Chapter Text
They migrate from Mario Kart to Mario Party after Kip loudly, and creatively, accused Shane of cheating, despite the fact that Kip’s character has driven off the track approximately a million times on his own. They’ve just finished a minigame that has Kip swearing with impressive venom as Shane steals every last one of his stars, when Shane finally stands and cracks his back.
He’s young, technically, but years of hockey have taken a ruthless toll on his body.
Kip seems to understand the instinct immediately. He stands too, checking his watch. “It’s about lunchtime. You hungry?”
No. Absolutely not. But Shane has zero interest in opening that particular can of worms, so he nods.
“I could eat.”
There. That wasn't a lie. He could eat. He just didn't want to.
Kip nods decisively. “I’ll see what we have. Or we can order something. Scott left me his credit card. For emergencies.”
Shane quirks an eyebrow. Not the bad one.
“Well,” Kip says, shrugging, suddenly sheepish. “He basically told me to buy whatever I want, but I never use it. Okay, I did once. My phone was dead, I was in a bad area after a catering gig, and I was pretty sure I was about to get mugged, so I got a taxi. I’m sure he won’t mind if we order food.”
“You don’t need to-,”
“Oh, I’m not,” Kip says brightly. “Scott is.” He winks. “Trust me. Thirty dollars’ worth of food is not going to bankrupt him.”
Right. Yeah. Kip and Scott are definitely something.
Why else would Kip have Scott’s credit card- apparently with no real limit- and refuse to use it unless absolutely necessary? Kip hasn’t outright said they’re together, but this feels like the final nail in the coffin.
Shane is surprised, he guesses. But not shocked.
Scott Hunter has always carried this quiet, nervous energy. He never talked about dates the way the other guys did. During the All-Star Game, he’d stayed conspicuously uninterested in locker-room chatter. To be fair, neither had Shane.
Maybe they’re more alike than he had realized.
He exhales. “Fine.”
Kip grins, visibly delighted, and Shane immediately regrets not being honest about his appetite.
“Okay- whole grains, veggies…” Kip hums. “What about poke bowls? There’s a place nearby I can pick up from. Brown rice, salmon, tuna, edamame- that work for you?”
Something tight in Shane’s chest loosens. Kip is really trying. He wonders if it would be appropriate to ask for Kips’s number. He wants to be friends after this.
“Okay,” Shane says. “I’m just gonna hit the bathroom real quick.”
“Do you want another ice pack? Or ibuprofen?”
Shane gently prods his nose. It feels tight and warm. “I’ll take the meds.”
Kip nods and tosses him a small bottle. Shane catches it one-handed and disappears into the bathroom.
When he gets in, he looks at his reflection in the mirror. His face is less swollen now, but the bruising has darkened. There are now deep blue and purple blooming around his nostrils. His brow ridge is still swollen, though the discoloration has stayed above his eye instead of settling underneath. That’s how he knows his nose isn’t broken.
He’s had enough broken bones to recognize the signs.
Shane uses the bathroom, washes his hands, then swallows a few pills dry, chasing them with a handful of tap water. He vaguely wonders if New York City tap water is safe, then decides he doesn’t care.
He looks at his reflection.
He looks tired.
That isn’t new, but seeing it so clearly on his face feels different somehow.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Eva: Shane, I’m so sorry.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Another buzz.
Eva: I didn’t mean to hurt you. It will never happen again, I swear
Eva: Please call me when you get a chance.
Shane grips the sink, fighting the urge to hurl his phone at the wall.
Instead, he shoves it back into his pocket and stares at himself until the shaking passes.
When he feels less likely to have a freak out in Kips’ bathroom, he leaves it again. Kip is leaning on the island counter, presumably looking up the poke bowl place. Shane is happy to leave him to until Kip makes a confused noise. Shane frowns.
“Oh, um.” Kip says, sounding unsure. That really gets Shane’s attention.
“What?”
Kip is frowning down at his phone. “I missed Scott’s text because someone was cheating at Mario Kart.”
“I did not cheat,” Shane says immediately.
“Liar,” Kip replies, without any real heat. He scrolls. “Anyway. It was from a little over an hour ago. Do you know someone named Ilya Rozanov?”
Shane’s stomach drops. “Why?”
“Scott says he landed at JFK,” Kip says. “He’s on his way here.”
What the fuck.
Shane shoots to his feet so fast his phone slips out of his pocket clatters against the floor. He picks it up quickly, resisting the urge to see if Lily had texted.
“He’s coming here?”
“That’s what Scott said,” Kip answers carefully. “Are you okay? I can ask him to leave if you want-”
“No,” Shane cuts in, already rubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t.”
This is so fucking stupid. Months and months of silence, and one busted-up face later, Ilya comes charging in like some kind of knight in overpriced armor.
As if his life isn’t already a terrible sitcom, there’s a knock at the door.
It’s not even loud or aggressive to make matters worse. It sounds normal.
Kip and Shane freeze, staring at each other.
“Do-,” Kip starts. “Do I open it?”
“Fine,” Shane grumbles, already scrubbing a hand down his face like he can physically wipe this situation away. There is no way in hell if it is Illya he’s gonna leave. The bastard will set up camp outside until the door opens. “But don’t-. Ugh, don’t let him think he’s… invited.”
Kip blinks. “I wasn’t planning on it?”
“Good,” Shane says. “Because he’ll take that and run a marathon with it.”
“Aren’t you guys rivals? You sound like you know him-,”
The knock comes again, firmer this time. Like the person on the other side already knows the door is going to open and is just being polite about it.
Kip shoots Shane a questioning look. Shane just jerks his chin toward the door, jaw tight.
“Rip the bandage off,” Shane mutters. “He loves that.”
Kip opens the door.
Ilya Rozanov fills the doorway like he owns the hallway. Tall and broad-shouldered with an expensive jacket shrugged on like an afterthought. His curls are perfect in that irritating way that suggests effortlessness, even though Shane knows for a fucking fact it’s not, and his mouth is already curved into a knowing half-smile.
“Well,” Ilya says, eyes flicking immediately past Kip and locking onto Shane. “This is not the hotel Montreal was staying at.”
Shane closes his eyes for half a second. Of course that’s the first thing out of his mouth.
“Rozanov,” Shane says flatly. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Ilya steps inside without waiting for permission, glancing around the apartment with open curiosity. “JFK traffic was terrible,” he says, like that explains everything. His gaze slides back to Shane’s face.
The smile drops.
“О черт!”
“There it is,” Shane mutters. He doesn’t know what Ilya has just said, but it sounds like a swear. “That took longer than usual.”
Ilya is on him in two strides, hands already hovering near Shane’s face like he’s deciding whether to touch or throttle him. “Who did this,” he demands, his thick accent cutting sharper than usual. “And don’t say ‘nobody,’ because I will not accept lies before five o’clock.”
“Relax,” Shane snaps, batting his hands away. “I tripped.”
Ilya looks at him like he’s just insulted his entire bloodline. “You tripped into a fist?”
“Wow,” Shane says with an eyeroll. “You should be a detective.” He regrets the dramatic movement because it sends a twinge of pain up through his nose. He tries to hide his wince. Ilya goes still.
Kip clears his throat, suddenly very aware that he is standing in the middle of something old and volatile. “Hi,” he offers weakly. “I’m Kip.”
Ilya finally acknowledges him, turning with a polite-but-dismissive nod. “Ilya. Thank you for… hosting.” His eyes flick back to Shane immediately. “You look like hell.”
“Good,” Shane says dryly. “That was the goal.”
Ilya exhales sharply through his nose, a sound halfway between a laugh and a growl. “You disappear for months,” he says, voice low now, dangerous in its calm, “and I find out you’re ‘sick’ and not flying with the team through your coach?”
“Me?” Shane says, agape. He’s about to argue that he’s not the goddamn one who disappeared, who does the disappearing, but he can feel Kip’s eyes burning into them.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” Shane shoots back.
“No,” Ilya agrees smoothly. “You did not. I come anyway..”
That lands painfully. Shane’s mouth tightens.
Kip shifts, clearly uncomfortable. He’s hovering by the counter like a referee who regrets volunteering. “You… want coffee?” he asks.
Ilya waves a hand without looking away from Shane. “Later.”
He tilts Shane’s chin up despite the protest, examining the bruising with clinical precision. “You should have gone to the hospital.”
“I didn’t want press.”
“You are press,” Ilya snaps. Then, quieter and biting, “Or did you forget that again?”
Shane jerks away. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I am starting,” Ilya says, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to vanish, bleed in the street, and then act surprised when I show up.”
Kip watches them, looking like his heart is thudding out of his chest. He’s clearly clocked Ilya as intense immediately, but could tell clear as day that whatever this was is something else. Shane can feel it, too. It’s not concern, exactly. It’s too possessive and sharp to be concern.
“I’m fine,” Shane insists.
“Well-” Kip says suddenly, bouncing once on his heels like a startled rabbit. “I’m gonna go. Uh. Get…us lunch.”
Shane feels a stab of guilt. Kip didn’t sign up for this. He hopes his expression conveys that apology. He’s going to send him a very nice gift basket for dealing with all of this.
“You do that, Kip,” Ilya says lazily, not even looking at him.
Kip nods, more to himself than to either of them, and all but bolts for the door. He’s gone in seconds, the lock clicking behind him.
The apartment goes very quiet.
Shane doesn’t turn back until the door is fully shut. When he does, Ilya is already watching him with those stupidly bright hazel eyes.
God. He really did not need this today.
“Fuck you.”
Ilya’s mouth curls instantly. “Already did, Hollander. Try again.”
“Jesus Christ,” Shane snaps. “Can you take anything seriously?”
Ilya tilts his head, studying him. “What, exactly, would you like me to take seriously?”
That makes Shane pause.
What did he want. To mention last night? Their careers which Ilya is putting at risk by being here? The thing between them that never quite had a name?
“Fuck you,” he says again, quieter this time. The words land duller, stripped of their heat.
“Hunter said you were hurt,” Ilya replies. “So I came.”
“I get hurt all the time.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, maddeningly reasonable. “But usually you do it in front of eighteen thousand people and a television audience.”
“That’s not-,”
“On the ice,” Ilya continues, talking right over him. “Where you wear pads. And a helmet. And where I expect it.”
“Who told you it wasn’t?” Shane demands.
“I watched your game,” Ilya says. “You were fine.”
Shane freezes. That gets his attention.. “You watched my game.”
“Da.” Ilya shrugs. “I watch all your games.”
That knocks the air out of Shane, whether he wants it to or not.
“What do you want, Rozanov?” he asks, suddenly exhausted.
Ilya lifts a brow. The usual smirk should be there but it isn’t. His mouth stays in a flat, thin line. Stupidly, Shane wants to kiss him.
“You are hurt.”
“I’m always hurt and so are you,” Shane says. “It’s hockey.”
“As we just covered,” Ilya replies, dry as dust, and waves his hand in the direction of Shane’s face “this is not hockey.”
Shane exhales sharply through his nose. “So what?”
Ilya steps closer. It’s just enough to be irritating and not enough to be kind.
“So,” he says, voice low and smug and unmistakably concerned, “now you tell me what you are not telling anyone else.”
Shane lets out a humorless laugh. “You flew a few states to interrogate me?”
“I flew because Hunter called,” Ilya corrects. “Interrogation is a bonus.”
“Go to hell. I told you I didn’t ask you to come.”
“No,” Ilya agrees, and Shane feels like they are running in circles.
He shifts his weight, jaw tightening. “You don’t get to show up and start acting like you’re entitled to answers.”
Ilya hums. “And yet, here I am. Very entitled. Very present.”
Shane turns away, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He can feel Ilya behind him, feel the heat of him like a pressure at his spine. It makes his skin crawl. It makes something else in him ache.
“This isn’t your business,” Shane says.
Ilya snorts. “Everything you do becomes my business when you lie about it.”
“I didn’t-,”
“You vanished,” Ilya cuts in smoothly and he doesn’t sound angry, which is somehow worse. “No texts. No calls. Nothing. Then suddenly you are bleeding in the street like a kicked dog and refusing hospital because you are ‘fine.’”
“That’s not what this is. We meet when we’re in the same state. We’re not together. And I was fine."
Ilya’s mouth twitches, sharp and mean. “You look like shit.”
Shane whirls on him. “Why do you care?”
For a split second- just one- the smugness cracks. It’s gone almost immediately, replaced by something hard and bright and dangerous.
“That,” Ilya says quietly, “is the problem.”
Silence stretches between them, thick and awful. Shane’s heart is hammering now, his pulse echoing painfully behind his swollen eyebrow.
Ilya sighs, like Shane is exhausting him. “Did someone do this to you?”
Shane doesn’t answer.
Ilya’s jaw tightens. His accent sharpens. “Shane.”
“Don’t,” Shane snaps. “Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you get to- ” Shane falters, frustration burning his throat. “Like you get to be worried.”
Ilya steps even closer now. Too close. Shane can smell his cologne, familiar and so fucking unfair.
“I worry because you let me,” Ilya says, smug again, softer now, more dangerous for it. “You could have told me to fuck off years ago.”
“I have told you to fuck off.”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “And then you kiss me.”
Shane’s face burns. “That was a mistake.”
“Mmm,” Ilya murmurs. “You always say that.”
Shane swallows. His voice comes out rough. “Someone threw a glass at me.”
There it is. The truth, ugly between them.
Ilya goes very still.
“Again,” he says.
Shane flinches despite himself.
Ilya’s smile disappears completely this time. His eyes go dark.
“Who,” he asks, deadly calm, “did this.”
Shane shakes his head. “No.”
Ilya’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “That was not an answer.”
“I’m not doing this with you,” Shane says. His chest feels tight, like he can’t quite get a full breath. “I’m not explaining my life. Not to you.”
Ilya exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “You are very bad at lying when you are injured.”
“Good thing I’m not lying.”
“Good thing,” Ilya echoes, and then- too fast- his hand lifts. Shane jerks back instinctively his pulse spiking, but Ilya only stops inches from his face. Not touching. Never touching. Like he’s proving a point.
“That,” Ilya says quietly, eyes flicking to Shane’s reflex, “is not fine.”
Shane’s throat works. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t act like you know me.”
Ilya’s gaze softens just enough to be infuriating. “ I know you apologize when you bleed on other people’s floors.”
Shane stares at him. “Scott told you that?”
Ilya scoffs. “Please. Hunter is terrible at details. No, that is you.”
Shane looks away.
“That is you, so no one asks questions,” Ilya continues, relentless now. “That is you deciding pain is easier.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
The word lands flat.
Shane laughs, brittle. “You don’t get to come in here and psychoanalyze me like you’re not part of the problem.”
Ilya tilts his head. “Am I?”
“Yes,” Shane snaps. “You make everything worse. You show up, and suddenly I can’t think straight. I can’t- ” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“And yet,” Ilya says, smugness creeping back in, “you didn’t tell Kip to slam door in my face.”
“I told him not to ask you to leave.”
“Ah.” Ilya smiles, slow and awful. “Different.”
Shane’s hands curl into fists. “I didn’t want a scene.”
“You always want control,” Ilya says. “You just don’t want responsibility.”
That does it.
Shane steps forward, close enough now that there’s no space left between them. “You don’t get to talk about responsibility when you disappear whenever things get real.”
Ilya’s eyes flash. “I disappear because you let me.”
“Bullshit.”
“You never have asked me to stay.”
The words are sudden and raw and unexpected.
For a moment, neither of them moves.
Then Shane says, for some reason, “She lost her temper.”
Ilya doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t seem to move at all, or even blink.
“She threw a glass,” Shane continues. “It wasn’t… planned. It wasn’t like- ” He wants to say it’s not like he’s getting abused. He’s not some trapped housewife. He swallows. “She cried after.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. “Of course she did.”
Shane bristles. “Don’t.”
“She hurt you,” Ilya says. His voice is cold now. “And you are defending her.”
“I’m explaining it.”
“You are making less. Ah-” he seems to be searching for the word, “minimizing.”
Shane rubs at his face, careful of the bruises. “It’s complicated.”
Ilya steps back at last, running a hand through his hair. When he looks at Shane again, there’s no humor left at all.
“Complicated is tactics,” he says. “This is simple.”
“Oh yeah?” Shane snaps. “What’s simple about it?”
Ilya meets his gaze, unwavering.
“She will do it again.”
Shane opens his mouth to argue and finds he can’t. Ilya is right, the fucker. Shane is sure of it.
“What do you know?”
“My father was not a kind man. To my mother or to me.” Illya says quietly. “He was very hard to us.”
Shane's anger falters, just for a second, at the realization.
Ilya rarely talks about his family. When he does it is usually half-truths tossed out like distractions. This is not that.
“What do you mean,” Shane asks, more quietly than he intends.
Ilya’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean I recognize math.”
“Math,” Shane repeats flatly.
“Yes.” Ilya shrugs, like he’s discussing starting lineup changes instead of something that clearly still lives under his skin. “First is accident. Then is stress. Then is your fault for pushing. Then is apology so dramatic you feel cruel for still being hurt.”
Shane doesn’t say anything.
“My mother,” Ilya continues, “was very good at explaining why it was not that bad. Why next time would be different. Why love needs patience.” His eyes flick back to Shane’s face, lingering on the bruises with something sharp and assessing. “She was wrong.”
“That’s not the same thing,” Shane says automatically, even as his chest tightens.
Ilya hums. “Is not identical. Nothing ever is. But the shape of it?” He gestures vaguely between them. “Very familiar.”
“You don’t know her,” Shane snaps, defensive reflex kicking in. “You don’t know us.”
Ilya’s lips curl “Ah. There it is. The you don’t understand. I was worried you might surprise me.”
“Fuck you.”
“There it is,” Ilya says lightly. “You always get rude when cornered.”
Shane exhales sharply. “You’re projecting.”
“Of course I am,” Ilya agrees without hesitation. “That does not mean I am wrong.”
He steps closer again, invading Shane’s space with infuriating confidence. “Tell me this, Hollander. Did she apologize immediately, or did she wait until you stopped bleeding?”
Shane’s jaw tightens.
“And did she cry,” Ilya presses, merciless now, “or did she shake?”
“Stop.”
“And did she say she didn't mean to, and she didn';t know what she did- ”
“I said stop!"
Ilya falls silent. For a moment, his expression hardens into something unreadable. Then he scoffs softly.
“You see?” he says. “Every time I am correct, you get very loud.”
Shane looks away, throat burning. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up and act like you’re- like you’re some authority.”
Ilya’s voice softens again, dangerous in its calm. “I am not authority. I am experience.”
“That doesn’t give you the right- ”
“No,” Ilya cuts in. “But it gives me the obligation.”
Shane snaps his head up. “To what?”
“To not pretend I don’t see it,” Ilya says. “To not watch you break into smaller pieces and call it loyalty. Or love.”
Shane laughs, hollow. “Since when do you care about my wellbeing?”
Ilya’s eyes flicker. Just briefly, so quick Shane thinks he must have made it up.
“Since you made it impossible not to,” he says, then immediately adds, smugness snapping back into place, “which is very inconsiderate of you, by the way.”
Despite himself, Shane lets out a short, humorless breath.
“I don’t need saving,” he mutters.
Ilya tilts his head. “Good. Because I am terrible at that.”
He pauses, then adds, quieter, “I am very good at recognizing when someone deserves better.”
Shane swallows.
“You think you’re better?” he asks.
Ilya’s smile is sharp and arrogant, and edged with something that makes Shane want to grind his teeth together. “Oh, no. I am a nightmare.”
He steps back, giving Shane space at last.
“But I do not throw glass.”