Chapter Text
The snow always reminded him of home.
Growing up in Moscow, it had been a constant. Ilya had been able to count on the fact that, every winter, snow would fall in thick, heavy clumps, blanketing the city in a sea of white. His mother always said how beautiful it was. It had been her favorite thing in the world. After she died, Ilya found himself detesting it. As though the world was mocking him, reminding him of what he didn’t have by shoving precipitation in his face.
He could smell it in the air as he lit a cigarette, sitting on the stone fence outside the hospital. Ilya couldn’t quite describe the scent, but he recognized it all the same. It was a crisp, clean smell, as though it could somehow erase the sins of Moscow by hiding every inch of dirt entrenched in the city’s foundation.
The wind whistled, cutting through the air like a knife. Ilya was used to the cold, though. He’d lived in it his whole life. Growing up, winter had leaked through the walls of his family’s home, sucking out all the warmth from inside. There’d been a chill that, no matter how hard his mother tried to banish, no matter how many blankets she bought or how high she turned the heat, had refused to go away.
When his mother died, the house had only gotten colder.
Sirens echoed faintly in the distance, the sounds of the city slightly jarring. Ottawa was so quiet, so peaceful, Ilya had forgotten what a proper city sounded like.
It was odd, being back. He had thought, at one point, that he’d never return. But then, Alexei had called. Well, to be exact, Alexei had called ten times, up until Ilya had blocked him. A few hours later, Svetlana had called on his brother’s behalf, and suddenly, Ilya found himself on a plane to Moscow.
His niece, Kira, had a heart condition and needed surgery immediately. Predictably, Alexei had wasted all of his money and had no means to pay for it. So, without hesitation, Ilya had gotten on a flight to Moscow. While he had promised never to return, he would do anything for his niece, even if it meant returning to a place he hated.
Wiebe had understood when Ilya told him he’d need to miss their game that night, but Ilya would be back in time for their next one.
He didn’t intend to stay in Moscow any longer than he had to.
Extinguishing his cigarette on the freshly fallen snow, he dropped it onto the ground before standing up, turning to go back inside and see his niece one last time before visiting hours ended for the night.
She was meant to be discharged in two days, and once Ilya saw her home and made sure she had everything she needed, he’d be on a plane back to Canada. Back to Shane.
God, he missed him. He had offered to come, as moral support, but Ilya had refused. He wouldn’t allow his fiance to miss a game, not for Ilya’s family. Besides, the last place Ilya wanted Shane was Russia. It was stupid, not to mention dangerous, for the two of them to be seen together there. They planned to come out in the summer, but until then, they were being as careful as always.
Even if it wasn’t for the danger, he wouldn’t have wanted the other man here. This place… it was evil. It would taint his solnyshko. Moscow brought out the very worst parts of Ilya, parts he never wanted his fiance to see.
Moscow ruined everything. It always did.
Ilya wouldn’t let it ruin them too.
Shane hated late practices with a passion. An early morning or afternoon practice was fine. Night games were great. But evening practices? Awful.
For starters, by the time practice started, he was already tired from the entire day. There was no adrenaline to run on the way there was at games, where the roar of the crowd was loud enough to rattle Shane’s teeth. Then, by the time practice was over and he got home, it was pretty much time for him to go to bed, and just like that, his whole night was gone.
Luckily, most of their practices tended to be earlier in the day, but an issue that morning with the Zamboni meant the Metros didn’t get onto the ice for practice until 4:30, much to Shane’s dismay.
“You’re going to be the last one out on the ice,” Shane informed Hayden as he grabbed his helmet out of his stall.
Nearly everyone was done putting their gear on, almost ready to go out to the rink, except for Hayden. The man was doing something on his phone, clearly not worried about being late.
“I’ve just got to send this last FanMail,” Hayden told him, waving his concern away. “I filmed it the other week and forgot to submit it. If I don’t do it now, I’ll end up with a fine.”
Shane rolled his eyes at Hayden’s ridiculous scheme. He wasn’t sure why the guy loved FanMail so much. If he really wanted extra cash – which, with four kids, he probably did – he could just do a commercial or something. It’d probably save him time in the long run, and pay a hell of a lot better. But no one could persuade Hayden that the videos were a waste of his time, and plenty of people had tried. Shane was convinced almost every player on the team had tried talking him out of it at one point or another.
“Done!” he announced, quickly tossing his phone into his stall before throwing the last few pieces of his gear on and moving toward the door to the hallway. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late!”
Shaking his head, Shane followed after the man, sometimes wondering why he was friends with Hayden.
They were barely on the ice for half an hour before Shane realized something was wrong. It started with someone coming down from the office and whispering in Theriault’s ear. Then, the pair of them started staring at Shane. Not just looking, or watching.
Staring.
Theriault disappeared up to the offices for a couple of minutes before returning, looking a complex combination of both incredibly shaken and pissed. Like really pissed.
“Hollander!” the man snapped, causing everyone on the ice to immediately stop moving, all eyes drifting to look at Shane. “Upstairs, now.”
Not sure he’d ever heard the man sound so forceful, Shane quickly skated towards the boards. He headed towards the locker room as Theirault began yelling at the team to get back to skating, and quickly threw his skates and pads in his stall before turning to go to the offices.
He froze as he entered the doorway of Theriault’s office, surprised to find Marcel, their PR manager, already sitting in a chair across from Theriault’s desk, the head coach in question pacing back and forth in the small room.
Marcel looked like he was one second away from having a breakdown, while Theriault just looked…enraged. He seemed more angry than Shane had ever seen him, even when they got their asses kicked in the playoffs.
The man looked up at the sound of Shane entering the room, eyes lit with fury.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he demanded, moving toward Shane with a speed that was almost scary. “Tell me it was a joke or a prank. Tell me it was just you being a stupid fucking idiot!”
Shane flinched, stepping back a bit to try and put some space between him and the coach. He wasn’t sure what was more disorienting, the man’s anger, or the fact that Shane had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.
“Tell you w-what’s not true?” he asked, voice shaking without his permission. Silently, he looked toward Marcel, begging the man to help, and thankfully, the PR manager took pity on him.
He held out a tablet to Shane, which, thanks to the tension in the room, might as well have been an atomic bomb.
“This was posted to Twitter about 20 minutes ago,” Marcel told him, and Shane gingerly accepted the tablet from the man, a pit of dread forming in his stomach. “It’s everywhere.”
While part of him knew, deep down, what he was going to see when he looked at the tablet, Shane hoped he was wrong. He hoped it would be some stupid rumor that could be easily quashed, like that he was using drugs or having an affair with a WAG. Anything, really, would be better than the truth.
But when he looked down, there it was. In the back of one of Hayden’s stupid FanMails, he and Ilya were kissing, Ilya’s hand in his hair, their tongues down each others’ throat. And it was unmistakably them.
All the air flooded out of his lungs, and Shane found himself unable to breath. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It was supposed to be planned, and on their time, and thought out, and– and–
His mind ran a million miles a minute, his chest aching with the need to breathe. Except he couldn’t. As hard as he tried, he just couldn’t get any air.
Everyone knew. The whole world knew. His teammates, his coach, the fans, hell, the commissioner of the fucking MLH. They all knew.
He could hear Theriault screaming at him, but Shane couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing mattered anymore.
There was no covering it up, no hiding it, no making up some stupid excuse. It was out there, for everyone to see.
A set of hands landed on him, but Shane could barely feel them. Everything but the all consuming burning in his chest was fuzzy, like static in the background. He felt himself being pulled away from where he’d been standing and he followed the tugging blindly, unable to resist.
The panic had sunk its claws into his chest in an iron-tight grip, leaving no room for escape. Nausea churned in his stomach, worse than he’d ever received from any hangover or stomach flu. A knot had formed in his throat, twisting and turning tightly until it was suffocating him.
“-the, Shane, you have to breathe!”
Hayden was suddenly kneeling in front of him in the empty locker room, his hands cupping Shane’s face, a desperate look in his eyes. Shane shook his head furiously, unable to explain to the man that he couldn’t, he just couldn’t.
“C’mon, breathe with me, okay?” Hayden instructed, grabbing one of Shane’s hands and holding it to his chest so that Shane could feel the rise and fall of his lungs. “Just breathe.”
His head was pounding, and his lungs burned at the first breath he managed, but the second one came a little easier.
Once his breathing was on a somewhat regular pattern, Hayden leaned back a bit, letting out a sigh of relief.
“Good, good, just keep doing that,” his best friend instructed him, still looking somewhat terrified.
“Everyone knows,” Shane choked out, the only thought that had been occupying his mind for however long it had been since he’d stepped into Theriault’s office.
His mind was splintering, breaking away at the edges, his thoughts running away like an overflooded river. He felt like he was drowning, like the horrible realization of what was happening had surrounded him, providing no escape, pushing him deeper and deeper into the dark, cold abyss of the sea.
“I know, buddy,” Hayden said, a look of incredible guilt plastered onto his face. “I’m so fucking sorry, Shane.”
Shane’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment, before he realized what the other man meant. It was almost enough to make him laugh. As if, in this moment, with everything that was happening, he could possibly find it in himself to be mad at Hayden. Frankly, that was the last thing on his mind.
“I n-need to– I should call–” Shane tried to form the words, but his tongue felt numb, the muscle not wanting to work the way he instructed it to.
He was exhausted.
His muscles ached, and his chest burned, and it shouldn’t be possible to feel so damn terrified when he was so tired, and yet the one overwhelming thing he felt was fear.
“I texted your parents,” Hayden told him gently, squeezing his knee reassuringly. “They’re on their way.”
Shane shook his head, not having meant that. While it’d be a relief to have his parents here, they weren’t who he wanted to see the most.
“Ilya,” he clarified, wincing as he swallowed, his throat feeling like he’d eaten a fistful of glass. “I need to call Ilya.”
He fumbled around for his phone, desperately needing to hear his fiance’s voice. Together, they could figure this out. They’d make a plan. Ilya could drive with his parents from Ottawa and–
But Ilya wasn’t in Ottawa. He was in Russia.
No.
No.
They’d kill Ilya in Russia. They’d kill him, or arrest him, or– or–
Oh god, they’d kill him.
Shane couldn’t lose him, not his Ilya. Not the man he loved more than himself. The person who owned his entire heart. Fuck, what was he meant to do? The truth about them was everywhere, all over the Internet. If they were lucky – and in Shane’s opinion, they had never, ever been lucky – it wouldn’t have made its way to Russia quite yet. But once it did, they’d kill him. They’d take the man Shane loved most in the world and tear him to shreds.
They wouldn’t care about the medals Ilya had won for them, or the legacy he’d created for Russia. They wouldn’t care about how his smile lit up a room, or that he was incredibly patient with kids. They wouldn’t care that he looked at Shane like he was the goddamn sun, or that he was more considerate than anyone else Shane had ever met.
All they would care about was that he loved a man. And for Russia, that was enough to make him the scum of the Earth, to make him deserving of whatever hell they could cook up for him.
Shane choked on his breath, coughing harshly as the panic started to creep back in. His hands shook as he opened his phone, calling Ilya’s number. The phone rang until it went to voicemail, and Shane called again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The phone rang and rang in the silence of the locker room, the only other sound being Shane’s laboured breathing, and yet no one picked up the phone.
Ilya never answered.
Hayden ended up driving him home to Ottawa, the powers that be – which at this point, was anyone but Shane considering he was basically non-functional – having decided that it’d be better for Shane to be home. Away from Theriault and the team, in a place where he could hide from the press.
It wasn’t until Hayden had turned the car off that Shane came to enough awareness to realize they weren’t at his cottage, or his parents’ house, or even Ilya’s place. They were at the rink.
He shot Hayden a confused look, the expression taking more energy than he had, and Hayden simply shrugged.
“I just do what your mom tells me, man,” he said by way of explanation, before hopping out of the car.
They wandered through the halls of the arena, and Shane found himself thankful the place was mostly empty. He didn’t have it in him to talk to anyone right now, to answer the thousands of questions people probably had.
As they entered Wiebe's office, they found that the coach, along with both of Shane’s parents, were already there. He’d barely made it through the doorway before his dad stood up and yanked him into a hug, his mom not far behind.
“Oh, Shane,” his mom murmured as he buried his face into his dad’s shoulder, feeling all of six years old again, pretending like his parents could magically fix everything.
A hand landed on his shoulder, his mom gently rubbing his back as his dad just held him tightly. He let out a shuddery breath into his dad’s shoulder, about three seconds from falling apart.
Usually, he would feel relieved by his parents’ presence, but right now, all he felt was numb. The one thing he could feel was terror, but anything beyond that was out of his reach.
When he finally pulled back from his dad, he looked at Wiebe for the first time since he’d entered the room. Instead of looking enraged or disgusted, like Theriault had, the man just looked…worried.
Farah was there as well, which was a bit of a comfort, as Shane knew that if anyone could handle the shit-storm that was coming, it was her.
“Have you heard anything yet?” Wiebe asking him, sounding hopeful.
Shane simply shook his head, swallowing past the lump in his throat. The drive from Montreal had taken two hours, during which he must have called Ilya a dozen times, but there’d been no answer.
Of course, there were a million reasons why Ilya might not be answering. It was the middle of the night, he was probably asleep. Maybe his phone was silenced, or had died.
But the little voice in the back of Shane’s head told him that he knew those were just excuses. Ilya was a light sleeper, he’d wake up to his phone ringing. If he wasn’t answering, something was deeply, truly wrong.
“What about his brother?” Farah suggested as Shane’s dad pushed him to sit in a chair, which was probably a good idea considering how wobbly his legs felt underneath him.
“I don’t have Alexei’s number,” he explained as everyone else took a seat, with Wiebe leaning against his desk. “He and Ilya don’t really talk.”
He was suddenly aware of how stupid that sounded. Sure, Ilya and his brother were practically estranged, but Shane still should’ve had his number, right? In case of some sort of emergency like the one they’d found themselves in. He should’ve asked Ilya for it before he left for Moscow.
Why didn’t he ask him? Shane was usually all over those sorts of details, but he’d forgotten. He’d had a busy week of games and practice when Ilya flew out, and it had never occurred to him to ask for Alexei’s number.
God, why didn’t he?
“Should we put out a statement?” Shane’s mom asked, moving to grab Shane’s hand and squeeze it reassuringly from where she was sitting next to him.
Farah sighed, pursing her lips for a moment.
“It’s a bit difficult,” she told them, tilting her head a bit. “Unless you want to deny everything, anything we say could make things harder for Ilya.”
She chose her words carefully, the way any good agent would, but Shane could read between the lines. They either came out and told the world it was a prank, just a silly joke they pulled on Hayden, or they had to stay silent. The truth wasn’t an option. It wouldn’t just make things harder for Ilya, as Farah had put it, but it’d put him in more danger.
Shane sucked a breath in, holding it for a moment before exhaling heavily as he considered his options.
“And if– if we did? Want to deny everything?” he questioned, voice shaking a bit.
His mom looked stricken at his question, and his dad’s eyes flared in surprise, but Shane had to ask. It was the last thing he wanted to do, truly, it was. Shane hated having to hide their relationship. He hated lying to everyone. And the idea of pretending that it was all some sort of elaborate joke, it was horrible. The fact that he was even considering it made him so incredibly ashamed.
But if it would help keep Ilya safe, then Shane would do it. Shane would do anything, if it meant keeping Ilya safe.
“We could try,” Farah conceded, not sounding very confident. “But I’m not so sure people would buy it.”
Right. Because shoving your tongue down your rival’s throat, letting him put his hand on your ass, that was a pretty big commitment to a prank.
His mom and Farah began talking over their options, with Wiebe chiming in every now and then, and Shane zoned out, unable to think about anything other than Ilya at that moment.
The way his smile shined brighter than the sun.
How his eyes lit up when he saw Shane, like he was the only person in the world that mattered.
The sound of his laugh, Shane’s favorite sound.
What he looked like when he just woke up, curls ruffled from sleep, his face completely unguarded.
Shane needed Ilya to be okay. He was his world, his heart, his everything. They were two bodies with one soul, two halves of a whole. Loving Ilya had been like finding the missing part of himself. Without him, Shane was nothing.
Losing Ilya Rozanov would be the end of him, plain and simple. It would break him, crush him into a thousand pieces, until there was nothing left but dust and ashes blowing in the wind.
A knock at the door pulled Shane back into himself, and the conversations screeched to a halt as everyone looked over to the doorway. Bood and Hayes were waiting in the doorway, looking hesitant about interrupting, along with another man that seemed familiar, but Shane couldn’t place where he knew the guy from.
“Hey, Coach,” Bood greeted once Wiebe had waved them inside, evidently the spokesperson for the three of them. “We just wanted to uh– check in. See if there’s any news on Rozy.”
“Nothing yet,” Wiebe replied, before finally seeming to notice the third man, blinking in surprise. “Petrov?”
It clicked, suddenly, who the man was. Nikolai Petrov. He’d played for the Centaurs for most of his career, but had retired four years ago. The man had to be pushing 40 at this point, and had grown up in Russia before moving to Canada to play in the MLH.
He was tall, at least 6’4, and broad, built like a stack of bricks. Hell, the man made Scott Hunter look small, and that was something. He had dark brown hair, and even darker brown eyes, eyes that had an undeniable fire behind them.
“Wiebe,” the Russian greeted, the familiar accent a reminder of just how much Shane missed Ilya. “Bood filled me in. I figured I’d see if I could help at all.”
Farah immediately jumped at the chance, turning around in her seat to look at the man.
“Do you know how much the news has spread?” she asked him impatiently.
Shane’s heart sank to the floor as the man grimaced, glancing at him with a pitying look.
“My sister still lives in Moscow, she’s working the night shift so she’s still awake,” he explained, shoving his hands into his pockets. “She says it's everywhere.”
He felt like he was going to throw up. He probably would’ve, if he had anything left in his stomach. It was bad enough that the news had spread in Canada, but in Russia? There’d be no escaping it. His mom squeezed his hand even tighter, clearly an attempt to ground him, but it was failing miserably.
“Have you heard from Rozanov yet?” Petrov questioned, and Wiebe shook his head gravely.
Farah sighed, moving to call someone, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to ask who. He faded away again, drifting into the abyss of fear and numbness his mind had created.
Wiebe moved past where Hayes, Pike, and Bood were sitting against the wall, talking quietly amongst themselves, as he approached Petrov. Farah had stepped out into the hall, no doubt trying to control the absolute shit show they’d found themselves in, and he could only pray that she’d be able to do something.
Hollander was sitting on the other side of the room with his parents, looking completely shell-shocked. Wiebe could only imagine what was running through the man’s mind right now.
He couldn’t say he’d seen this coming. Rozanov and Hollander, two of the greatest rivals hockey had ever seen. Except they weren’t rivals. They were in love.
It complicated things significantly. He wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t. But Wiebe didn’t care about the media complications, or the PR impact. He cared about his team, his players, his boys.
He cared about Rozanov.
Ilya Rozanov appeared, to most people, as a cocky, borderline heartless Russian. He was brazen, bold, and full of confidence. On the ice, he resembled a wolf, hunting his prey, stalking the other players until just the right moment, waiting to strike.
However, the Ilya Rozanov that Brandon Wiebe knew was far more complex.
He was a brilliant player, that much was certain. But also far more intelligent than most people gave him credit for. Hardly anyone bothered looking past the man’s somewhat stilted English to notice that, but Wiebe did.
There was a surprising kindness to him as well. Rozanov was full of so much compassion it was almost shocking. He was patient with the rookies, sweet with Wiebe’s daughters when they came to visit, supportive of his teammates.
He was a good man.
A man that had been through more in his life than was fair. Most people would’ve turned bitter at everything Rozanov had suffered, they would’ve broken under far much less pressure than he had suffered. But through everything, he had endured.
If there was one thing in this life that Brandon Wiebe was certain of, it was that Ilya Rozanov was a good, good man. A man that didn’t deserve this.
So Wiebe didn’t care if he loved another man, even if that man was Hollander. He was going to stand by his side, and do whatever he could to protect his captain, because that was what it meant to be a coach. Looking after your boys, no matter what.
Petrov glanced at him as Wiebe moved to stand by the man’s side, and he purposefully kept his voice low enough that Hollander couldn’t hear. Although, by the looks of him, the poor kid was dissociating so much he probably wouldn’t hear Wiebe if he screamed into his ear.
“How bad is it over there? Really,” Wiebe asked, bracing himself for the answer.
Part of him was terrified of the answer, but he needed to know. If he was going to help Roz, Wiebe needed to know everything.
Petrov gave him a commiserating look, biting his lip a bit in hesitation. Wiebe didn’t know the guy well, having only come to coach the Centaurs after his retirement, but just by being here, he had put himself in Wiebe’s good book.
“It’s four o’clock in Moscow,” Petrov informed him, pointedly not meeting Wiebe’s gaze. “Most of the city will still be asleep.”
He could sense the man had something else to say, something he was holding back, and frankly, Wiebe didn’t have time for that.
“But?” he prodded, wondering where the typical Russian boldness that Petrov had been known for had gone.
Petrov tilted his head, finally moving to look Wiebe in the eye, his dark brown eyes holding such a fierceness in them that Wiebe almost jolted back in surprise.
“If Rozanov hasn’t left already, he won't make it to see morning in Moscow.”