Chapter Text
Ilya was still laughing at the highlight real when the call came through. Shane was on his tv screen, yelling at Scott Hunter while his teammates held him back like an angry kitten. Ilya was lying in bed with a stupid smile on his face because even angry, Shane was just so…cute. He was so bare. All his emotions right there on his face, set deep in his eyes. Like he couldn’t help it – like he still didn’t know how to hide, even when he was trying. Not from Ilya. It pleased the Russian greatly.
The news anchor was speculating on what they could be talking about and Ilya was desperately wondering the same. He’d thought Shane and Hunter were cool – friends even, after Allstars – but his boy was practically spitting words at the American, face scrunched and eyes hard in a way Shane rarely got. Especially on the ice. Especially in front of cameras. Whatever it was had to be good for Shane to have lost his composure and Ilya was practically chomping at the bit to get in on the action.
He was just pulling his phone out to text and ask when Jane’s contact popped up as the device started ringing.
Ilya answered the call still laughing, “Goody, goody Hollander dropping his gloves—”
“Ilya,” Shane’s voice broke on his name. Like he was crying.
Ilya immediately sat up in bed, “Shane? What is wrong?”
“Ilya,” and yes, that was definitely a sniffle on the other end of the line. Fuck. “Ilya I – he—” Shane was gasping between words, hyperventilating. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Ilya was out of bed and moving before his head could catch up to his feet. “Shane? Shane, is alright. Just breathe.”
“I didn’t – I didn’t fucking mean it,” Shane was sobbing. Ilya felt like his stomach was in his throat. “I-I was just messing around. Like the guys are always messing around.”
Ilya hopped on one foot, phone pressed between his ear and shoulder as he tried to put on his shoes, not even bothering with the laces. He grabbed his jacket from the closet, patting the pocket – where was his fucking wallet?
“Shane what happened? Talk to me. Is this about fight?”
“I-I just wanted to try it out, you know, the jokes and stuff. I thought it would be fine. I-I didn’t think Scott would take it like that.”
“Hunter? What did Hunter do?” Ilya was a mix of blinding panic and rage. If Shane was this upset then it had to be serious. Ilya was going to kill Scott Hunter.
He was already calculating travel time to Montreal, pulling up flights on his phone. If he got to the airport now, he could be in the city in three, maybe four hours. He’d be at Shane’s apartment before sunrise. But that still meant he’d spend the night alone.
“T-The fight. He – he said – I-I said—” Shane broke off with another sob.
Ilya’s heart broke. He needed to go. He needed his fucking wallet. Where the fuck—
There! On the side table where it usually was when he actually put his jacket away in the closet. Why he hadn’t looked there first…it didn’t matter. He grabbed it, going for the keys on the hook – which were fucking missing. God fucking dammit.
Shane’s breathing had sped up again. Ilya tried to calm him down, “Shane, you need to breathe. Breathe for me, please sweetheart. Deep breath.”
He heard Shane take a choked inhale.
“Good,” Ilya soothed. “Are you in trouble? Is manager mad? Team?”
“N-No, t-they didn’t say anything about it.”
“Then why are you crying? Was it Hunter? Did he hurt you?” Ilya was already running every possibility of injuries, and hospitals, and time off that he could think of. Spiraling through every doomsday hockey scenario that had ever haunted his nightmares. Except in his dreams, they usually happened to him. Somehow, this was worse.
Shane’s voice was almost a whisper as he admitted, “I fucked up.”
Ilya stopped in his tracks, “What do you mean?”
“He knows. Scott Hunter fucking knows.”
And Ilya understood what he meant immediately but he still needed clarification – for Shane to confirm it out loud so he knew it was real, “About…?”
“Us,” Shane sniffled again. “About you and me.”
Everything in the room stopped moving. A chill settled over Ilya’s bones.
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me. When I chirped him, he told me he knew that we were together.”
Ilya’s veins were turning to ice, “He said it on rink? With cameras?”
“No. I don’t think so. I-I don’t know, it was on the ice but there weren’t cameras around. It was after the game.”
“You are sure is what he meant?”
“Yes.” There was a long pause before Shane said, “And if he wasn’t sure, then I confirmed it.”
Ilya was standing very, very still, staring at his front door. He should be looking for his keys, but something in him was hoping that if he just didn’t move, then time might stop, and the future of whatever this was wouldn’t come to fruition. He took a breath before asking, “Confirmed it?”
“I-I overreacted. Even if he was just making assumptions before, he’d have to know it was true now,” Shane was still crying. Ilya felt like he might start. “I-It was a joke. It was supposed to be a joke—"
“What was? Shane, what did you say?”
“I said ‘Hope the next time we play you decide to show up,’ a-and he spat at me and then h-he said I was starting t-to sound like – like—”
“Like what?”
“You.”
Ilya could still hear the sports broadcast playing over the tv – could hear the anchors saying over and over again how unlike Shane Hollander it was to get scrappy like that – especially after a match. Everything was starting to make sense now. Hunter was butthurt over a stupid fucking comment Ilya had made and he took it out on Shane because he knew if he swung at Ilya then Ilya would swing back. He likely hadn’t expected as much from the Voyager.
The fog of panic gave way to clarity. And rage.
“You give him easy chirp and he throws secret in your face? In public?” The chill was starting to be replaced by heat.
“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know how he found out. I didn’t mean to antagonize him—”
“You did not antagonize. He overreact. Not you.”
“I should’ve just kept to myself. It was mean.”
“Is hockey. Is part of game. If Hunter cannot handle, then he should not play.”
Ilya set in motion again, taking his wallet out of his pocket and placing it back where it belonged, hanging up his coat in the closet. He could find his keys in the morning, when his adrenaline had calmed down. He wouldn’t be fixing this right now, but he would be fixing this.
Shane’s crying had dissipated to the occasional sniffle, but he still sounded completely broken when he asked, “What if he – what if he tells?”
“Tells? Who would he tell?” Ilya tried to keep his voice calm, reassuring. Shane was still freaking out and this would only get worse if Ilya succumbed to the panic too. They needed damage control, not a wrecking ball. Even if he wished he’d been the one swinging on Scott fucking Hunter tonight.
“I-I don’t know. Anyone. H-He knows. He could. What if he already has? What if other people know?”
Ilya pulled up maps, finding the drive time from Boston to New York. Four to five hours. That was doable. “Do you think he would?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Hunter does not seem like person who outs someone. He does not seem bad like that.” And Ilya was going to give him a reminder to make sure.
“Right,” Shane sniffled again. “But do you think other people know?”
And that was the really scary part of this. Because if Scott had figured it out, there was no telling who else might have noticed. Who else might be waiting for the best moment to bring it up. To ruin them.
Ilya tried to stay calm. Be the voice of reason. “If others know then we would have heard already,” or at least that was what he was telling himself to keep his heartrate in check. “We have been careful.” The clearly not careful enough went unsaid between them, ignored because that felt like too much to deal with right now. Too much fear.
“B-But what if I pushed it too far? What if he actually meant it as a threat?”
“Sweetheart, you do not chirp hard enough for threats,” Ilya said it like a joke, hoping to get a tiny chuckle out of Shane, but the other man stayed silent. Ilya softened his tone, “Shane, it will be fine. I take care of it.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not gonna like, hurt him, right?”
Ilya hummed, calmly walking back to his bedroom, “Is option. If necessary.”
He could practically hear Shane roll his eyes, “Ilya.”
Ilya rolled his back, “No, Hollander, I do not threaten with fists. Only words. Will be fine.”
“Will it?”
“Trust me. Ok?”
“Ok.”
Ilya settled back on his bed, heaving a great sigh as he nestled into the pillows (he had too many now for one person, honestly too many for two, but it helped to make the bed feel less empty when he was alone). He picked up the remote to mute the tv, watching Shane try to fight through three full-grown men holding him back on the screen.
Ilya smirked, dropping his voice low, playful, “Now tell me what else you say.”
“Ilya,” Shane sighed. He wasn’t crying anymore.
“Come on, is not everyday world sees Shane Hollander bring out claws. My little baby tiger.”
“Are you watching the fight?”
Ilya hummed shifting against the blankets, “I ever tell you, you look pretty all flushed?”
“Ilya.”
“Except you are not red for me. That is problem.”
“Ilya, it was a just a stupid fight. I don’t even know what I said.”
“Fine. Do not tell me. This is new Shane; he fights, he is mystery.”
“I am not—”
“Shane Hollander; hockey bad boy.”
“I am not.”
“No,” Ilya hummed. “You too much good boy.”
Shane’s breath hitched.
Ilya smirked, “Now be good boy and tell me about punching Scott Hunter’s face.”
There was shuffling through the phone – Shane likely settling into bed – before he let out a soft breath, “Ok.”
---
Scott Hunter lived in a rather nice apartment building. It had a big lobby with a fancy elevator and a doorman. A surprising lack of security though. Oh well, not Ilya’s problem.
He knocked on the door to the apartment, the address of which he’d come by through semi-nefarious means. He glanced down the hall – the next door over was pretty far away, it made sense that Hunter would have a big place – but it still felt too close. There was no one here right now to see Ilya, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t walk out that door or come up the elevator. Maybe someone had seen Ilya in the lobby – recognized him. Would start asking questions why a Boston player was in New York. Why a player most of the league hated was suddenly at a random apartment outside his city.
The paranoia was starting to take over, making him feel a little unhinged. God, what was he fucking doing? This was so fucking stupid. If Shane knew, he would be telling him as much. He should turn around, go home, forget about this. Except he kept replaying Shane saying his name on a half-sob. How broken he’d sounded. Defeated. Scared.
Ilya couldn’t let that slide.
If Scott fucking Hunter wanted to throw the weight of knowing Shane’s secret around – especially on the fucking ice – then Ilya had to make it clear there would be consequences. If he already knew about Shane and Ilya, then Ilya didn’t have to hold back in defending Shane. Scott Hunter had run his mouth a little too much and Ilya Rozanov was going to put his fist through it.
He knocked again.
“I’m coming,” came a deep voice from inside.
Ilya was bouncing on the balls of his feet, adrenaline pumping through his veins, heartbeat pounding in his ears.
There was a click, another, and then the door opened to reveal a shirtless and sweaty Scott Hunter.
Ilya stopped.
“Rozanov?” Scott asked, completely confused.
Ilya tracked a drop of sweat running down Scott’s chest to his abs.
“What are you doing here? How do you know where I live?”
Ilya snapped out of it, rage right at the surface, “Does not matter. I find you.”
“You found me?”
“I come in.” Ilya didn’t give Scott a chance to say no, pushing past him too fast for the man to think of blocking him outside.
He took a couple steps into the apartment. It was nice. Lots of art displayed around the shiny sleek furniture. Lots of breakable things…
Ilya turned back to Scott, finding him still standing in the open doorway, his confusion slowly turning to apprehension.
“Close the door,” said Ilya.
Scott’s jaw ticked as he realized why Ilya was here. The Admiral glanced to the hall – maybe thinking about making a run for it – but he had no shirt and no shoes (seriously, who walked around their house in jeans? Why jeans?) and there was no way Ilya was going to let him do that. Better they have this conversation in private.
“Close the door,” Ilya said again.
Scott nodded, letting it shut behind him. He looked at Ilya, eyes hardening, “You’re here about last game?”
“You know what I am here about.”
“It’s just a game. Fighting’s part of that.”
“Fighting yes. But you do more than fight.”
Scott rolled his head back with a sigh, “Look man, I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t’ve said—”
“Sorry? You are sorry?” That chill was settling over Ilya again, the scary kind, the kind that came over him before he’d get ejected from a game as a kid. The kind that let him go to some other place when his father was yelling. The kind he tried very desperately to keep under control. Control that felt very far away right now.
He tried to keep his focus, tried to stay present, but Shane’s broken voice was still playing through his head on a loop and Ilya’s own fear had been riding him the entire four-hour drive (yes, he could’ve taken a plane, but then someone might have recognized him at the airport and he really, really didn’t want anyone to know he was in New York right now. Just in case) so he wasn’t really thinking clearly at the moment. What he really wanted was to be on the ice so he could drop his gloves in front of Hunter and watch the fear sink into his eyes. But they were in his apartment, so Ilya was going to have to settle for squaring his shoulders without the pads making him look bigger. Scott’s eyes still widened.
“You say that out there – you make accusation – during a game,” Ilya’s voice was rising. Good thing Scott Hunter had a big apartment with far-away neighbours. Good for Ilya. Possibly bad for Scott.
“I-I know man. It wasn’t cool, I’m sorry,” Scott took a step back as Ilya took one forward.
“You don’t get to make threats on ice. Not without consequences.”
“I think Hollander already saw to that,” Scott gestured at his jaw and through his blinding rage, Ilya could see a little redness on the skin there. Not even a fucking bruise.
“You think that makes better? You think that is same thing? You say to him in front of everyone!”
“Not everyone—”
“You do not know that. You do not start shit like that out there.” Ilya’s control was slipping.
Scott’s eyes hardened, “I didn’t start it. And maybe Hollander shouldn’t be talking shit if he couldn’t take it.”
Ilya scoffed, “He don’t even say much! He make little joke and you throw darkest secret in his face!”
“I know—”
“Are you such baby you cannot handle little chirp? Hollander don’t hurt you – he don’t hurt fly – and you swing at him because you can?”
Ilya pushed Scott into the door, feeling it shake on its hinges. He pressed his forearm to Scott’s throat, “You want to swing at someone you swing at me.” He gave him a little shake, “I swing back.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“You think you big man, Hunter? I show you, fucker,” and Ilya’s fist swung. It made contact right over the little red mark Shane’s had left behind – like a target. Like Ilya’s hand was finding Shane’s even broken by time. Like he was reclaiming a place that Shane had touched.
Scott grunted, trying to push Ilya away.
The Russian got into his face, practically spitting, “You know how fucking dangerous this is? And you just throw it out there on the ice!”
“Not my fault you’re fucking someone in the fucking league!” Scott went to take his own swing, Ilya catching his fist, crushing his hand—
“Hey, get the fuck off of him!” There was suddenly another body at Ilya’s back, arms around his, trying to pull him away from Scott. Ilya fought back on instinct.
“Kip—”
“Get a hold of yourself, man!”
Ilya pulled back enough to see the other man. The other man. There was another person here. Someone who’d heard everything Ilya had said. Another person who knew about him and Shane.
That fear was back. Ilya stumbled away, pushing the other man off him, setting distance from Scott.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man held up his hands, “I don’t want any trouble.”
Ilya turned to Scott, “Who the fuck is he?”
Scott didn’t say anything. Ilya’s heart was practically beating out of his chest, mind clouding with panic.
“Does he know?” Ilya’s voice cracked on the last word.
Scott’s eyes were darting between Ilya and the other guy, barely looking at them both.
“Does he know?!” Ilya yelled.
Scott flinched, “No. Well, I didn’t tell him. But I imagine now…”
“It’s fine, man,” the other guy raised his hands more, holding them out to Ilya as if to placate him. As if he was a child. As if he wasn’t watching what could be the most disastrous thing to ever happen play out right in front of him. “I’m not gonna tell anyone your secret. I wouldn’t do that.”
“How do I know?”
The other guy looked at Scott. He didn’t look back.
“Who the fuck are you?” Ilya tried again, dropping his voice dangerously low.
“I’m…” the man was still trying to catch Scott’s eye. “I’m a friend of Scott’s.”
“Friend?” Ilya raised an eyebrow. He didn’t recognize the guy, so he wasn’t a hockey player. He was pretty sure he’d never seen him before. For the first time, Ilya really took the other man in – hair a little messy, stubble perfectly groomed, gold-framed glasses and also not wearing a shirt. His toned chest was on full display with jeans slung low on his hips, a light sheen of sweat on his skin. A perfect match to Scott. He actually looked kind of…in fact, they both looked kind of…
Ilya’s eyes snapped to Hunter. He was still looking at the ground, carefully avoiding Ilya’s eyes, pointedly not looking at the other man. Like he couldn’t. Like if he did, the expression on his face would immediately give him away. Give them away.
Ilya’s rage and fear calmed with apprehension. He asked Scott quietly, “You too?”
Hunter’s eyes snapped to him and the vulnerability there – the desperate pleading – it was all too familiar to Ilya.
The Russian’s heart rate slowed. He nodded, “Ok.”
“You can’t tell anyone,” Scott blurted out.
Ilya practically scoffed, “Do not worry Hunter. I will not throw secret in your face during game.”
Scott dropped his eyes again, chastised, “I-I know it wasn’t cool—”
“Not. Cool?” Ilya let the words drop slowly from his mouth. “You almost out him in front of whole arena. Is more than not cool.”
Scott just looked at the ground, chastised.
“You know what happen if people find out. If players find out.” Ilya wasn’t asking but he waited for Scott’s confirmation anyway.
“Yes.”
“Then you keep your big fucking mouth shut.” Ilya glanced at the other man, letting a hint of a threat seep into his eyes, the set of his jaw.
Scott’s eyes hardened at the unsaid or else. His jaw ticked, “Understood. We good?”
Ilya took a step closer, getting into the other player’s face. Scott’s boy went to jump in, but the Admiral shot him a look, keeping him out of arm’s reach.
Ilya sneered in Scott’s face, “Come near Shane again and I will knock your helmet off next game.”
He stepped back, hands smoothing down his jacket. He let his eyes roll to the other man, let them trail over his naked torso, muscles on full display. Ilya smirked, just because he knew it would get under Hunter’s skin more, “Nice meeting you, friend of Scott.”
The other man stayed silent as Scott moved to stand next to him, eyes tightening as they stared at Ilya.
Ilya grabbed the door handle. Swung it open. Stepped outside.
He turned back to Scott. He was standing next to the other man – a little too close for casual. Ilya let that anger fill his eyes again, just as a precautionary reminder. “See you next game.”
He let the door close.
---
Shane was making a late-night snack when his phone rang. He was tired and dehydrated, his eyes sore from crying. In hindsight, he might have overreacted. He knew Scott was a good guy. He wouldn’t put Shane in jeopardy like that. And he didn’t seem particularly homophobic either. Even if he did know, Scott wasn’t enough of an asshole to do anything bad about it.
Shane had probably just hit him at the wrong time. Emotions ran high in hockey and people said shit they didn’t mean all the time. Maybe he could shoot him a text today to clear the air?
He was drafting it up while he waited for his toast to pop when a call from Lily came through.
Shane answered with a casual, “Hey.”
“Oh Hollander I am very tired,” Ilya sighed over the line.
Shane frowned, taking his toast out as it popped, “Tired? From what?” It wasn’t like Ilya had played yesterday. And as far as Shane knew, they’d both gone to bed relatively early. Sure, Ilya had had to talk Shane off the ledge not too long ago, but they were both fairly recovered from that.
“I go on very long drive.”
Shane put down the knife he was using to butter the toast. He almost didn’t want to ask but… “Where did you go?”
“Hmm,” Shane could hear the amusement in Ilya’s voice. “New York.”
Fuck. Shane let out a bone-deep sigh, “Do I even wanna know?”
“Hmm, no. Is boring.”
“Boring?”
“Yes.”
“You potentially beating up Scott Hunter was boring?”
“Well, the punch part was boring—"
“You punched him?”
“But other part…now other part was not so boring.”
“Other part? What else did you guys do?”
There was a long pause. Shane could practically see the smirk stretching over Ilya’s face. “I only fuck with him little bit.”
“Fuck with him? Fuck with him how?”
Shane’s doorbell rang. Weird. Who would be ringing his doorbell at this hour?
“Is not bad,” said Ilya.
“Ilya.”
“Really Hollander. Is only innocent fun.”
“You’re describing going to New York to confront Scott Hunter about messing with me on the ice as ‘innocent’?”
Shane looked through the door. His heart did a little flip when he saw who was on the other side.
He flung it open.
Ilya fucking Rozanov was holding a take-out cup with a shit-eating grin on his face, “Shane, do you want New York smoothie?”