Archive of Our Own

“Okay. I have to be honest here,” Harris said. Shane watched while Harris frowned at his phone from his place on the other side of the cafe table. 

This was technically a work-related coffee meeting, though Shane suspected that it was a ploy for Harris to use his company card to buy himself something sweet. Harris had already plowed through one lemon blueberry scone smothered in icing, and there was another waiting in front of him.

Shane desperately wanted to steal half, but he wouldn’t. Ilya had a massive sweet tooth, so Shane saved all his empty calories for moments when they could enjoy food together. Maybe he’d pick one up and take it home so Ilya could eat most of it while Shane snuck a bite or two. Maybe Ilya would be so grateful that he’d feed it to Shane himself. 

Yeah, Shane was definitely going to get one to go.

“Your Instagram is depressing,” Harris announced. He flipped his phone around so Shane could see the screen. Harris scrolled through Shane’s feed, as if it would prove his point.

“What?” Shane frowned. “My last post was about my hat trick on Tuesday. How is that depressing? We won.”

Harris grimaced. “You’re right. Depressing was the wrong word. It’s…dry. Between you and Ilya, we should have fans in a frenzy. Instead, Ilya posts random shi—things—every day.” Harris glanced briefly around the coffee shop to see if anyone was paying attention. It was kind of adorable how becoming the director of communications made him hesitant in public. Like Harris was trying to find the line between friendly, professional, and deserving of the title. “He graces us with a picture of one or both of you every few months. And you, which—yes, thank you for being more on top of it—post the exact same photos that anyone can Google. Everything is so…curated. Where’s the behind the scenes? The personal stuff?”

Gross. That was never going to happen. When Shane wasn’t surrounded by his core family, every word he uttered was curated. He thought, rephrased, and planned every interaction fifty times before a single sound came out of his mouth.

Harris backtracked. “I just mean… You’re a great guy, and I’ve loved getting to know you this summer. The rest of the world wants to get to know Shane, too. Not just Hollander.”

That sounded like Shane’s fucking nightmare. The only people who deserved to know who Shane was off the ice already knew. Shane had no desire to expand that circle. “I’m a hockey player. My account is about hockey.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harris sighed deeply, and Shane hoped it was the sound of defeat. “But this is a different era. People want to connect with you. Like, what does Shane Hollander eat for breakfast? What’s your favorite workout playlist? Or even about Anya, maybe—”

“I drink a smoothie for breakfast. The same protein smoothie, every day. No one wants fifty photos that look exactly the same.”

Harris scrubbed a hand down his face. “Can I take a look at the photos on your phone? Maybe I can construct some sort of narrative from there. Or is it, um, too…?”

“No!” Shane flushed, and his phone clacked loudly against the table as he dropped it. “Um. No. There’s not anything like that. It’s fine.”

Shane unlocked it and passed it over to Harris, who frowned even more as he scrolled through the photos. “Shane… There’s practically nothing here. Landscapes and sunrises?”

“I like sunrises. And sunsets.” For most of the recent ones, Ilya had been standing by his side, just out of frame. Or, before this past summer, Shane would send them all to Ilya. For just a moment, even cities apart, they could stand together under the same sky.

Harris let out a pained laugh. “Yeah, that’s great. Not many pictures with Ilya, either. These all look like they were taken by your mom.”

Because they were. Shane saved every photo his mom had taken of him and Ilya during summer camps, or practice, or even the commercial they’d done together for Dior’s new cologne last month. There were others, too, that Shane only kept within her text messages. Of them in the kitchen with Dad, or on the deck at the cottage with Anya.

“Yeah. It—we…” Shane trailed off, shifting uncomfortably. He supposed they could take more photos now. He’d been so careful for years, trying not to leave any sort of trail. 

It was a hard pattern to break out of. 

Their house was full of pictures now, but sometimes Shane still panicked when he looked at them. Like someone would walk inside their home and look at all these fragments of Shane’s heart on display and say…something. 

Maybe that Shane wasn’t enough. Or that what Shane loved would never work. Or it was less than. 

Shane didn’t want pictures of him and Ilya to fuel the tabloids. To be distilled down to words that were an injustice to everything he and Ilya had gone through, or to how intensely Shane loved Ilya. He loved Ilya so much it was agonizing.

If Shane showed who he was outside of his skates, the world might see that Shane was still abnormal. He’d heard it all the time as a kid. Phenom was a kinder, more powerful word than odd, which Shane had fought to eradicate from the list of terms used to describe him over the course of his life. Through hard work and focus, Shane had changed the narrative. Replaced odd with genius, rook, MVP, leader, captain, legend, dynasty. But if he let the world in, what terms might be resurrected? 

Shane didn’t give a shit about being naked in front of twenty teammates after a game. Showing himself to the world, without a jersey for armor, was fucking terrifying. 

Plus, his life was special, so he protected it. Kept it secret.

“Can I just post pictures of Anya? I’ll take more.” Shane had posted about her a few times, and the responses were usually positive. Who would have known so many people liked dogs?

“Yeah, totally. But maybe pictures of you with her? Or Ilya? Come on. Let us in a little, Hollander,” Harris teased, handing Shane his phone.

It was exactly what Shane did not want to do.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Shane wished he could turn off his brain. 

He’d thought about Harris’s request for days. Shane had even gone down the rabbit hole of the social media accounts from all of their teammates. Ilya’s was obviously not ideal, according to Harris. Harris had no idea that it was an intensely private diary, hiding in public view. It was just like when Ilya had flashed his hickey on the ice—showing something intensely personal without actually letting anyone in on their private life. Shane had no idea how to do that, though Ilya made it look effortless.

Troy’s was mostly advocacy work, Luca’s was a mix of hockey and art, Bood’s was focused on family and food. Wyatt’s was the most random mix of things, like whatever surface thought was floating through his brain somehow made it to the internet. Music, comics, the hospital, his wife, movies, he covered it all. People felt like they knew him intimately, even though he never really shared much about life at home. 

Shane wished he could be like Wyatt, except he didn’t know anything about music, only read books about hockey, and had no desire to discuss movies online. If he tried, people would bring up Rose, and Shane wanted to protect their friendship. It had already been talked about enough.

Shane just wanted to enjoy his mandatory day off with Ilya, not stressing over fucking Instagram of all things. But that was hard to do when Shane felt lost and inadequate. 

So, after Shane and Ilya had run ten kilometers, followed by an additional hour in their home gym, Shane finally decided to ask for help. 

Ilya was busy making lunch for them, searing something in a cast iron skillet that smelled amazing. He was shirtless and wearing loose, low slung pants, and the whole look made Shane’s heart race. There was some fast-paced song pounding through their speakers that sounded like it was in Spanish. Ilya swiveled his hips to the beat before leaning down to feed Anya a piece of meat.

“You think I can use some photos from your phone?” Shane asked, leaning back against the counter. He was aiming for cool and casual, but his gaze was trapped. He loved watching Ilya move, loved how Ilya’s bare feet were almost graceful as they shifted across their heated floor. “Harris says my Instagram is dry.”

Ilya snorted. “Your Instagram is shit. Looks exactly like ESPN feature on you.”

That helped to clear the trance Shane had been in danger of falling under. “Yeah, I get that, dickhead. So, can I post some of your photos?”

Ilya rolled his eyes but handed Shane his unlocked phone. “You should use the ones of you in our bed. Really get hearts racing. Lots of likes.”

“You don’t have—seriously, Ilya?” Shane asked as Ilya’s photo roll loaded. There were tons of pictures of Shane in bed. He was never uncovered below the waist, which was still a hard limit for Shane. He never wanted a photo like that getting leaked. But there were close ups of things Shane had never noticed or paid attention to on himself.

Anya’s muzzle draped over Shane’s back, with dimples on either side of his spine—that Shane never even knew he had—on full display. Shane asleep, probably having just rolled over, since his cheek was red and creased from the pillow. Shane in near-darkness, the light of the fireplace playing over the side of his face. Shane’s bare back in the kitchen, with the focus on a little group of freckles on the back of his neck.

“Good, yes? You look hot. You could take pictures of me in bed, too. Double the hot,” Ilya said. 

Shane barely heard him as he scrolled. Shane drinking coffee, panting on the grass after a long run, tying his skates before practice, laughing with Hazy, putting clothes in the washer, drinking beer on Bood’s patio with Mikael, grabbing Ilya’s favorite Cheetos from the shelf in the grocery store, chatting with Luca in front of Gina’s restaurant, drinking a protein smoothie on a gray morning in Boston.

Shane’s chest tightened. He couldn’t get enough air.

God, Ilya loved him. 

Ilya loved Shane so much that Shane hurt with it.

“I’ll be—” Shane swallowed hard and stepped close to Ilya’s back, pressing a kiss to the back of Ilya’s neck. “I’ll be in the living room.”

Ilya nodded as he pushed food around the pan, reaching back with his other hand to stroke Shane’s hair. “Food will be ready soon. Ten minutes?”

“Okay.” Shane placed another kiss to Ilya’s spine, then headed to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. 

Alone, he scrolled through Ilya’s phone. There were more pictures than Shane had ever known existed. There were even selfies of the two of them together—looking happy, mostly. There were a few where Shane looked murderous. One of them was from the cottage, and Shane recognized it instantly. Ilya had tried to take a picture of them kissing, but Shane pushed him away. That’s when Ilya made a joke that Troy would’ve kissed him for the camera. 

Shane had shoved him off the dock the second Ilya set his phone down.

There were two that someone must have shared with Ilya. Shane and Ilya stood in a close embrace on the lawn, surrounded by friends and family as they danced at their wedding. There was a second photo, zoomed in, of just the two of them. Their eyes shined, locked on each other.

Shane’s hand shook as he traced Ilya’s features. The photo was so bare and raw. Shane almost hated that someone else had seen it—had captured it—but also…

There was proof, right there. Real and visible. Tangible. Proof that the feelings between them were… Huge. Overwhelming. So far beyond the kind of love other people felt. 

Countless opinion pieces in papers, magazines, even online blogs, had sensationalized their relationship. They took everything that Shane struggled to navigate for years and distilled them down to sexual depravity and competitiveness. 

But no one could look at this photo and believe anything other than the truth. Shane and Ilya had the kind of love that other people spent their whole lives wishing for. No one would choose to go through the sheer amount of fucked up shit that they had endured. Not for anything less than extraordinary. 

Other people didn’t walk around in normal lives and normal relationships with the kind of love that swelled and rioted and stormed inside of Shane. If they did, the world would stop functioning.

Overwhelmed, he swiped out of the photos and back to the home screen. He was about to shut off the display when something caught his eye. The folder simply said Shane. In it were a handful of apps, and the first one was a notepad. 

Shane frowned. Was Ilya writing him letters? Was he…

Dread flooded Shane’s stomach. 

Ilya struggled with his mental health, but therapy and medication was helping. Shane had taken to noting Ilya’s hard days in an app on Shane’s own phone. He used the data to track the cycles of Ilya’s mental health, the same way Shane tracked his own macros, his workouts, his sleep, his exercise. Shane knew that if he just had enough information, he could preemptively stop a crash, or help Ilya bear the hardest days. 

But if Ilya was struggling and hiding it…

Ilya’s intense messages on Instagram flashed in Shane’s memory. The last words Ilya had intended for Shane to see. Shane had been overcome with sheer panic while reading over them the second time, and that panic came flooding back now. 

Shane opened the app to find an endless list of notes. They were organized by date, with a short preview of each one on the main page. Some were written in English, but others were in Russian. Did Ilya write in Russian on the days where English eluded him, or was too difficult? Or did Ilya reach for his home language when he needed comfort. But then, why hadn’t he trusted Shane to comfort him?

The top preview started with: When Shane talks soft to Luca.

Shane tapped on it.

Does not matter what Shane is saying. He is reassuring and gentle. Kind but playful. If we have children, Shane will be the best dad. Seeing him this way makes me want it. Shane has the biggest heart—there would be room for all of us there.

There was a photo alongside it, of Shane sitting on the bench beside Luca at the practice rink. Shane leaned on his elbows over spread knees, and Luca’s face was still hot with frustration. Shane recognized the moment from only two days ago. They’d been running a passing drill where Luca couldn’t connect with Shane or Ojala. He couldn’t find the window, or would send the puck too far back, so Shane would lose all his momentum to meet it.

Shane went back and scrolled down through the list.

When Shane gives Anya bacon. He thinks I do not see. Sure enough, there was a photo of Shane slipping Anya a piece of bacon under the coffee table.

There was one in Russian that Shane struggled his best to translate, though he knew he did a terrible job. When Shane brings me the best Coke, from McDonalds of course, because I don’t want to go out. He took me walking with Anya near the river, and it was beautiful. He does not leave me alone with curtains closed. 

It was such a specific statement that Shane’s stomach tied itself in knots. Is that what Ilya’s father had done to Irina?

When Shane met Gina. We shared the meal I wanted to have with him for ten years. When Shane laughed at Ojala’s joke. When Shane rested his head on my shoulder and we were finally not good at hiding that we are in love. Look at our heart eyes! It featured the picture Luca had drawn of them at Gina’s. Luca had added little hearts in both their eyes and above the space between their faces. It was actually really fucking cute. But then the picture went blurry, and Shane had to wipe away his tear.

When Shane… 

Over and over. They all started the same. 

Shane scrolled all the way down to the very first note.

The way my heart goes bananas when Shane opens the door of the cottage and looks back at me. I think he wants to see his joy on my face. He sees it, I hope. His joy and mine. Maybe he is remembering the first time, or maybe he is thinking about how the cottage will be ours, together, for all our lives. That the first summer was not the last. Or maybe he is thinking about getting naked everywhere we can. Does not matter. I am happy for all of it.

There was a photo of the lake at sunset from this past summer.

Shane closed the app and threw the phone onto the cushion like it burned him to hold it. 

He buried his head in his hands and struggled to breathe. He had invaded Ilya’s privacy. He never should’ve looked. Never should have opened the folder.

Ilya must have turned down the music, because the thumping was suddenly much quieter. 

“Yes to butter today? Or no?” Ilya asked from the kitchen.

Shane swallowed his shame and wiped at his face. “Just half of a tablespoon,” he managed to croak out. “Maybe a quarter of a tablespoon, actually.”

“Okay… Is ready.”

Shane had two options: pretend he hadn’t seen anything, or ask Ilya what that notepad app was all about. Ilya would undoubtedly be upset, and Shane would deserve it. He hated that he’d betrayed Ilya’s trust. And he hated the idea of lying about it just as much.

Shane shook his hands out, grabbed Ilya’s phone, and headed back to the kitchen. Shane pressed his chest to Ilya’s beautiful back, then slid Ilya’s phone into Ilya’s pocket. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s waist and pressed his cheek to Ilya’s bare shoulder.

“Find photos you like?” Ilya asked.

“Yes. No. Not ones I want to share.” Shane’s hands explored Ilya’s soft skin, and Ilya began to sway again. Shane let himself be led, moving along with Ilya’s hips in a slow, steady rocking to whatever song was playing. It was familiar, but Shane couldn’t place it.

They’d danced a lot during their honeymoon in Ibiza. Ilya had been captivating under lights that glinted red, blue, and purple, while the bass thrummed through them and sweat trickled down Ilya’s temple. Ilya had moved sensually then, too, before often finding a dark corner where they could grind their hips together while Ilya kissed his way down Shane’s neck.

Shane got lost in the memory, knees weak, limbs heavy. His hand slid up to cup Ilya’s chest, thumbing over Ilya’s nipple in a way that made Ilya’s harsh breath loud and fierce with wanting.

“I am open to eating food cold,” Ilya noted, closing his hand over Shane’s and squeezing harder. Shane’s mouth turned up at the corners.

“But I’m hungry.”

“Then you should stop rubbing your dick against my ass. Makes me want to carry you upstairs to fuck you anyway.” Ilya turned in his arms, his smile wide, but it quickly dropped into a frown. “You are sad. It was my fault? Too many photos with no clothes?”

Shane shook his head slightly, the knot in his throat swelling again. “I’m fine.”

“No.” Ilya cupped Shane’s face in his loving hands. Soft yet calloused. Huge yet graceful. Harsh yet tender. Ilya was so much, all at once. All the time. “You are still a bad liar. Tell me. I am sorry.”

“You—don’t be sorry.”

“Okay?” Ilya’s eyes flickered quickly over Shane’s face. Searching. Shane honestly didn’t know what Ilya would find. “I am not sorry, then.”

Shane’s lips curled up without any permission from him at all. He wiped at his eye with a soft puff of laughter that loosened his chest. “Is there something you want to tell me? Or… Maybe something we should talk about?”

“No?” Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. “I did not add too much butter this time. Actually, I added no butter, because what the fuck is a quarter tablespoon? Size of a bean? You show me.”

Shane laughed again, so softly it was hardly more than breath. He stepped closer. Ilya had the perfect space between his ear and shoulder that invited Shane to rest his face there whenever his whole world threatened to collapse. Shane burrowed into it now.

“Shane,” Ilya tried again. “I need your words.”

Shane didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. 

He pressed their bodies even tighter together. Ilya swayed a little again, rocking them side to side as Shane breathed. Ilya’s heartbeat was slow and steady in Shane’s ear, and Ilya was patient as Shane reoriented himself with Ilya at his center. Their breaths synced, then their heartbeats, until the ground finally grew solid under Shane’s feet.

“How do you feel about your medication?” Shane finally asked, his voice quiet. “Do you think you need to change the dose?”

“No, is good for now.” Ilya’s shoulder shrugged beneath Shane’s cheek. “Maybe after the season starts, with travel and sleep changes, but now is fine.”

“Okay.”

Ilya stroked Shane’s hair before pressing a kiss there. “The best medication is still you sucking my cock.”

Shane muffled a laugh against Ilya’s skin. “God, you’re an asshole.”

“Right now would be good,” Ilya noted. “Make me really happy.”

“I’m trying to be serious here,” Shane protested. 

“Yes. Because you are sad. Now will you tell me why?”

“I promise I didn’t mean to… But, I saw the folder. On your phone. For me. There were a lot of notes there.” Ilya’s hand moved over Shane’s hair, but he stayed quiet. “I just… Have you been thinking about…” Shane trailed off, unwilling to speak the possibility into existence.

“Ah.” Ilya’s jaw brushed against Shane as he nodded, but not in a yes way. His murmur was in Russian. “There is the real question you wanted to ask.”

“Are you upset that I looked?”

“What?” Ilya’s hand paused, then came down to squeeze the back of Shane’s neck reassuringly. “No. There is nothing of mine that is not also yours.”

“Oh.” Shane’s heart warmed until it was a big, melted mess inside his chest. “So, then… Are those notes… Do you think about it?”

Ilya took in a deep breath, and when he exhaled loudly, his voice was serious. “No. That is not my problem now.”

“But you do have a problem?”

“It is nothing.” Ilya’s fingers traced over Shane’s spine. Maybe Shane still couldn’t lie, but Ilya couldn’t hide his nerves either. “Not a problem you should worry about.”

“We’re together, Ilya. I’m going to fucking worry about you. It’s my job.” Shane paused, rethinking his words, and pulled out of Ilya’s hold so that he could meet Ilya’s eyes. “No, that’s not what I mean. I get to worry about you. Don’t take that away from me.”

One corner of Ilya’s mouth pulled up in the best kind of smile. The one that said Shane was so boring. The one that said Ilya loved it. “You worry about everyone.”

“No. I only worry about the things that matter to me. You matter the most.” 

Shane almost wanted to take it back, or lighten the statement with a joke. He wanted to tell Ilya that he was Shane’s favorite person because of his dick, before Ilya could make the same joke and minimize Shane’s words. But Shane could be brave for Ilya. He let the words hang, bare and uncomfortable.

Ilya searched Shane’s face, then he reached out and took Shane’s hand. “It is really okay. It is a problem with no solution. No one can fix it.”

“Okay. Well, we could still talk about it. Sometimes that helps.”

Ilya made a face. “Ugh. You love talking so much. If you really want to use your mouth, I have another idea—”

“Deflection is not an option, Rozanov.”

Ilya groaned loudly, but didn’t drop Shane’s hand. “I thought you were hungry. Lunch will get cold.”

Shane reached out and flicked Ilya’s nipple. Ilya startled and cupped his chest, but his surprised eyes were also full of heat. 

“Stop deflecting or I’ll do it again,” Shane warned. “Or maybe stop deflecting so I can do it again.”

Ilya grinned. “Who is this guy? Not so shy today, Hollander?”

Shane’s cock stirred, but he was not about to get railroaded. Oh God, he really wanted to get railed, though. “Fucking talk to me. What problem are you worried about?”

Ilya hummed. “Maybe we should sit.”

That didn’t sound great. Shane followed Ilya to the living room where they sat shoulder to shoulder. Ilya called for Anya until she jumped into his lap. Whether for Ilya’s comfort, or to keep Anya from eating their lunch, Shane wasn’t sure.

“I am not worried about now,” Ilya started. “Everything now is perfect. I am happy waking up. I am happy here with you. Some hard days too, but is fine.”

“Okay…” Shane said. “That’s good.”

“Yes. But… Sometimes I worry about when we are older.”

Shane frowned. “Why? Because I’m not going to be hot anymore?”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You will always be hot.”

“Then, is it because I took a pay cut? I think we still have—”

“Oh my god, Shane,” Ilya sounded exasperated. “No more guessing. You are not good at it. Ever.”

“Fuck off.”

“No.” Ilya kissed Shane’s shoulder to soften the blow. “Your guessing is a million times worse than your lying. And you are the worst liar I have ever met.”

“Can we focus here?”

Ilya let out a long groan, sucked in a deep breath, and said, “You know my father had Alzheimer’s. Not always, but sometimes, can be genetic. I know we could not have photos of us before, but we can now. I want many. But still, it does not feel like enough.” Ilya pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped on the folder with Shane’s name. “What did you see?”

“Just this one.” Shane indicated the app with the notepad. “I told you, I didn’t mean to—when I saw how personal it was, I stopped.”

Ilya gave him a half-smile. “Should have kept looking. This one is my favorite.” He tapped on a different app, which had colored squares organized like a calendar, but most days were missing. Only certain dates that Ilya had chosen showed, Shane guessed. Ilya tapped on a date from many years ago. There was a snapshot from a sports article about Montreal’s win over Boston at the top. Ilya scrolled past it, and handed the phone to Shane.

Shane’s eyes widened as he read. In Ilya’s signature blunt, weighted, beautiful words, Ilya described a cab ride across Montreal to—what he referred to as—their hook up building, after the game. Ilya described the buzzing in his blood, how his skin got hot all over when Shane took charge. 

Shane remembered that night as soon as Ilya said they barely made it two steps inside the apartment.

Ilya hadn’t detailed the way Shane frantically stripped Ilya out of his clothes just inside the front door. Or the way Shane had pushed Ilya to his knees. Or that Shane had still been dressed when Ilya pulled at Shane’s waistband just far enough to suck Shane down. Ilya had held his gaze the whole time, which, admittedly, wasn’t long.

Shane swallowed against fresh need, his cock hardening against his zipper. He needed to stay focused. “You kept track of all of them?”

“No. I started this after last season. There are no pictures, Shane,” Ilya repeated, like it meant something very different than the actual words he was saying. “If I start to forget… I want a map back to my memories.”

Shane’s heart cracked so sharply in his chest that he was sure Ilya could hear it. Since his throat wouldn’t work, he tapped on another date, but it was all in Russian. It was such a lengthy entry that Shane didn’t attempt to translate it, and switched to another date instead. “Why didn’t you tell me this was bothering you?”

Ilya gave a half shrug. “Nothing we can do about it.”

“But…” Shane tried to steady his thoughts. “But these are my memories, too. I could help.”

“You would want to help?” Ilya asked, sounding surprised. 

It was a fucking arrow to the heart.

“How could you even ask me that?” Shane dropped the phone to the couch and stood, anger beating inside him like wings, fluttering hot against his sternum. “Actually, really. What the fuck, Ilya?”

“This is not your problem.”

“It’s not my—” Shane shook his head. “We’re a team. What hurts you hurts me. What worries you worries me.”

“But I do not want you to worry. Or to hurt.”

Shane threw his head back and huffed out a frustrated breath. “You don’t get to decide that on your own! If you wanted to do things alone then we shouldn’t have gotten married.” 

Ilya’s jaw clenched. 

And the whole world went quiet. Muffled. Like stepping outside after a heavy snowfall. Its blanket shifted everything into a vaguely familiar but foreign version of the world, where even the sound of your breath was dampened. Everything went numb from the ice of it. Shane watched from somewhere outside of himself and knew that this was all going wrong. So wrong. As wrong as when Ilya had sent him away last Christmas. 

Everything inside of Shane tore free until it lived outside of him. It grew staggeringly loud and oppressive. Shane’s heartbeat banged fiercely against his ears. Intense pressure spread over him, clamping down on every inch of his skin until Shane thought he might be crushed under the weight of it.

His heart cracked all over again as he turned away from Ilya to stalk across the room. He gripped the mantel above the fireplace to steady himself. To catch his breath. 

His knees threatened to buckle.

“You regret getting married,” Ilya said flatly from the sofa.

“Not for a single fucking minute,” Shane shot back. He dropped his head between his arms to suck in a breath. “Just… Give me a second. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be this.”

Ilya stayed quiet, which sort of just stressed Shane out more. He felt hot all over, and his lungs refused to expand.

“Is okay,” Ilya murmured eventually. Probably to Anya.

“It is okay,” Shane repeated, but he didn’t move from his hunched over position. “Because we fucking love each other so much that it might actually drive us both insane.”

“Probably, yes,” Ilya said dryly. 

Then Ilya snorted a laugh, and finally Shane could breathe. He took a deep inhale, then another, and rested his forehead against his knuckles.

“You can’t keep cutting me out,” Shane said, his voice much softer. “I thought we talked about this, Ilya. About not trying to be some sort of rock for me. I thought you understood that I… God, I just want to be there for you.”

Ilya sighed, and the sofa creaked before Ilya’s soft footsteps padded across the floor. Ilya curled his hand over Shane’s upper back. 

“Come,” Ilya murmured. Shane turned, and was immediately engulfed in Ilya’s arms. “Is not going to be perfect between us. Not ever, probably.”

Shane clutched at Ilya’s shoulders. I thought we were, he wanted to say. Tell me I fill up all the smallest pieces of you that you didn’t know you were missing. Tell me it’s not just me.

“We are too much the same, and too much different,” Ilya continued. “We like the fight, but we never want to fight, too. Not the big fights. Not important fights. So we pretend, and we live quiet, because we want to only give our best to each other.”

Oh, it hurt how much that was true. Shane wanted to be perfect for everyone. For his parents, for his team, for his coach, for the world. But mostly for Ilya. Always for Ilya.

“I chose you, Ilya. All of you. Not just your best.” Shane felt Ilya’s deep, shuddering breath against his hair. When Shane stretched a hand up to Ilya’s cheek, it was damp. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Ilya whispered. He said it again in Russian and kissed Shane’s temple. “I need you to hear your own words, Shane.”

He couldn’t. It was different saying them to Ilya, because all of Ilya was perfect. Even the worst parts of him were everything Shane could’ve ever wanted. Shane’s worst parts were… 

Shane shut his eyes against all the words he’d fought his whole life. No one wanted his worst parts.

“Maybe those should have been our vows,” Ilya noted. “Not just your best.”

Shane pulled back far enough to meet Ilya’s eyes. He looked so sincere. So sure. “You don’t want that.”

“I do,” Ilya said. He kissed Shane chastely, softly, perfectly. “I want all of you.”

And despite every ounce of panic coursing through Shane’s veins, he believed Ilya.

“Then… They still could be our vows. Right here, right now.”

“Serious?” Ilya asked, and Shane nodded, his heart in his throat. His gaze drifted down, but Ilya cupped Shane’s jaw in his hand, forcing his head up. Ilya didn’t let Shane look away. “Okay. Then I promise to love not just your best. To want not just your best.”

“Me too,” Shane managed. “And I want to worry. To have the important fights.”

Ilya smiled. “You want to promise to always fight me?”

“Yes. The big ones. The hard ones,” Shane said. Ilya wiggled his eyebrows in response and Shane groaned. “Shut up. Promise me.”

“I promise to fight you,” Ilya said. He almost sounded sarcastic, but his eyes shone, and Ilya didn’t even turn away to hide it. “I promise to fight with you and for you.”

“I promise to fight with you and for you,” Shane repeated. 

And then Ilya pulled Shane in for a kiss that was sweet and harsh and on the verge of out of control. Shane’s hands sank into Ilya’s hair before he even took a second breath. Ilya’s moan vibrated through his mouth, and this—this—is where Shane wanted to be. 

This was the kind of memory Shane never wanted to fade. Just him and Ilya in their home. Just this love that consumed him and made life worth living. A love that no one but Ilya would ever understand.

Shane wrenched himself free before the haze of Ilya’s kiss completely turned Shane’s brain to mush. “Wait, where’s your phone? We should take a photo.”

“Of our third wedding?” Ilya joked, but he opened the camera on his phone anyway.

“What? Did you think we would go for anything less than a hat trick?” Shane asked, and Ilya’s laugh was bright and infectious. When Ilya snapped their photo, both of their smiles were huge and real.

Ilya kissed Shane again, and Shane thought he heard another shutter sound, but then Shane was too busy moaning as Ilya’s tongue slid inside his mouth to care. Shane fought him for every breath, the kind of fight they’d always excelled at. 

When they broke apart, Shane pressed kisses along Ilya’s jaw, biting the side of Ilya’s neck until Ilya’s groan reverberated through Shane’s body like an earthquake. Shane sank to his knees as an overwhelming wave, with the weight of everything Ilya was to Shane, crashed over him.

“Shane, wait, stop, stop,” Ilya said, pulling Shane back up. “I don’t—I want—If I forget everything… If I forget you, I want you to—”

Shane shook his head. “No. Don’t fucking go there, Rozanov. We’ve known each other since we were seventeen. You’re not going to forget me. Maybe you’ll be a cocky asshole again, but that’s not new. I didn’t know how to handle you then, but I do now. I’ll be better at it in fifty years.”

Ilya’s laugh was raw and wet. “You have always handled me.”

“Exactly. I’ll walk into a room and you’ll say—” Shane pitched his voice low and slow “—Shane Hollander, I hope you are ready to lose.”

“I don’t sound like that.”

Shane ignored him. “And I will kiss you and tell you that you already won everything. Even me. And then maybe you’ll kiss me or push me away. We’ll figure that part out.”

Ilya shook his head slowly, his mouth tipping up at one corner. “Kiss you. Every time.”

“Even though you were a dick the first time we met?” Shane asked. Ilya cupped Shane’s jaw, Ilya’s thumb brushing over Shane’s cheek. Ilya’s touch was so soft that Shane’s eyes fluttered, and he had to fight to keep them open.

“I was, yes, but… You don’t remember my messages from Florida? I told you then.”

“I was more focused on you being alive, honestly,” Shane said. He hated thinking about the plane malfunctioning. “And how I wouldn’t have survived if you didn’t.”

“Don’t think about that,” Ilya ordered, tracing over the shell of Shane’s ear. “I maybe loved you from the first time. I hated you, too, because I didn’t want to think about it. From the first time we met, I wanted to kiss your freckles. Do not worry. I will kiss you every time.”

Shane’s grin spread across his whole face. “Really?”

“So excited over nothing, Hollander.” Ilya rolled his eyes. “Maybe I lied. I only liked your ass. I watched when you walked away. ”

“You did not.”

“And then in the showers?” Ilya blew out a breath. “Woah. Was not prepared. Really outperformed my imagination.”

Something about the term had Shane’s face heating. He’d had a lot of hockey talks about outperforming. It made him want to outperform any of Ilya’s other preconceived ideas. 

Shane cleared his throat. “We’re getting off topic. So, even if, and it’s a big if, we encounter your worst case scenario, we will handle it like we’ve handled everything else. Together. I want you at your worst, Ilya. We’re going to be okay.”

Ilya’s eyes were soft as velvet, his voice quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay.” And Shane leaned forward to place velvet kisses on Ilya’s face in return. “I’m curious about one more thing. Why is some of it in Russian, but others are in English? Is it memories that are…you know. Harder?”

Ilya shrugged again. “For safety. I don’t know how it works. Will I remember English? Will I remember Russian?”

“I will be there to help,” Shane whispered in English before switching to Russian. “In any language, I will be there.”

Ilya’s tiny smile might’ve been the most handsome one Shane had ever seen. “Still hungry?” Ilya asked.

Shane nodded, laced their fingers together, and led Ilya back to the kitchen. 

“So, I don’t actually know how much a quarter tablespoon of butter is,” Shane admitted. “It just sounded like enough to add flavor without going overboard on saturated fats.”

Ilya burst out laughing.

“Shit,” Shane said with a groan later that afternoon. “Seriously?”

Ilya grinned and shook out his shoulders. “Seven—five, to me. We are going to ten, right? I was little thirsty, but I can wait two more minutes.”

Shane glared as he dug the foosball out of the hole. “You’re only winning because you’re cheating.”

“Oh, really? How did I cheat?”

“With that last one, Anya ran right underneath me—”

“And I what?” Ilya raised his eyebrows in challenge. “Told Anya to trip you?”

“Probably.”

Ilya just laughed and stepped away from the table. “You are a bad loser, but you get so cute. Red cheeks, and this little… What do you call this, right here?” Ilya asked, stroking the wrinkle between Shane’s brows.

“A furrow,” he grumbled. 

Ilya’s fingers sank into Shane’s hair as Ilya leaned forward to kiss it. “Is an adorable furrow.”

Shane slumped forward to bury his smile in the curve of Ilya’s neck. “I hate you.”

“Sure,” Ilya said, in a way that sounded more like no, you don’t. Ilya still smelled like the shower he’d taken after their run this morning, subtle and clean and warm. Shane let his fingers trace over the dips and swells of Ilya’s arm, then his shoulder, down his back to his side.

Touching Ilya felt like… Shane didn’t have the words for it. Shane didn’t have any words when they touched, and that was the best part. It was the only time his brain stopped spitting out anxieties at a million miles an hour. He was sick of being the goalie in his own mind—stopping slapshots, bruised from the constant barrage. 

But with Ilya, the attacks stopped. Shane could meet Ilya there, at center ice. Warm, playful, and ready to fucking go.

“Do you remember what you said you wanted? Back in Boston?” Shane asked.

Ilya hummed. “I wanted lots of things.”

“About me blowing you,” Shane said, fighting a blush. “In your jersey. On the deck.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s hand reached around to knead Shane’s ass. “I remember.”

“I want to do it,” Shane decided. “I didn’t know what it meant to you before, but I do now. I want you to have a photo. A memory you can hold onto.”

Ilya considered it, his hand squeezing and releasing, making Shane moan. “Is too cold now.”

“I can handle the cold,” Shane insisted, moving Ilya’s hand to rest over Shane’s rapidly hardening cock. “We ran in it this morning.”

“That was running. This is you on your knees. And… In only my jersey?” Ilya asked. His voice got low and raspy, and Shane knew he had him.

“Yeah.”

Ilya breathed deeply and slipped his hand under Shane’s waistband. He cupped Shane’s dick in his palm and Shane let out some sort of embarrassing noise. Oh, god, it felt so good.

“No,” Ilya said, but he didn’t let go. 

Ilya’s fingertips grazed gently up Shane’s shaft and fuck, yes, more, please. 

“I want to take my time. Plus, will be my dick that is wet and freezes. When it is warmer, Shane. I will still want it.”

“But I want you to—”

“Shut up.” Ilya pulled his hand out from under Shane’s waistband and took his hand instead. “Just because I do not want to lose our balls to frostbite does not mean I do not want a memory.”

Shane’s blood pounded through him. “What do you have in mind?”

“For me to know.” Ilya led them into the gym, immediately shucking his sweats to the floor. “Take off your clothes, Hollander,” Ilya called out behind him without even looking. Like an afterthought. Like he knew Shane would do it. Of course he knew Shane would do it. And why was that so hot?

Shane was entirely fucked.

The dim lights of the gym, the faint scent of sweat and cleaning products and rubber, the way Ilya used his last name, all of it lit a fire in Shane’s blood. Ilya headed to the weight rack across from a mirrored wall, and sat on the inclined bench. It allowed him to sit up, but still look laid back. He looked effortlessly cool and comfortable and totally naked as his spine stretched out along the backrest.

Ilya’s fingers were loosely curled around his phone, as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. Shane knew better.

“Hollander. Clothes,” Ilya repeated. His chest moved with every breath, sharper than usual.

Shane blinked out of his stupor and pulled off his shirt. He didn’t miss the way Ilya’s eyes stayed glued to Shane’s every move as Shane folded it gently before removing the rest of his clothes. Shane was already breathless and hard when he set the pieces aside. 

Ilya waited silently after Shane was finished, which meant Shane waited too. He was stretched tight with anticipation. 

Finally, Ilya smirked, just a little. “Come here.”

Shane had to force himself to move slow, to place every careful, sure-footed step with intention. To not look like Ilya had him on the fucking ropes. 

“Here?” he asked, standing in front of Ilya, his back to the mirror. He swallowed around fresh nerves and swiped his palms over his thighs, which ruined the entire unaffected look he’d been striving for.

“For now.” Ilya was the picture of relaxation with one powerful leg stretched out carelessly in front of him. “I am a nice husband. I will make you a deal.”

Shane fought a smile. “What kind of deal?”

“I will set a timer.” Ilya’s hand slid over his chest, down his stomach. It was a slow, steady motion that Shane couldn’t tear his eyes from. Ilya was the hottest fucking man on the planet. And his. Entirely, beautifully, lovingly Shane’s. “You will suck my cock. If you do a good job and make me come before the timer goes off, you will get reward.”

“What’s the reward?” Shane mumbled, his eyes still following Ilya’s fingertips as they trailed down Ilya’s thigh.

“Mmm. Nope.” He popped the word in the most fucking annoying, undeniably sexy way. “I will tell you after.”

“Not much of a deal. What happens if I lose?”

Ilya grinned, his finger tapping against his inner thigh. “Will tell you that after, too.”

Shane laughed. “God, you’re such a dick. You have thirty seconds to make me a real deal, or I’m going to walk out the door and you can take care of this on your own.”

Ilya’s brows lifted. “Oh, now I am the one being timed? Always stealing my ideas, Hollander. Cheater, cheater,” he added in a sing-song.

Shane rolled his eyes. “I’m not a cheater. And these rules are bullshit. Only you know the terms? Fuck off. No one would take that deal.”

“You will.” Ilya sounded so fucking sure of himself. 

Shane watched, heart racing, as Ilya wrapped one graceful hand around his cock. His fingertips skimmed softly across skin, tugged, and twisted. It was easier, more casual, than when Shane touched him. Ilya took touching himself for granted. Shane wanted to slap Ilya’s reckless hand away and replace it with his own. 

For Shane, it was worship.

“Ask how I know.” Ilya’s voice was a deep rumble.

“How—” Shane choked on his words as Ilya stroked with just enough pressure to slide the head of his cock free from his foreskin. It was shining, just a little bit wet, blunt, smooth. Beautiful. It belonged on Shane’s tongue. “How do you know?”

“Because you will do absolutely anything just to suck my cock.”

Shane didn’t deny it. There were no words in his head to even try. He sank to his knees on the slightly rough, rubbery floor, and ran his palms up Ilya’s thighs. “What are the rules?”

Ilya held up his phone and hit start. “Four minutes.”

“What? No fucking way—”

Ilya’s closed mouth smile was pure satisfaction. “Three minutes, fifty-five seconds.”

Shane huffed. “I hate you.”

“If you’re going to use your mouth to lie, I will stuff it full.”

“Please,” Shane said. It just poured out of him. Immediately. The net in his head was empty. No goalie to be found. His eyes locked with Ilya’s. He fucking needed it. “Please.”

Ilya’s eyes went dark and hungry. “Fuck, Hollander,” he swore under his breath, his hand diving into Shane’s hair. Shane opened his mouth wide. Waiting. Ilya groaned again and tugged Shane forward, resting the wide tip of his cock on Shane’s eager tongue. “You always ruin me. Always so perfect. So hungry for it.”

The words overtook Shane in a warm, rolling fog. His hands slid over Ilya’s hips, his waist, his chest, his arms, feeling every inch of skin he could as he took Ilya in his mouth. The rest of the world faded out until all that mattered were Ilya’s sharp breaths, his gentle fingers raking through Shane’s hair or drawing patterns over the back of Shane’s neck. Shane took him deep and forced a swallow, his muscles rippling around Ilya’s cock, and Ilya’s hand was strong and firm as he clutched at the space between Shane’s neck and shoulder.

Shane forgot about the rules and the timer. He forgot about rewards and photos and memories. He was nothing more than a mouth for Ilya to use. Pleasure for Ilya to consume. He was Ilya’s love made into atoms that clung to each other and were made real. He was so full with it that he might burst.

He thumbed Ilya’s nipples, squeezed flesh and muscle, nipped at the hard muscle of Ilya’s thigh. Every centimeter of Ilya’s body was more perfect than the last. 

Shane’s knees throbbed, vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind. He wished he had Ilya stretched out somewhere so Shane could take the time to kiss all of him.

Shane pushed Ilya to the edge, until Ilya was fighting not to squirm, panting, saying things in endless Russian as his hands that roamed over Shane moved from caressing and teasing to urgent clutching.

“Stop, stop,” Ilya said, pushing at Shane’s shoulder. Shane blinked away the haze. He dimly registered a buzzing.

Ilya’s timer.

Shane had lost.

“No,” Shane protested. “Let me finish.”

“Too late,” Ilya said, panting. His face was pink and damp, his pupils huge. “You lose.”

“Tell me what I lost later,” Shane argued, and took Ilya’s cock deep.

“Oh my god,” Ilya gasped. His stomach tensed under Shane’s hand in a way Shane knew intimately. Ilya was right there. “Fuck, Shane.”

Shane hit Ilya’s favorite rhythm, moving faster, triumphant. Ilya wouldn’t stop him now. Couldn’t. Shane glanced up to meet Ilya’s eyes, floored by the blatant desire written all over Ilya’s face.

“Fuck, Shane, I’m going to come,” Ilya warned. Shane brought his hand up to meet his mouth, pumping frantically, and sat back on his heels.

“Show me,” Shane pleaded.

Ilya’s hands tightened on Shane as his head tilted back, gasping, pulsing, coming in Shane’s hand and all over his own chest and stomach in bursts. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ilya’s breaths were still short and hard as his whole body relaxed against the backrest. His hands moved softly to Shane’s hair, stroking and massaging Shane’s scalp. 

“I love you,” Ilya murmured, his eyes still closed. His other hand came up to rest over his sternum. “Oh, god. I think you sucked my heart out of my dick.”

Shane laughed, and his smile was victorious. “Good.”

“Did you come?” Ilya asked, managing to crack his eyes open far enough to peer through his lashes.

Shane’s cheeks flushed as he shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Good. I want to touch you. Up. Want you in my lap.” Shane stood and moved to straddle Ilya’s thighs, but Ilya shook his head. “Other way. Face the mirror. No, wait. Bring me a towel?”

How someone could make a string of words sound like a question and a demand, Shane didn’t know. Even so, he did as he was told. He even wiped down Ilya’s chest and stomach with the soft towel before Ilya took it from him and dropped it to the floor.

“Sit,” Ilya said, patting his thighs. 

Shane sat carefully, but Ilya stretched an arm across Shane’s chest and pulled him backward, until they were pressed firmly together. Ilya hooked his feet on either side of Shane’s ankles, pulling them apart until Shane’s cock was on full display. Shane’s core tightened at the position, his abs flexing in the mirror. 

“Fuck. Look at you. You are art, Shane,” Ilya whispered, and leaned in to kiss the soft space below Shane’s ear. Shane’s breath hitched, his body straining to keep himself upright. Ilya held his arm across Shane’s body, as strong as an iron bar. His other hand was light and teasing, setting all of Shane’s nerves aflame.

Ilya’s mouth joined in, placing kiss after kiss to Shane’s skin. Gentle, sucking, biting, sometimes with a tease and flicker of tongue. Ilya took his time until Shane was aching. He breathed through the need to tremble, even as his cock throbbed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Ilya, touch my dick.”

Ilya huffed a laugh against Shane’s neck. “So impatient. This is what you want?” Ilya’s hand wrapped loosely around Shane’s cock, barely touching. Just enough that every drag felt like torture. “Already so wet, Shane. This will be quick.”

Shane turned his head to pin Ilya with a glare. “Fuck off.”

Ilya’s hand moved from Shane’s chest to his jaw, forcing Shane to look straight ahead. 

“You work so hard for these muscles, Shane. Too hard to not look at them.” Ilya’s hand gripped just a little tighter around Shane’s dick, slicking his palm with Shane’s precum. “Your stomach is straining. Too weak to hold it?”

“No. Fuck you.”

Ilya raised a brow in the mirror. “Beg.”

“Ilya,” Shane threatened. Ilya’s hand twisted, squeezed on the downstroke, made a tight ring just under the head of his cock that he pulsed until Shane strained harder. “Oh fuck. Holy shit.”

“Beg.”

“Ilya, please.” Shane did tremble now, every muscle straining, the cords in his neck fierce and his abs pebbled while he worked to hold himself steady. It was like being stuck in a V-up, worse than a plank. Sweat trickled down Shane’s cheek, and Ilya leaned forward to lick it off.

“Get my phone.”

Shane’s hand shook as much as the rest of him as he leaned further against Ilya’s side to pick up Ilya’s phone from the floor.

“Open the camera. You will frame it for us.” Ilya stroked Shane’s cock faster, finding the perfect rhythm that had Shane leaking faster.

“Ilya, I can’t,” Shane panted. “I’m going to come.”

“No, you are not. Frame the photo.”

“Oh shit. Holy shit,” Shane chanted. He pointed the phone toward the mirror, zooming in until it was him and Ilya together. He cut it off just below his navel, breathing heavy, his toes curling, every muscle bulging as Ilya moved with a fury. “Ilya—”

“Hold the button down,” Ilya ordered, harsh and deep. And Shane obeyed, the shutter clicking continuously as Ilya’s thumb swiped and his hand gripped and—

“Oh fuck, Ilya!” 

Shane groaned as his orgasm barreled over him, whiting out his vision.

And everything went black.

“Wow. Fuck. Wow,” Ilya murmured, the words echoing through the ringing in Shane’s ears. 

Ilya’s lips were soft against Shane’s collarbone. Shane was vaguely aware of Ilya’s arms like steel bands around him. 

Shane was heavy. Crushing Ilya. In real danger of falling from Ilya’s lap and onto the gym floor.

And he couldn’t find the energy to care.

“You are there, moya lyubov?” Shane hummed a vague response, and Ilya chuckled. “So you got reward anyway. Cheater. I told you.”

“Not like I stole it. You gave it to me,” Shane mumbled. No part of him was ready to move, but he was hot and sweaty, and the space between his back and Ilya’s chest was slick with it. Rather than try to stand, Shane rolled onto his side, out of Ilya’s arms, and sort of melted, bonelessly, to the floor.

Ilya’s laugh came in quiet puffs of air. “I cannot wait to see those photos.”

Shane frowned. “I don’t have your phone anymore.”

“Yes, I know. Is on the floor. Not important.” Ilya heaved himself off the incline bench and reached down for Shane’s hands. “Come. We need a shower. Both of us.”

“Can’t. Dead,” Shane said. 

Ilya hauled him up anyway. “Arms around my neck,” he ordered, then snorted as Shane draped himself heavily across Ilya’s torso. He hefted him up, until Shane’s legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist.

“But it will be a good memory at least?” Shane asked, slurring a little, as Ilya hit the light switch for the gym and carried Shane to their bedroom.

Ilya kissed Shane’s hair. “Yes, Shane. The best.” 

Ilya’s footsteps were heavy as they climbed the stairs, and Shane started to come back to himself. He clutched at Ilya’s back so that he wasn’t just boneless weight.

“For now, anyway,” Ilya added. “We will make more tomorrow.”