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Shane drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. He was waiting on a street in Ottawa, a couple of blocks from the hotel the Bears were staying in following their game against Ottawa. Boston had a solid victory, with a final 4-1 score. Ilya had texted Shane briefly after the game to talk about Zane Boodram’s goal for the Centaurs. He hated being scored on, but he was also looking forward to hopefully playing on a line with Boodram next season.
They were talking more about their plans for the future year now, as the end of the regular season loomed closer and closer. Ilya had been putting out feelers with his agent for a trade to Ottawa. The idea of Ilya playing for his hometown, only two hours away, was exhilarating. Shane clenched his fists around the steering wheel, overwhelmed by how much he wanted this, wanted them.
Shane was waiting to drive Ilya home. To his actual apartment in Montreal. It had been months since they’d stopped meeting at the condo, which was now up for sale. It was a relief to finally bring Ilya more fully into his life. To start sharing his home with the man. To be honest about how much it meant for him to be there.
Ilya had told his team that he had some business in Ottawa to deal with and would fly back to Boston a day later than the rest of the team. It wasn’t untrue, exactly. They were planning to work on some details with the Irina Foundation tomorrow. Yuna would meet them in Montreal, where they had an appointment with a lawyer to start drafting some bylaws for the organization.
Tonight, though, he would have Ilya to himself for the first time in weeks. He was giddy with the thought.
It had already been dark when Ilya made it out of his hotel, so it was almost pitch black by the time they made it to Montreal. As they approached the apartment, there was just enough light from the few streetlights for Shane to get a glimpse of Ilya’s hand on his thigh, where it had sat for nearly the entire drive. The casual intimacy took his breath away. As he pulled into his garage, Shane pressed Ilya’s hand down onto his thigh, then got his phone out of his pocket.
“Can I?” He asked, pointing his phone camera at the spot where they touched. “I know we can’t really do pictures, but, I mean, no one will know whose hand this is, even if they saw it, right? I can put it in a locked folder on my phone. I know it’s stupid, I just…”
Ilya leaned across the center console and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, stopping Shane from rambling.
“Of course, malysh,” Ilya smiled.
Shane turned on the car lights before snapping the photo. He grinned at his screen for a moment, then, “let’s go inside. I know where else your hands should go.”
Ilya gave up and pulled everything out of the backpack he’d brought to Shane’s. “Blyat,” he muttered.
Shane popped his head in from the bathroom, where he was getting ready to drive Ilya to the airport.
“Something wrong?” he asked, scrubbing a towel through his hair to dry off.
After spending the day with lawyers and out to dinner with Yuna and David, they’d had a few quiet hours to themselves, and now Ilya had an early flight back to Boston, planning to drive directly to the practice rink and catch some of the team’s morning skate before their game tonight. Two nights in a row was more than Shane and Ilya usually got to spend together during the season, but it never felt enough. He worries it would never feel like enough. Sometimes, when he forgets to rein in his thoughts, he starts daydreaming about a life together, married, playing hockey and somehow on the same team. He thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind, that even if that nebulous dream ever came true, he would still miss Shane anytime he left the room.
It’s with this dread of leaving Shane, again, that he came to the realization that he forgot to pack the compression shirt he was planning to wear directly to the rink today, knowing he wouldn’t have time to stop at home.
“Can I use one of your shirts? For the rink today. Mine is not here and you probably have like, one million from all of your sexy modeling jobs.”
Ilya tried to sound light, but it came off more sarcastic than he meant. Shane didn't bat an eye. He’s used to the moods Ilya gets in as goodbye gets closer. Shane’s just as guilty of them, too.
“No problem. I think you left one a couple of times ago. I’ll grab it.”
Shane disappears into the closet and Ilya follows him, surprised to find Shane opening a drawer full of familiar items.
“You said you never found that sweatshirt!” he shouts, followed by a gasp. “My lucky underwear!”
“I didn’t think you needed them anymore so I kept them,” Shane shrugged. “You said you used them for an extra boost of confidence when you went out, but I figure, if you wanna get lucky now, you need a plane ticket, not special underwear.” His voice dropped lower. “Besides, I like to hold them sometimes. When I’m… thinking about you.”
Ilya grinned, placing a quick kiss on the side of Shane’s neck, before kneeling beside Shane to look more closely at the contents of the drawer. The knot in his stomach that had started to loosen at their playful exchange started to constrict again.
In addition to the compression shirt and the silky boxer-briefs and various other pieces of clothing, his attention caught on a bracelet he had made with a group of kids at a hospital visit, an empty bottle of the vodka Svetlana always brought him from home and a Lyudmila Ulitskaya book he’d left half-finished. His eyes lingered on a too-small t-shirt he had been wearing the day he had convinced Shane to finish the vodka with him and they had danced around the living room to nearly all of Madonna’s catalog.
“There is so many things here,” he murmured, half to himself. “So many of our memories.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry, I guess I probably should have given some of it back, but I like having a space here that’s all you.”
Ilya grabbed the compression shirt that he had, indeed, left behind before, then gave Shane a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying out of the closet and busied himself getting dressed and repacking his things.
Shane scrolled through the messages on his phone again. It felt so much like the earlier days of their relationship, before the cottage. Before I love you and plans for a charity and a future together. He was driving himself crazy trying to decipher the messages he’d received from Ilya the last couple of days. They were so much more clipped than usual. Their conversations so much shorter.
Friday 7:43 am
Shane: you left something
Shane: [photo of Shane in a Boston Raiders baseball cap]
Lily: keep it
Shane: I look terrible in hats
Lily: never
Shane: I guess you’re just gonna have to come back and get it
Lily: ok.
Lily: have to go. practice.
Shane: Ok. I’ll miss you. Love you.
Lily: ❤️
Ilya didn’t usually let Shane start their conversations, so to not having him texting multiple times a day left Shane itching to hear from his boyfriend.
Saturday 8:17 am
Shane: big game today
Shane: you gonna check Scott Hunter for me
Shane: I’m still mad they beat us last week
Lily: of course
Lily: talk to you later
Shane paced his apartment. The Voyageurs had won their game today, but it had been a close score. Against Buffalo. He was so distracted and felt like he hadn’t taken a full breath in the last few days since Ilya had left.
They were flying to Boston for a game in two days. Maybe Ilya needed space. He could give him space for two days.
He had caught the end of the Boston and New York game when he was done with his own. Ilya had given Scott Hunter a particularly nasty-looking check. Shane hoped Ilya had been thinking about him when he did it. He hoped he’d been thinking of him when the clock ran down and he celebrated his win with his team. He hoped he’d felt the kiss he had blown the TV during the post-game interview, when Ilya had looked so good, sweat-drenched curls plastered to his forehead, that Shane couldn’t help himself.
He hoped he knew how proud Shane was of him. How proud he was to be his.
He reopened his text thread with Ilya again. Talk to you later, it said. Did Ilya really want to talk to him or was it just a dismissal? What had he done wrong?
He looked at the clock. It had been about an hour since the game had ended. Ilya might be home or he might be out celebrating with the team. Was he waiting to hear from Shane, first? Was Ilya tired of instigating their conversations? Was Ilya tired of him? Did he even want to talk?
A million questions were running through his head. When he got to the point that he’d convinced himself that Ilya was dead in a ditch in one of his stupid fast cars, Shane decided he was being stupid. This was his boyfriend. He could give his fucking boyfriend a call on the fucking phone.
It rang a couple of times and then Ilya, blessedly, answered the call.
“Hello, malysh,” he said, sounding almost normal. “I saw the score. Congratulations. Though I am not surprised. Buffalo is terrible.”
Shane smiled, eyes closed.
“Yeah, your game looked like a lot more fun. Scott Hunter walk out of there alright?”
“Yes, do not worry about him. He is dinosaur but strong dinosaur. Do not tell him I said this.”
“Never.”
There was a few moments of silence on the other end of the call before Shane started again.
“So, uh, are you going out tonight? With the team or anything?”
“No, I went yesterday. It’s good night for quiet at home, I think. You?”
“Yeah, I’m partying with all the boys right now. You’re on speakerphone. Say hi.”
He heard Ilya’s quiet scoff on the other end, but he knew if he could see him, there would be a smile.
“Everyone thinks Shane Hollander is this nice guy. I am lucky one to always get sarcastic asshole.”
“Only for you, baby.”
Another pause, while Shane gathered up his nerves.
“Hey, are – are you ok?” He finally asked. “You’ve felt, I don’t know. Far? These last few days.”
Ilya let out a sigh.
“I am ok. I miss you. It’s hard to be so far sometimes.”
“Yeah, for me too,” Shane stopped, trying to lighten his tone. “But hey, next year, you’ll be in Ottawa. We’ll see each other a lot more.”
“Yes, is true. Will be nice.”
“It’ll be fucking fantas – oh shit, I gotta go. Hayden’s here. Love you”
Ilya heard a muffled voice on the other end, then Shane’s, farther away from the phone than before.
“Hey man, what’s up – no, just my mom.”
And then the line went dead.
Tuesday 6:20 am
Shane: just boarded the plane
Shane: I miss you.
Shane: can’t wait to receive my victory prize ;)
Lily: funny
Lily: see you tonight
Shane was restless the entire flight to Boston. He hadn’t felt so anxious before a Boston game for a long time. Of course, it wasn’t the game itself that he was nervous about. Things had still been… off… with Ilya since his last visit to Montreal.
Their phone call after Saturday’s games had seemed normal enough, but when Shane had tried to call him again after Hayden left, Ilya said he was tired and ended the conversation quickly.
After landing, Shane went through the motions the rest of the day, dropping off his bag at the hotel, leading the team through some drills and gearing up for the game itself.
When warm-ups finally rolled around, he was so relieved when Ilya skated over to him.
“Hollander, you are looking so slow. You skate like Scott Hunter.”
Shane rolled his eyes as Ilya leaned in closer, pretending to stretch, then speaking quieter this time.
“I will see you tonight?”
Shane's head snapped up in surprise. Ilya sounded strangely timid. So unlike him.
“Of course,” Shane tried to sound earnest, but it was hard when he also had to appear casual to anyone who might be looking. “I’ll stop by the hotel and be right over. I can’t wait.”
Ilya nodded once, then gave him a little shove.
“Try and make this one worth the fight, yes, Hollander?”
Ilya skated away, back turned so he couldn’t see the concern on Shane’s face.
The door to Ilya’s house opened before Shane could ring the doorbell. Immediately, strong hands pulled him inside and pressed him against the wall.
Ilya’s mouth was hot and insistent on his own, like he was trying to prove a point. Shane pulled away, lightly pushing on Ilya’s chest.
“Ilya, stop, please. I need to talk to you.”
Ilya deflated and turned, walking further into the living room.
Shane followed him, then stopped and stared at Ilya. He looked like he was trying to make himself small. Boston’s star player was perched on the arm of his sofa, head down and taking deep breaths. In so many years of seeing him during games, interviews and secret meetings, he’d rarely seen the other man look so unsure. He was used to a larger-than-life Ilya, and he was certain that he was one of a handful of people who had ever seen him in this kind of mood, rare as it was.
Usually when Ilya got like this, Shane felt a strange sort of pride in being allowed past the walls that Ilya protected himself with. Today, though, he felt sick. Somehow, in this moment, he felt like he’d done something to make Ilya feel small. The slumped shoulders and crossed arms were his fault. Instead of Ilya chasing his gaze, Shane now found himself trying to get a moment of eye contact, and struggling.
He wasn’t great at reading signals, but everything about Ilya was screaming ‘hurt’ right now.
Tentatively, Shane put a hand on Ilya’s bicep. When he, barely, leaned into the touch, instead of flinching away, Shane stepped a little closer and placed a hand on Ilya’s opposite hip.
“Hey. Talk to me. You’ve been so distant. What’s going on?”
After a moment, Ilya leaned forward to rest the top of his head against Shane’s chest. He still couldn’t see Ilya’s eyes, to try and read them, but both of them relaxed a bit at the touch.
“Is stupid. I - my head, sometimes. Gets stuck on sad things.”
“I know, baby. I get stuck all the time. You always help. Let me help? Please?”
Ilya sighed deeply, working up the nerve to speak, finally lifting his head to look at Shane.
“I do not like being a drawer.”
The corner of Shane’s mouth twitched. Even while he suffered, Ilya always tried to make him smile. It might have worked if Shane wasn’t still so worried.
“You’re going to have to give me a little more to work with than that.”
Ilya shrugged one shoulder.
“All of my things. They fit in one drawer in your home. So… tidy. Contained. Easy to remove, if…” His eyes dropped again as he visibly thought about the words he wanted to say. “... if you decide I am no longer worth the trouble.”
Shane exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He pulled Ilya’s head towards his chest, just holding him for a moment. He felt a warm, wet spot start to seep through his shirt as Ilya’s shoulders started to shake.
“Ilya,” he whispered into his boyfriend’s golden curls. “It could never be easy.”
He pushed on Ilya’s chin, forcing the eye contact now. Ilya’s eyes were wet and red-rimmed, but they held. Shane didn’t even have to use words. With one gentle hand, Shane asked for Ilya’s attention. He needed him to focus on the words that would come next, and whatever Shane asked, Ilya always gave.
“It would be easier to get rid of the sun. I could throw away every single thing you’ve ever touched and I would still not be rid of you. You are stamped on my soul. I couldn’t get rid of you without getting rid of everything good about myself.”
Ilya’s breath caught. Shane was grateful his own voice sounded so steadfast. He felt he could cry, but he wanted Ilya to hear how much he meant every word.
“Lyubimyy,” Ilya sniffed. “I am sorry. I am not good at this. At having something this good. At being loved. I keep - I keep being afraid. That I will lose you. That I want this more than you. That we will be this secret small thing forever and that I will never get to share your whole life with you. Every part. More than drawer in closet.”
Shane dropped his forehead to Ilya’s.
“I know,” he started. “It’s not fair. I want to love you out loud.”
He curled his fingers into the hair at the back of Ilya’s head and held him tighter before continuing. “For what it’s worth, we already share a life.”
He pressed a soft kiss to Ilya’s temple.
“You know me better than anyone else. Since we were teenagers, so many of my thoughts have been consumed by you. And sure, it was all hockey at first, but Ilya? You are in every part of my life. You’re there at every practice, pushing me to try harder. At every game, you’re chirping me for my backhand. Every time I make breakfast, I picture what you’d say about my gross protein shakes.”
“They are so gross,” Ilya interjected.
“I know,” Shane smiled. “Baby, every night I dream about you and wake up thinking about you. You are in everything I do. You are not part of my life. You are my life.”
“Solnyshko, I…”
“Let me finish, please? Ilya. I am in this. I’m not going anywhere. You are not going anywhere. It’s you and me. I don’t care if it’s easy or not. I’m here. I’m here.”
Ilya brought his lips up to Shane’s, tears falling freely now. They both tasted the salt, as they kissed, slow and deep.
“Fuck, Hollander…”
“Is that what you’re picking as your prize?” Shane grinned.
Ilya smiled back. A real smile this time, and Shane felt the invisible fist that had been around his heart this week loosen.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“I love you, too.”
A week later, Shane was back in Montreal, killing some time before a game against Detroit. His gear bag had been packed and sitting by the door for over an hour. He was standing, staring at a small, 4- by 6-in framed photo, sitting on the TV console in his living room.
It was the picture of his and Ilya’s hands, intertwined on his thigh. It had arrived earlier today. He’d ordered it from some online website under a fake name and had stared at the ‘Complete Order’ button for a full hour before he’d finally hit it.
He hated how much anxiety this small thing brought him. It was just a photo. In his apartment that hardly anyone ever came to. No one in the photo was even identifiable. Sure, the hands pictured were both obviously man’s hands, but he had a plan. He knew he would be coming out to his team soon. Maybe this could be the icebreaker.
Ilya was right – their love deserved more light than it got tucked away in a drawer in his closet. It deserved more time in the open than two weeks at the cottage in the summer. The cottage already felt so much warmer with the small touches Ilya had left there. He wanted that same warmth here. He looked again, at the photo by the TV. He thought about the empty bottle of vodka displayed in his kitchen, bachelor pad-style. He could do this. He could be brave for Ilya. Ilya deserved it, and so much more than he was ready to give right now. But, he promised himself, he would be ready. He would, one day, love Ilya so openly and proudly that no one could deny it. He would love Ilya the way he deserved. The way Ilya loved him.
He pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the photo frame on his TV stand and sent it to Ilya.
Wednesday 1:14 pm
Shane: much better than the drawer
Lily: 🥹call me?