Chapter Text
[TRANSCRIPTION OF WHAT CHAOS! PODCAST EP. - 10/10/17]
PETE B: All right. We are back and ready to discuss the hottest new updates of the season so far.
DJ BEAN: You can say you’re talking about Hollander. You don’t have to tease.
PETE: Aw, come on. You know we don’t play favorites.
DJ: I’m just saying what everybody else is already thinking here. We gotta keep it honest.
PETE: I’ll admit, he’s had a pretty incredible start to the season so far.
DJ: Fucking incredible!
PETE: Well, let’s talk about it.
DJ: I mean, he’s always been a great player to watch. Smart. Strategic. It’s fun, you know?
PETE: What’s even more exciting is that he knows what he’s doing. He’s got the brains to match the skill. Like, where do you even go from here? He’s at the top of his game. Maybe a controversial opinion, but better than he’s ever been, I think.
DJ: Agreed. Is that really controversial? I don’t know, but whatever he’s doing, I hope he keeps it up.
PETE: Yeah, me too. [...] You do have to wonder though, sometimes, with a player like Hollander, how’s he going to keep people on their toes?
DJ: What do you mean?
PETE: Like, this is a guy who knows everything there is to know about hockey. It’s second nature at this point.
DJ: Right.
PETE: And yet, he still manages to keep things interesting.
DJ: I think it’s ‘cause he holds his cards so close to his chest. Right? We’ve seen this guy navigate his way through so many interviews, drama, fan theories and discourse without ever letting us in on the things he doesn’t wanna share. He seems pretty private.
PETE: True. Sometimes I wish you were more like that.
DJ: Hey! Fuck off.
PETE: Honesty, remember? But, yeah, anyway—I think Hollander is a pretty private person for sure. We see a lot of players, who, you know, they talk a big game and then at the end of the season, there’s this kind of … disappointment, maybe? Like, you wanna root for somebody you know can back up their promises.
DJ: Is this a Rozanov reference? The infamous fifty goal promise?
PETE: It was pretty infamous, wasn’t it? But, no, I mean—they’re both great players. Seeing them on the same line was, like, surreal.
DJ: And they have such different strategies, you know? Really makes things fun to watch when you’ve got that energy on the ice.
PETE: So we’ve got a player who won’t even share his shoe size—
DJ: Though we can probably guarantee he’s wearing Reeboks.
PETE: Hey, not sponsored on our end, by the way!
DJ: Reebok, if you hear this—
PETE: So! Like I was saying, you’ve got a player who thrives on sharing nothing, and then we’ve got a player who lays it all out, who maybe would benefit from sharing a little less, even.
DJ: Oh, no.
PETE: No?
DJ: No. I think Rozanov is just as private. He knows how to wind people up, sure. But that’s just part of the strategy, right? It’s still the game.
PETE: So, when we think about our running theme we’ve got going here—do you think we can expect some of the same things from them this upcoming season? Or do you think they’ll surprise us?
DJ: Oh, with them? Surprises, definitely.
PETE: You think so?
DJ: Yeah. Expect the unexpected, right?
PETE: I feel like that’s easier said than done for someone like Hollander.
DJ: Maybe he can take a few pointers from Rozanov. [...] Is that going to get me in trouble? Saying that?
PETE: Probably. Did you guys hear that? They’re clipping it right now. I think that’s some kind of hockey law you just broke. You’re going to be on a list.
DJ: Fuck. There goes the Reebok deal.
PETE: Not spons!
2018
M A R C H
He’s been thinking a lot lately about time.
It feels like yesterday he first strapped on a pair of skates. It feels simultaneously like it’s been weeks and decades he’s known Ilya. Feels like, as far back as he can possibly remember, there’s been pressure.
It’s not performing except for the fact that it sort of is. Shane doesn’t so much want things for himself as he wants not to disappoint someone else; clarity for the sake of trying not to mess up rather than for comfort.
He can feel it, sometimes. Tightening up like a vine around his rib cage and pulling taut, heavy on his shoulders, on the notches of his spine, dragging behind his ankles. Sometimes it’s better, a little, but it’s never gone.
He does his best with what he can. He can’t feel it as much when he’s busy, when he has excuses, when he can put someone else’s wants or needs or goals above his own. And he likes hockey, sure. But does he? Or is it just the earliest thing he remembers, the only true thing he really knows about himself?
Is it the sense of duty he feels as a son or a teammate at having pigeonholed himself into something more daunting than he can really handle and he’s just too determined to fail? Is it the weight of an entire generation he’s always being reminded is waiting for him back home, seeing themselves in him when Shane doesn’t even really know who he is without a stick in his hand, ice under his feet, and a puck to chase around?
Sometimes, Shane pictures he’s a robot. That would make sense, he thinks. The creaky joints and the way he feels like everyone is in on a joke that he isn’t, the memorization of how to function instead of the inherent knowing.
But that isn’t the case, and Shane’s completely human—every imperfect, insecure inch.
“You are thinking so loudly,” Ilya murmurs sleepily from the other side of the bed, turning to fling an arm over Shane’s lap where he’s sitting up against the headboard.
Shane smiles despite himself, sliding a palm up the arm he’s been presented with until goosebumps raise on Ilya’s warm, sleep-soft skin. “Sorry.”
“Mm,” Ilya waves him off. “Come here.”
The hotel room sheets are cool when Shane slips beneath them again, pressing up against Ilya to steal his heat. It’s only been a year since they’ve had this consistently, waking up together. Even if it’s in a hotel room, even if one of them has to sneak out down the back stairwell in less than an hour, it’s not a walk of shame anymore. Shane isn’t sure that it ever really was.
But he’s certain he’s not going to let himself take advantage of it ever again.
Ilya’s cheek settles against the side of his neck, Shane’s mouth pressed to the top of his head as arms tangle and fingertips sink into skin, morning light shining through the gap in the curtains like a blade cutting across their duvet covered legs.
“Rest,” he mumbles, turning to smear a kiss to his shoulder. “You are going to need it, yes?”
“Fuck you,” Shane grins. “I could beat you in my sleep.”
“Not if you are not getting any,” Ilya snarks.
Shane’s mouth flattens a little. He looks away. “I’ll catch up after tonight.”
“Ah. Good thinking. I will tire you out.”
“Maybe I’ll tire you out,” Shane returns.
“Always so competitive,” Ilya exhales. He pushes up on an elbow enough to tilt his head for a kiss, pouting his lips until Shane dips down to meet him halfway. “Will be what kills you, Hollander.”
“Most people would probably think it’d be the hockey.”
“Most people do not know you like I do,” Ilya argues.
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. Whatever it is, I’m not going down without a fight.”
“Mn, I have no doubt.” Fingers trailing up his arm and into his hair, Ilya threads his fingers through and rubs. His teeth graze Shane’s jaw. “You said something about going down…?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “I thought you wanted to sleep?”
“Now I am awake,” he shrugs, trailing kisses down his neck. “And you are so much more interesting than sleep.”
“Thank you?”
Muttering into his skin, Ilya bites down lightly on his pec. “So smug. Is not ladylike.”
“Fucking asshole,” Shane scoffs.
“You love it.”
“I love you,” he amends.
Sometimes it still feels weird, saying it. Tender, like pressing on a wound Shane never wants to close. He feels Ilya’s lips curve upward against his chest seconds before he raises his head to look at him properly, hair mussed and sleep lines in his cheek.
“I love you too.” He pats Shane’s face. Then, against his mouth, “You suck my dick now, yes?”
“And what’s in it for me?”
Ilya glances pointedly down between them with a raised brow. “I did not plan on putting anything in you this morning, but if you insist—”
Shane grins and shoves him over and onto his back, Ilya’s matching expression staring up at him as Shane settles over his lap. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
“Oh, I’ll make you,” he says, and then he slips under the duvet and puts his money where his mouth is, because he’s not a liar and because Ilya’s always a little desperate in the mornings and Shane will undoubtedly be thinking about it all day after this.
He leaves a little less than an hour later, after Ilya returns the favor and they rotate taking brisk showers and spitting toothpaste into the sink. The chaste kiss he gets before he goes hardly feels like enough, but they both know it’s all they can afford right now.
It’s not more difficult than what they were already doing, he tells himself. And it’s certainly not any easier. Despite how vastly different it feels, it still just… is.
He checks the hallway before he steps out of Ilya’s room to head to the event center, and the timer starts ticking down again.
J U L Y
“So,” David says, “does this mean you tossed out the Boston jersey?”
There’s hot dogs cooking on the grill when Shane and Ilya slip through the back door out onto his parent’s patio, the sun bright above the treeline. Shane squints at it, blocking it with his hand as he walks over to greet his mom with a hug right after Ilya’s.
“Ah, no,” he tells them emphatically. “Shane wears it like pajamas. He would kill me if I threw it out.”
Pulling back from his mom, Shane tosses him a tight smile over the table. “Hey. Remember when we had that talk about sharing personal details with my parents?”
“You said no sex things,” Ilya argues, accepting a beer from his dad. “This is not a sex thing.” He pauses. “Well. Usually not.”
Shane’s face burns, his parents laughter egging Ilya on. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” Ilya hums, coming to smack a kiss to his cheek. “You should not be embarrassed. Jersey looks very cute. Little big on you, but very cute. Like baby animal on those YouTube videos you like.”
Pinching him in the shoulder, Shane grabs a drink of his own from the cooler and nods toward his dad.
“Go help set up the fire pit. Before I decide to push you into it.”
Ilya stands at attention, tossing up a mock salute as he backpedals toward the stairs. “Aye, Captain.”
The grin on his face stays until both Ilya and his dad are down the steps and sifting through the stacks of wood by the water, up until he feels the weight of his mother’s gaze on him. Shane clears his throat and turns to stand beside her at the grill, popping open his drink and listening to the food sizzle.
“Thanks for having us over,” he tells her.
‘Thanks for taking the time away from your weekend getaway to hang out with us for a while,” she nudges him, her mouth tipping upward. “How’s the trip so far?”
“Good. Relaxing,” Shane says. Ilya’s laugh drifts up from the dock. “I think we needed it.”
She nods. “I’m glad you could get away. Things got so crazy for a bit after the transfer announcement came out.”
“Yeah,” Shane chuckles. He takes a long sip of ginger ale. “Thanks for helping him with the citizenship stuff, by the way. I think it made him feel a lot more organized. Not as overwhelming.”
“Of course. Happy to help.”
Smoke billows out from the grill as she lifts the hood to check on the hot dogs, and Shane mechanically passes her the pair of tongs on the side tray. She takes them in one hand, a sweating glass with lime in the other, the lines beside her eyes tan in the summer sun.
She rotates them with the tong, then carefully sets them aside and closes the lid again. Lifting her drink to her mouth, she leans up against the side of the deck by Shane, her eyes wandering over him from underneath the dip in her brow.
“Are you okay?”
He stiffens, the can in his palm crackling when his fingers tense around it. “Yeah. Why?” he asks. “Do I not look okay?”
“No, honey. You look great. I just—you seem a little tired, is all.”
So it’s not anything about the trade, then. Or the trip. Or the hot dogs. Or the way he’d played during the last game.
He still doesn’t tell her about the sleeping issues.
“I’m just a little stiff,” he says, rolling his shoulder. “Think I need to grab another appointment with that massage therapist, or something. Maybe some yoga.”
His mother’s frown deepens. “You think it was that last game? You said you didn’t think you needed to get checked after that hit to the boards, but I’m sure we can get you in with the team physician, maybe a bit of physical therapy—”
Shane shakes his head. “I don’t think I need all of that. It’s already been nice to get some rest this weekend. I’ll be fine.”
She exhales, practiced, and reaches up to rub at the shoulder he’d fussed at. The lines in her forehead don’t dissipate.
“I’m sure it’ll sort itself out before next practice,” she says, patting his arm. “You’ll be okay. You always are.”
The hand in his pocket folds itself into something like a fist, the blunt edges of his nails touching the meat of his palm. He takes another sip of ginger ale, enjoys the burn as it goes down from holding it on his tongue for a moment too long. She’s still watching him. It makes him irritated for some reason he can’t put his finger on. Makes him want to snap at her and ruin their perfectly nice evening before it even starts.
He does none of this. He bites his tongue and is fine, because apparently even when she suspects that he isn’t, he has to be anyway.
The grill hisses at them again, and Shane grabs the mitt and lifts the hood to take the hot dogs off the heat. It takes only a minute to move them from the grill to plates with buns, two trays piled up with condiments and chips.
Shane picks up one, his mother taking the other as they descend the steps to the fire pit.
Ilya calls for him before he’s even halfway down. “Shane.”
“Yeah?”
“Come here and protect me.”
Shane’s lips twitch while he walks. “Protect you from what?”
From the grass, Ilya waves a hand as if the answer is obvious. “Sun is setting.”
“You’re not afraid of the dark.”
He steps off the last of the stairs and sets his and Ilya’s tray down on the side table beside one of the benches.
“No, but scary birds come out when there is no more sun,” Ilya mutters with thinly veiled disgust. He latches onto Shane, bending his knees to hide his face in the collar of Shane’s button up. “You will tell them they cannot take me.”
“Take you?” Shane grins.
“Yes. Out to water. I will drown,” Ilya says urgently. “Do it! Tell them.”
With a laugh, Shane lifts his head and brings his hand to his mouth, pursing his lips to make the call. It echoes through the trees around them, some of the branches rustling as the sun dips behind them.
Ilya collapses against him further with a sigh. He squeezes Shane’s middle, then turns to announce to everyone, “Ah. Okay. I am safe now. We can eat.”
His parents watch on with fond shakes of their heads, undoubtedly still getting used to having someone around who’s a little more animated than Shane’s always been.
When he’s comfortable, Ilya can be loud and brash and so funny it brings tears to Shane’s eyes, but while Shane is endlessly amused, Ilya’s definitely managed to startle his parents into stunned silence a few times before. Hence the no-sex conversation rule.
It’d been weird at first, finding out how to be around Ilya and his parents at the same time. Difficult to reconcile Ilya’s sigh of relief with his parents expectations; Shane’s need to please them mixed with the earnestness he and Ilya have found when they’re alone together over the last few months.
He thinks, maybe, he’s managed to strike a balance.
It’s hard not to picture all the different shades of the future they might have when they’re here. Gathered around a warm fire with full stomachs and wide smiles, his parents holding hands over the arms of their chairs while Ilya stretches out across the bench with his head on Shane’s lap. Shane still wants this when they’re retired and—hopefully—have rings on their fingers, wants to know what it’s like to slip his fingers into graying, unruly curls and trace newly forged smile lines with his eyes and lips.
It’s a dangerous thought. It kind of makes him want to just stay here forever starting right now, some nameless pressure in the back of his head that urges don’t waste any more time.
The fire pit makes them all glow orange as the sun sets completely, the shadows on Ilya’s face dark and sharp when Shane traces them with his fingers. His parents have drifted into their own conversation now, Shane perfectly content to just be quiet while he watches Ilya’s eyes threaten to flutter closed. They really have needed a break. The only problem is the more they take them, the more these short weekends and hotel rooms and rushed, secret rendezvous don’t feel like enough.
Ilya has always made him greedy. Made him ache for a more that he isn’t sure he’s entitled to. Or even that he would know what to do with it if he had it.
A loud popping noise erupts in the distance, the house on the other side of the water setting off the first lightshow of the night. Ilya’s body goes rigid in his lap. His eyes don’t open, but Shane can tell he’s awake now.
“Looks like they’ve brought out the fireworks,” his dad whistles. “Isn’t that something?”
“They’re gorgeous this year,” his mother agrees, body turned to watch them. “Look at those colors.”
Shane doesn’t look at the colors. He looks down at Ilya instead, tugs at his shoulder until he turns into Shane’s stomach, until Shane can feel the barely-there flinch of Ilya’s face against his abdomen each time another round pops off, light skittering across the black, glassy surface of the water.
He drags a hand through Ilya’s curls again, settles a palm over his ear. Holds it there until the sound stops.
In the silence before they start up again, Shane brings his fingers back to his mouth and makes another loon call out into the trees. In the crackle of firelight, Ilya opens one eye to look at him, the edge of his mouth curving upward. His parents sit across from them with knowing smiles, knowing nothing at all.
He’s going to grow old with Ilya Rozanov if it’s the last fucking thing he does, in a house that’s quiet and safe with a language all its own.
O C T O B E R
Despite the magnificent water pressure in the Detroit hotel shower, Shane comes out of it no more rejuvenated than when he’d gone in.
Practice had been long and had only made him more restless, running the same plays over and over again until muscle memory felt more like redundance, hyper aware of his movements instead of the fluid, thoughtless sort of state he can usually slip into when he plays. He’d left the rink feeling irritated and more than a little defeated, and he’s certain the rest of the team could tell. He hadn’t offered an excuse, not even when Hayden found him by the lockers to check in and urge him to get some rest.
If he fucking could, Shane thinks miserably, he already would be.
So he goes back to his hotel. Eats his prepped meal and drinks his electrolytes. Takes a shower. Tells himself he’s being irrational when his eyes get misty at the thought of going to bed alone.
He’s done it for his whole life, up until Ilya. It shouldn’t be this hard.
He slips underneath the cool, crisp sheets regardless, grabbing his book from the nightstand and pushing his glasses up his nose. He’s been wearing them more often now, enough to leave two little identical divots high up on the bridge of his nose when he takes them off. Ilya likes to kiss him there sometimes, when they’re home.
His phone vibrates on the nightstand, a text from Lily flashing across his screen. Shane smiles as he reaches for it.
Practice done?
Yeah, Shane types. You?
Yes. The typing bubble pops up again. Call before bed?
Shane slips his bookmark onto a page only a few off from when he’d opened it, none of the words he’d read really sinking in anyway. Before he can think better of it, he shoves a pillow behind his back and leans against the headboard, holding the phone in front of his bent knees while he thumbs over to the video call icon.
Ilya is in bed when he answers, the light from his phone illuminating the sharpness of his features. Even still he manages to look soft and familiar, his own eyes tired as he props his chin on a folded arm, lying on his stomach with the phone out in front of him.
The sight of him hits Shane directly in the chest. Fifty-five days. Almost two months since they’ve been together in person. His throat feels tight.
Ilya scowls into the camera. “You are hurting.”
Shane huffs a laugh. “I’m fine.”
“You are touching neck and making little sad face,” he accuses with a frown. Shane’s hand drops. He hadn’t even been aware he was touching it. “Your head still feels—?”
“Heavy, yeah,” he finishes when Ilya can’t find the word. “It’s not too bad. I’ll tell them tomorrow if it gets worse.”
A disbelieving noise crackles through the line. “You will not. But you should.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Shane dismisses with a sigh. “What about you? How’s Ottawa?”
“Also fine. Boring right now.” Ilya shrugs, sniffs. “I am missing you. And looking forward to charity announcement.”
“Me too. And a little nervous, I guess.”
“Why nervous?”
He shifts against the headboard. “Not, like, nervous. I just mean, it’s kind of, you know. A big thing. A step, for us.”
“I like doing big things with you,” Ilya says.
Shane’s lips curl. “Yeah?”
“Mm.”
“Why’s that?”
The dark outline of Ilya’s gaze jumps over his face through the screen, and Shane vaguely recognizes it as the same path his mouth takes when he’s tracing the constellation of Shane’s freckles.
“Because,” Ilya says tiredly. “Even if I forget, there will be proof. Cameras. Interviews. Pictures. Your parents will put us in little frames for the walls.”
Shane’s breath catches, his teasing smile sobering into something softer. He’s still surprised sometimes by Ilya’s unexpected pockets of vulnerability, how earnest he gets when he’s alone and tired and they can’t be together. He swallows.
“Is that something you’re scared of?” Shane asks. “Forgetting?”
Ilya hums, his syllables thick and sharp. “Terrified.”
Quiet settles between them for a long minute, just the hum of Shane’s AC window unit until it eventually clicks off. Ilya’s cheek is smushed up against the bend of his elbow. He looks younger like that.
“I was not as scared of it. Before this. Before—what I have. Now,” Ilya goes on with a rasp. He looks down at the sheets, tries for a stiff smile that doesn’t quite manage to be believable. “You make me greedy, Hollander. I do not want to miss anything.”
“If that’s something we ever have to worry about,” Shane says, choosing his words carefully, “I’ll remind you. Every day. Whenever you need.”
The phone light catches on the shine of Ilya’s eyes. “It is exhausting. Not fair, maybe.”
Shane shakes his head, conviction burning him up from the inside.
“Not when it’s you.”
Neither of them say much of anything else after that. Shane suspects it might be the knot in his throat that’s also probably plaguing Ilya’s at the moment, but it could also be that they’re both exhausted from long days and hard practices. Shane knows the season’s been weighing on Ilya in particular. He wishes he could do more. Be more reassuring. Be there at all.
Less than a month, he thinks. The next break’ll be the one that recharges them.
“Get sleep tonight. Okay?” Ilya murmurs, eyes already closing when he talks again.
“I’ll try. You too.” Shane smiles, a real one this time, thumb smoothing over the edge of his phone screen as if Ilya could feel it across all the miles separating them. “I love you.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu, moye solnyshko. Good night.”
The screen bleeds black when he hangs up the call, Ilya’s sleepy Russian sticking to the inside of his head like molasses. Shane makes another mental note to finally find the time to learn some of it so that when Ilya’s tired or sick or stressed and switches into it, he can understand more. Maybe surprise him with a few words of his own, even.
Shane holds the warm phone to his chest where it’d slipped down from his hand, his eyes closing on the pillow. He falls asleep with the lamp still on and Ilya’s outline in his head, the low cadence of ya tebya lyublyu on repeat until the blunt sharpness of Ilya’s terrified scratches the record in his mind.
The exhaustion drags him under eventually. When his alarm goes off at 5:30 the next morning, it feels like no time has passed at all.
Shane gets up anyway.
N O V E M B E R
The last time they’d been on a stage together like this, it was for some phony award show monologue that’d ended with Ilya’s hand on his back and a series of blurry photographs of them—and thousands more online afterward—on his phone.
This time, though, they’re in control, they both know where they stand with each other, and no one knows that David Hollander is the one who’d tied Ilya’s tie for him in the little surveillance room behind the stage.
There’s a little thrill about it too, something reminiscent of the rush of their earlier days together when people would see them on the ice and have zero idea that they’d shared a hotel room the night before. Where that’d felt forbidden, though, this feels exciting in a new way. Part one of many things that they’ll navigate together to prepare for the day when life is less headlines and hockey and more just… living. Just them.
Shane used to dream about where he is now. Winning cups and earning his rank, skating around with a C on his jersey and a backlog of awards and accolades in his corner. Even once he’d accomplished it though, it all mostly felt like hypotheticals. Like spending money on a credit card—you know it happened. The bank records can prove it. But it’s still not quite like the exchange of cash from hand to hand, that in-the-moment trade of currency for product. Everything Shane’s ever done has been for some cause or goal greater than himself, and as a result, every victory felt a little less like his.
This one does.
“We appreciate you all coming out tonight,” he says into the mic on the podium, bending forward a little to reach it. “We’ve been working really hard on this the last few months, and we’re excited to finally get to share it with you.”
Ilya clears his throat lightly, mouth straightened into a focused line as he leans in next.
“We have grown up on ice. Mostly against each other. We know the bad, and we know there can also be good.” Ilya’s fingers brush the outside of Shane’s thigh behind the podium. “Rivalry is fun and makes exciting TV. But it is not everything. It is not a legacy. It will not be for me, anyway,” he goes on. Through a nervous slant of his mouth, he glances at Shane. “Plus, Hollander is not getting any younger, so—”
“Alright,” Shane laughs along with the crowd, nudging him aside again like they’d practiced. “Point is, we want more of the good. We’re all here because we love the sport. And we think that should be the focus, at the core of it.”
He takes a step back, and Ilya hesitates this time at his cue. They’d talked about it, how Ilya should be the one to announce the name. But Shane can still hear the nerves in his voice from before. I do not like speaking in front of so many people. Makes me feel—stupid. Like I cannot keep up.
Shane’s knuckles graze his out of view from the cameras. Ilya steps forward.
“My mother also had much love to give,” he says, hoarse but firm. “The Irina Foundation will be named after her, in her honor. For those who feel... many things, all at once, we want to give—an outlet for that. Make good out of bad. Make already good even better.”
“In addition to the mental health organizations and charities we’ll be working with listed in the information pamphlet,” Shane interjects when his voice breaks, giving him a moment to breathe, “we also plan to open a hockey camp for kids and young adults. Ilya and I know how much effort goes into playing a sport like this. We’d like to use our combined resources not only to bring more people to the field, but to encourage it in a way that’s fun, accessible, and safe for everyone involved.”
His heart stutters a bit when he says Ilya, out loud in the open like this. He smiles without meaning to, and he hears several cameras pick it up over the glare of bright lights and the ring in his ears.
“We’ll open it up for questions here in a second, but we just wanted to say, again, thank you for coming out, thank you for supporting us, and we hope that that support will continue into this next chapter.”
Ilya, who’s only now beginning to look a little less tense, unwinds his shoulders just enough to approach the mic and flash the crowd a signature smirk.
“What he said.”
Everyone laughs again, the room erupting in scattered applause and the blink of recording cameras, and Shane looks at Ilya and feels so momentarily overcome with how proud he is that his eyes burn.
And, for the first time in a long time, he’s proud of himself too.