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June 2014, Vegas

Shane awoke with terrible difficulty, shedding sleep like a thick blanket. A cruel onslaught of sunshine assaulted his eyelids, and when he attempted to roll away from the bright light, his face met a hard, muscled armpit. In an instant, his exhaustion vanished and he sat bolt upright, the beginnings of a hangover pounding at his temples.

“Rozanov,” he said, swatting the blonde lump buried in a mound of pillows beside him. The lump shifted, curling in on itself. “Wake up, asshole,” Shane tried again, gripping Rozanov’s exposed bicep and shaking it. From beneath a curtain of messy curls, Rozanov cracked open an eye and shot Shane a surprisingly effective one-eyed glare.

“Too early,” said Rozanov, thickly.

Shane smacked him again. “I was supposed to go back to my room.” He climbed half over Rozanov to retrieve his phone from the nightstand. A stylish alarm clock flashed accusatory, red letters. “It’s almost ten. Shit,” he swore, nearly dropping his phone. It hurt to look at, but his lockscreen was clogged with notifications. “Hayden’s probably looking for me.”

Rozanov groaned sleepily, tugging the duvet away from Shane to pile in front of his face. “Ten is early. I thought we decided that Pike is not your babysitter.”

“Fuck you,” said Shane. “We’re supposed to fly back together today.”

He glanced around Rozanov’s massive suite. It was a mess. Pieces of Shane and Ilya’s tuxedos were strewn across the floor and hanging from the backs of chairs. A trail of socks and briefs marked a pathway to the ridiculously opulent ensuite. A bottle of top-shelf vodka stood uncorked in the centre of the bedroom floor, a half-empty glass and one of Rozanov’s glossy dress shoes beside it.

Shane, for the most part, recalled the events of the night before. He recalled Rozanov lazily tweaking his bowtie, Rozanov skimming a hot hand down the back of Shane’s jacket, Rozanov laughing in his face when Shane, in a fit of embarrassingly lovesick fury, told him to get down on his knees in an unlocked bathroom and suck his dick. He remembered Rozanov’s deal, and Rozanov winning the award, and he remembered riding the elevator to the top floor and counting up the brass room numbers until he arrived at Rozanov’s suite.

He remembered Rozanov dragging the stupid chair all the way to the bedroom and studying Shane with lidded eyes while he sunk his own fingers deep inside himself, and he remembered crumpling the plush duvet in his fists while Rozanov fucked him into the mattress, and he remembered Rozanov’s naked shoulder pressed against Shane’s while he smoked and Shane sipped on the vodka that had been promised to him. After the vodka, his memory faltered. There was cool nighttime air and bright lights and possibly Elvis—but that was Las Vegas, so.

“I can hear you having panic attack,” said Rozanov. “Go back to sleep. I think you can afford to reschedule flight, yes?”

“Yes, but,” said Shane.

“Yes, no but,” said Rozanov. “Come here.” He shot a muscled arm out of the mountain of sheets, and tugged Shane down to the mattress by the nape of his neck. “I think I deserve to sleep in after winning MVP award.”

“Fuck you,” said Shane, but the cool pillow did feel nice on his pounding temple, and Rozanov’s heavy arm did feel nice draped over Shane’s waist. He allowed Rozanov to throw the duvet over Shane’s torso and tug him closer to his chest. He tucked one arm under the pillow to prop up his head and allowed his eyes to fall shut. He could sleep for another hour and still make his flight.

“Do not think about flight,” Rozanov mumbled, hot breath gusting across Shane’s forehead.

“I wasn’t,” Shane lied, mushing his face deeper into the pillow. He willed himself not to think about anything—not the flight he was definitely going to miss, not the 30 unanswered texts on his phone, not the sworn rival he had been sleeping with for going on four years, and definitely not the disgustingly mushy, very gay and definitely unreciprocated feelings he had been harbouring for—he didn’t want to admit how long.

“I can hear it,” said Rozanov. “Sounds like gears turning. Click click click. Hollander is having panic attack. Try to turn off brain, like me.” He brushed a hand over Shane’s temple. Shane’s headache melted away instantly at the touch of cool metal to his cheek.

“Like you turned your brain off during our last game?” Shane chirped sleepily. And then he realized.

His eyes snapped open. Rozanov must not have been lying about hearing Shane’s thoughts, because his eyes opened like highbeams. Shane grabbed the hand that Rozanov was using to lazily caress Shane’s face, and held it in front of his eyes. Without his glasses, his vision resolved slowly until Rozanov’s hand appeared in terrible, perfect relief.

On his fourth finger, a chintzy gold band with a fat, glass jewel nestled in the centre.

“Hollander,” said Rozanov.

“Rozanov,” said Shane. He extricated his arm from beneath the pillow, afraid of what he would find. He held it in front of his face, afraid to look. But there it was. A matching band, the gold plating already chipping and the stone more than a bit lopsided.

He looked at the ring, and then he looked at Rozanov. For the first time since Shane had met him, the man was lost for words.

-

Shane spent thirty minutes on the verge of passing out while he frantically googled Nevada marriage law. Rozanov lounged in the bed, staring into empty space with a cigarette in one hand and the bottle of vodka in the other.

“What the fuck do we do?” Shane said, for the seventeen billionth time. For the seventeen billionth time, Rozanov provided no helpful answer. Shane watched him suck his cigarette down to the butt, then fish another from the nearly empty pack on the nightstand and light it. Shane bit back a comment about Rozanov dying of lung cancer before his team had the chance to win another Cup.

“Oh God,” said Shane. He hadn’t even managed to put his clothes back on, so he was pacing the ridiculously large suite in his underwear. It was better than Rozanov, who hadn’t put anything on, and was smoking in the nude like a caricature of some 1970s Hollywood star. Shane didn’t know. He didn’t watch movies that weren’t available on airplanes. He stomped back into the bedroom after completing another lap of the suite.

“I could call Hayden,” he said. “He’s married.”

Rozanov stared at him blankly and took another deep drag off his cigarette. It was more than halfway finished already.

“Let me get this straight,” said Rozanov. “You will call married loser Hayden Pike and tell him that you have eloped with Boston star centre Ilya Rozanov. And he will have a solution for you.”

“Eloped?” said Shane, unable to respond to any other part of Rozanov’s statement.

“Eloped,” said Rozanov. “Was seven across on crossword last week. ‘Wed’ with five letters.”

That was when Shane laughed. He couldn’t help himself. It was the image of Rozanov’s hulking torso hunched over a breakfast table, a fork plunged into a pile of grease-soaked breakfast food, a newspaper spread in front of him while he delicately pencilled letters into the crossword grid. Shane fell to his knees and buried his head in the sheets at the foot of the bed while tears leaked from his eyes. He laughed so hard it became almost difficult to breathe, and he had to force himself to stop laughing so that he could suck in some oxygen. He was still trembling with the effort of holding back laughter, his face no doubt beet red, when he lifted his head from the sheets to look at Rozanov. He had abandoned his cigarette in the crystal coaster on the nightstand, and the smouldering end spilled a thin stream of smoke.

“Is crossword so hilarious?” said Rozanov, arching one brow. “I am very intelligent man. Everyone in Boston says so.”

“My dad does the crossword,” said Shane, through deliriously elated tears.

“Come here,” said Rozanov.

“You come down here,” said Shane, but he was already crawling awkwardly up the bed and settling himself in Rozanov’s lap. He knew that if he flipped the duvet down, he would find Rozanov’s rock hard dick. He knew that even though Rozanov didn’t harbour the same stupid feelings that Shane did, he would let Shane fuck himself on it until room service came pounding on the door to kick them out. He was a nice guy like that.

“What are we going to do?” said Shane. His hands had already mapped a path up Rozanov’s torso and settled on his shoulders, his thumbs caressing the column of Rozanov’s throat.

“First we will have to decide who takes which last name,” Rozanov said very seriously. “Rozanov-Hollander is… how do you say it? It is mouthful.” He had found a nice handhold on Shane’s waist, just above the hem of his boxer-briefs, and he was stroking the skin there, warming it up. Shane felt the stupid, cheap ring against his side and shivered.

“Fuck you,” said Shane. “It would obviously be Hollander-Rozanov.”

“Obviously.” Rozanov rolled his eyes. Then he flipped Shane on his back, and Shane momentarily forgot to worry about the colossal, life-ending fuck-up he had found himself apart of.

-

Shane did end up telling Hayden.

A week and a half after the disastrous NHL awards, Coach Theriault decided that what the Voyageurs needed was an escape from an unseasonably beautiful June in Montreal and a team-building trip to the Rockies. So Shane, the Voyageurs and a coterie of wives, girlfriends and team personnel had piled into a chartered plane to waste a week lounging around in hot springs and skiing. Shane hated lounging, and he hated skiing.

“I have something to tell you,” Shane began. He was bunking with Hayden, since Jackie had refused to vacation anywhere with temperatures below freezing. Hayden was whistling some tune that Shane was probably supposed to recognize and stuffing his workout gear in a duffel on the foot of the bed.

“What’s up?” said Hayden, cramming a pair of shoes in the side pocket.

“Don’t squish them like that,” said Shane impulsively. Hayden twisted over his shoulder to level an eyebrow at Shane. “Okay, not— Never mind,” said Shane. He steeled himself in order to finally deliver the confession he had been mulling over for weeks. “The thing is. Here’s the thing…” He trailed off. There were normal words for this, normal words that a normal person would use, but Shane couldn’t find them. “I like guys. Only guys. Not women.” He winced at the last one. Yikes.

Hayden froze, and Shane’s heart skipped a beat. Then he abandoned his bag and turned fully, marching across the room to where Shane stood awkwardly beside his own neatly made bed, and gripped Shane by the biceps.

“Dude, you’re gay?” said Hayden, mouth agape. It looked like he was waiting for Shane to shout Sike!, but Shane had never uttered the word sike in his life.

Shane nodded.

“I guess it kind of makes sense,” said Hayden, still gripping Shane by the arms.

“Hey!”

“Woah, buddy,” said Hayden. “Gay is okay, right?”

“What the hell?” said Shane. For a moment, confusion overwhelmed the pounding panic that had swallowed him.

“Yeah. Gay is okay,” said Hayden, shaking Shane as if to knock the words into him. “Jackie has a tote bag that says that. I think she got it at Target.”

“Target?” Shane felt like he had floated out of his own body. His consciousness had simply detached itself from his body and was hovering overhead, observing the strangest conversation he had ever participated in.

“Yeah, they have great stuff,” said Hayden. “We got this fucking insane playset for the twins. It’s like a little kitchen, but when you press the buttons and shit, it actually lights up and makes these sizzling noises. It’s like, awesome.”

“Okay,” said Shane. The potent cocktail of incredulity and abject fear must have shown on his face, because Hayden rubbed his arms soothingly.

“What I mean is, that’s great. And I support you obviously. Is that why you never go out with the boys when JJ’s trying to get laid? Wait… What about that Lily chick?”

“Well,” said Shane, and he had a feeling that the warm and fuzzy feeling he had experienced when Hayden said, like it was nothing, I support you, obviously, was going down the drain pretty soon. “Here’s the other thing.”

Shane told him the other thing. The other thing being that he had been fucking Rozanov for some time (he carefully omitted exactly how long), and that he had accidentally on-purpose married the asshole in Vegas.

Hayden’s hands dropped rapidly from Shane’s biceps and he collapsed on Shane’s bed. He had turned white and appeared on the verge of passing out.

“Gay is okay, right?” Shane pleaded.

Hayden regarded him with wide, panicked eyes. “Gay is fucking awesome, Shane. But you know what’s not awesome? Ilya fucking Rozanov! Holy shit. This is a nightmare, right? Tell me I’m fucking dreaming. I’m having a psychotic fucking break, and this is a schizo hallucination, and none of this is real, and I’m dreaming, and you did not fucking Vegas marry Ilya fucking Rozanov.”

“Yep,” said Shane. “I mean, nope, you’re not dreaming. And yeah, I… did that.” He no longer had an emotion to describe what he was experiencing. It was probably a good thing that Hayden was freaking out, because otherwise Shane would be freaking out. He would be a ball on the foot of the bed, rocking back and forth and muttering to himself. Fortunately, what social skills he did possess were compelling him to stay calm so that he could comfort his best friend.

“Holy fucking shit.” Hayden scrubbed at his face. You would have thought he was the one who had woken up to discover he had married Rozanov. “Gretzky’s hairy fucking balls, Shane. You were fucking drunk as shit, right? So it doesn’t count, and he probably did it as a fucking joke, anyway. So you can fucking, divorce the dirty fucker… and clean him out for half his fucking contract, right? That’s got to be a good take, right? He’s making, what, two or three million?”

“Yeah,” said Shane. “I was… wasted, but I, uh.” The words escaped him.

“No no no no no,” Hayden chanted, burying his head in his hands.

“We’re gonna have to file for an annulment. Then it will be like it never happened. They just strike it from public record, or something.” Shane sniffed.

Hayden unburied his head to peer at Shane with one confused eye. “Buddy,” he said slowly. “Why do you sound sad about that?”

Shane did not have an answer for that one. “I’m not sad,” he lied. And he had also been lying about how wasted he had been when it happened, but he wasn’t going to tell Hayden, or anyone, that.

“Oh my god,” said Hayden. “Holy fucking goddamn fucking shit, Shane. You actually like him.” He unfolded himself from his dramatic sprawl on Shane’s bed and reached for Shane’s hands, awestruck horror on his face. Shane crossed his arms quickly and felt his face heat.

“This is not good, buddy,” said Hayden. “You know you can’t be married to him. You know that, right?”

“Obviously I fucking know,” Shane snapped. The corners of his eyes prickled. His mood was rapidly declining. The adrenaline of fear and anxiety was fading, and in its place, a queasy knot grew in the pit of his stomach. “It’s not like he wants to be my—anything, anyways.”

Hayden gawped. He was silent for a moment. “That’s actually… really sad.”

“Fuck,” said Shane. He sat heavily on the end of the bed. Hayden scooted over and slung an arm around Shane’s shoulders. The weight was comforting, a stable anchor point amid Shane’s rather shaky life.

“Hey,” Hayden said softly. “I might hate the guy, but I love you. Let’s get you annulled, then we’ll find you some hot as shit pro athlete that actually appreciates you. You’re a catch, buddy.”

Shane allowed Hayden to pull his head against his shoulder. It thunked against the warm muscle of Hayden’s chest, and Hayden’s bicep served as a sort of barrier to the harsh light filtering in through the suite’s wall of windows. The view of the glaciers really was beautiful, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to look at it.

“Kind of sounds like you want to marry me,” Shane said, muffled by Hayden’s arm.

“Sorry bud,” Hayden murmured into Shane’s hair. “I think Jackie’s keeping me.”

-

The summer break went on, and, despite Shane’s fears, no one had dug up his marriage certificate and posted it on Twitter. The break proceeded as it usually did, with Shane pinging between training camps in Montreal and his parents’ cottage in Parry Sound. He had recently purchased an empty lot just ten minutes from his parents place on which he planned to build the luxury cottage of his dreams. He was touring the property with the architect when his phone pinged.

Shane slipped it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen.

Lily: My lawyer wants to talk to your lawyer

Lily: Vegas business

Vegas business was what Shane and Rozanov had come to call the disastrous evening of the NHL awards. Since leaving Rozanov’s suite, the words wedding or marriage had not been uttered. Shane had not uttered them because the secret guilt that he did want those things, maybe, in some distant, impossible future, was eating him alive, and Rozanov had not uttered them probably because he considered himself too cool for anything that even slightly resembled commitment. Shane could only guess. He tapped out a message one-handed while the architect explained that the well could only be dug on the easternmost edge of the property because the soil was too rocky everywhere else.

Jane: Cool.

Jane: I’ll share her email.

Lily: No stupid

Lily: They want to meet

Lily: Are you in Montreal?

“Sorry,” said Shane to the architect. He was a handsome man in his late thirties who Shane thought was probably gay. His flannel hung open effortlessly, framing the tight cut of a henley shirt and a thin, gunmetal necklace chain. He had that easy, stylish air about him that Shane had never been able to achieve.

Jane: I’m not in Montreal right now. We can do a Zoom call?

Lily: I hate Zoom

Lily: I will fly to you when you are back

“What,” Shane breathed. The architect looked at him strangely. “Sorry,” Shane said again. “My… agent is texting me.”

“Ah,” said the architect. He smiled easily. “Contract negotiations?”

“Yeah, yes,” said Shane, typing back furiously. His contract with the Voyageurs wasn’t actually up for another two years. He hoped he wasn’t accidentally starting a rumour. “Yeah, exactly.”

Jane: Why? Zoom is fine.

Lily: Zoom sucks

Lily: What is your address

Lily: I think you are embarrassed and don’t want to see me

Jane: Why would I be embarrassed???

Lily: Because you come so fast and so many times

Shane locked his phone and crammed it quickly inside his hoodie pocket. His cheeks felt hot. The architect looked at him again, and Shane had the feeling that he had somehow telepathically received Rozanov’s text messages and knew why Shane’s face was burning despite the cool air gusting off the bay. But that was impossible.

“Sorry about that,” said Shane.

The architect brushed off Shane’s third apology, and Shane’s eyes caught on the way he absent-mindedly fingered the pendant on the end of his necklace. A memory of Rozanov playing with the crucifix he always wore intruded upon Shane’s imagination. He shook his head to dislodge the images of the crucifix resting in the sweaty hollow of Rozanov’s throat, of the crucifix between Rozanov’s fingers, of the crucifix gleaming as it dangled above Shane’s nose while Rozanov held Shane’s legs apart and delivered a brutal, delicious fucking. When he escaped his own reckless subconscious, he found himself wanting to apologize to the architect again.

“I was thinking,” Shane said quickly, gesturing at the far side of the property. “I want the deck to go over there so that it has some shade in the afternoon, and then I want the living room to face the water. I don’t want to disturb the landscape so much, so I was thinking we should build up over the hill, so the master bedroom faces the forest at the back.”

The architect nodded enthusiastically, jotting notes in a small pad that he produced from his jeans. In Shane’s pocket, his phone vibrated, and he ignored it.

“Have you ever considered a second career in design?” said the architect.

Shane paused. Now that he was picturing the cottage, it was difficult to stop. “Uh, no.” He saw the slope of the roof, the shine of the windows, the dark cedar on the outside and the warm pine within. In his minds’ eye there was a body lounging lazily on the sofa, waiting for him when he returned with groceries, a golden crucifix lying on a bare chest—

The architect flashed a charming grin and tucked his pencil behind his ear. He was objectively handsome, except his shoulders weren’t especially broad, and he was an inch shorter than Shane, and there were no golden-brown curls tumbling over his temples, and he was much, much too polite.

“You have an eye for it,” said the architect.

“Thank you,” Shane said awkwardly.

“Should we look at the back of the property? We’ll have to find somewhere clever to hide the generator.” The architect started away from the water, towards the forest where mossy boulders protruded from the grass and the land sloped steeply upwards. “I’m assuming you don’t plan on roughing it on your summers off.”

“No I… like to be comfortable,” said Shane, stalking after the architect, who was already waving his pencil and gesticulating at trees.

-

Shane was wringing his hands on the sofa while he waited for Rozanov’s taxi to arrive at his apartment. It wasn’t the rental property—it was Shane’s apartment, where he actually lived and ate and cooked and slept during the season. He poured himself a coffee, then dumped it in the sink and made himself an herbal tea instead. He sipped it before it had cooled and burnt his tongue on the taste of earthy sencha. When he checked his watch, only five minutes had passed.

Rozanov had helpfully provided a two-hour window in which he would arrive. Impulsively, Shane grabbed his phone off the coffee table and checked Rozanov’s messages for what had to be the twentieth time.

Lily: Plane lands at 1 then I will get taxi from airport

Lily: Will arrive between 2 or 3 or maybe later if flight is delayed

Lily: See you soon ;)

He had not followed up to confirm whether his flight had left on time, and Shane had been too anxious to ask him. He did know that Rozanov had elected not to return to Russia for the summer and was flying from Boston, which was curious. He had poked at Rozanov about it in Vegas, and at the time he had insisted that he was going back. Shane wondered what had caused him to change his mind.

It was almost three-thirty when the intercom beside Shane’s door buzzed.

“Come in,” said Shane, without waiting for Rozanov’s response. He thought he heard a Rozanov-esque snort through the tinny speaker when he pushed the button to buzz Rozanov in, but it didn’t really matter. Who else would it be? Most of Shane’s teammates were gone for the summer, and the ones that stayed in Montreal knew not to visit without texting first.

The next five minutes were agony. Shane completed three laps of the living room, washed his hands for no reason, folded and refolded the throw blanket on the end of the sofa before electing to stuff it in the compartment inside the ottoman, and stuffed the contents of his laundry basket inside the washer without starting a cycle. He had worked himself into a nervous sweat by the time Rozanov knocked on the door.

Shane cracked the door open just wide enough to drag Rozanov inside. “Get in,” he hissed. “Did anyone see you?”

“The doorman,” said Rozanov, dropping his bag on top of Shane’s neat array of shoes. “I think he is big fan. He asked for autograph and selfie, and I am so kind and generous, of course I gave it to him.”

“You can’t—” Shane tried to say.

Rozanov levelled an eyebrow at Shane behind his dark sunglasses. “I am joking,” he said. “I think he was taking nap.”

Shane blew out a heavy breath and slammed the door shut.

“Not another panic attack,” said Rozanov, deadpan.

“Fuck you,” said Shane, exhausted by his own emotions.

“Before meeting with lawyers?” said Rozanov. “We only have thirty minutes, but I think we can make it work.” He shrugged and leaned towards Shane, but Shane ducked under his arm and scooped Rozanov’s bag off the floor.

“So cold,” Rozanov laughed, tailing Shane inside the apartment. “After I have come all this way.”

Shane dropped off Rozanov’s bag in the doorway to the guest room, and swerved Rozanov before he could box Shane up against the wall. “Remind me why you have to be here for this?” Shane said.

“Because Zoom is stupid,” said Rozanov, making another lazy swipe at Shane. He was like a panther pawing at his food, too self-satisfied to devote any serious effort to the acquisition of his meal.

“The lawyers are going to be on Zoom,” said Shane, making his way back to the kitchen. He positioned himself behind the island, where he was safe from Rozanov’s grabby hands. “Do you want tea? Coffee?”

“Not really,” said Rozanov. He paused on the other side of the island, planted both hands on the granite surface and leaned forwards. “It’s not the lawyers that I care about.” A lusty grin spread across his jaw. That was the only word Shane had for it—lusty. It was a ridiculous word, but it suited Rozanov very well. “It’s my husb—”

Shane cut Rozanov off. “Let’s get one thing straight,” said Shane. “We are here to clean up the mess you made in Vegas.”

Rozanov leaned even closer. The crucifix dangled in front of his chest, just below the collar of his ridiculous muscle shirt. “The mess I made,” said Rozanov.

“Yeah,” said Shane.

He had not allowed himself to think about that night, but it returned to him now in waves of technicolor vision and giddy emotion. Rozanov had fucked Shane ruthlessly in the hotel, and then once Shane’s post-orgasm high had been appropriately replaced by the warm buzz of expensive vodka, he had goaded Shane into visiting the casino. Shane remembered clutching a sweating rum and coke while Rozanov laughed and sparkled and gambled three thousand dollars away at the blackjack table, before winning it back in a single, reckless hand. Afterwards, he tugged Shane outside and kissed him in the shadow of the MGM Grand. He tasted like cigarettes and seltzer. You know what everyone does in Vegas, Rozanov had murmured, before ducking in to kiss Shane stupid again. The next few hours were a blur, but Shane remembered being painfully, woefully sober when it was his turn at the altar. What had stuck with him most of all was how the officiant hadn’t batted an eye. He had probably not watched a game of hockey in his life, and did not care that Shane and Rozanov were hockey players, or rival centres, or even that they were two men.

“It was funny at first, but most pranks don’t end with several thousand dollars in legal fees,” said Shane. He bit the inside of his lip fiercely, and then had to fight back tears because it really fucking hurt.

“Was stupid, but it was not a prank,” said Rozanov. Shane had no fucking idea what he meant.

“Whatever,” said Shane. “You’re an asshole, and I’m glad we’re doing this.” He raised a hand to scrub across his face. It allowed him to hide from Rozanov for approximately half a second, which didn’t really accomplish anything at all. “Let’s get this over with.”

-

Shane set up his laptop on the coffee table and positioned himself a comfortable one metre away from Rozanov on the sofa so that they could take the Zoom meeting with their lawyers together. Shane had also included Farah on the call, because Yuna had taught him that it was important to have your agent on side when shit went south. She popped into the meeting first, and made sad, adoring eyes at Shane through his laptop screen.

“How are you holding up, sweetie?” said Farah.

“Fine,” said Shane. “Just want to get this dealt with.” He watched Rozanov shift on the sofa in the tiny video in the corner of the screen. He looked almost uncomfortable, a mood Shane had never witnessed on him.

“Good to hear,” Farah cooed. “I’ll be honest, I’ve never dealt with a situation like this with one of my clients. But we’re going to make it out the other side. The good news is that none of the documents are public, nor will they ever be.”

Shane allowed Farah’s measured tone to wash over him, emptying his brain of everything but media jabber, until his laptop pinged when the lawyers joined the call. Suddenly Shane’s laptop was filled with all the people in the world (minus Hayden) who knew Shane’s horrible, gay, Rozanov-shaped secret.

The lawyers made their introductions: first Shane’s, a cutthroat woman in her fifties by the name of Mei; then Rozanov’s, a significantly younger woman named Ksenia with the blondest hair Shane had ever seen; then a smart-looking bald man named Jeffrey who Mei had roped in because he did family law in Nevada.

“We’ve been corresponding, and I think we all agree that filing a joint petition for annulment is the most efficient way to get this voided,” said Mei. “We might even be able to speed up the court if we throw your names around.”

“Don’t throw our names around,” said Shane. He waited for Rozanov to chime in, but Rozanov was just looking at him, a neutral expression on his face.

“Whatever he wants,” said Rozanov.

“I’m sure you want to resolve this quickly,” said Ksenia. “I think we can get it done in the next thirty days if everything goes according to plan.”

“Of course,” said Rozanov.

“There were no witnesses, which makes this a good deal more complicated,” said Jeffrey. “Our best bet is going to be to testify that you were both over the legal limit, but the County Clerk’s office failed to turn you away. Was the alcohol purchased at a bar? We’ll include credit card statements in the filing. You were intoxicated, correct?”

“Yeah. Of course,” said Shane. He hoped he wasn’t turning red. It didn’t look like it, in the tiny video in the corner of the screen.

Rozanov didn’t say anything.

“It will also help if you appear not to enjoy one another’s company,” said Mei. “Essentially, what we’re trying to prove here is that you behaved in a manner that would not have occurred were you not under the influence.”

“That won’t be difficult,” said Shane. Rozanov said nothing, gripping the back of the sofa like he was trying to strangle it.

“Great!” said Farah. “Not great, I mean.” She leaned towards the camera and grimaced apologetically. “I just have a few questions about the legal process I want to go over…”

Shane’s head swam while the lawyers traded whipchain-fast legalese and Farah translated frantically to English. When the call was finished, Shane slammed the laptop shut and collapsed over his own lap. He pressed his eyesockets into his knees until coloured splotches began to burst behind his eyelids.

Rozanov shifted on the sofa beside him. Suddenly the heat of his body was much closer than the careful metre Shane had measured out.

“Hollander,” said Rozanov.

“What,” Shane hissed.

“I think you are having panic attack,” he said. “For real this time.”

“They were real the other times,” Shane said before he could stop himself.

“You have panic attacks a lot?”

“I’ve practically been having a panic attack since Vegas,” Shane said into his knees.

A hand landed gently in the centre of Shane’s back. When Shane didn’t move, it began to rub cautious circles over his spine.

“That feels nice,” said Shane.

“I am glad,” said Rozanov.

Shane allowed Rozanov to rub his back for another minute before he felt ready to emerge from the cavern of his own knees. He blinked the colored spangles from his vision and turned to Rozanov. His hand had followed Shane up, and was now wrapped loosely around the side of his ribcage.

“I can’t believe we’re fucking married. We’re so fucking stupid,” said Shane. He was certain that Rozanov could feel him shaking.

“We’re married, and we are stupid,” said Rozanov, solemnly. The knot in Shane’s chest loosened a modicum.

“Just for now, though,” Shane added.

“Just for now,” Rozanov repeated.

Shane loosed an exhale, allowing all the oxygen to drain from his lungs. He sagged forwards, and his head caught on Rozanov’s shoulder. It felt good to admit one of his secrets out loud, even if Rozanov already knew. There were other secrets that would feel good to admit, but that Shane would never, ever speak aloud, so he contented himself by rubbing his face against Rozanov’s neck and inhaling deeply. He smelled like salt and warm skin and the recycled air in an airplane cabin. After a moment, Rozanov gathered Shane and his limbs and dragged him into his lap, reclining them both so that Rozanov’s head was propped against the armrest, and Shane was dead weight resting on his chest. He wrapped an arm around Shane and resumed rubbing careful circles into his back.

“You’re not always an asshole,” said Shane, nose smashed against Rozanov’s clavicle. “I’m sorry for blaming you.”

“I am sorry I did not know you were drunk,” said Rozanov. Before Shane could think about what he meant, he walked his fingers up Shane’s spine and buried them in Shane’s hair. He kissed lazily at the side of Shane’s head, and Shane allowed exhausted tears to leak from his eyes. Rozanov kissed him again, this time firmly and against Shane’s temple. “I think I can make it up to you?”

Shane forgot his tears momentarily and scoffed into Rozanov’s neck. “You pervert,” he mumbled, but Rozanov had already snaked a hand down Shane’s back to grab his ass.

“You love it,” said Rozanov, and Shane would have rolled his eyes and scoffed again were his body not having its usual Freudian response to Rozanov’s presence. It will help if you appear not to enjoy each other’s company, Mei had said. He didn’t enjoy Rozanov’s company much outside of sex, because he had never had the opportunity to do so. Except in the wintery chill outside the arena in Regina, and in that tiny, hotel gym so many years ago, and in the locker room after that fated photoshoot. And every time he met Rozanov on the ice, because each game against him was a unique and unpredictable pleasure.

“Earth to Hollander,” said Rozanov, rapping his knuckles gently against Shane’s skull.

Shane stuck his tongue out and dragged it against Rozanov’s neck. His eyes were still leaking like no one had told them he was thirty seconds away from getting his shit absolutely rocked.

“You want this?” Rozanov said.

Shane’s answer involved dragging his face away from Rozanov’s neck and kissing him hotly and desperately, writhing against his body until Rozanov growled and flipped them, crushing Shane into the sofa. It was not quite evening, and Shane had only fucked Ilya in the dead of night after a game, but Rozanov on top meant that his head and shoulders blocked the light that made it past Shane’s living room curtains. The thrill of kissing and being kissed coursed through him like a shot of liquor, and wasn’t it the universe’s cruelest joke that he felt the most settled in his body when Rozanov was blanketing him with purposeful limbs and scorching kisses, when his hands cradled Shane’s cheeks and held him still to suck the panic from his tongue.

“Bedroom,” Rozanov murmured, and hauled Shane’s thighs over his hips, practically dragging him off the sofa and into the air. Shane made a valiant effort to escape his arms without detaching his mouth from Rozanov’s but ended up pulling away when Rozanov tried to lift Shane by the waist and heave him over one shoulder.

He got his feet on the ground and led Rozanov by the wrist to the guest bedroom, nearly tripping over the bag in the doorway. “Over here,” he said. Rozanov kicked the bad haphazardly inside, and then he was on Shane again, tossing him onto the bed and crawling on top of him. He kissed Shane’s mouth, then his jaw, then his throat, and then the centre of his chest, before dragging his lips down Shane’s torso and mouthing at the fly of his jeans.

“So excited to see me,” said Rozanov. Shane dared a glance down his body, and Rozanov’s eyes were sparkling. He sealed his lips over the denim constraining Shane’s dick and sucked a wet circle.

“That’s gross,” said Shane.

“You love it,” said Rozanov. He made quick work of Shane’s jeans and briefs, and applied his mouth to Shane’s desperate dick. Shane slammed his fist into the duvet and arched like he had been electrocuted, but Rozanov just followed him up the mattress, maintaining even suction. Was this what annulment looked like for regular couples?

Rozanov pulled off when Shane was close to the edge, leaving him shuddering and short of breath. He kissed a path back up Shane’s chest, tweaking his nipple along the way, and settled with his forearms on either side of Shane’s head so that they were almost nose to nose.

“You have stuff?” said Rozanov.

Shane nodded mutely, before he realized that he actually didn’t store lube and condoms in his guest bedroom (who did?).

“In the bathroom. I’ll get it.”

Rozanov smacked a kiss on his lips. “No. You stay here.” He levered himself off of Shane. “One second,” he said, and patted Shane on the head.

While Rozanov was gone in search of lube and condoms, Shane sat up and pulled off his shirt. He folded it into a neat square and set it on the nightstand. His jeans were a lost cause.

“Got it,” said Rozanov, racing back into the room. He jangled the lube and a strip of condoms in front of Shane’s face before stripping his shirt and track pants and tossing them to Shane’s floor. Shane glared helplessly at the mess that Rozanov appeared to leave everywhere in his wake. “Poor Hollander,” said Rozanov, climbing back onto the bed, fully nude. He grabbed Shane by the hips and tugged him back down the bed. “I am being very rude, leaving my laundry on his floor.” He popped the lube open and poured an amount on his fingers. “How should I make it up to him?”

“I know how you can make it up to me,” said Shane. He spread his legs slightly and planted one foot on the mattress.

Rozanov made wide, innocent eyes. He stroked a lubricated finger down the inside of Shane’s thigh. “Like this?” he said.

“No,” said Shane.

“Oh,” said Rozanov, very seriously. He swirled his fingers up Shane’s thigh and over his hipbone, drawing a wide semi-circle around Shane’s aching cock. “Like this?”

“No,” said Shane.

“Like this?” said Rozanov, finally wrapping his hand firmly around Shane’s cock and stroking upwards.

“Almost,” Shane groaned, throwing his head back.

“Ah. Like this,” said Rozanov, and then he was slithering down Shane’s body again and sliding one finger smoothly inside him. He tossed Shane’s leg over his shoulder and peppered the inside of Shane’s thighs with kisses until Shane was relaxed enough to add another finger. Shane took it groaning and shaking, sparks zinging up his spine. He hadn’t had this since Vegas, which had only happened three weeks earlier, but any amount of time Shane spent outside the circle of Rozanov’s arms was agony, plain and simple.

“I’m ready. I’m ready,” Shane chanted, after a minute of Rozanov assaulting his prostate. Rozanov pulled away and lifted Shane’s other leg onto his shoulder. He crawled forwards until Shane was folded in half.

The hot head of Rozanov’s dick pressed against Shane’s hole. “Is this what you want?” Rozanov murmured. Shane bit his lip and nodded, and when Rozanov pushed inside, he looked as insane as Shane often felt. He looked almost like this meant to him what it meant to Shane, almost like every moment he was not inside Shane felt like burning up from the inside for him, too. It was just Shane’s mind playing tricks on him, like it often did, but it was a nice thought.

Shane’s nice thoughts did not survive the first slap of Rozanov’s hips, because as soon as he had bottomed out, he was fucking Shane brutally, and there was no room to think anymore. Rozanov’s thrusts nudged Shane up the bed, bouncing the headboard off the wall. He hooked his hand beneath Shane’s knee and lifted it off his shoulder, pushing Shane’s thigh flush to his chest. And then, because he was very cruel and evil, he maneuvered Shane’s other leg off his shoulder and around his hip, so that Shane was split open on a deep stretch.

“So bendy,” Rozanov panted. “My acrobat.”

Shane provided a totally garbled, barely-English response, and came all over himself. Rozanov finished seconds afterwards, slamming inside and sucking on Shane’s slack lips.

There were only a few seconds of sated silence, Rozanov collapsed on top of Shane and breathing into his hair, before Rozanov whooped and smacked Shane on the flank. Shane hit him back, his legs still tangled around Rozanov’s torso.

“Ouch,” said Rozanov. “That was for what?”

“You hit me,” said Shane. His hip flexor ached when he laid his leg flat against the bed.

“Was not hitting,” said Rozanov. “Was congratulating you.”

“Congratulating me?” said Shane, in disbelief.

“Yes. For keeping up with me.” He kissed the side of Shane’s knee, which was still folded up around his back. He was always doing that—kissing the parts of Shane that were within reach. “I have been told it is very challenging.”

“Fuck you,” said Shane, too exhausted and too satisfied to chirp back.

“Okay,” said Rozanov. He doled out three more kisses, on Shane’s thigh, on the side of his throat, and on the bridge of his nose. “But you will have to give me few minutes to recover.”

Shane felt his face heat and quickly palmed Rozanov’s forehead to push him away. Rozanov went with his characteristic melodrama, rolling off of Shane and flopping into the pillows beside him. Shane fixed his gaze on the ceiling, but felt the mattress shake as Rozanov wriggled around until he was under the duvet.

“Hollander,” he said, once he was settled. Shane couldn’t look at him. “I’m sorry for Vegas. Really.”

“You don’t have to keep apologizing,” said Shane. He kept his eyes on the ceiling. Rozanov was terrifyingly perceptive, and he’d know it if Shane was lying. “We were totally wasted.”

“Yes,” said Rozanov. He knocked his head against Shane’s shoulder and kissed it. “Totally.”

-

Rozanov in Shane’s apartment was one thing, but Rozanov on his sofa slamming four sunny side up eggs, a literal kilogram of grease-drenched bacon, and a tower of pancakes from a cardboard takeout box was another matter entirely. Waking up with Rozanov’s breath on the back of his neck and his heavy arm thrown over Shane’s back was a third issue, but Shane was electing not to think about that one.

“Where did you even get that?” said Shane, eyeing Rozanov’s atherosclerosis-inducing breakfast while he crammed another scoop of spinach inside the blender.

“IHOP,” said Rozanov, around a mouthful of doughy pancake.

“There were eggs in the fridge,” Shane pointed out. When Rozanov opened his pancake-stuffed mouth to answer, Shane wedged the cover on the blender and slammed the pulse button smugly. Whatever Rozanov had been about to say was drowned out by the sound of Shane’s breakfast being liquefied.

“Eggs, maybe,” said Rozanov, when Shane had successfully reduced three cups of spinach and kale to a homogenous green sludge. “But no butter, no bacon, no pancakes. Not even any maple syrup. Are you sure you are Canadian?”

“I’m pretty sure I have bacon in the freezer,” said Shane, dumping his smoothie into a tall glass. It plopped thickly out of the blender’s spout, leaving an opaque, leafy residue.

Rozanov raised his eyebrows over a fork loaded with bacon and runny egg, which probably meant he had located the bacon and discovered that it was made from tofu. Shane watched him stuff his greasy forkful in his mouth, and ignored the way his pulse spiked when Rozanov moaned his enjoyment.

“Delicious,” said Rozanov, smacking his lips. The morning light danced on his gold chain and crucifix, setting the surface aflame. Shane settled himself in the armchair, a safe distance away from Rozanov and sucked back his smoothie through a metal straw. The texture was… not great.

“So,” Rozanov drawled, abandoning his fork on the coffee table and leaning backwards, all of his limbs puddling across the sofa. He had perfected, if not invented, the ability to take up as much space as possible. His limbs were long and thick and often draped across surfaces, and the golden colour of him reflected everywhere. “What are we doing today?”

Shane slurped his smoothie. “I have a workout planned. And then I’m going to the rink.”

“Sounds exciting,” said Rozanov. Sunlight danced in his eyes.

“It won’t be so funny when I’m in top form and you’re still working off the IHOP weight,” Shane pointed out.

Rozanov grinned viciously. “Good chirp. Do you practice that over summer break too?”

Fuck you, asshole were the words that leapt to the front of Shane’s mouth, but he knew that particular rejoinder would only open himself to Rozanov’s arsenal of innuendos. “Keep that up and you’re not invited,” he said instead.

“Of course I am honoured to be invited to famous Shane Hollander’s famous practice rink,” Rozanov said, very seriously. “So… work out, skate. Anything else on your agenda? Or only hockey-related activities.”

“I do other things,” said Shane.

“Like have sex with me,” Rozanov said wisely.

“Fuck you,” said Shane. He couldn’t help himself.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward to retrieve his fork and stabbed off an ungodly combination of pancake and egg. The yolk ran everywhere.

“Fuck you,” Shade said again, face heating. “I like to read.”

“Books about hockey?” Rozanov chewed noisily.

Shane glared and concentrated on sucking down his smoothie. He grimaced when a thick lump of unincorporated creatine made it up his straw and into his mouth. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d read something that wasn’t a legendary player’s autobiography, or a journalist’s account of an unforgettable season. It was strange to think that his exploits on the ice might one day be immortalized in a battered hardcover on someone’s dusty shelf. Rozanov would feature in it too, probably. He might even get his own book. It would probably start something like, I am Ilya Rozanov, the greatest, sexiest NHL player of all time.

“You are smiling,” said Rozanov. He was observing Shane very carefully. “Cannot be because of that smoothie. Looks disgusting.”

-

Shane pulled into the parking lot in front of the complex that housed the Voyageur’s practice rink and took note of Hayden’s Jeep Wrangler in its usual spot. This was a complication that he had not anticipated.

“Hayden’s here,” Shane said neutrally.

Rozanov shrugged. He had flipped down the sun visor and was examining his reflection in the vanity mirror.

“I will give him taste of next season,” he said easily.

“Your funeral,” said Shane.

He toted his bag of practice gear inside the rink, Rozanov close behind him, a bag of borrowed items slung over his shoulder. Only a handful of Shane’s teammates actually stayed in Montreal over the summer, and none made use of the rink as frequently as Shane. JJ had a house in Miami that he and his girlfriend retreated to in the off-season, and Comeau had already jetted off to Whistler to make use of his year-round skiing pass. Shane had an empty lot in Northern Ontario where his cottage was yet to be built, and an arch-rival/fuck buddy/accidental temporary spouse to entertain.

“Am I even allowed here?” said Rozanov, when he and Shane had arrived at the entrance to the locker rooms.

“Just get in,” said Shane, shoving him inside.

He tried not to look at Rozanov while they both changed. Shane stripped efficiently down to his briefs and tugged on his usual warm-up uniform: track pants, thermal top and jacket. He slung his skates over his shoulder and started for the arena.

When Rozanov didn’t immediately follow, Shane glanced backwards and found him tugging his shirt—Shane’s shirt—down his torso. He caught a glimpse of the dark-gold hair that peeked above his waistband and crawled towards his navel before it disappeared. Rozanov caught him looking and winked.

“Stay here for a second,” said Shane. “I’m gonna go talk to Hayden.”

“Tell him I love him,” said Rozanov, turning his back to dig Shane’s jacket out of his bag.

Shaking his head free of the sight of Rozanov’s frankly ridiculous ass in the too-small borrowed track pants, Shane took the hallway down to the arena.

When he emerged under the fluorescent lights of the rink, Hayden was already on the ice, skating lazy figure-eights in the neutral zone.

“Hey buddy!” he whooped, skating towards the gate. He clobbered Shane with an enthusiastic hug over the boards. “Boy do I have exciting news for you. Jackie has this friend, and the friend has this friend, and he’s a pro golfer, and, get this—he’s gay!”

“About that,” said Shane.

“I know, I know. Golf isn’t a real sport,” said Hayden. “But it’s a good place to start! We’ve just got to get you out there, bud.

“Hayden,” said Shane.

“I have it all planned out for you,” said Hayden, waving the butt of his stick in the air. “We start you off with golfers, swimmers, tennis players, then you move to the big leagues. Soccer players, footballers… are there gay football players?"

“Hayden,” said Shane, baffled. “Rozanov is here.”

“Ha ha,” said Hayden. “What?”

“He’s staying at my place right now. Just so that we can figure things out with our lawyers.”

“He could do that from a hotel. Or from his place in Boston. Or from fucking Russia.”

Shane sat heavily on the bench and began to unlace his sneakers. “He could.”

“Shane,” said Hayden, leaning over the boards. “Shane, buddy. Tell me you’re not still… doing it with Rozanov.” He winced at his own euphemism. “You’re not, right?”

Shane winced too, which was obviously evidence enough for Hayden.

“Dude!” said Hayden. “You cannot let that asshole walk all over you like that!”

Shane lacked the wherewithal to explain to Hayden that ‘doing it’ with Rozanov was not exactly a hardship, and did not really qualify as being walked all over when Shane was getting spectacular sex out of it. Fortunately, Rozanov chose that exact moment to appear at the end of the tunnel from the locker rooms.

“That asshole can hear you!” he announced cheerfully, waddling down the tunnel on his skate guards. “Pike,” he said, nodding once. He pulled off his guards and shoved the gate open to step onto the ice.

“What an asshole!” Hayden hissed.

“I think he can still hear you,” said Shane. On the ice, Rozanov executed a lazy toe loop and sprinted down the ice.

“Why are you putting up with this?” said Hayden.

Shane tied a final knot on his skate and stood from the bench. “Putting up with what?”

Before he could step onto the ice, Hayden stopped him with a firm grip on his bicep and held him in place. “Shane Hollander,” he said, pitching his voice low. “You are my best friend, and I am not going to watch you break your own heart. Especially not for a mediocre Boston centre.”

“He’s not mediocre,” said Shane. He shook off Hayden’s grip and stepped onto the ice.

Shane managed to prevent Hayden from ripping out Rozanov’s throat by distracting them with stick handling drills and bag skates. He even managed to convince Rozanov to strap on the spare set of goalie pads and defend against Shane and Hayden. He failed to block more than half of Hayden’s shots and nearly all of Shane’s, but it was hard to tell if he was actually shit at defense, or if he was just goofing off.

When Rozanov managed to save one of Hayden’s sloppier shots, batting it out of the top right and aiming it at Hayden’s groin, Hayden threw his stick down and stomped towards the gate.

“Hayden,” said Shane, skating after him.

“Don’t worry about me,” said Hayden, shoving the gate open and hobbling towards the bench. He sat heavily and ripped off his skates. “You just stay over there with your—whatever he is.”

Shane blinked and slid backwards on the ice, a cold feeling suffusing through his nervous system. Hayden’s gaze remained fixed on the ground between his knees. Shane looped backwards to rejoin Rozanov at the net, legs unsteady. When he arrived, Rozanov was pulling his helmet off and scraping back sweat-soaked curls.

“You told him,” said Rozanov. He shed his goalie pads and tossed them at the growing pile of pads under the net. Shane glanced backwards and saw Hayden sling his skates over his shoulder and disappear down the tunnel.

“He’s my best friend,” said Shane. “And now he’s, fucking, mad at me or something.” His eyes were fucking burning, which was fucking embarassing. He stared at the ice, focused on the wiggly pools of reflected fluorescent light.

Rozanov finished stripping his gear and closed the gap between himself and Shane with a single stride. Shane tried to wiggle backwards out of reach, but Rozanov had already caught him by the waist and dragged Shane back towards the crease. It was easy to fall into step with him.

“I do not think he is mad at you,” said Rozanov. “I think he is mad that I am monopolizing your attention, which is understandable because I am much better looking and much better hockey player.” He crossed over sideways, dragging Shane with him. “And because he loves you,” he added.

“Monopolize,” said Shane. “Where did you learn that one?”

“Crossword. Fifteen down,” said Rozanov.

“Of course,” said Shane.

-

Shane allowed himself to be tugged around the rink for a while, matching Rozanov’s lazy crossovers, fitting his skates in the spaces between Rozanov’s long strides. After a few laps, he dragged Shane back to the gate and nudged him off the ice with a gentle pat on the ass.

“Go talk to Pike,” said Rozanov. “We cannot have Montreal’s fifteenth best player mad at his captain.”

Shane wrinkled his nose, but he unlaced his skates and went to locate Hayden. After searching a brief hunt through the hallways of the complex, Shane found him in the weight room, huffing through a set of bicep curls.

“Hayd,” said Shane, hovering on the threshold.

“Jesus!” Hayden startled and nearly dropped the weight on his foot.

“I wouldn’t have brought Rozanov to the rink if I knew you would be here,” said Shane.

Hayden stood and returned the dumbbell to the rack in front of the training room’s wall of mirrors. Shane’s own reflection was a black outline in the doorway, still and stiff.

“That’s not the fucking problem, Shane,” said Hayden.

“Then what is the fucking problem?” said Shane. “I don’t understand why you’re mad at me, because you’re never fucking mad at me, even when I’m an awful, negligent friend. I don’t understand why you’re okay with me being gay, but you’re not okay when I’m actually fucking the person I want to fuck.” He sagged under the weight of his own frustration, slamming a hand against the doorframe to hold himself upright. There were other things he wanted to say, things along the lines of, I don’t understand why I want to fuck him, but I do, but he didn’t say them because Hayden wouldn’t have any answers that Shane hadn’t already dismissed.

“Woah, buddy,” said Hayden, approaching Shane cautiously. Shane breathed deeply through his nose, aware that he had fucked this up again.

“First thing, I’m not mad at you,” said Hayden. “Second thing, bring it in. You need a hug.” He beckoned, and Shane shuffled onto the mats to receive a giant bear hug. It did wonders for the edgy anxiety jumping under his skin.

“I’m not one of your kids, Hayd,” Shane said, cheek mushed into Hayden’s shoulder.

Hayden patted Shane on the back and rested his chin on top of Shane’s head. “I know. But everyone needs a hug sometimes. Hey, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Jackie’s trying this 24-hour prime rib smoke recipe. I think it’s going to be her magnum opus.”

Shane pulled back. “I can’t just leave Rozanov alone in the apartment.”

Hayden raised his eyebrows at Shane. “You definitely could.”

“It would be… rude,” Shane said lamely.

Hayden threw his hands into the air. “Fine! Bring Rozanov. Just lead our worst enemy into the heart of Voyageur territory, I don’t care,” he said, but he was smiling and talking with the silly inflection Shane often heard him use on his cadre of hyperactive children. “He can bring the wine—and it better be expensive. I know what Boston pays him. And, look, Shane, I was only mad because I don’t want to see you get hurt. For the life of me, I don’t understand why you like him, especially after what he did to you in Vegas—

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Shane said.

“Not the point. What I mean is, if you’re happy, I’m happy. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Shane.

Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. Dinner’s at six-thirty. No wine under seventy-five dollars.”

“I think we can afford it,” said Shane.

-

Dinner with the Pike household was not a disaster.

Hayden had clearly briefed Jackie on the Rozanov situation, and when Shane rang the doorbell, she was delighted to accept the expensive vintage Rozanov had picked out. He had tested Shane’s patience at the local SAQ, perusing the aisles for much longer than was necessary.

This one or this one, Rozanov had said, holding up two identical bottles of red wine.

Don’t know. Don’t care, said Shane. Jackie likes white wine, though.

You are really not a drinker, said Rozanov, and then he had returned to the corner where the most expensive bottles were displayed in fancy wooden cubbies to spend another half an hour selecting a bottle of Riesling.

Now, he and Shane were seated at the Pike’s dining room table while Jackie crammed a corkscrew into the top of her bottle and the twins slammed their tiny, pudgy hands on either side of the multicolored plastic trays that served as their dinnerware and chanted SPAGHETTI! SPAGHETTI! SPAGHETTI! at the top of their lungs.

“Chill out, guys,” said Hayden. “Spaghetti is on its way.”

“Chill out! Chill out! Chill out!” Jade and Ruby chanted. Arthur sat quietly and made big, wet eyes at Shane from the other side of the table like he was praying for an escape to a quieter, calmer place. You and me both, Shane thought.

Shane cleared his throat. “How’s the, uh, cookbook coming, Jackie?”

“Great!” said Jackie. The cork made a satisfying pop when she tugged it free. “Just pushing it through layout edits right now. We’re going for a rustic family kitchen meets upscale farm-to-table dining vibe. Wine, anyone?”

Shane nodded as if he understood what rustic kitchen family kitchen meets upscale farm-to-table dining vibe meant. “That’s incredible,” he said.

“Wine, Ilya? Can I call you Ilya?” Jackie shook the bottle in Rozanov’s direction.

“Yes and yes,” said Rozanov, pushing his glass forward by the stem. Shane turned this newfound possibility over in his mind. Rozanov as Ilya… it felt like a transgression, somehow.

“You can call him public enemy number—” said Hayden, but Shane cut him off with a glare.

“Public enemy! Public enemy!” said Ruby and Jade, to Shane’s dismay. They were much cuter than Hayden, though, so Shane gave them a pass.

“Leave it on the ice, Pike,” said Jackie. “Check on the roast for me?” She batted her eyelashes at her husband, who obeyed instantly.

While Hayden clanged about in the kitchen, Rozanov swirled his wine and sniffed the bouquet like a veritable wine snob. Shane sipped his ginger ale and tried not to think about Rozanov’s massive hand wrapped around the delicate glass stem.

“I have great taste,” Rozanov declared, after a long swallow. Jackie laughed, and Shane knew she had been completely and totally charmed.

Dinner was fragrant and delicious and juicy and tender and all of the other words that usually described Jackie’s cooking. While Shane tore into his prime rib, Arthur and the twins happily devoured a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs each. Arthur’s noodles had been chopped lovingly into a fine mush that he seemed to enjoy pushing in his dish with his fork. Jackie had excused herself to the kitchen to check on dessert, and Hayden had followed with a thin excuse that suggested they were probably in the kitchen making out.

“Very delicious,” said Rozanov, and Shane had already begun devising a suitably unique way to continue complimenting Jackie’s cooking without being a complete weirdo, in case she was still within earshot, before he realized that Rozanov was cooing at the kids. “You know that spaghetti and meatballs is my favourite food too,” said Rozanov.

Ruby and Jade turned to look at one another with eerie twin synchronicity.

“No way,” said Ruby, banging her little fists on her plastic tray.

“Not possible,” said Jade, shaking her head.

“Is very possible,” said Rozanov. “If you are not careful, I may steal the spaghetti and eat it all up.”

“No no no no!” Jade squealed, guarding her plate zealously.

“Do not eat up our spaghetti!” Ruby shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Rozanov.

“Is out of my control,” said Rozanov, raising his hands innocently. His grin was so blinding, even in the Pike’s lamplit dining room. Shane felt frozen in his seat, watching Rozanov’s masterful game of pretend unfolding in front of him. “Sometimes, when it is late in the night, and when I am very, very hungry, I become the…” He leapt out of his seat. “SPAGHETTI MONSTER!”

The twins shrieked with glee, squealing peals of laughter so bright and forceful that the dining table shook. And then the meatballs started flying.

As soon as the twins realized where their sauce-drenched projectile had landed—dead centre on Rozanov’s white shirt—they snapped their mouths shut and shared a guilty glance. Silence rang. Arthur pushed his pasta around and blinked.

“Such bad aim!” Rozanov said, plucking the unlucky meatball out of his lap. And then—then he put it in his mouth. “You missed Hollander by a mile!” He chewed around his mouthful of meatball, and the twins shrieked and giggled and squirmed and set the whole table rocking again. Shane’s heart thumped against his chest.

“You are so gross,” said Shane, smiling so widely his cheeks had begun to ache. He snatched Rozanov’s empty plate and stacked it with the rest. “I’m taking these to the kitchen.”

“He is afraid of spaghetti monster,” Rozanov said to the twins, licking his fingers. The twins nodded. “I will show you how to make meatball catapult with spoon and fork.”

Shane toted his stack of dirty dishes towards the kitchen. Behind him, peals of laughter erupted from the dining room. He thought he even heard Arthur’s sedate giggle. He hovered on the threshold of the kitchen and peered around the doorway, in case Hayden and Jackie were having a private moment. But Hayden was just leaning against the island, and Jackie was tucking a ceramic dish inside the oven.

“They don’t look like they’re on the verge of divorce,” said Jackie. It was quiet enough that Shane wouldn’t have heard it from the dining room. Rozanov definitely wasn’t hearing it, given the happy shrieking that emanated through the wall.

“I think it’s technically an annulment,” said Hayden. “Shane was shitfaced when they got hitched. And I know Rozanov, that asshole, was trying to fuck with him.”

Jackie shut the oven and straightened. “But Shane doesn’t drink.”

Hayden shrugged. “What happens in Vegas…”

Before he could hear any more, Shane rapped on the doorframe to announce his presence, and then made an entrance like he hadn’t just been listening at the door. “I have dishes,” he announced.

Jackie ran over to pull the dishes from Shane’s hands and coo over him for being so polite, which was ridiculous since Shane hadn’t done anything particularly helpful.

“Shane!” Hayden gasped, mock betrayal written all over his face. “You left the monster alone with my children!”

“He’s actually great with them,” said Shane.

“What isn’t he great at,” Hayden grumbled. “Oh, wait. He sucks at not being an asshole!”

“Language,” said Jackie. “Dessert will be done in five. Get back out there, soldiers.”

Hayden gave Jackie a two-fingered salute and marched Shane right back out to the battle zone.

-

Jackie and Rozanov managed to polish off the bottle of wine before Shane announced it was time to go. The twins had been tucked securely into their beds, and Hayden clutched a slumbering Arthur on his hip while waving Shane goodbye from the porch. Shane reversed out of the driveway, half an eye on Rozanov in the passenger seat, glowing in the fuzzy yellow light that shone from the lamp affixed to the Pike’s garage.

Once they were on the road, Rozanov rolled his head lazily towards Shane. “Do you think Jackie cheated on Pike?” he slurred. His cheeks were flushed and his neck was totally slack, throat exposed.

Shane hit the breaks abruptly, nearly rolling through a four-way. “What?”

“No way he made half of those kids. They are too awesome,” said Rozanov.

“You’re drunk,” said Shane.

“I like Jackie,” said Rozanov.

“Oh yeah?”

“She is too awesome for Pike also.”

“What about me?” said Shane.

“What about you?” Rozanov’s thick brows furrowed.

“Am I too awesome,” Shane clarified.

“You are the awesomest, Hollander. So awesome. Awesome on ice, awesome in bed, awesome at everything. Did I say awesome in bed?”

Shane grinned. “You’re so drunk, Rozanov.”

“Not really,” said Rozanov. “Just happy.” He was silent for a moment. Shane pulled onto the highway, which was almost empty at nearly 11PM. “I think it would make me more happy if I was Ilya, instead of Rozanov,” Rozanov explained. He said it like it was an extremely rational and common sense statement. “And you could be Shane,” he added.

And because the children and the fluorescent roadway lighting and the wine he didn’t drink had caused Shane to lose all rational faculties and common sense, he said, “I can be Shane.”

-

Ilya didn’t want to book his flight back to Boston until he and Shane had heard back from the lawyers, and Shane told himself that was the reason Ilya had stuck around for almost a week.

And wasn’t that a thought—Ilya had stuck around. Ilya’s preferred coffee beans had appeared in the cabinet beside the fridge. Ilya’s travel-sized body wash had run out, and Ilya had, without consulting anyone, begun to use the expensive stuff Shane kept in his shower. Ilya had whined that he was bored out of his skull and had procured a battered Monopoly box from the back of Shane’s least used closet, declaring that no one had ever beat him, and only a fool would try.

“My turn,” said Ilya, now, nudging his piece forward on the board. His racecar narrowly missed Shane’s hotels on Pennsylvania Avenue and landed on the yet unclaimed Short Line railroad. “I’m buying. Who is Mr. Real Estate now?”

Shane twisted backwards, unfolding himself from his position bent over the sofa’s armrest. His ass was still stinging. “What the fuck?” he said, Ilya’s hot come leaking down his thigh.

“Now I have almost all railroads,” said Ilya, waving a stack of multicolored paper bills in front of Shane’s flushed face before tossing them in the general direction of the bank. “You go.”

Shane rolled onto his back and scrubbed at his eyes. When he removed his hands from his face, Ilya was leering at him from the other side of the sofa, buttoning the fly of his jeans.

“Fine. Roll for me,” said Shane. Ilya scooped up the dice and dropped them on the table, rolling a measly three, which put Shane’s battleship right on top of Ilya’s Electric Company.

“Pay up,” said Ilya, making grabby hands at Shane’s pile of cash.

“Holy shit,” said Shane, kicking his legs off the sofa to begin counting out the money he owed Ilya. “You initiated sex to win at Monopoly.”

Ilya grinned. “Why do you think I am undefeated?”

Shane tossed the throw pillow at his face and narrowly avoided knocking over the whole board. He counted himself lucky, because the only thing worse than steadily losing a week-long game of Monopoly was starting a game of Monopoly from the beginning.

As the week went on, Shane adapted to his new routine quickly. He woke up in the circle of Ilya’s arms, or with his face mashed into Ilya’s collarbone, or with Ilya’s heavy thigh shoved between his legs. Then he and Ilya fooled around in bed a bit, trading lazy kisses and handjobs until Shane mustered the willpower to climb out of bed. Then it was breakfast, then it was fucking on the couch with sweaty hands clasped, then it was Monopoly (ugh), then it was Ilya following him into the shower, then it was Shane’s off-season workout routine, then it was figuring out how to clean lube off the leg press, and then the sun set all rosy on the horizon and it was dinner, and somehow another day had slipped through Shane’s fingers.

Ilya was tending the stovetop while Shane chopped scallions to sprinkle on top of the soup. After the incident in the gym, Ilya had pulled on Shane’s shirt, and he was still wearing it now, the Voyageurs’ logo emblazoned across his back. The last sliver of sunlight blazed off the cityscape outside the kitchen window.

“Are you sure you want to use these?” said Ilya, holding up a package of noodles and peering at it skeptically through the plastic.

“Why not?” said Shane. He used the side of his knife to scoop up the little shreds of scallion and dump them into a bowl for later.

“I am not sure noodles should be made of sweet potato,” said Ilya.

“Healthy carbs,” said Shane. He didn’t really even remember what regular noodles were supposed to taste like.

“Whatever you say…” said Ilya. He had opted for fat, wheaty udon that contained, according to the label Shane had translated with his phone, about a million empty calories.

Making dinner proceeded amicably because Shane dictated the cooking instructions to Ilya, and Ilya followed them more or less to the letter. Shane could tell he was just dying to fiddle with the dials on the stovetop, or otherwise dump his own random selection of herbs and spices into the broth, and he appreciated Ilya’s restraint. When the broth was finished, Shane scooped a healthy spoonful and held it to Ilya’s lips.

“See,” said Shane. He cupped his hand under the spoon to catch any drips. “Following a recipe is better than making shit up.”

Ilya wrapped his lips around the spoon and slurped up the broth with more vigor than was strictly necessary. “Mmm mm mm,” he said, chasing the spoon when Shane pulled it away. “More please.” He didn’t manage to get the spoon back in his mouth, but he did succeed at planting a salty, umami kiss on Shane’s lips. Shane tore himself away before kissing could get in the way of eating dinner. Ilya was still chasing after his mouth, so Shane held him back by the biceps and walked him backwards to the kitchen island, shoving him onto a stool so Shane could serve them each a bowl.

Ilya slurped up his bowl enthusiastically, a thick coil of noodles wound around the chopsticks he operated expertly. His knee knocked against Shane’s, and his elbow brushed Shane’s shoulder every time he went in for another spoonful of soup. The apartment was dim and quiet save for the yellow light spilling from the pendant lamps hanging above the island, and Ilya’s presence was a warm, round thing that made Shane’s apartment feel less like an expensive rental property and more like a house he could actually stand to live in.

Ilya sucked up the last of his noodles and pushed his bowl away. He swivelled towards Shane so that his knee was tucked between Shane’s thighs.

“Who knew Shane Hollander is such a homemaker,” said Ilya, sliding his hand up Shane’s thigh, over his jeans.

“It’s just dinner,” said Shane. He couldn’t help but lean towards Ilya. Especially in this weird time and space where he could have as much of Ilya as he wanted. He was unaccustomed to feeling so greedy—like he was shovelling handfuls of Ilya onto his plate so that he could finally eat his fill. Stuffing Ilya in his pockets so that he could save him for later. Cramming as much Ilya in his arms as he could carry. There was a parallel Earth, if Hayden’s shitfaced ramblings were to be believed, where Shane got to have this all the time. Where the cheap rings Shane and Ilya had woken up wearing were genuine gold and skin-warm from constant wear. Where there were no Zoom meetings with lawyers and no invisible timer ticking down and down and down until the moment where Shane no longer had an excuse to play house with the man that fucked him once every few weeks during the season.

“It was good,” said Ilya. He bent at the waist and kissed Shane softly, didn’t even open his mouth and try to cram his tongue inside like he usually did. It was like he had been totally sated by Shane’s makeshift version of his mother’s homemade ramen, or like he had never even contemplated the scientific impossibility of parallel Earths because he was perfectly content with this one.

That evening, Shane and Ilya failed to make it to the bedroom, and fucked on the living room floor. Shane’s nails left crescent moon indents in the soft shag of the carpet when Ilya took him on his hands and knees, his hot hands wrapped around Shane’s hips to pull him back into his thrusts with bruising force. Shane came first, collapsing onto his stomach, and Ilya finished on top of him, grinding into Shane with tiny, euphoric circles of his hips.

Shane panted his exhaustion into the carpet, starfished in the centre of his own living room with Ilya draped on top of him.

“Can I stay longer,” said Ilya into the back of Shane’s neck. “Just until lawyers have solved Vegas business.”

Shane nodded, which in effect meant dragging his cheek against the carpet. It wasn’t so soft on the skin of his face, or his softening dick.

“Yeah,” Shane panted. “Until then.”

-

The lawyer’s deliberated, emailing drafts back and forth for Shane and Ilya to sign, and Shane lived his life in delicious limbo. The problem was that there wasn’t much to do in the apartment besides Monopoly and sex. Since Monopoly invariably led to arguments, and arguments invariably led to sex, and there was only so many times one could have sex in a day (Ilya protested this point), Shane swallowed his paranoia about being recognized, and bundled Ilya into the car for a day trip to the Biodome.

When they arrived, Ilya regarded the building with unconcealed disdain. An oversized banner above the entrance boasted AMAZING MANTA RAYS — ONLY UNTIL JULY 4TH!

“This is what you do for fun?” said Ilya.

“I’m very boring, I know,” said Shane, dragging Ilya inside. “Come on. You’ll like the otters.”

Shane navigated the maze of velvet rope between the entrance and ticketing counter, towing Ilya behind him. Ilya’s baseball cap was tucked low down his forehead, how Shane had insisted he wear it. He had also vetoed Ilya’s Bears t-shirt and provided him with a plain hoodie instead. He looked very un-Ilya, bundled in Shane’s soft, nondescript clothing. Although he had suitably disguised himself and Ilya, Shane still scanned the lobby for covertly pointed cellphone cameras. There weren’t any. It was the sticky, slow end of June—too late in the year for school trips, too early for summer camps, and just boring enough for Montreal’s elderly population to be taking advantage of the sixty-five and up admission discount.

When they arrived at the ticket window, a bored-looking teenager popped her gum and drummed her pen on the laminate countertop. She sold Shane two adult passes with the air of someone who was counting down the seconds until her shift ended, not a spark of recognition in her eyes.

“Is the manta ray exhibit included in regular admission?” Shane asked. Beside him, Ilya was toying with the stack of museum brochures declaiming FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY and AMAZING ANIMALS and INTERACTIVE ACTIVITIES.

She popped her gum and tapped her pen. “Twenty dollars extra. You want?”

Ilya abandoned his brochure and stuck his head back in the window. “Definitely we do,” he drawled. Shane shot him a glare, but Ilya was oblivious, toying with the plastic display of brochures while Shane stuck his card in the machine.

“Game plan,” said Ilya. “Sharks, then lions, then boring manta rays and otters. Nothing else worth seeing.” He adjusted his hair, knocking the brim of his cap higher on his forehead, and Shane reached up reflexively to tug it back down. Ilya caught Shane’s wrist and lowered it slowly to his side. “Do not be so paranoid. No one is at boring aquarium anyways.”

The warm circle of Ilya’s grasp disappeared and Shane curled his fingers into his palm. “I don’t think they have any lions.”

Ilya groaned theatrically. “What is even the point of Biodome if no lions.”

“To like, learn about the diversity of animal life on Earth,” said Shane.

“Wow, Shane. Did you read textbook before coming?” Ilya drawled.

Shane glared, but the warmth of his name in Ilya’s mouth had already suffused into his bloodstream, and now his fingers were tingling with it, and a smile was spreading across his jaw. “Shut up,” he said.

Ilya stuck his tongue out, but he gestured for Shane to lead the way.

The first stop was the fish. Cavernous rooms with giant glass walls were full of them, blue light staining Shane’s skin. Ilya seemed to enjoy pressing his face to the glass like an oversized child and identifying the most dangerous looking fish.

“No sharks, Shane,” he whined.

Shane shushed him, though there was no one else in the room.

“What is it with you and sharks?” Shane asked, admiring a school of tropical fish flit between the gaps in a reef.

Ilya glanced briefly over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows like this was the most obvious question in the whole world.

“Sharks are living fossil,” Ilya explained. “Nature’s most perfect predators. So deadly they have not changed for millions of years.”

“Are you sure you didn’t read a textbook?” said Shane.

Ilya flipped him off over his shoulder and moved onto the next tank, an explosion of anemones and urchins replete with a rainbow of striped and spotted fish. Shane wandered over to stand beside Ilya and follow his gaze, trying to identify what interested Ilya.

Ilya pointed at a skittish, brown fish that was being bullied into the corner by a much larger fish with bright, billowing fins. “That one is you,” he said. “Because I can push you around so easily.” Ilya grinned at his own joke, wide and toothy and not unlike a shark staring down a tasty morsel. Shane’s pulse jumped, but Ilya had already moved on, tapping impatiently at the window of the next tank to encourage a shy octopus to evacuate its rocky fortress.

Ilya was not particularly interested in the invertebrates, though he did enjoy sticking his hands in the interactive tank to pet the horseshoe crabs. Shane had not often observed Ilya outside of a rink, or a hotel room, or a stuffy banquet hall, or his own apartment, and he drank in all the little things he had never noticed before. The way Ilya moved through the world with tactile abandon, touching and pressing and caressing every object he encountered. The way he marched from one exhibit to the next in no apparent order, completely certain of his desires. The way he circled Shane almost without noticing, herding Shane towards a tank or terrarium to stand beside Ilya if he had strayed too far.

At noon, they stopped at the Biodome’s nearly empty cafeteria to buy lunch in little prepackaged plastic containers. While Shane groused at the options, Ilya selected a BLT for himself and shoved a little cup of chia seed pudding into Shane’s hands. “Healthy mush. Your favourite,” he said, and waited for Shane to pay for everything, even though he had his own credit card and a bank account that was, if TSN was to be believed, significantly deeper than Shane’s.

Ilya fetched plastic cutlery and dragged Shane towards a small bistro-style table in the corner. He munched happily on his sandwich while Shane poked at his blueberry-topped chia goop.

“Are there aquariums in Russia?” said Shane. “Sorry—stupid question. Everywhere has aquariums.”

Ilya regarded Shane over his sandwich, his cheeks stuffed with a hearty mouthful. “There is one in Moscow, but I have never been. My niece tells me there are orcas.”

“Did you read about those in your shark textbook too?” Shane teased.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Ilya, completely serious. “Orcas are mammals and sharks are fish. So there are no orcas in shark textbook. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” said Shane. Between teasing Ilya and rolling his eyes, Shane managed a full scoop of chia seed pudding, which actually didn’t taste bad, and helped to quell the anxious twisting of his stomach that always occurred when he was in public. “Mammal,” he noted. “Fancy word.”

“Fancier in Russian,” said Ilya. His mouth curved elegantly around a thick cluster of consonants that Shane had a hard time believing represented a single noun.

“Muh-lek-ko-pi-tay-uh-she,” Shane tried, mimicking the syllables he remembered. The way Ilya spoke his native language felt impossible to grasp—too large to fit on his tongue, too subtle to shape with his lips and teeth.

Ilya grinned, the fluorescent overhead lighting shining on the bridge of his nose. “Almost.”

“You learn that one from the crossword too?”

“Not that one,” said Ilya.

“So what would you do for fun in Russia?” Shane asked.

“Not aquarium,” said Ilya.

“Then what?”

“Club, bar, party,” said Ilya.

“Other than that,” Shane pushed.

“What is there other than that?” Ilya asked.

Shane blinked. “I don’t know. When I was twelve, I used to beg my parents to take me and my best friend snowboarding.” He omitted the part where, at the tender age of twelve-and-a-half, he had witnessed a snowboarder break her leg on the slopes, and had not voluntarily submitted to alpine sports since. “I liked the history museum too. It had hockey stuff, sometimes.”

“So you are asking what I would do for fun in Russia if I was twelve-year-old,” Ilya said. “If I was boring twelve-year-old like Shane Hollander, probably aquarium.”

Shane raised his hands in frustration, throttling an invisible neck. The sole staff member manning the cafe shot him a glance like he was concerned for Shane’s sanity. “Let’s go,” Shane announced. “If you’re going to be like that.”

“Be like what?” said Ilya, grinning again.

“An asshole,” said Shane.

-

The Biodome ended outside, on a sunny tarmac where the otters were housed. Ilya had folded his arms on the top of the rail that surrounded their enclosure and rested his chin in his hands, transfixed by the furry tangle of limbs that writhed happily in a plastic kiddie pool full of ice cubes. Shane stood as close as was safe, his bicep brushing Ilya’s elbow.

“I take it back,” said Ilya. “You are not boring brown fish. You are otter.”

“Yeah?” Shane said absently. The female otter nipped at her companion, tackling it onto its back to continue the game of wriggling and rolling.

Ilya turned his head, exposing his face to the midday sun. It glowed on the smooth plains of his cheeks, the impossible curves of his mouth. Shane squinted down at him, hidden under a thick layer of SPF and sunglasses.

“Cute but deadly,” said Ilya.

Shane felt his cheeks heat, unrelated to the sun beating down on his head.

“Is true,” said Ilya. “I am not liar.”

“Shut up,” said Shane, hiding his face in the collar of his quarter zip. “You’re like a fucking—” he pointed wildly at the penguins on the other side of the courtyard, who were huddled together and squawking. “A penguin. Loud and annoying.” He identified one particular penguin with strange yellow feathers tufting off its head like giant, arched eyebrows. It seemed to be the boss of the other penguins, and shoved its companions back into line with its round belly. “That one,” he said, pointing it out.

“Funny joke, Shane,” said Ilya. “Everyone knows if I am an animal, I am lionfish. Handsome and dangerous.” He settled back in to watch the otters, and Shane couldn’t even refute him, because he was kind of right. Ilya was flagrant and beautiful and wore his intractable attitude like a coat of poisonous spines. Those spines were puffed on the ice, and he used his pretty colors to draw penalties, but Shane understood that he was tender flesh underneath it all .

He watched Ilya watch the otters play, and wondered where Ilya had accrued such an arsenal of aquatic animal facts, and also when he had fallen in love with the man he had been fucking for five years, playing for six, and who he had incidentally married three weeks ago in Las Vegas.

-

Ilya had purchased a dinky little otter statuette at the Biodome’s enormous gift shop and, upon returning to Shane’s apartment, deposited it on the end table beside the sofa where it perched now underneath a lamp. A delicate metal plaque on the base read MONTREAL, QC and glinted in the yellow light.

Only tourists buy that stuff, Shane had griped when Ilya plucked the figurine from a shelf with a hundred identical otter souvenirs and waved it in Shane’s face, grinning.

I will need something to remember my trip, said Ilya, before marching the otter straight to the cash.

Now, in his lamp-lit living room with Ilya’s head in his lap, Shane looked at the stupid statuette and wondered if Ilya would take it with him when he left. Because that was what Shane knew to be true. The lawyers would send the final draft of the petition, and Ilya would leave, and, on paper, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov would never have been married, would never have played the world’s longest game of Monopoly in Shane’s apartment, would never have fucked during the day, would never have traded stupid insults at the world-famous Montreal Biodome. Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov would be this thing made of mind-blowing orgasms and kisses that went on a little too long, this thing that only existed in hotel rooms on game nights, this thing that no one could talk about, least of all Shane.

“What are you thinking?” said Ilya, nuzzling the inside of Shane’s thigh like an oversized cat. “Nothing,” said Shane.

“Liar,” said Ilya. He smacked a kiss on the inside of Shane’s knee, and then pushed his head into Shane’s hand for more petting. “I can always tell when you are thinking.”

And that was true—Ilya had always been eerily perceptive. He had anticipated Shane’s desires before Shane even put a name to what he wanted.

“I’m thinking about my cottage,” Shane lied.

“Cottage?” Ilya rumbled.

“I’m building one right now,” said Shane. “Near Parry Sound.”

“What the fuck is Parry Sound,” said Ilya.

“It’s like, Northern Ontario,” said Shane. “Not Northern Northern Ontario. But like, a little bit Northern. My parents own a cottage ten minutes away, so I grew up spending the summers there.”

“Will it be big fucking mansion cottage or little wood shack cottage,” Ilya asked.

“Definitely a big fucking mansion cottage,” said Shane. There were plans for two floors, three bedrooms and the largest, clearest windows money could buy. “I want to retire there someday.”

“Already thinking about retirement, Hollander?” Ilya teased. Shane threaded his fingers through Ilya’s curls and tugged, but Ilya only groaned and pushed his face into Shane’s thigh again. He had never spent so much time near Shane’s lap without attempting to rip open his fly. But this Ilya seemed content to be scratched and petted without the promise of an orgasm at the end. It felt good—this quiet intimacy—and Shane did as he was bid, running his fingers through Ilya’s curls and scratching Ilya’s scalp.

“You wish,” said Shane. “I have at least two decades left in me.”

“You will play until you are one hundred thousand years old like Scott Hunter?”

“Even older,” said Shane. “What about you?”

Ilya gave a one-shouldered shrug in Shane’s lap. His long legs and torso were sprawled across three-quarters of the sofa, and Shane had been shoved into the corner. “I will play until I cannot play anymore, or until I find something I like better.”

“There’s nothing better,” said Shane. There wasn’t. There was Ilya’s head in his lap, but that was another order of thing. That was unquantifiable.

Ilya shrugged again. “Maybe. In childhood, there were two things I liked a lot. Hockey, and my mother. I liked hockey because it was fun and because I was good at it, but also because she told me that when I played, I was the happiest she had ever seen, and she liked when I was happy. Later, I liked hockey for adrenaline and trophies and parties and sex and cars and money. But first I liked my mother when she was happy.”

Shane slid his hand out of Ilya’s hair and cupped his cheek because he knew what was coming. The grand tragedy of his life was that he never had a clue where a conversation that wasn’t about hockey was going, but this time he knew, and it felt like his lungs were shrivelling inside his chest.

“She died,” said Ilya. “When I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry,” said Shane, which was woefully inadequate in the face of a terrible, heart-wrenching bloom of empathy unlike anything he had ever felt before. “I bet she was great.”

Ilya nodded, rubbing his cheek against Shane’s thigh. “She was. She gave me this.” He wriggled his arm out from where it was crushed between the sofa and his torso, and fished the crucifix from underneath his shirt. Shane reached for it, and Ilya placed it delicately in his cupped palm.

“I wondered…” said Shane, fingering the skin-warm metal. It glinted. Everything glinted. Ilya’s curls, his eyes, the oil on the surface of his skin, the tiny, stupid plaque on the tiny, stupid otter.

“Now you know me,” Ilya said. He shifted in Shane’s lap so that his head was tilted up at Shane and smiled softly. It wasn’t one of those shark-toothed grins, or one of those lusty leers. It was small and delicate and accompanied by wet eyes. “Cannot keep secrets from my husband.”

“Happy spouse, happy house,” said Shane, weakly.

“Spouse?” said Ilya, lifting his head.

“Gender-neutral version of husband or wife,” Shane explained.

Ilya relaxed his neck, resettling his head on Shane’s thighs. Shane closed his fist around the crucifix, still cradled in his palm. “Ah. I will remember that one for crossword. Tell me more about cottage now.”

Shane nodded, though Ilya had already turned his cheek back into Shane’s thighs and was angling for another hand in his hair. Shane gave it to him, stroking over Ilya’s head and neck while he recounted the cottage—the still empty plot of land, the forest that sloped gently upwards, the porch that faced the sunrise, and the dock that extended endlessly into the water.

-

In just six days, Ilya had practically moved into Shane’s bedroom. Tired of cleaning up after Ilya when he dug through his bag for semi-clean clothing each morning, Shane had simply laundered Ilya’s four shirts and three pants and transferred them to his own closet. The bag was tucked away in the guestroom, where Ilya hadn’t slept in days. Now, Ilya was hogging the ensuite shower, no doubt wasting Shane’s expensive bodywash. Shane curled into the pillows and waited for Ilya to emerge towel-clad and glistening.

Before he had fully relaxed, his phone chimed. Shane rolled onto his stomach to paw at it, and nearly knocked it off the nightstand. He caught the clunky thing with two fingers and drew it into his hoard of pillows and sheets. He flicked open the phone and tapped on the latest notification without thinking. Then his email exploded in front of him.

Subject: First draft 🎉

Mei Tsai <[email protected]>

To: Shane Hollander <[email protected]>

Cc: Ilya Rozanov <[email protected]>; Ksenia Cholodenko <[email protected]>; Jeff Hughes <[email protected]>

Hi Shane,

Please find attached the first complete draft of your and Mr. Rozanov’s joint petition for annulment in the state of Nevada. Sign and complete the indicated lines. If all goes well, the petition can be filed tomorrow afternoon.

Congrats!

Mei

Joint_Petition_for_Anullment_(No_Children).pdf

Shane didn’t realize how long he had been angrily staring at his phone until Ilya swaggered out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Where is your mouthwash,” he demanded, toothbrush dangling from his lips.

Shane buried his face in the pillows. Congrats! The word knocked around his hollow head.

“Mei emailed,” he said, muffled. “They have a draft.”

The mattress dipped when Ilya planted his ass next to Shane’s head. He was going to leave a wet spot on the bed, and Shane would have to change the sheets. When he changed the sheets, they wouldn’t smell faintly like Ilya’s cologne, which was kind of repellant anyways, and smelled how what Shane imagined a European nightclub smelled: smoky and dark and intoxicating.

“This is good, yes?” said Ilya.

“Yep,” Shane said to the pillows.

“After annulment, you can go back to being eligible bachelor Shane Hollander, partying every night. No more ball and chain,” said Ilya. The joke fell flat in the dark of Shane’s bedroom. He forced himself to roll again and stared at Ilya with eyes that were reddening and a mouth he knew he was unable to control when he was overwhelmed with feeling.

“Shane,” said Ilya.

“Ilya,” said Shane.

“You know, this thing… it is not possible for us,” said Ilya.

Shane stared past Ilya, at the ceiling. An ache in his temple made itself known. “But tell me you felt it,” said Shane. “This week. Even if it’s not possible. Tell me I’m not the stupidest fucking guy on the planet.” Ilya reached for him, knuckles barely grazing Shane’s cheek, but Shane tilted his head away. “Don’t touch me until you answer.”

“It’s just fucking,” said Ilya, but he was still perched on the edge of the mattress, his hand frozen in the air. His fingers twitched as though they wanted to touch Shane very much. “We made mistake in Vegas, and now we can go back to just fucking. ”

“Say it again,” Shane dared.

“It’s just fucking,” said Ilya.

Shane narrowed his eyes. “Again.”

“It’s just…” Ilya trailed off. His hand hovered above Shane’s cheek. “It hurts me to say it. Please, can I touch you? I will fuck you so well.”

“No,” said Shane, who had never denied Ilya contact with his body in his life. He pushed himself up the headboard and seated himself against it so he could look Ilya in the eye. Was it the lazy afternoon light that made Ilya’s eyes appear glossy, or were they wet? “Let’s use words,” Shane insisted. “Let’s just use them one time and see how it goes, okay?”

Ilya’s mouth twisted, but he folded his hands in his lap. “Okay. What words will you use?”

Shane’s pulse slammed against his chest. He inhaled and braced his muscles for impact, like he was sailing towards the net with a D-man on his tail.

“I’m gay, and I like having sex with you. A lot,” said Shane. It was the only way he could think to say it. “The first time we did it, I thought I would die if I didn’t do it again. I still feel like that sometimes.” Fuck it, he thought, and added: “I wanted to hold your hand at the Biodome.”

“These are not revelations,” said Ilya, softly.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Your turn,” he prompted.

Ilya seemed to consider his words carefully before speaking. “You did not have to invite me here, or bring me to Pike’s house for dinner, or cook me food you cannot even eat, or sleep beside me every night. But you did, and I am grateful. I will miss you when I leave. Your turn.” He said it as easily as he did during their increasingly short bouts of Monopoly. Your turn. Shane and Ilya had bought out half the board each, and there wasn’t really much point in still playing.

“I really want you to touch me,” said Shane. “I don’t know why I said you couldn’t.”

“Does not count,” said Ilya, a twisty grin spreading across his jaw. “Try again.”

“I wasn’t drunk in Vegas,” said Shane. “I fucking lied to the lawyers. Technically, we should be getting divorced. Jesus Christ, if my mom knew, I would be in so much shit. Your turn.”

Ilya blinked. “I am sorry for fucking up your life by marrying you,” he said. “I think I am maybe a bad person, because I want to fuck up your life forever.”

“What about your life?” said Shane.

Ily gave a wry grin and shrugged. The motion loosened a drop of water in his hair, which landed on his collarbone and rolled a sensuous path down the mound of his pec. “Ah, my life is already fucked up. Marrying Shane Hollander would not make it any worse. But I think…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I think we should be smart and unfuck our lives. There is probably middle ground between ‘just fucking’ and ‘married.’”

“Then fucking touch me,” Shane pleaded.

Ilya was on him in a second. His towel had fallen away, and he was going straight for Shane’s mouth, cradling the back of Shane’s head so that Ilya could kiss him how he liked, deep and forceful and wet. Ilya ate his mouth like a starving man, and Shane surrendered to the primordial force of it. Ilya was a hurricane that had swept inside his bedroom and flipped the world upside down with the force of his kisses, had uprooted Shane and planted him in a world where he could have what he wanted.

But Ilya pulled back quickly. Shane blinked, suddenly cold.

“I have an idea,” said Ilya, and then he was sliding off the bed and sprinting out of the room.

“What the fuck,” Shane whispered. His heart bounced an erratic tempo. The bedroom looked the same as it always had, save the dresser, which was cracked open to reveal a well-worn Boston Bears tee on a hanger alongside Shane’s hoodies and quarter-zips. He counted the knots in the wooden dresser and managed his breathing until Ilya returned.

Ilya reappeared in the doorway, naked and silhouetted by the light in the hall. He crawled back up the bed and settled with a thigh on either side of Shane’s hips. His fist drew Shane’s attention, closed over his lap. His dick was thick, even half-hard and resting against his thigh, and Shane’s head spun with it.

“Here,” said Ilya, opening his hand under Shane’s nose.

Cradled in Ilya’s oversized palm, were two golden rings. A pair of fat, rectangular rhinestones caught the light and glittered. That was the ring that had glinted on Ilya’s finger as he sucked down cigarette after cigarette on the bed. That was the ring that Shane had ripped off his finger and tossed on the nightstand for Ilya to deal with, furious with Ilya for marrying him, and even more furious with himself for letting Ilya lay him out and fuck him again afterwards.

“I tried to get rid of them… but I could not,” said Ilya.

“Were they… in your bag?” said Shane. He reached for Ilya’s hand and ran the edge of his thumb over a ring. The metal was cold, biting at his fingertip.

“Yes. The whole time,” said Ilya. He clasped Shane’s hand, sandwiching the rings between them. “I told myself you did not feel how I felt. That I was easy fuck for you, nothing more. But I kept thinking, I am married to Shane Hollander. I could not stop thinking it. I am obsessed, I think.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Shane,

Ilya stopped him with a palm in the center of Shane’s chest. “Be patient. I have a question for you.”

“Fuck you,” said Shane, so worked up he was dizzy with it.

Ilya slid their hands apart and plucked a ring from his palm. He handed the other to Shane. “So… are you sober now?”

Shane clutched the ring so tightly he felt the metal creak. “You’re going to kill me. Yes, I’m fucking sober. Are you fucking sober?”

“I am drunk on you, like always,” said Ilya stupidly. He extended one hand, the ring pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger. When Shane looked through the circle of it, his life extended infinitely forwards and backwards. Vegas was nothing compared to this moment. Nothing was anything before this moment, really.

“You want this with me? You are sure?” said Ilya.

Shane rolled his eyes and discovered they were wet. “Put it on me,” he said, thrusting his hand at Ilya. Ilya caught it and pressed a sloppy kiss to Shane’s knuckles.

“When we are older,” said Ilya, “when we are fossils like Scott Hunter and the league is begging us to retire, when we are not so stupid and famous, we will do this again. The second it is possible, we will charter a plane to Vegas and do it again. And there will be no lawyers. It will be forever.” He slipped the ring onto Shane’s finger.

Shane faltered, unsure that there was any way he could top Ilya’s romantic proclamation. He went for the tried and true strategy of embarrassing honesty. “I probably love you,” said Shane, slipping the matching ring on Ilya’s finger.

“Probably?” Ilya said. He held Shane’s hand in his hand, the rings sliding against one another.

“I think so,” said Shane.

“For that, you deserve blowjob,” said Ilya, and slithered down Shane’s body.

Ilya tugged Shane’s boxers down just low enough to release his cock, and swallowed it to the root. Ilya’s throat rippled around him, and Shane arched off the mattress, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets. Ilya applied wet, expert suction for thirty seconds before pulling off to suck in a breath and smack a kiss to Shane’s hipbone.

He looked at Shane with his wet blue-green eyes and his mouth slack with want. “I probably love you too,” he said.

Then he went back down, and Shane slid his hand into Ilya’s hair, content to watch the ring glint in time with the steady bobbing of Ilya’s head.

-

Shane awoke with terrible difficulty, shedding sleep like a thick blanket. He nosed sleepily at the pillow and discovered the pillow was a muscled chest. An equally sleepy groan rumbled through the chest, and an arm emerged from beneath the duvet to throw the sheets over Shane’s head. Shane blustered and clawed his way out of his linen prison and poked Ilya in the side.

“Too early,” said Ilya, thickly.

“Wake up, asshole,” said Shane.

Ilya rolled over and buried his head in the pillows, slamming one over his head and effectively blocking Shane from view. There was an easy solution. Shane climbed atop Ilya’s torso, sat his full weight on Ilya’s solar plexus. The ring glinted when Shane’s hand passed beneath a thin sunbeam.

After a minute of poking softly at Ilya’s exposed jaw, Shane peeled back the pillow covering Ilya’s head. Ilya emerged grumpy and mussed, but he snaked a hand down to squeeze Shane’s hip, so Shane counted himself successful.

“We should leave for the airport at one,” said Shane.

Ilya craned his neck to squint at the alarm clock. “Is only eight, so you can let me sleep,” he slurred.

Shane patted his cheeks. “Come on. I’ll make you pancakes.”

At that, Ilya perked up, lifting his head slightly from the pillows. The movement caused his abdomen to ripple between Shane’s legs. A matching frisson of pleasure curled in Shane’s gut.

“Real pancakes?” said Ilya. “With real eggs and flour?”

“Real eggs, buckwheat flour,” Shane bartered.

Ilya pouted. “Real eggs, real flour… fake sugar.”

“Coconut sugar it is,” said Shane. He patted Ilya on the side and made to climb off the bed, but Ilya had wrapped another hand around Shane’s hip and anchored Shane to his lap.

“Mm, I changed my mind,” said Ilya. He squeezed the fat on Shane’s hips. “There is something else I would rather eat.”

Shane feigned guilt and made big, apologetic eyes at Ilya. “Sorry. We only have pancakes on the menu.”

“I think there is secret menu,” said Ilya, sliding one hand off Shane’s hip to cup him through his briefs. “For very special customers only.”

It was a good start to the morning. Shane rode Ilya hard, nose to nose and ring-bearing hands intertwined. He panted into Ilya’s mouth and kissed lazily when he remembered to kiss. Afterwards, he shoved Ilya into the shower, received an enthusiastic blowjob, and then stood beside Ilya in the foggy mirror while Ilya shaved.

By the time Shane made it to the kitchen, breakfast had been delayed by an hour and a half, leaving him only three hours and change to prepare and feed Ilya the best diet-appropriate pancakes known to man, and also contend with the fact that an impossible week and a half with Ilya had not been nearly enough for him. He settled for pouring everything he felt into the batter and serving Ilya a sky-high tower of fluffy, coconutty pancakes with a side of real maple syrup and a fancy espresso from the Keurig.

Ilya munched happily, spearing giant forkfulls of pancake and stuffing them in his cheeks. He had crept a hand across the island’s granite surface to twine his hand with Shane’s while he ate. “You are a very good husband, Shane Hollander,” Ilya announced, around a mouthful of pancake. Shane preened and squeezed his hand. He nibbled on his own breakfast, which was not as decadent nor as likely to cause diabetes as Ilya’s.

“I love you,” Shane said stupidly. These past few days, he couldn’t stop saying it. Ilya would be sprawled on the couch, a lazy hand in his sweats, and the words jumped out of Shane’s throat. Ilya would be stooping to pluck his own dirty shirt from the floor, and Shane couldn’t stop himself from saying it. Ilya would be fucking with Shane’s iPad when Shane had passed it to him to sign on the dotted fucking line for the lawyers, and Shane would forget his frustration, overcome by a tsunami of affection, and then the words just spilled out.

“Ya tozhe,” said Ilya, easily. He forked the last bite of pancake, pushed it around in the lake of syrup on his plate, and then slid his plate towards Shane. “More pancakes, please.”

The morning slid away, syrupy and slow, until Ilya was standing at the door with his bag slung over his shoulder, and Shane was staring at the sneakers arrayed on the shoe rack, as if making the correct choice of footwear would prevent Ilya from leaving. He had to leave. This was a universal constant. It was harder and easier to let him go now that he knew he could have Ilya as much as he wanted. Now that he knew he was entitled to Ilya, he had become greedy and jealous and wished he could hoard Ilya inside his apartment forever. Feed him breakfast foods and play endless games of Monopoly and fuck him on the sofa and look at the fish in the aquarium.

“After boot camp, I will be back in three weeks to celebrate end of marriage,” said Ilya. Shane morosely selected a pair of Reeboks and knelt to adjust the laces. Ilya reached down and carded a hand through his hair while Shane finished with his shoes. There was still the drive to the airport, but Shane would take all the contact he could get. “We should get a cake, yes?”

“I don’t eat cake,” Shane said. Ilya hauled him up by the wrist and crushed Shane to his front, pressing his mouth into the top of Shane’s head.

“You can have cake one time,” said Ilya. “I will go to cake person at grocery store and ask for cake that says, ‘Congratulations Shane and Ilya!’”

Shane crammed his head under the hollow of Ilya’s jaw and spoke into his warm skin. His nose brushed the spectacular topography of moles on Ilya’s neck. “They’ll think we’re getting married,” he mumbled.

“Well, we did not have congratulations cake the first time, so maybe we are owed one now,” Ilya pointed out.

“If we have a real wedding party, I’m inviting Hayden.” Shane wrapped an arm around Ilya’s neck and kissed his collarbone.

“I’m inviting Jackie,” said Ilya. He squeezed Shane tightly, and then pulled back. He had donned his usual backwards baseball cap and dark clothing, looking very much like the Ilya that had arrived at Shane’s apartment a week and a half ago. He was and he wasn’t that same Ilya. Shane was and wasn’t the same Shane. Ilya ran a hand down Shane’s side. The ring was absent from his finger, but Shane knew it was tucked safely underneath his shirt, nestled against the crucifix on his chain.

“One more kiss from my husband,” said Ilya. Shane leaned in.