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It happens by accident. Which somehow makes it worse.
A video from Hayden’s phone. Harmless. A few seconds posted without thinking.
Shane is in the background, half out of frame, leaning into Ilya in a way that is so instinctive neither of them registers it as anything at all. His hand rests on Ilya’s knee like it’s always lived there. Ilya’s shoulder tips toward him without looking, muscle memory taking over. It’s domestic in the quietest way. Familiar. Intimate. The kind of closeness you stop noticing when it’s part of your everyday life.
Impossible to explain away once the internet freezes it.
Shane finds out when his phone starts vibrating nonstop while he’s taping his stick. Not one buzz. A constant hum against the bench, like something alive and angry. He ignores it at first. Then someone down the line glances at him. Then another. Then his phone lights up with a number he hasn’t seen since Montreal.
Media requests. Missed calls. Texts that start with hey man and end with you okay? in that careful tone that already answers the question for him.
Ilya sees it before Shane does. He stills completely, like a switch flipped. Watches Shane’s face for a second too long. Says his name softly, measured, like he’s approaching a skittish animal.
Shane nods. Doesn’t look at him. Keeps moving. Tape, gloves, helmet. Muscle memory takes over where his brain can’t. Practice still happens. He skates hard. Plays harder. Throws his body into every shift like punishment might fix something.
They lose again.
He tells himself it’s fine. He’s handled worse. He’s survived pressure. He’s survived expectations. He’s survived an entire city loving him until it didn’t.
But Montreal comes roaring back the second he finally sits down.
They blamed him for the trip. Said it was intentional. Said he checked out when things got hard. Said it with straight faces and shrugged shoulders and business is business ringing in the background. The organization never shut it down. Never corrected the narrative. Never defended him.
The room went cold.
The team he played his heart out for over a decade stopped being his brothers overnight. Conversations cut short. Eye contact avoided. Jokes that didn’t include him anymore. He could feel the shift every time he walked into the locker room like a draft through an open door.
He wore the C for eleven years.
Eleven.
It wasn’t just a letter. It was who he was. The guy they leaned on. The one who stayed late. The one who took the blame so others didn’t have to.
And suddenly it was gone. Not because he failed. Not because he didn’t earn it.
Because it was easier to let him take the fall.
So he left.
Not dramatically. Not with speeches or slammed doors. He left the way people do when staying would hollow them out completely. Quietly. Efficiently. With a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and a statement he practiced until it sounded convincing.
He took a massive pay cut just to get out. Not because he wanted to. Because he needed to. Because money mattered less than waking up every day knowing the room had turned against him. Because he couldn’t keep skating next to people who looked at him like a liability instead of family. Couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t feel it every time someone hesitated before passing him the puck. Every time a conversation died when he walked in.
Ottawa is his hometown, sure. The place he learned to skate. The city that made him. Everyone keeps calling it a homecoming like that’s supposed to fix everything.
It doesn’t feel like home. Not yet.
He comes in halfway through the season, dropped into a moving machine that doesn’t know him. New systems drilled into his head when his instincts still want to default to Montreal’s. New plays. New expectations. A locker room that already has its own hierarchies, its own rhythms, its own jokes he doesn’t know when to laugh at yet.
The team isn’t as strong as Montreal. He knows that. He’s not stupid. He adjusts his game anyway. Tries to lead without overstepping. Tries to earn space instead of assuming it. They lose. Again. And again. And again.
Every loss feels heavier because it’s happening on unfamiliar ice.
And the C is already spoken for.
Ilya’s the captain.
Shane doesn’t resent it. Not really. He watches Ilya wear the letter like it belongs there, because it does. Because Ilya leads naturally, fiercely, with a steadiness Shane recognizes and trusts. He means it when he tells him he’s proud. Means it when he jokes about how good the C looks on him.
He also feels the absence like a phantom limb.
Eleven years of reaching for something that isn’t there anymore. Of walking into rooms where he used to belong by default and now has to ask where he fits. Another version of himself quietly erased.
Then they move in together.
It’s good. It’s really good. Shane loves waking up tangled in Ilya, loves learning the sound of the apartment at night, loves the way their routines start to overlap without effort. Loves seeing his things mixed in with Ilya’s until it feels like a shared life instead of two separate ones pressed together.
It is also another change.
Another box unpacked. Another address memorized. Another thing that feels wonderful and terrifying at the same time. One more shift he didn’t have time to brace for.
By the time they get home after the game, Shane is vibrating with it. His body feels tight, wound too far. His head is loud. Every thought stacking on top of the last until he can’t separate Montreal from Ottawa, loss from loss, past from present.
Ilya asks something small. Almost nothing.
What do you want for dinner.
And Shane just… can’t.
Shane snaps.
It isn’t loud at first. It’s clipped. Controlled in the way that’s actually more dangerous. He hears his own voice sharpen and can’t stop it in time. The words come out edged, brittle, already halfway to something he can’t take back.
He says something about the team. About how no one seems to know what they’re doing. About how leadership is supposed to steady things and somehow it isn’t. He doesn’t even mean all of it. Some of it doesn’t make sense. It’s just noise spilling out of him, frustration looking for a place to land.
And it lands on Ilya.
He says it must be nice. Must be easy. Wearing the C. Having everyone listen. Having things line up instead of falling apart. He says it like an accusation, like a jab, like he wants to see if it’ll hurt.
It does.
The second the words leave his mouth, regret slams into him so hard it steals the air from his lungs. Immediate. Crushing. Like he’s stepped off a ledge he didn’t know was there. He can practically see the sentence hanging between them, ugly and wrong and undeserved.
Because it isn’t true. Not really. He knows how hard Ilya works. Knows how heavy the letter can be. Knows that nothing about this season has been easy for either of them. He knows Ilya didn’t take anything from him. He knows Ilya is the one bright, steady thing in a life that keeps shifting under his feet.
And still, he said it.
Because Ilya is safe. Because Ilya is constant. Because somewhere deep down Shane knows that if everything else is going to fall apart, this won’t. So he pushes. Tests the edge. Lets the worst of it spill out where it can’t actually abandon him.
The look on Ilya’s face guts him instantly.
Not anger. Not defensiveness. Just a flicker of hurt, quickly masked, like Ilya is already trying to decide how to absorb the blow instead of throwing one back. Like he’s already choosing Shane over himself.
Shane wants to claw the words back into his mouth. Wants to rewind thirty seconds and swallow them whole. His chest tightens. His heart starts racing in that sick, panicked way that means he’s gone too far and he knows it.
He opens his mouth to fix it. To apologize. To explain that he didn’t mean it like that, that he didn’t mean it at all.
Nothing coherent comes out.
Because underneath the anger is fear. Raw and shaking and relentless. Fear that he doesn’t know who he is without Montreal. Fear that he doesn’t know how to exist without the C. Fear that everything familiar is slipping through his fingers and he doesn’t have the grip he used to.
And Ilya is standing right there. Steady. Unmoving. The one thing that hasn’t changed.
The panic hits fast. Too fast.
It is like his body realizes what he has done before his mind can catch up. His chest tightens. His breath goes shallow. His heart slams like it is trying to break free. He cannot believe he said that. Cannot believe he aimed it at Ilya. At the one thing that did not change.
His thoughts start to skid, wild and uncontained.
He ruined it.
This is how it starts.
This is the moment everything goes wrong.
Because that is how it happened in Montreal. One mistake. One story that stuck. One moment where the room shifted and never shifted back. He feels it all over again. The sudden distance. The way people stopped looking at him the same. The way loyalty evaporated the second it became inconvenient.
What if this is the same.
What if Ilya decides he is done. What if he looks at Shane and sees the problem instead of the person. What if this outburst is the thing that finally makes Ilya pull away.
The thought is unbearable.
Shane’s hands start to shake. He presses them into his thighs like he can physically hold himself together. His head fills with images he does not want. Ilya stepping back. Ilya going cold. Ilya deciding that loving Shane is too much work now that everything else is already hard.
He cannot survive that. The realization lands with terrifying clarity.
Montreal took his team.
The league took his reputation.
The season took his footing.
Ilya is the only constant left.
And Shane just attacked it.
He opens his mouth to fix it, to say something, anything, that will rewind time or soften the blow. His tongue feels thick. Useless. His voice gets stuck behind his teeth.
I am sorry, he thinks desperately. I did not mean it. Please do not leave. Please do not turn on me too.
The panic swells higher, loud enough to drown out everything else. His vision blurs at the edges. He blinks hard, trying to force it back.
He is not even crying yet. That is the worst part. He is suspended right before it, right at the edge, where the fear is sharpest and there is no relief yet.
He cannot lose him.
Shane tries to explain.
The words come out all at once, piled on top of each other, tripping over themselves the same way his thoughts are. He talks too fast, barely breathing between sentences, like if he slows down even a little everything will collapse.
He starts with Montreal. He always does. Says he did not mean it like that. Says he knows it was not Ilya’s fault. Says the article that dropped this morning just hit wrong, that seeing his name twisted again made something snap. He says they are still saying he quit on them. That he checked out. That he never cared as much as he claimed.
He says he gave them everything. Says he does not understand how it turned into this. Says he keeps replaying it in his head, the trip, the way everyone looked at him after, the silence that followed. Says he thought if he left it would stop hurting but it followed him anyway.
He jumps to the losses next. Says he knows Ottawa is not Montreal. Says he knows that coming in halfway through the season was always going to be hard. Says he is trying. Trying to learn systems that do not feel natural yet. Trying to lead without stepping on toes. Trying not to be the problem everyone already seems to think he is.
He says it feels like nothing sticks. Like every time he reaches for solid ground it shifts under him. Like he is always half a second behind where he is supposed to be.
His hands move when he talks. Too much. Like he is trying to physically shape the chaos into something understandable. He keeps apologizing. Keeps circling back to the same point.
I am messing everything up. I keep messing everything up.
He tells Ilya he did not deserve that. That Ilya deserved better. Someone steadier. Someone who does not crack like this. Someone who does not bring all this mess into the room and dump it at his feet.
He says he is trying so hard to hold it together. That he does not know why it is not working anymore. That he does not recognize himself half the time.
He finally looks up.
His voice wobbles on the next word, betraying him completely, and everything he was holding back rushes dangerously close to the surface.
Ilya sees it. The shine in his eyes. The way Shane blinks hard like he can force it back.
It is subtle. Anyone else might miss it. A fraction of a second where Shane’s control slips. The wet gloss at the lower rim of his eyes. The way his jaw tightens like he is bracing for impact.
Ilya does not miss it.
He has seen this look before, though never quite like this. He knows what it means when Shane starts talking faster instead of quieter. When his sentences get longer and more tangled, like he is afraid of the silence. He knows the exact moment Shane goes from trying to explain to trying not to fall apart.
Shane swallows. Tries again. His voice pitches just a little higher and he hates himself for it. He blinks harder, lashes clumping, breath stuttering in his chest. He turns his head like he can hide it by not looking directly at Ilya.
It only makes it worse.
Ilya steps closer without thinking. Not rushing. Not hesitating. Just closing the distance like gravity pulled him there. He does not interrupt. Does not tell Shane to calm down. He just reaches out, slow and deliberate, and places a hand against Shane’s arm.
The contact is gentle. Anchoring.
Shane freezes at it.
His breath catches, sharp and involuntary, and that is when the dam finally cracks. His shoulders cave in like something has given way inside him. A broken sound slips out of his throat before he can stop it, halfway between a breath and a sob.
Ilya says his name quietly. Nothing else. No questions. No fixing. Just the sound of it, steady and familiar.
Shane’s eyes fill completely then, tears spilling over as fast as he can blink them away. He shakes his head like he is embarrassed by it, like he is apologizing even now for losing control.
Ilya does not let him.
He cups Shane’s face in both hands, thumbs warm against his cheeks, and presses his forehead gently to Shane’s. He holds him there, close enough that Shane cannot spiral away again.
It is okay, Ilya murmurs.
And Shane finally lets himself fall.
Not pretty. Not controlled. Ugly, heaving sobs tear out of him like his body has finally given up the fight. Shane folds forward, spine bowing, hands coming up uselessly like he does not know where to put them. Ilya catches him without thinking, reflex sharp and immediate, arms locking tight around his shoulders. One hand settles firm at the back of Shane’s neck, grounding him, keeping him from collapsing all the way to the floor.
The sound Shane makes is wrecked. Raw. It comes from somewhere deep in his chest, like something ripped loose after being held down for too long. His whole body shakes with it. He clutches at Ilya’s shirt, fingers curling hard like he is afraid Ilya might disappear if he does not hold on tight enough.
Shane cries like he has been holding everything together with duct tape and sheer willpower. Cries for Montreal, for the way it stopped being home without warning. For the C that used to sit heavy and familiar on his chest. For the brothers who turned away from him when it mattered most. For the losses piling up in Ottawa, one after another, each one confirming the fear that he does not belong anywhere anymore. For how fast his life keeps changing, how he cannot get his footing before the ground shifts again.
His words come broken and breathless between sobs.
I am sorry.
I did not mean it.
I cannot keep up.
He keeps saying it like a confession, like if he repeats it enough it will make sense of the mess spilling out of him. His voice cracks completely, dissolving into more crying, louder now, unrestrained. He buries his face against Ilya’s shoulder, soaking into him, no longer trying to be quiet or contained.
Ilya does not flinch. He holds Shane tighter instead. Rocks him gently, slow and steady, like he is teaching Shane’s body how to breathe again. He murmurs Shane’s name over and over, soft and constant, threading it through the noise like a lifeline. Presses his forehead to Shane’s temple, anchoring him there, solid and unmoving.
I am here, the gesture says.
I am not going anywhere.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, Shane lets himself believe it.
“You are allowed to hate this,” Ilya says quietly.
He waits a beat, makes sure it lands.
“You are allowed to miss it.”
Shane makes a sound that is half a breath and half a sob. He grips Ilya’s shirt tighter, knuckles white. “I do,” he chokes. “I miss it so much. I hate that I do. I hate that it still feels like home.”
“That makes sense,” Ilya says immediately. No hesitation. “You gave them everything.”
Shane shakes his head, small and miserable. “They think I quit. They think I did it on purpose. They think I stopped caring.” His voice breaks again. “I cared so much it ruined me.”
“I know,” Ilya says. “I know.”
Shane’s sobs start to slow, turning uneven and shaky. He presses his forehead into Ilya’s shoulder, breathing him in like he needs the reminder. “I feel like I am failing at everything,” he whispers. “The team. The season. You.”
Ilya pulls back just enough to look at him. “You are not failing me.”
Shane’s eyes flick up, red and wet and doubtful. “I snapped at you. I said things I did not mean.”
“I know you did not mean them,” Ilya says gently. “And even if you did, it would not make me leave.”
Shane swallows. “I keep waiting for you to get tired of this. Of me being like this.”
“I am not going anywhere,” Ilya says, firm now. “Not because you are doing well. Not because things are easy. I am here because it is you.”
Shane nods, barely. “Everything feels like too much at once.”
“Then we do one thing,” Ilya says. “Not all of it.”
He wipes the tears from Shane’s cheeks with his thumbs, slow and careful. “You do not have to survive your whole life tonight.”
Shane nods, barely. “Everything feels like too much at once.”
“Then we do one thing,” Ilya says. “Not all of it.”
He wipes the tears from Shane’s cheeks with his thumbs, slow and careful. “You do not have to survive your whole life tonight.”
Shane lets out a long, shaky breath. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I can do one thing.”
“Good,” Ilya says. “Then the one thing is this.”
He pulls Shane down with him onto the couch, no rush, no drama. Just arms opening and Shane falling into them like he has been waiting for permission. Shane curls in immediately, knees tucked in, face pressed against Ilya’s chest. Ilya wraps around him fully, one arm across his back, the other threaded through his hair.
Neither of them talks for a while.
Shane’s breathing evens out. The tightness in his chest loosens just a little. He feels heavy in the good way, like gravity is finally doing its job instead of fighting him.
“I forgot how tired I was,” Shane murmurs.
“I know,” Ilya says. “You have been carrying too much.”
After a bit, Ilya shifts just enough to reach for the blanket draped over the chair. He tucks it around Shane carefully, like he is building a small, safe pocket around him.
“You should eat something,” Ilya says gently.
Shane grimaces. “I am not hungry.”
“I know,” Ilya says again. “But you still should.”
Shane hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Just something small.”
They end up at the kitchen counter, Shane sitting on a stool while Ilya moves around quietly. Nothing complicated. Real food. Something warm. Shane eats slowly, like it takes effort to remember how, but it stays down. Ilya stays close the whole time, hand resting on Shane’s knee, grounding and familiar.
Later, they curl back up together. Shane’s head tucked under Ilya’s chin this time. Ilya traces slow, absent circles on his arm. Shane’s eyes close without him really deciding to sleep.
When he wakes the next morning, the light is softer than he expects. His body feels wrung out but lighter, like something ugly and heavy finally left him overnight.
Ilya is still there. Warm. Solid. One arm thrown over Shane’s waist like it never left.
Shane lies there for a minute, just breathing, letting it sink in.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey,” Ilya answers, voice rough with sleep.
“I feel,” Shane searches for the word, then exhales, “not good. But better.”
Ilya smiles against his hair. “That sounds about right.”
Shane turns slightly, enough to look at him. “Thank you for not making me be strong.”
Ilya meets his eyes, serious. “You do not have to be strong with me. Ever.”
Shane swallows. His chest tightens again, but this time it is not panic. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Ilya echoes.
Everything is still hard. Montreal still hurts. The season is not magically fixed. Change is still everywhere, waiting.
But Shane knows something now that he did not last night.
He is allowed to be weak. He is allowed to fall apart. And Ilya will be there, steady and unflinching, loving him through it.
And somehow, knowing that makes it all feel survivable.