so they think.
Because someone who no one expects to see steps onto to the tarmac.
Shane Hollander is holding a small black suitcase- Ilya’s suitcase- as he had not actually packed anything before leaving.
Members of the crowd murmur.
“Later,” Wyatt whispers to Lisa as they hug, “I’ll explain later.”
Harris and Barrett have a similar conversation with their eyes.
Shane and Ilya walk side by side, towards the right side of the crowd. Ilya’s face lights up as an older Asian woman runs forward. The woman is immediately swallowed by Rozanov’s large arms. Then there is a man, and he’s hugging Shane. And eventually they are all just holding each other.
Some of the Centaurs and their families watch, but there is an unspoken understanding that whatever they are seeing is private, it is special, and it is theirs to protect.