Archive of Our Own ^beta

5 times Shane lets loose around Ilya--for a given value of the term 'loose'

i. 

Shane’s phone feels so heavy in his pocket that he knows he’s making it up in his head, fixating on something that’s not even there until he’s fanned the embers into flames into an inferno. But it’s one thing to know that, like, objectively, and another thing entirely to convince himself that the feeling isn’t real when it feels real.

Shane has five microphones shoved into his face and he isn’t actually even sure his phone is in his pocket, if he’s being honest. He can’t even remember what he’s wearing. They’d caught him too soon after the final buzzer. He’d managed to strip out of his pads and his gear between shuffling off the ice and Rachel, PR lady extraordinaire, calling his name for the media scrum from the locker room doorway, but he isn’t sure he’d done anything more. He’s definitely at least pretty sure he didn’t take his phone out from his cubby yet. He didn’t want to look at it. All the messages from friends and family who knew him well enough to tune into Game Four to watch him play but didn’t know him well enough to leave him the fuck alone after getting swept on home ice. 

Two-time Stanley Cup winning team, back-to-back, and they’d been lucky enough to scrape their way into a Wild Card spot this year after missing out on the play-offs entirely last spring. Maybe that’s worse though. Having a shot and then fucking it up. No one to blame but himself.

Swept. Ugly fucking word. They couldn’t even wrestle one win to feel proud about, to feel like they did something.

Fucking Pittsburgh. Fucking Puffins.

Media’s at least easy the way dragging yourself over a bed of hot coals is probably easy once you reach the halfway mark. Like, you can only keep going after a certain point. You don’t get numb but you do get closer to the finish line, and that’s good enough for Shane right now.

He nods along to the nearest reporter’s question—which is just a long-winded summary of the season, like Shane wasn’t there on the ice for every missed opportunity and sloppy turnover and shoot-out loss they had. “What do you think?” the reporter asks at the end, shoving his microphone back into his face.

Shane thinks he wants to sit down. And then he wants to pack up his apartment, clean out his locker, get everything in order so it means he doesn’t have to stay here any longer than he has to. 

He wants to go to the cottage and lick his wounds in peace for a few weeks until he can stomach the idea of inviting Ilya up to join him. And then he wants to not think about hockey, just for a week or maybe two, and then he wants to spend the rest of the summer thinking about hockey and Montreal and what was wrong with this year’s team and what he can fix about it and what they can do better in the new season. 

Absence makes the heart grow fonder and shit. 

But first: wound-licking. Or—locker clean-out. Or, apartment packing. Or—going back into that dead silent locker room and giving a speech to the team about next year, about chemistry, about wanting it, about recommitting, about resilience, because that’s what good captains do. 

“Uh, you know, I think—it was a tough loss, obviously,” Shane tells the reporter’s tie. “Obviously not how we wanted the season to end. But we’ve got a—a resilient group of guys and we know where we want to take this. So we’ll learn from, uh, these games and keep pushing next season. Thanks.”

They let him go easy enough, three questions later, when they realize he’s not got anything more to give them than what they already have. Everything else he had is still out on the ice, for all the fucking good it did him.

When Shane retraces his steps back to the locker room, it’s to find the team still sprawled out in front of their lockers, on the center benches, half-heartedly stretching out on the carpeted floor.

If he’s being brutally honest with himself, he can admit that there was no chance of them making it all the way this year. Not this group of guys, not with where their heads have been, how they’ve been playing. The Wild Card spot was unexpected enough; they had no fucking chance of taking on the Puffins, first in the division. Finding yourself on the wrong side of a play-offs sweep is the sort of sting you never get used to, but Shane isn’t necessarily surprised.

That’s not something he’s going to tell the guys though, obviously. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that the vibe in the room isn’t exactly receptive to constructive feedback at the moment.

So instead, he clears his throat and gives them mostly the same speech he gave the media except he has to take longer pauses in between words so he doesn’t start bawling like a baby. It’s fucked up a little, that you can tell yourself over and over again that you expected something to happen and then still feel completely blown off your feet when it does. Like when you’re told to prepare for a hurricane by boarding up your windows before you leave town and you come back to see your entire house’s fucking gone. 

Anyway. He gives his speech. It doesn’t help, but it never does because there’s nothing someone can say to make losing feel better except for the usual things everyone already knows: it was a team effort, I’m proud of us, we’ll get ‘em next year, get further, get our names on the Cup. Next year, next year, next year.

He wants to sit down afterwards, take a second to put his elbows on his knees and breathe. 

So instead, he makes the captain’s rounds, stopping to check in with JJ, give Drapeau a bit of support in the form of a brief clap on his shoulders. Isn’t his fault the Puffins scored four on them tonight; the defense just wasn’t there. Crawford, rookie D-man, won’t look away from the crumpled heap of his jersey on the floor. Shane glances across the room for Lachlan, the other rookie, but he’s nowhere to be found. Probably already in the showers. Maybe even already out the door.

You never forget it, your first playoff loss. Every time afterwards is just re-opening the wound. But that’s the sport, that’s the game. Nothing’s beautiful all the time. Shane touches Crawford’s shoulder briefly because he thinks that’s all the boy can stand, and then he moves on. 

God, Shane wants to just—sit down. Catch his breath. Clean out his locker. Head home. Calculate how many days will pass until he can have Ilya again, next to him and his. But Ilya’s still in the playoffs. His series against Carolina wrapped up yesterday, Boston sweeping the Tempests out of contention. Maybe they’ll play the Puffins for the Conference title, shut them out and crush all of Pittsburgh’s dreams beneath their skates. Sounds nice.

Shane wants that as much as he wants Ilya out of the playoffs as soon as possible. It’s completely fucking selfish, something he’ll feel bad about in a few hours when he can feel anything other than raw. But it’s the truth now. Sooner Boston’s knocked out, sooner Ilya can come up to the cottage. 

He doesn’t sit in his locker. He nudges Hayden with the toe of his sandal, a wordless check-in they don’t even need anymore. Hayden shrugs back at him, hair still piecey with sweat and wedding ring back on his finger. It’s always the first thing he puts on after a game. Shane’ll never tell him, but he thinks it’s sweet.

“Gonna shower at home,” Hayden tells him, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing his suit jacket into his bag. He doesn’t bother with his gear; locker clean out will happen in the next few days now that they’re not going any further. He’ll get what he needs for the summer, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere far. When they bought their place, Jackie had made sure to choose a house within a thirty minute drive from both the practice rink and the Bell Centre.

Hayden always says this like it’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done, putting such emphasis on the importance of small things like lengths of everyday commutes. Jackie always says she was in the car with Hayds the day he passed his driver’s license test when they were teenagers; she’d have bought a house next to the arena if that had been an option, just to have him behind the wheel for as little time as possible.

“Text you later,” Shane says. Then, purely by rote,  “It was a good season.”

“Yeah alright, Cap,” Hayden says, rolling his eyes. “Wanna try again?”

“Next season,” Shane corrects, letting his mouth tug up into a small smile. “We’ll try again next season.”

“You know it,” Hayden agrees, thumping him on the shoulder as he stands. “Look, don’t beat yourself up too bad, Hollzy. Seriously,” he adds when Shane ducks his head. He holds up a threatening finger. “Jacks and I are going to get irresponsibly drunk on Saturday off wine coolers and the shitty boxed stuff.”

“Sounds like fun,” Shane quips. “You trying for baby number 5 already?”

“Haha,” Hayden says, and the threatening finger pokes at his chest. “You’ve got an open invitation. By which I mean if you’re not there, me and Jacks will be ordering an Uber and showing up at yours for a wellness check. Got it?”

“I don’t think you understand how invitations work,” Shane tells him mildly. “What you’re describing is a ground invasion.”

“Sure, whatever. Consider yourself invaded,” his friend says, patting him on the chest and shouldering his bag. “Saturday, alright? I’m not letting you mope for three days again. Not for this shitty season. She’s not worth your tears, bud.”

Shane shakes his head, but he can feel his smile growing wider. “What, should I just be prepared for all of Saturday? You two planning on breaking out the boxed wine at ten in the morning?”

“We just might, bud, babysitter’s Jacks’ sister, she’s in town til next Monday. Got days to get over the hangover.”

“You’ll need it, dude,” Shane says. One of the guys taps him on the shoulder in passing as he heads out. The room’s clearing up, the slow and steady trickle of the defeated. No one wants to linger. Not tonight. Not here.

“That’s what I’m saying, Hollander,” Hayden is telling him. “We need this.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Shane says, waving his hand like he can bat away the annoying fly that is a Hayden Pike who thinks he’s in the right. “Saturday. I’ll be there.”

Hayden grins back at him like he’s won something, which is such an out-of-place expression in the locker room tonight that Shane’s glad he’s gone before he can give in the urge to kick him out.

What a fucking season. Maybe he could be convinced to drink to forget it, if there was a way he could never have to remember it again. Selective amnesia, but only for every game he couldn’t claw them back from the precipice of a heavy loss. What fucking good is a captain if he can’t steer the fucking boat away from the cliffs?

Fuck, Shane wants to sit down. 

So he takes a shower instead. The longest, coldest shower of his life, tilting his head back into the icy spray that would have felt good thirty minutes ago, when he’d first stepped off the ice. Now with his heart rate slowed and the sweat dried out on his skin, the water just feels like a thousand tiny knives digging into his bones.

The sting of the loss is worse like this, alone in the showers with most of the team already gone from the room. Probably from the arena. Maybe even already on their way out the city. 

Captains can’t forget. Can’t wash off the missed opportunities, the almost-goals, the replays of the puck turnovers and every preventable mistake out there on the ice tonight and all the nights before. Someone has to remember because someone has to get on their knees and sift through the ashes to find what can be salvaged and brought into next season.

There are lessons here. Shane needs to identify them because that’s the only way to make losses like this bearable. When he has squeezed every drop of blood from the fucking stone, then he can—can sit down. Then he can have a drink with his friends. Watch a movie. Eat a candy bar. Call his boyfriend. Ask him to hold him. 

But not now. Not yet. 

Even though, god—Shane wants to sit down.

So he gets dressed instead, pulling on a loose shirt and a pair of joggers before carefully hanging his gear on the empty locker hangers and throwing his jersey in the laundry bin. 

He can feel the heavy weight of his phone in his pocket, even though he knows it’s not there. He hasn’t reached into the cubby above his locker yet; he hasn’t turned it on. But it’s like a fucking stone in the back of his mind.

His mom will have texted; his dad, too. Separately, as if they weren’t watching the game sitting shoulder to shoulder back in Ottawa. His aunts and uncles will have texted. Nothing they love more than when Shane’s close but can’t close the deal. Makes them feel better, probably.

It’s an unkind thought, but that’s what losses bring out in Shane sometimes. Everything ugly. Maybe that’s why he never wants to be around anyone after a bad game. He doesn’t—their kindness is too much, after. It digs into the bruise. He hasn’t done shit to deserve it. He didn’t play well enough; he lost an edge; he turned over the puck in the neutral zone, cost them a goal, couldn’t get his feet back under him after his second shift.

When he was a teenager in the Junior leagues, he’d been the same way. Worse then, probably. He’d shut down after a loss, ignore his mom’s phone calls, skip out on his billet mother’s dinner, peel away from the team in favor of lying in his hotel bed to stare at the ceiling if they were on the road. 

It used to drive his girlfriend crazy because he wouldn’t text her back for days. She never understood. Maybe she couldn’t. She wasn’t an athlete and she definitely wasn’t like Shane. Even other athletes aren’t like Shane. He understands that.

Once, near the beginning of their relationship, she’d baked cookies after they lost out on the quarterfinals of a tournament. He’d tried, then, probably because it was near the beginning of their relationship and he was always trying, hadn’t gotten tired of it yet. He’d tried to act happy about it, enthusiastic, but she’d been sixteen and not an idiot. She’d seen right through him.

It’d been a whole thing. She’d wanted to know why he didn’t want her there with him during the lows. He’d wanted her to understand he didn’t want anyone there for his lows, and he definitely didn’t want to eat fucking chocolate chip cookies when he’d done nothing but let his team down during the game.

It was just—-he had a routine for losses. Things he did. Ways he moved through them. Structure gave the pain a purpose. Routines gave it an end-point, a finishline he could cross and be done with it all. It wasn’t hard to understand, even if apparently it was hard to watch.

He thinks he’s better now, for the most part. He’s grown up in the decade since he’s seen Jessica. Gotten better at knowing what he can take on and what has to be split amongst the team. Blame in a team sport is pretty easy to share, to divvy out and then to carry. But Shane’s an only child; sometimes those instincts win out even when he’s getting better. 

And he is. Five years ago, he’d have never agreed to spending time with Hayden and Jackie so soon after tonight’s loss. 

Hayden wasn’t really joking, when he’d said he wasn’t going to let him cry for three days over this season. Or, he was, but only a little. Those first few seasons with the Metros, when they were losing constantly, Shane had—well. It’s a bit of a blur, honestly. Dissociation or something close to it. 

He really, really hates to lose. 

He really, really wants to sit down. Just for a second. Just to take a breath and feel it run all the way through him and back out. 

So instead, he takes out his phone and glances around the locker room. It’s deserted now, save for him. The cleaners will be by shortly, probably, but until then he’s alone.

He turns his phone on and leans up against the wood paneling of his locker, forehead resting on his arm as he stares down at the screen. Notification after notification buzzes in. Condolences. Well wishes. You’ll get them next year!’s from people who don’t even text him on his birthday.

Mom, Dad. Aunt Lisbeth. Aunt Nora. Cousin Jules, cousin Harry, cousin Theo, cousin Hillary. 

Lily.

His thumb moves instinctively to the thread of his text history with Ilya, opening it before he can even breathe out. It’s just the one message. Nothing about the game, no text-coverage, no hint that he was even watching Shane’s team get steamrolled by the Puffins’ fucking brick-wall defense.

Lily:

I am in Montreal. If you want. Will still be here if you don’t, is ok either way.

Shane sits down.

“What the fuck,” he says to the empty locker room. Then he fumbles with his phone, tapping on Ilya’s contact and hitting call.

“What the fuck,” he says as soon as the line connects. “What do you mean you’re here? You were in North Carolina yesterday!”

“I am also always very surprised by the miracles of modern air travel,” Ilya agrees, because he’s an asshole. 

“You know what I mean,” Shane snaps, because arguing with Ilya is as easy as loving him which is as easy as breathing even on nights like this. “You’re supposed to be in Boston. You just finished your series.”

“Yes, and so I am on two day break before the next one,” Ilya tells him. “No one says these two days have to be spent in Boston.”

Shane opens and closes his mouth. It’s pretty fucking implied, actually, that hockey players who make it through to the second round of playoffs shouldn’t be jetting around North America between series. But yeah, sure, maybe no one’s ever written that down before.

“Right, so,” Shane says. He leans his head back against the edge of the wood of his locker. “So you’re, um. In Montreal?”

He wants to say: for me? but it’s pretty obviously for him, considering the fact that he’s pretty sure Ilya’s never gone to Montreal for reasons outside of ice hockey and Shane. He doesn’t need to make Ilya say it, even if maybe there’s a part of him that wants to hear it. 

And Ilya knows him too well, probably, can read him like an open book he’s got memorized, because he says, voice gentling into something embarrassingly, unbearably soft, “Yes, solnyshko. In case you want me here, I am.”

Shane opens his eyes, even though all he can see is the blinding fluorescent lights of the locker room. His parents know not to drive out until the Metros are in the thick of the second round. His best friend’s on the bench next to him, game after game. Jessica had wanted to be there for all of his lows or whatever, but they’d been young enough it was easy to just—not let her. 

So everyone sort of knows what to do, where they’re supposed to be. Everyone important. They know how Shane gets, they respect his boundaries.  Even Hayden’s given him until Saturday, two whole days to mope around and visualize and put his thoughts in order. He hadn’t thought much about Ilya, outside of the way he’s always thinking about Ilya.

He’d just assumed, like. That it would be crazy for Ilya to try and be in Montreal if Shane’s team got knocked from the playoffs in a brutal fucking power showing from the Puffins. Obviously. It would be insane.

So he hadn’t even thought about it. About what he wanted. If he wanted.

He never wanted Jessica there, which feels like a hollow sort of comparison. It’s all he has though, relationship-wise. Sure, it’s a bit like comparing a sunflower to a fucking nebula, his mostly-performative-in-hindsight high school sweetheart against the love of his life, but it’s all he has to go off of.

“Shane?”

“What if, um. I don’t—usually…I mean, I don’t usually want…”

He has his routine, is the thing. After losses. He doesn’t let himself sit down. He doesn’t let himself seek out comfort. Company. He hadn’t wanted Jessica’s chocolate chip cookies, he hadn’t wanted his mother to hug him. These were things he sat through. Put up with, for the most part, just for the sake of the person who loved him enough to try. 

He has rules about this sort of thing for a reason. It makes him better. At least as a player, if not as a person or boyfriend or whatever. 

“Then that is okay,” Ilya says, still so fucking gentle. “I have a hotel room already. And plane ticket for tomorrow night.”

“You do?”

He can hear the shrug in Ilya’s voice when he says, “I am here just in case, solnyshko. I am not here to make you do anything. Is about what you want. Playoffs are hard when your team loses and players need different things afterwards. I understand this.” 

And Shane thinks—he does. Really. More than his parents, more than anyone else except maybe Hayden, Ilya does understand. Actually–more than Hayden, Ilya understands. The weight of the C, of being the generational talent, the person people look to in the locker room, the one who’s expected to produce opportunities and goals and fucking miracles. Ilya gets it.

“Is okay if you don’t want to see me tonight. Maybe I take break from my own playoffs and take a tour of Montreal,” Ilya is saying. “See all the sights.”

“You hate Montreal,” Shane says, because Ilya does.

“Maybe this is just because I haven’t seen all the sights yet,” Ilya replies. “Mostly I have just seen ugly hockey rinks and Shane Hollander’s secret sex condo.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, automatic. He wants to snap it out. He sort of wants to hang up. His chest feels light and tender the way it does after a solid hit. He doesn’t know what to do with it. How to let himself have this. 

Jessica said once, close to the end, that he’s really good at making lists and, like, identifying shit about himself which only started feeling really ironic years later. She’d said that he was the only person she ever met who could name exactly what protein bar he was craving, down to the flavor and the brand, within a few seconds of the itch. 

Shane’s always thought maybe he got good at learning what his body wants just so he knows when to deny himself. What to push away. 

It’s always worked for him. It’s all part of his routine.

“You know, one day you’re gonna meet someone you love so much you’ll want to toss all your stupid rules out the window just to be around them,” Jessica told him the day they broke up.

God, Shane remembers thinking. I fucking hope not.

But now here he is, sitting in his stall in his deserted locker room in an empty Bell Centre, phone pressed against his cheek like if he holds it there tight enough, it’ll hold him back. And a part of him wants to hang up, just so he doesn’t have to keep fighting against how much he wants to be wherever Ilya is even though that wounded, limping animal inside of him is sure he doesn’t deserve it.

“What if I—I don’t want to talk?” Shane asks, and he has to clear his throat a few times just to get the words out. “About hockey. Or like, anything.”

“Then we don’t talk,” Ilya says, like it’s simple. And it makes Shane’s breath catch in his throat, the way he says it. Not suggestive, not flirty. Not angling for anything. Just—then we don’t talk.

If that’s what Shane wants. Then Ilya will give it to him. Like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t have to run any calculations, do any plus/minus, weigh performance with drive with desire with result. 

“Yeah?” Shane says. Mostly just a punched out exhale his lungs don’t want to give over.

“I can even sit in a different room,” Ilya tells him. “Let you brood in the kitchen or living room while I take a nap in your nice big bed. Sleep off my jetlag, you know.”

There’s a whole wealth of things he’s not saying that Shane thinks he can hear anyway. Ilya can read him like a book, sure, but Shane’s got him down too. Knows him back and forwards, like a play on the ice he’s been practicing since he was a kid.

As much as he’s pretending to joke, Ilya really would. Come to Shane’s house but not crowd him. Not force him to talk. Sit in another room. Probably—like, yeah, probably be annoying about it the way Ilya is when he’s testing the bounds, when he thinks Shane’s being stubborn about something stupid.

Shane can see it: sitting on the couch with the highlights of the game on the television in front of him, scrolling through all the fans’ comments on social media, watching his own failures again and again in high-definition.  And Ilya somewhere in his house. With him but not. Calling out for him occasionally, asking for a gatorade or his phone charger or for Shane to come and explain how the shower works in the master bath, as if he doesn’t already know. Tiny little annoyances yelled at the top of his lungs every so often, just so Shane can’t forget that he’s there. With him.

And Shane really fucking wants that. Or at least—wants Ilya. Next to him on the couch. In bed. Not talking, just—holding him.

He doesn’t want to be alone tonight, not if having Ilya next to him is an option.

And it is.

So he stands up and he lets himself have it. What he wants. “Yeah, okay,” he says into his phone, other hand fiddling with the zipper on his bag to tug it shut. “I’m still at the rink, but I can make it to mine in thirty—you have the passcode, if you—I mean, I guess you’re at your hotel or whatever, but if you want to head over now—”

“Shane,” Ilya says fondly. “I am at yours already; I’ll see you soon.”

“I—oh,” Shane says. He stops, bag slung over his shoulder but feet not moving him anywhere else. “You, uh. You didn’t get a hotel, did you?”

“Pay for a hotel when I know a guy who would let me stay on his couch? No, Hollander, of course not. That would be financially irresponsible.” 

Shane laughs. And then he leaves, shutting the door behind him as he goes.

ii. 

The musty, unpleasant smell of the kennels hits Shane in the face like a physical blow. Immediately, he misses the comparatively fresh Boston summer air outside. In here, the air feels sticky against his skin, too cool and weighted down with the stench of too many animals.

A second after the front door closes behind him, bell ringing, the dogs begin to go wild from whatever backroom they’re kept in. It’s a cacophony of sounds, loud barks and long howls and these tiny high-pitched whimpers that grate against Shane’s ears.

Ilya doesn’t seem to hear any of it. He’s already at the front desk, leaning up against the counter to talk with the woman behind the computer. He’s practically bouncing with excitement, half-puppy himself maybe, as he greets the woman by name—Patricia—and asks after her coworker, her husband, her daughter, and her pet iguana in short order.

Shane hangs back behind Ilya’s shoulder, and looks around the reception area of the dog shelter. It’s small, cramped. The lighting is poor, one of the bulbs of the overhead fluorescent fixtures flickering steadily. There’s a poster stuck up on a large cork board by the door. ADOPT, followed by an angel-face emoji and DON’T SHOP followed by an angry face one. Next to it, pinned in place with two thumbtacks, is a close-up photo of a short-haired, short-legged dog. It’s snarling at the camera, tiny teeth bared. 

NAUGHTY DOG OF THE WEEK: the sign reads next to it. MANE PETSKY

>> Bit two volunteers

>> Escaped crate 4 times

>>Temporarily possessed by Satan

Underneath that picture is another one of a different dog, a much larger breed with floppy ears and a square muzzle. The picture is mostly at an aerial angle and Shane can just see a sliver of the tiny dog—Mane Petsky—curled up against the other dog’s side.

NICE DOG OF THE WEEK: the other sign says. BEAR :) 

>> Good at exorcisms

>> Very deaf

>> Very patient 

“Hollander,” Ilya calls from the counter. “Come here. You need to register for the day.”

Shane blinks at him. His first thought is what the fuck do you mean for the day? 

His second thought is a reminder that he’d promised himself that he’d do whatever Ilya wanted to celebrate his final weekend in Boston before he moves up to Ottawa.

Sure, he’d thought that would mean mostly Farewell Boston sex in Ilya’s house, maybe a few walks around the local parks and trips to the aquarium. But he’d promised to give Ilya whatever he needed, to be whatever he wanted, no matter what.

Even if that means being a volunteer at the dog shelter for the entire fucking day.

It’s sweet that this place has become such a central part of Ilya’s life that he’ll miss it when he’s gone. It’s sweet that his boyfriend wants to share this with him, wants him to meet his favorite dogs and some of the staff and volunteers. It’s sweet that his boyfriend is so sweet, so capable of love that he carves out bits of his heart to give to shelter dogs and the team of people who look after them.

Shane knows this. Shane believes this. Shane thinks it’s sweet, the way Ilya chatters away to Patricia as Shane signs a series of waivers and fills out an emergency contact form. An emergency fucking contact form. In case one of the dogs bites him and he has to go to the hospital.

He’d thought they’d go to the fucking aquarium.

“Alright, Ilya knows where to go, but Mr. Hollander, I’ll give you a quick rundown of our facilities here,” Patricia says, standing from her chair after checking over the paperwork he’s given back. “Ilya, hun, if you want to get started, Valerie’s walked the first two rows already, but we thought you might be coming, so no one’s taken Spot out yet.”

Ilya’s eyes light up and he grins, wide and easy. They’ve been together for a year now, Shane’s been in love with him for longer than that. Still, seeing that smile on Ilya’s face knocks the breath straight out of his lungs. 

“You are my favorite,” Ilya tells Patricia very seriously, and Patricia giggles like she’s not a married middle-aged woman with a pet iguana at home. “Hollander, I’ll see you outside later in the pens, then. You are okay, yes?” 

“Totally fine,” Shane promises when Ilya looks over at him. He even smiles, small and sort of awkward and crooked, but it counts. “See you, Rozanov.” 

It feels weird to say, Ilya’s last name in his mouth when it no longer fits there. They’d gone back and forth on it, trying to figure out what fit their constructed narrative the best. Technically, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander have been mostly friendly since last season’s All-Stars Game. They’ve recently announced that they’re partnering together on something that’s important to both of them—the Irina Foundation, though they haven’t told the media about that yet—and they’re planning to ramp up the time they spend together out in public as soon as Ilya gets settled into Ottawa.

It’d been a bit of a risk, Shane flying down to Boston to visit Ilya like this. He’s practiced his lines and his defenses on the plane down and then every time they’ve gone out in public. In case someone noticed. In case someone thought it was weird seeing Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov getting Dunkin’ Donuts coffee together at eight in the morning. He’s retrained his mouth to say Ilya’s last name, which is always a sharp learning curve after their vacation up at the cottage. 

It’d been a risk, yes. To be here. But Ilya had wanted him here. Ilya had needed Shane to hold him through leaving Boston, and so Shane is here and he has practiced and he’s prepared.

But Patricia doesn’t even give him a curious look once Ilya has disappeared behind a set of doors leading to the kennels. There’s a notable uptick in noise, the howling of the dogs growing deafening for a moment before the metal door shuts again. Shane winces at the noise automatically. Patricia raises an eyebrow, letting her eyes sweep up and over him. 

“Well,” she says finally. “Perhaps we can start by showing you the cat rooms, Mr. Hollander.”

Shane doesn’t particularly like cats anymore than he likes dogs. But, he reminds himself, he likes Ilya Rozanov enough to make up the difference. “That sounds great,” he says, injecting his media-ready enthusiasm into the words even as he wonders why his boyfriend couldn’t have picked up a fondness for reading to school children or planting trees.

Shane loves planting trees. In his experience, they’re all bark, no bite. As opposed to dogs, which can be both.

“Not much of a dog person, are you,” Patricia says as she unlocks the door to the cats’ kennels. Shane’s nose wrinkles at the smell, different and sharper than the smell from the reception area but necessarily better. Quieter at least. Most of the cats here are quiet. 

It’s a relief, even if the urine stench is making his nostrils itch. 

“I, uh,” Shane says. He wants to defend himself, but it’s not as if she’s leveled an accusation at him. She’s just stated a fact, really. He’s not a dog person. It’s just that Ilya Rozanov is, and Shane is, above all else, an Ilya Rozanov person.

Which is the type of confession that Shane has practiced not telling people in Boston. 

“I’m not scared of them or anything. They're, like, fine,” Shane tells her, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around the room of crates. It’s sort of sad in here, once he’s adjusted to the odor. He doesn’t like cats much either, but he’s not evil or anything. He thinks it’s sad that they’re resting in such sparse accommodations. 

Someone’s gone to the trouble of painting a rainbow across the back wall of the room, but Shane isn’t sure that helps much with the cats’ quality of life. Can they even see colors? He doesn’t know. Surely, what would cheer the place up would be more—blankets. Cat nip? One of those cat trees? Maybe a cat tree for each cat, in case they don’t like to share? Do cats like to share?

He wonders what the process would be for making an anonymous donation. Then he wonders how many anonymous donations Ilya’s made here since he was drafted to the city ten years ago. Then he wonders if Ilya’s set up the donations to be recurring, even after he’s in Ottawa. 

That, at least, he doesn’t have to wonder about for long. He knows he probably has.

Patricia hums like she’s thinking about something, but she doesn’t ask if he wants to play with any of the cats (no, thank you) or if he wants to look at adoption information (really, no thank you). Instead, she guides him out of the door and through the rest of the shelter.

It’s a short tour; it’s a small operation. Patricia has been working here for fifteen years, is about as knowledgeable as they come and pauses every so often for questions as she rattles through a list of statistics about pet abandonment, adoption rates, disease treatment, and forfeiture. 

Unfortunately—transparently—the only questions Shane can think of have to do with Ilya.

“When did Rozanov start volunteering here?” Oh, must have been back in 2010, right around Christmas.

“What does he usually do around here?” What doesn’t he do? He walks the dogs, cleans the kennels, folds stacks of paper litter boxes for the cats, plays with the cats, brushes out the dogs’ fur. Walks them again, sometimes. Tries to walk the cats too, sometimes.

“Is this something the whole hockey team does?” No. Just Ilya. Sometimes a few of the other players come by with him, sometimes he’ll bring the team around for an impromptu Social Media Day—adoption rates sky-rocket after Social Media Day, something about hockey players holding dogs really gets the numbers up–-but mostly it’s Ilya. Just Ilya.

“Wow, it, uh, sounds like you’re really going to miss him,” Shane says, hands deep in his pockets as he follows Patricia outside. The back half of the property is divided into three large fenced-in pens, and Ilya is in the middle one, on the far side, walking along the wire with a leash in his hand and a medium-sized dog at his heels. Even from this far away, Shane can see his smile.

“Yes, of course,” Patricia says easily. “Ilya is a hard worker and a fine young man.” 

For a moment, they watch Ilya together in silence, before Patricia adds, tone sly, “and no one is as good at naming our dogs as Ilya.”

“Oh yeah?” Shane asks, perking up without meaning to and tearing his eyes away from where Ilya is down on his knees, playing rough and tumble with the dog. “Did he come up with Spot too or did you give him the day off from that one?”

“Oh no, he did,” Patricia says. “That’s Spot Hunter. She’s one of Ilya’s favorite dogs.” 

Shane blinks. He can feel the beginnings of a smile stretch over his face. Spot Hunter. Shit. Shane's in love with an asshole, and he wouldn’t change a thing about it. Not for the entire world.

“Unfortunately you’re a week too late to meet Ilya’s other favorite,” Patricia tells him. “A nice family adopted him out to Lexington last Tuesday. Decided not to rename him, from what they told me.”

“Oh?”

“Yep,” Patricia says, popping her lips. Her eyes are bright and her smile is sincere now. “Shane Howllander. I think I’ve got a picture of Ilya and him together if you want to see it.”

“I’d love to,” Shane says, even as he shakes his head in disbelief. This guy. This fucking—love of Shane’s life. “Tell me he’s named some of these dogs after himself too,” he demands, rubbing a hand over the back of his warm neck. “Only fair. Where’s, uh—I don't know. Ilya Pawsonov?”

Patricia grins at him, before glancing down at her phone, scrolling through her gallery of photos with only half a mind on the conversation. “Oh, no,” she says. “We had to stop naming dogs after him.”

“What, did he complain?”

“No,” she says mildly. “They were getting adopted too fast. It wasn’t fair to all the other dogs.”

Shane blinks, but before he can recover from this abrupt reminder of exactly how much Boston adores their Raiders' captain, Patricia’s turning her phone to face him. The picture is poorly lit, sun too bright, but it’s immediately obvious who's in it. Ilya is on his side in the grass, wearing a tee shirt and a pair of shorts. His hair is shorter; he looks younger by about five years, maybe more. He’s laughing, eyes closed and mouth open, broad hand extended up and over his shoulder to clutch at the dog that’s standing half on top of him. It’s a tiny thing, curly black fur and a long snout and stubby little legs that it doesn’t seem to realize it has. Its tongue is lolling out of its mouth and Ilya is laughing and he looks beautiful and he looks happy and he looks young. 

“Still not a dog person?” Patricia prompts when Shane doesn’t say anything immediately. Her tone is strange. Too knowing. Too—soft. 

Shane gives her a quick smile, something entirely fake and awkward. “I, uh,” he says. He can’t quite recall all the scripts he practiced. He’s sure he practiced them though. He’s sure they’re on the tip of his tongue, if only he could lift it. “Cute dog.”

Close enough.

“Howllander really was,” Patricia agrees, and she puts her phone back into her pocket. “Gonna miss having the little guy around, but hey, I know they’ll take care of him out there.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. His mouth is dry. He isn’t—quite sure who they’re talking about. Shane Howllander or Ilya. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the answer is the same either way. “They definitely will.”

iii. 

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, thudding his head against the edge of the cupboard. The water’s almost ready. It turns out watched pots do boil if you wait around long enough while simultaneously waiting for a phone call to end. “Okay, that sounds good, Mom. Yeah, we’re out in LA against the Aces in a couple of weeks. I can swing by the studio for a—what?”

“A winter animal and non-denominationally leaning Christmas-themed ice hockey energy drink advertisement campaign,” his mom repeats mildly, as if that’s not the most ridiculous string of words anyone’s ever said out loud. “I believe they want you to run the ad with a penguin puppet, so you might try practicing your acting.”

At least it sounds like she’s smiling now.

“Right,” Shane says. “Great. Thanks for booking that for me.”

He’s mostly being serious, too. He knows how hard his mother works to find opportunities for him, to build up his brand, to secure him the kind of lasting legacy in the public consciousness that most hockey players would kill to have. 

Shane’s not most hockey players, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be grateful when it comes to appreciating what he has. Even when what he has is an upcoming ad campaign with a fucking penguin puppet, apparently, for an energy drink he doesn’t even like.

He’s not stupid, though. He knows why this is important. Yeah, to the fans who look like him, yeah, to the ones who want to be like him when they grow up. But to him as well. For his future.

He knows no one’s going to be a hockey player forever, that he’s got maybe ten good years left before he’s dragged off the ice and left to rot outside the Bell Centre. And gigs like this mean money for times like that. Residuals and long-term contracts and endorsement fees that’ll keep him floating and give him the resources he’ll need for life after hockey. You can’t run a charity without a little money yourself. Or—you can, but it’s way more fucking difficult. 

So his mom’s making sure he’s not going to end up destitute by the time he’s forty, and he’s following her lead on this because she’s the one person in his life he still thinks probably has every answer to every question under the sun. 

And sometimes that means using the singular miraculous off-day the Metros have in between facing the Aces in LA and the Bee Hive in Utah to pop in for a ten-hour shoot in West fucking Hollywood. And sometimes that means pulling himself out of his boyfriend’s arms to answer his mom’s phone call in the middle of a movie’s climax and then spending an hour and a half trying to iron out logistics in his kitchen while his boyfriend, who is only visiting for the weekend, waits in the next room. 

“Alright,” his mom says. “I’ll confirm with the agency then email you a copy of the thread for your files.”

It’s cute that his mom thinks he has files. One day, she’s going to ask to see them, and that’s going to be the day Shane dies. 

“Sure,” he says. Then, “Look, I gotta go—Ilya’s going to think I can’t boil water if I take any longer making this tea.”

“Right, of course,” his mom says. “Shit, sorry, baby. I forgot Ilya was visiting. Tell him hello from us! And, oh—can you confirm with him that we’re still on for next Saturday? Your father wants to try making sourdough bread for the sandwiches, but he’ll need to get started now if it’s going to be ready and edible for dinner next week.” 

“Ilya’s not going to cancel on you,” Shane says, rolling his eyes. Two and a half years since meeting Shane’s parents and one and a half years of living in Ottawa, and Ilya has never once skipped out on dinner with the Hollanders. Even when dinner with the Hollanders is sans Shane, the Hollander that Shane’s pretty sure Ilya loves the most.

Like 80% sure, at least.

“Shane.”

“Yeah, I’ll check,” Shane concedes, and then, because the water is at a rolling boil now, he adds, “Okay, love you. Bye.”

He hangs up, pockets the phone, pours the water over the tea bags and carries both mugs back to the living room.

It’s a relief to find Ilya right where he left him, spread out on the couch with his back against the arm rest and phone in his hands. It shouldn’t be so much of a relief, probably. But Shane doesn’t know if the feeling is ever going to go away at this point, that bone-deep sense of comfort that washes through him at the sight of Ilya. 

In the early days of their relationship, once they’d bitten the bullet and built out the foundations of it, the relief was more like: okay, good. You’re still here. I wasn’t sure you would be. 

Now, it’s less about the risk of Ilya’s absence and more the reassurance that comes just from his presence, like: oh, you’re here. I can put this down now. Thank God. It was so fucking heavy.

“Sorry about that,” he says, passing one of the cups to Ilya. It’s his favorite, covered in little abstract daisies that sort of look like fried eggs in Shane’s opinion. There’s a chip on the rim of it. It never would have survived the last bout of post-playoffs summer cleaning, except it’s Ilya’s favorite and so of course Shane kept it.

“Is okay,” Ilya hums, accepting the tea he didn’t ask for and cupping it in his hands. “Is your mother, yes?”

“Yeah,” Shane says, waving his hand. “There’s an ad deal, she needed my schedule for when we’re in LA. Some energy drink thing.”

Ilya hums again. It’s the kind of noise Shane doesn’t know what to do with, how to interpret. The long line of Ilya’s body is relaxed into Shane’s couch. His eyes are half-lidded, exhausted maybe. The Centaurs returned from a roadie through the American South and as far as Shane can tell, Ilya’d gotten off the airplane and gotten straight into his car to drive here. So of course he’s exhausted, probably too exhausted to fight even if Shane deserves at least a snide remark about taking a phone call in the middle of a movie they’d been trying to watch together for the last six months.

“Sorry,” he says again, just in case. He sets his own mug of herbal tea on the coffee table so he can rub his hands along his thighs.

This time, Ilya shrugs. He takes a sip of his tea and then puts it on the side table behind his head before opening his arms. Shane doesn’t scramble into them because he’s far too old and mature for that sort of thing. He does, however, collapse onto Ilya’s chest. His hands find their way beneath Ilya’s shirt, running up his side and then further around, to clasp against the muscles on his back.

Ilya’s fingers card through the hairs at the nape of his neck like it’s an instinctive thing for him. “How is she doing?” Ilya asks, and Shane shifts his head slightly, pressing his cheek into Ilya’s sternum. 

“I don’t know,” Shane admits. He fights the urge to wince when he realizes he hadn’t asked, not once in the eighty minute phone call. But then, she hadn’t either; whose fault is it when you both forget to ask? “Uh, busy, I think.”

“Yes, these energy drinks will not sell themselves,” Ilya says, and there’s a familiar teasing note in his voice that Shane loves. “They need Shane Hollander for that.”

“Ugh,” Shane says. “I haven’t even filmed it yet and I’m already getting a headache.”

“Poor baby,” his boyfriend coos, running his fingers over his scalp. 

Shane hesitates and then says, more plaintive than he’d like, “if you really loved me, you wouldn’t watch it when it comes out. There’s like. Puppets or something.”

“Shane Grayson Hollander, I love you so much that I could learn many, many languages and never exhaust the ways to tell you,” Ilya declares, tugging at the ends of his hair. It’s only a survivable thing to hear because he’s joking. Even then, Shane can feel his face flushing an ugly red. “They will have to invent new words for this, I think. All of the old ones are too small.”

Shane turns his face back into Ilya’s chest, just so he can press his lips against the fabric of his shirt. It’s part-kiss, part-convenient way to hide his smile. “Lemme guess,” he says. “But you’re still going to watch this stupid commercial.”

“Of course I am going to watch your stupid commercial,” Ilya says fondly. “Many, many times probably.”

“That’s great,” Shane says. “Thanks. You’re the worst.”

But he kisses Ilya again, just whichever part of him he can reach, because he will always want to kiss Ilya and such urges have proven to be impossible to swallow down. Love, for Shane, when it comes to Ilya, is like a very persistent cough: loud, pointless to fight against, and capable of bowling him over and leaving him breathless every now and again. 

“I am very supportive boyfriend,” Ilya says. His fingers have resumed their slow path along Shane’s head. “Actually, you could do very much worse.”

It’s Shane’s turn to hum. Anyone other than llya would be worse. Objectively, because Ilya Rozanov is probably the most attractive and kind and attentive and steady and sensible and sensual and selfless man Shane’s ever met. Subjectively, because Shane’s been ruined by him in a thousand different small ways. He never wants another. Even when Ilya is spitting mad and arrogant and cutting and rough and cold and distant. Even then. He is still everything and all Shane needs and almost too much, sometimes, like staring into the sun. And after so many years spent under the sun, any time spent anywhere else--inside, underground, in a cave--would be worse. 

“What, uh, what was happening in the movie?” Shane asks, twisting around so he can see the television screen mounted onto the wall above the fireplace. It’s gone dark since they paused it when Shane’s phone first started ringing. “It was—they were in a car?”

“Solnyshko, we are watching Titanic,” Ilya says, exasperated.

“There’s a car in Titanic,” Shane argues. “They were in one. For a minute.” Maybe longer. Shane had lost interest in the sex scene around the time Leonardo DiCaprio had tugged Kate Winslet into the backseat, started to run possible hockey plays over in his mind instead, and—yeah, maybe had forgotten to tune back in.

But there is a car in Titanic.

“Yes, okay,” says Ilya, pressing his thumb into a bruise he’s already managed to suck into the thin skin behind Shane’s ear. “Except now they are in the water.”

“Wait, really?” Shane asks, making a point to furrow his eyebrows and tilt his head back so he can look at Ilya with an exaggerated confusion. “Did something happen to the boat?”

Ilya sighs, long and gusty. His thumb digs harder into the bruise. “I am going to call Montreal coaching staff with an anonymous tip that one of their players needs concussion protocol. Are you feeling dizzy, Hollander? Do you have headache?”

“Aw, baby, you know you’re the only headache for me,” Shane replies, and so he mostly deserves it when Ilya shoves him off the couch. 

They don’t finish the movie. Instead, they migrate towards the kitchen so Shane can start putting together a salad to pair with the pre-made meals the nutritionist team has sent him. Salmon, quinoa, broccoli and a little bit of lemon dressing—it’s a good thing Ilya is a professional athlete as well, understands the importance of macros and fiber and food as fuel for optimal performance. Otherwise, dinners would be a lot more of a production than they are.

Shane cuts up half a cucumber and a handful of cherry tomatoes before he glances at Ilya, who has been startlingly quiet since he took up his post on one of the barstools at the kitchen island. He’d chalked it up to the exhaustion catching up to his boyfriend, but Ilya doesn’t look like he’s fighting to stay awake. 

He’s staring down at the counter in front of him, eyebrows furrowed. Shane cranes his neck to see what he’s looking at. It’s his calendar. He’d taken it off the fridge to jot down a few of the dates and times his mom had rattled off, and he hadn’t hung it back up after the call ended.

“What?” Shane says, because he knows Ilya well enough to know that his boyfriend is thinking through something he will probably end up wanting to talk to Shane about. 

Ilya glances up at him and shakes his head, blinking, like he’s trying to shake off a thought. He should know better by now; Shane is very persistent. 

“C’mon, what?” Shane asks. His dad used to say he was like a dog with a bone when he wanted to know something. His mom used to say he demanded information like he chased the puck on the ice. Like there were winners and losers and a non-zero chance that someone would throw elbows. 

Ilya’s mouth twitches and he shrugs. “Is very busy month for you,” is all he says, which could mean anything. A simple observation, a recrimination, an exclamation. Ilya is very good at saying many things using as few words as possible. Shane is working overtime on learning to be a codebreaker.

“It’s October,” Shane says carefully with a shrug of his own. “Octobers are pretty busy.”

“Hm,” Ilya says, which could be an agreement or a disagreement or a neutral statement to confirm that October is certainly a month that exists. “And your Novembers? They are also pretty busy?”

Shane blinks. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “Like, the normal amount of busy I think.”

Ilya nods, lips pursing out like the words he wants to say are filling out his mouth but haven’t quite managed to break free from the cage of his teeth yet. C’mon, what? Say it.

“What’re you thinking?” Shane asks, setting down the knife onto the cutting board and putting both hands up on the countertop. It’s something he’s resolved to do more often around Ilya—fight the urge to hide away. 

“Nothing,” Ilya says, too quickly, because he has made no such resolutions. But then he sighs, like maybe he has, and he says, “Is just—do you know that you have two days this entire month where you do not have any obligations? No practice, no games, no endorsements, no meetings with the coaching staff. Is one two weeks ago, and today. That’s it.”

“Uh,” Shane says, because theoretically he knows this, but it’s different when someone else is telling him. “Yeah, I guess.” He doesn’t say that one of those two days, the one that’s already passed, he had a haircut appointment and then a dental check-up. He doesn’t think that’s something Ilya wants to hear. 

“And today, you take two hour call about ad campaign in LA,” Ilya says. He bites at the inside of his cheek, then flattens out his lips. Translating his thoughts, maybe. Filtering through them, more likely.

“Well, yeah, I mean, I’m not going to not pick up when my mom calls just because I want a day off,” Shane tells him, rubbing at the back of his neck even though that means he’s going to have to wash his hands before he touches the food again. 

“Shane, you pick up when anyone calls,” Ilya says, sounding halfway to exasperated already. It makes Shane frown, puts him on the defensive. Are they about to have an argument about Shane’s communication skills? Are they about to have an argument because Ilya thinks Shane’s communication skills are too good? Because, if so, no one saw that one coming.

“Yeah, of course I do,” Shane tells him carefully. “Because someone could need my help.”

“Even on the one day you have to yourself in October?” 

“I mean, I don’t have it to myself, do I?” Shane points out, nonplussed. “You’re here.”

It’s only after Ilya’s face does something complicated that Shane realizes how that sounds. 

“Which I want,” he rushes to add. And then he keeps going, mouth fumbling around his words. “I want you here. I want to spend my free time with you, that’s why there’s nothing on the calendar today. I knew you were coming.”

“But you still take the call,” Ilya says, though his shoulders have dropped a few inches now. He looks less likely to flee or fight, which is at least something. 

“It was my mom,” Shane repeats, jerking his arms up into a shrug.

Ilya hums. “It was your manager,” he corrects, and—like, what?

“Who is my mom,” Shane says, slowly. “What the fuck, Ilya.”

His boyfriend huffs out a breath and crosses his arms on the counter. “Is nothing, I’m sorry,” he says, exhaling through his nose and glancing at the calendar, at Shane, and then away. “Is none of my business.”

“It can be your business, if you want,” Shane hears himself say, even though it’s not exactly what he wants to say. It’s the truth though, of course. It’s just—Shane is still lagging behind, halfway down the ice, trying to catch sight of the puck, and Ilya’s talking like he’s finished with his shift and heading back to the benches. 

Which, like fuck he is.

“Ilya,” Shane says plainly even though it sounds like a confession. “I don’t get it, like…what’s going through your head right now. My phone’s on Do Not Disturb, alright? It’s always on Do Not Disturb when I’m with you. But, yeah, I set it so some people can get through that if they need to reach me. And one of them’s my mom—I mean, one of them’s you, if that makes you feel better, I guess, so—”

“I am not feeling bad, Shane,” Ilya interrupts, dragging a hand through his hair and then holding it palm up in the air. “I am worried, solnyshko. You take too little time, just for yourself. I think everyone needs breaks, yes? Or breaks will happen to you anyway, but they will start very small and they will not ask permission. Be like very tiny cracks that spread through concrete.”

“I take breaks,” Shane says, crossing his arms. He feels—he doesn’t know what he feels. Defensive, maybe, but it is hard to hold onto the spark of self-protective irritation in his gut when Ilya blinks at him like that and says, I am worried, solnyshko. “It’s fine, Ilya. I promise. I’m not overworked. I like a busy schedule. I bet yours looks the same.”

“There is busy schedule and then there is this, Hollander,” Ilya replies, flicking his fingers towards the calendar on the marble countertop. “People need more than one day off a month.”

Shane shifts on his feet, uncrosses his arms and then crosses them again. He doesn’t think it’ll do anything positive to remind Ilya that, technically, he’s had two days off this October. “I have it under control,” he finally says. “And look, maybe sometimes—I know it can look like a lot, and like, it would be nice, maybe. To have a little less going on sometimes, but I’m not just going to ignore my responsibilities to take a spa day. I take time away. I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.”

Ilya looks at him, jaw tensing and then relaxing and then clenching again. At least he is not humming again. “May I see your phone please?” he asks, and Shane blinks at him. Ilya hasn’t asked for permission to look at his phone since they first got together. Usually he just takes it if he needs it—to play music, to play a stupid little game on, to take a picture or video because he’s convinced Shane’s camera is better than his.

Shane’s never been bothered by it, obviously, or else Ilya wouldn’t do it. Actually, Shane thinks he’s more thrown off by being asked than he is at the concept of his boyfriend looking through his phone during a Tense Discussion.

“Yeah, sure,” Shane says, passing it over. Ilya unlocks it with his thumbprint and taps through something a few times. Shane watches him. He crosses his arms again. “What are you doing?”

“Your phone says seventy-nine people can ring through your Do Not Disturb,” Ilya reports with a raised eyebrow, turning the phone around so Shane can see the list of hyperlink blue contact names. “Shane, you are so sweet,” he continues drily. “I feel so special to have made this very short list.”

Shane feels hot around his ears. “Seventy-nine’s not a lot when you have as many contacts in your phone as I do,” he points out, stubborn even when he—well. He thinks he kind of, sort of, maybe sees what Ilya is trying to tell him.

“Oh, Mr. Popular,” Ilya says. “Mr. Big, Famous Man.” 

“Shut up.”

It’s just—of course Shane is going to answer the phone if he hears it ringing. If he has the time. Someone could need his help or his advice or his agreement for something. His mother could need to run an ad campaign by him; his father could need help with the crossword. Hayden could have a question regarding JJ’s girlfriend’s baby shower, and who the fuck knows what the rookies could need his help with. Theresa from CCM Talent Management team could need to get in contact with him about an upcoming event. Coach Theriault could need Shane’s input on a potential line change formation. Ilya could want to call to tell him hello.

Of course Shane is going to answer the phone.

And it feels—selfish to tap on Do Not Disturb for a few hours alone. It feels like opting out of something he should be honored to shoulder.

People need him. That’s not a bad thing. He can be needed. He can respond. He can pick up his phone, just in case it’s important. Just in case it’s someone on the other end of the line with a problem or a question or a request that only he can solve.

When Shane looks back up at Ilya, it’s to find him already studying him, Shane’s phone held loosely between his fingers.

“Is not my business,” Ilya tells him, like an admittance, like he’s ceding ground. “I just worry because I love. You,” he adds, like that is in question. “I love you and so I worry.” He taps his fingers along the glass of the darkened phone screen.

Shane nods because his throat feels suddenly too tight in a way that’s both unexpected and embarrassing. 

“But I trust you too,” Ilya says. “When you say is fine. I know it is not my business, it is just….”

“A lot,” Shane says. He nods when Ilya does. There’s softness in Ilya’s eyes. Just enough give that Shane can convince himself to take. “It…yeah,” he lets out a breath. “It’s a lot, but I don’t have another system, so this is—you know, all I have. I’m not going to just—screen calls, pick up the phone and ask everyone if their question is something they can Google before we even say hello.”

Ilya blinks; a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he shakes his head. “I am not suggesting you be very rude to—” he taps the screen of Shane’s phone and reads from the screen, “Bruce Real Estate Agent (Montreal). I am saying, maybe, you know. Set up voicemail box. Ignore an email for an hour or two. Protect your peace.”

“The fuck are they teaching you on the Centaurs,” Shane says. “Protect my peace. Is that on a locker room poster somewhere?”

Ilya rolls his eyes and slides off the barstool so he can round the kitchen island and tug Shane into his arms. “Maybe,” he murmurs into Shane’s hair, nuzzling against the crown of his head until Shane’s stupid body relaxes against him on instinct. “Just think about it, solnyshko. Yes? For me. Well, for you, but we can pretend it is for me.”

Shane blinks into the fabric of Ilya’s tee-shirt. There’s that familiar release of relief flooding through his system. Not relief like oh thank God you’re holding me, I was worried you’d leave. But relief like, oh thank God you are here. Everything is easier to carry when you are here. 

“I guess…” he says, slow and careful and like giving in even though it doesn’t feel much like giving in at all. “I could probably remove Bruce from the list.”

“Hm, do you think so? But what if there is sudden housing crisis in Montreal and Bruce needs your expert opinion?”

“He can Google what to do,” Shane says, and he can feel Ilya laugh in the way his chest moves beneath Shane’s forehead. 

“Okay, that sounds good. Bye, Bruce.”

“And…if CCM needs me, they can send an email?” Shane says, testing the words out on his tongue. “Or leave a voicemail I could respond to the next day.”

Ilya hums in agreement. It’s basically a purr now that he’s gotten his way. His fingers are carding through Shane’s hair though, so it’s hard to really drum up any annoyance.

“Hm,” Ilya says. “That’s good. And what about Hayden Pike? We can axe him from list too, yes?”

“Okay,” Shane says, edge of his mouth ticking up despite himself. He gets his hand between their bodies and shoves Ilya away. “Now you’re pushing it.”

iv. 

In the movies and the books and the fairytales, love is always about, like, vanquishing foes and beheading dragons and shit. 

That’s always sounded pretty convenient to Shane, if he’s being honest. He sort of wishes that stuff existed in real life, just so he could have used it as a measuring device for romance and his own emotions.

Like, sure I’ll take you to prom because you’ve been dropping hints for the last two months that you want me to take you to prom and my mom point-blank asked me what color of dress you were going to wear so she could buy me a matching corsage, but I don’t think I’d ever try to slay a dragon for you, so I’m probably not your future husband. 

It’d have been a helpful kind of sliding scale to have on hand, is all Shane is saying. 

Like, yes, we should kiss because I’ve taken you to the movies and put my arm around your shoulders in our back-corner seats and all the guys said the next step is kissing, but if I had to, like, fight through a thorny maze and an evil witch to kiss you, I probably, like. Wouldn’t. So it’s safe to say I’m not in love with you or anything.

In real life, in modern times, there’s a whole lot less knights and magic and armies of the undead. Everyone usually keeps their heads about them. There’s a lot less dragons and a lot more physical therapy appointments and traffic jams and calling someone who is probably the love of your life to see if they’re okay with blueberry pop-tarts because the store is out of the strawberry ones, hearing them say ugh, yes, fine, good enough, and then driving to another store to check their stock anyway just because you want to do better by the love of your life than just good enough. 

Love, in real life, is a lot more Tuesday evenings than it is dawns before final battles. 

And when you’re in love with a hockey player, it’s a lot more dental appointments than you’d expect.

Like, a lot more. 

“I should have picked up the teeth,” Ilya tells him with a gusty sigh that makes static blow across the phone line. “Would have been a great souvenir.”

“Isn’t Marleau getting married in Hawaii? And you can’t find a better souvenir than human teeth?” Shane asks, flipping over onto his side and tapping the call to speakerphone. His roommate for Worlds is—somewhere. Out exploring Stockholm, maybe. Taking in the sights of the city and appraising the options he has for hooking up depending on how tournament play goes. 

Shane would be annoyed, because Prelims start tomorrow and it’s already two hours past curfew, but he knows he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on right now. It’s nearing midnight and he’s been on the phone with his boyfriend for an hour and a half already.

Ilya’s stuck in a dentist’s office in Honolulu because one of Cliff Marleau’s groomsmen had chipped four of Marleau’s (already fake) teeth with a surfboard. Marleau had freaked, apparently, what with the wedding being in a few days. 

Shane feels bad for the guy, obviously, but it’s not like his girlfriend is unused to a hockey player’s smile or anything. She’s marrying Marleau. For Shane’s first two years in the league, Marleau was missing half his front tooth. She should be used to it by now. She should be taking a glass-is-half full approach to the whole thing—a mouth-is-half full approach, even. 

At least it was only four teeth. It could have been five. Could have been thirty-two.

But anyway. They’d found an emergency dentist who could squeeze him in pretty easily, because Honolulu dentists are probably as familiar with chipped teeth as MLH dentists are, and Ilya had gone with him for moral support. And also, Ilya has already confessed, because he felt bad about the whole thing. He’d apparently been the one to shove Bollet off his board in the first place, which doesn’t surprise Shane in the slightest.

And now that Marleau is being seen in the backroom, Ilya is bored in the waiting room.

Which is where Shane comes in. Apparently.

“Yes, good point,” Ilya agrees, still sounding sort of wistful. “But it would have been a good wedding gift, no?”

“Ilya, no,” Shane says, rolling over onto his back and positioning the phone on his stomach. He turned the lights of ages ago, so the only thing illuminating the room is the glow of the streetlights outside. “What the fuck.”

“Is personal, there is a story behind it,” Ilya argues in that tone of voice that means he’s smiling into nothing, arguing just for the sake of moving his mouth. “No receipt though, I guess.”

“Yeah, cause that would be the sticking point here,” Shane tells the watermarked ceiling. He’s already wearing his sweats, he’s already brushed his teeth and washed his face. Any other night, he’d be dead asleep by now. He has a game tomorrow, and his body is keeping score. He’ll feel it tomorrow morning, probably, if he doesn’t go lights off in fifteen. He’ll be slower, mind less sharp.

But Ilya forgot his book and he’s bored and maybe he doesn’t remember Shane has a game tomorrow. Timezones are weird, tricky things. Phone calls, also. If Shane closes his eyes, he can pretend Ilya’s right next to him in bed even when he’s half a world away. Earlier, Ilya was thinking about where he could drag Marleau to lunch afterwards, if he’d be too numb for anything but a smoothie. Shane’s had lunch already, had dinner, had a workout. They’re a day’s worth of life apart. But if Shane closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Ilya’s steady breathing, he can almost trick himself into believing they are close enough to touch.

“How would you feel if I tried to give you teeth on your wedding day, Ilya? No receipt. Just human teeth. In a box. Unwrapped.”

“I would wrap the box,” Ilya protests, like Shane knew he would.

“Ilya.”

There’s a pause, a shift on the other end of the line. Ilya has spent the last hour trying to get comfortable in the waiting room chair. It’s a pointless effort, Shane knows. Finally, Ilya says, voice surprisingly low, “Kotenok, I would not accept it if you give me teeth on my wedding day.”

Shane blinks up at the ceiling, eyebrows furrowing. Objectively, this is one of their more ridiculous conversations, but Ilya is bored and Shane is feeling a little dizzy from his own exhaustion, body lagging behind his brain and begging him to go to sleep before the morning’s early call. 

So it’s ridiculous but Shane thinks he actually feels a little offended at the idea of Ilya not accepting his hypothetical present. Of teeth. Even though his whole point had been that it’d be a terrible gift in the first place. For reasons beyond the lack of receipt. Still—Ilya should accept any and every gift Shane gives him, simply because it comes from Shane, who loves him and has accepted some truly terrible gifts from Ilya over the years.

“What’d you mean, you wouldn’t accept it?” he asks, and maybe the offense bleeds into his tone because Ilya barks out a laugh.

“Myshka, the only thing I will accept from you on my wedding day is a ring, da?” 

And—oh. 

“Oh,” Shane mutters, deflating. He can feel a blush creeping up across his face, but at least he is alone in the hotel room. No one is around to see the way his mouth has tugged up into a helpless, stupid-looking smile.

They haven’t—talked about it. Not in so many words. Not in any way that gets to the very heart of the subject. They have talked in circles about it. They have looked into each other’s eyes and promised that they’d love each other for the rest of their lives. Shane knows that Ilya is it for him, and he’s certain Ilya feels the same way about Shane.

They just haven’t—talked. About marriage. Why talk about pipe-dreams? There are years of hockey left to play. Marriage means ceremony, means witnesses, means other people knowing. That’s not…they’re not….They’ve been dealt a hand of cards, and that’s fine. Most of the time it’s even a good, solid hand. But there’s no room for witnesses in it. 

So they haven’t talked about it.

“You, uh. You want that? My ring?” Shane asks, fighting the urge to flip over onto his stomach and bury his face in his arms. He closes his eyes instead, listens to Ilya breathe across the line. 

“More than anything, solnyshko,” Ilya murmurs, and Shane exhales, a budding sensation of weightlessness swelling up in his chest.

“Anything, wow. That’s big,” he says because he has to say something and he cannot say what he really wants to say, which is that Shane never, ever let himself even dream about having something like this. Something so soft and beautiful and precious, something that belonged equally to him and Ilya.

And now he has it and just brushing his fingers along the edges of it makes him feel like he could stay awake all night on the phone as long as it’s Ilya on the other end of the line.

And then he realizes a second later that there’s no reason he can’t tell this to Ilya. He’s alone in the hotel room. No one is listening to him but Ilya. These words already half-belong to Ilya, the way it sort of feels like everything Shane is already mostly belongs to Ilya.

“I just,” he whispers. “I never thought…”

His mouth is dry and his tongue feels heavy and he thinks—he will need a new way of measuring happiness if he is going to get to spend the rest of his life with Ilya Rozanov. All of his old benchmarks are no longer relevant.

“Ah, Cliff is finished,” Ilya tells him. A moment later, Shane can hear him shift and stand up from his seat. “I have to go, solnyshko, but I will talk to you later? Before your game. You can call me, no matter the time, even if it is early for me. Is my turn to very sleepy on the phone with you.”

“Oh, so you did remember,” Shane says. He thinks maybe he should feel irritated that Ilya apparently knew how late it was for him and also the time of the first Prelim tomorrow, but he can’t muster up the energy for that. The affection in his chest wins out. When it comes to Ilya, he folds like a house of cards. Always.

“Yes, of course,” Ilya replies. He sounds like he’s smiling. Shane closes his eyes and aches. “Thank you for keeping me company as I waited though, moy myshka. You made it so much better. Love you, good night.”

Shane smiles back even though Ilya is far too far away to see it. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he replies, a call and response that sounds like the most natural song in the world.

Later, after he has gotten out of bed to plug in his phone, reset his alarm to ensure he wakes between sleep cycles, and crawled back under the covers, sleep comes quickly and easily.

Probably, when you really think about it, real love isn’t ever actually the way it’s made out to be in all the movies and the fairytales and that’s probably for the best. It’s a lot less about who you’d spend a thousand years waiting for and a lot more about who you’d choose to wait with in a million different coffee shop lines, a hundred different traffic jams, a thousand different dentist waiting rooms.

Shane wakes up only once in the middle of the night, sleep schedule fucked and brain foggy with the remnants of a dream he can’t quite remember but thinks Ilya would enjoy hearing about. He’s asleep before he can finish drafting the text.

In the morning, he’s forgotten it completely. He calls Ilya anyway and waits for the line to connect.

v. 

When it’s clear that the injury’s clean, as minor as a dislocated shoulder can be when you’re on the wrong side of thirty and your body’s starting to protest the fucking rain, Ilya isn’t shy about laughing at him. 

Oh, he’s still kind and attentive and everything Shane could ever want from a partner. He still volunteers to slip into the shower with him so he can wash his hair; still adjusts the temperature in their bedroom so Shane won’t get too cold sleeping at night when he doesn’t want to bother with the circus that putting a shirt on has become; still sidles up behind him in the kitchen like Shane’s newly appointed shadow, right hand sliding around the sling and holding the orange juice carton steady so Shane can unscrew the top all by himself.

Sure, the help is appreciated and loved as dearly as Ilya is. Never overcrowding, always respectful, made up of small gestures that are designed to go unnoticed and yet deeply felt. Ilya’s sweet like that; after so many years together, it shouldn’t still surprise Shane the way it does. 

But the sympathy’s a little too thin on the ground for Shane’s taste. 

“What’s the shoulder looking like?” Bood asks. He’s put his phone down on his kitchen counter while he moves about making what Shane thinks is a smoothie. Shane’s been enjoying the unprecedented access to a view of Bood’s ceiling. 

“Day to day,” Shane says, kicking out with his foot until he can push his toes beneath the solid line of Ilya’s thigh. Ilya looks up from his own phone, already smiling. He catches the ball of Shane’s ankle, rubs his thumb up and over the bone like it’s instinct for him.

“Uh huh,” Zane says. “It’s the summer, bud. You can’t be day-to-day when there won’t be any games until September anyway.”

Across the couch, Ilya perks up, hound catching a scent. His smile widens into a grin, and his fingers dig into the arch of Shane’s foot. “This is not true, Bood, Shane Hollander can find hockey games anywhere. Is why he has bum shoulder now. He gets knocked out of playoffs by the Guardians and then goes looking for a fight and a better player gets the best of him in game of shinny.”

“Fuck off,” Shane tells him, kicking at him with his other foot. His face is red. 

“Is terrible behavior, Bood,” Ilya grins, all teeth. “How am I supposed to captain such a hooligan?”

“Uh huh,” Bood says. “And Hollzy, what’s the likelihood of the Centaurs having their captain back in the locker room come August?”

“Day to fucking day,” Shane tells Bood’s kitchen ceiling. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Please don’t,” Bood replies cheerfully. “Have fun in Quebec, rest the shoulder, don’t kill anyone, feel better soon, alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll try my best,” Shane says. “Have a great summer. Talk later.”

He disconnects the call and drops his phone onto his stomach before scooping a discarded pillow off the ground with his good hand. He tosses it at Ilya, which is really like a reaffirmation of love if you think about it. Soft pillow, aimed at the shoulder instead of the face. That’s love.

Ilya catches it easily. Both hands, which is just rubbing it in, in Shane’s opinion. “What, am I not supportive enough for you, solnyshko?” He asks, already laughing as Shane fumbles around for another pillow. “Do you want me to go find the child you tripped over? I will give him two dislocated shoulders. Will that make you feel better? If I beat up a five year old for you?”

“I tripped on the fucking curb,” Shane says. “And he was at least twelve.”

“Oh, well, if he’s twelve, this changes everything,” Ilya says cheerfully. “Give me the word, moy dorogony, and I will drive to nearest junior high and challenge him to a duel for your honor.”

“God, Ilya, shut up,” Shane says, but he can’t pretend he isn’t laughing too. “I’m in pain. I dislocated my fucking shoulder and all you have is jokes. You’re supposed to take care of me. Sickness and health, remember?”

“I can multi-task,” Ilya replies with a sunny smile, squeezing once more at Shane’s ankle before he lets go and stands up. “For example, you have been napping here on the couch all morning and I have already dropped Anya off at your parents’, packed the car with our luggage, and made you coffee for the road.”

“That’s not multi-tasking,” Shane points out moodily as he clambers to his feet and follows Ilya towards the door. “That’s just a series of tasks, one after the other.”

“Ah, but I have also been loving you at the same time,” Ilya tells him, collecting two thermoses of coffee in one hand and using the other to open the front door for him. “Multiple tasks.”

“Oh, so loving me is a task now?” Shane says, raising both eyebrows and watching as Ilya fits the house key into the lock and twisting it. “Like a—a chore?”

“Yes, exactly,” Ilya says, brushing a kiss to Shane’s forehead as he turns around. “Now you are understanding me.”

“Haha,” Shane says, but when Ilya walks towards the car in the driveway, Shane follows. Shane follows, right until he has to stop or run Ilya into the driver’s side door. “Wait. What are you doing?”

His husband turns his head to look at him, both eyebrows raised and a growing incredulous smile at the very corner of his lips. “I am driving, solnyshko.”

“What, no, you’re not,” Shane says, blinking back at Ilya. “I always drive us to the cottage.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “Which is an arrangement I like a lot because I get to sleep and choose the music and annihilate our teammates in Words With Friends.” 

“Great,” Shane says. “Move over then. Door's on the other side.”

“However,” Ilya says, adjusting both travel mugs in his hand so he can fish out the car keys from his pocket. “Seeing as how one of us recently got into a fight with a child and the other one of us has full use of both hands, I think maybe it is probably for the best that I drive today, yes?”

Shane purses his lips, but it’s not as if he can argue. It’s not as if Ilya is wrong, it just feels wrong to slink over to the passenger side of the car and climb in. The seat is all wrong, too far back, positioned to accommodate Ilya’s proportions. Shane always drives. To the rink for practice, to the grocery store, to the airport for roadies, to the cottage for a few weeks each summer. 

Shane drives. Shane likes driving. Shane likes being behind the wheel, keeping track of the fuel tank levels and the speedometer and the tire pressure and the gas mileage. His therapist would probably say it’s a control thing and then leave that up to Shane to decide if that’s a bad thing or a good thing.

“Here you go, printessa,” Ilya tells him with a sunny grin, handing him the travel mug of coffee from across the console as soon as Shane has stopped fiddling with the seat and fastened his seat belt.

“Thanks,” Shane says only a little bit begrudgingly. Really, Ilya has been so genuinely amazing since the shinny fiasco. Shane could probably—maybe—acknowledge that a little bit more frequently. The coffee is a nice touch. The accompanying smirk and the nickname, princess, probably like passenger princess, is not.

He takes a sip anyway. It’s exactly the way he likes it when he lets himself drink coffee. Sometimes, he will think he is no longer capable of being surprised by how much Ilya knows him. And then he will do something very small, like remember Shane’s preferred milk to sugar to coffee ratio, and Shane will be forced to reckon with the fact that Ilya Rozanov will always manage to catch him off guard.

“You do not have to worry about a thing, kotenok,” Ilya is saying as he fastens his own seat belt and connects his phone with the SUV’s navigation system. “You can just sit there and look pretty.”

“I’m going to be keeping an eye on the speedometer,” Shane mutters, even though out of the two of them, Shane’s probably the one more likely to break the speed limit in Ottawa. Something about growing up driving on these roads; he knows them too well to take them slow. 

“Oh, good,” Ilya says as he steers the car out of their driveway, through the gate, and onto the street. “You can multi-task too.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shane replies, but he has to turn his head to look out the window so Ilya can’t see his grin. He can, though. In the reflection of the passenger side window. It makes him blink for a second, thrown off by the sight of how young he looks. 

All these years later, he still smiles the same at Ilya as he did when he was twenty-six and just falling in love. As he did when he was seventeen and just realizing how wide and beautiful the world and his future could be.

Shane distracts himself by taking another sip from the mug in his hands, and then Ilya adds, slyly, “But if you do get tired of backseat driving, I put the blindfold in the car door, kotenok. Feel free to put it on whenever you would like.”

It takes a great deal of willpower not to accidentally choke on his coffee. “Very funny, Rozanov,” he mutters, even though he knows Ilya probably isn’t actually joking. He doesn’t check. His shoulder’s already starting to hurt again, the slight vibration of the car rocking him far more than he’d like. 

He can feel Ilya’s eyes on him for a moment before he looks away, back to the road. The humor has fallen away from his voice when he says, gentle and enduring soft-handed love brushing against every word, “And I left the painkillers the doctor prescribed you in the glove compartment. They will make you sleepy though.”

Shane doesn’t have to be convinced any further to dig out the pill bottle and pop off the cap. He washes one of the pills down with another sip of coffee, then leans back against the headrest of the passenger seat. 

The car drifts to a careful stop in front of a red light, and Ilya’s hand, like clockwork, reaches out to wrap around Shane’s thigh.

“You just want me to fall asleep so you can play your shitty music,” Shane mutters, but he takes Ilya’s hand in his the second before the light changes colors, and he raises it to his mouth to kiss at the back of his knuckles. 

Ilya’s music taste is sometimes shitty. Sometimes it’s a collection of Russian rap songs Shane has never even heard of, that he’s positive Ilya doesn’t even like but just plays as a sort of homage to someone or something or some part of his life that Shane will never meet. 

Sometimes it’s sappy love songs that make Shane’s cheeks flush red and eye contact especially hard.

And sometimes, Ilya will put on his music and it will be an amalgamation of a hundred different people they both know. Friends and family and loved ones. The music Shane’s dad played too loudly around the house when Shane was a kid, the hype songs from the locker room, their first dance song from the wedding, Hayden’s favorite country singer’s latest hit, Svetlana’s latest musical obsession. And Shane doesn’t even particularly like music, but he likes those playlists the best. Likes when he can close his eyes and see all the little ways that their lives have been stitched together. 

If Ilya says something in response, Shane doesn’t hear it. He’s already drifting off, hand still curled around Ilya’s. 

An indeterminable amount of time later, he wakes up quiet. Sometime during his nap, his head has tilted to the left against the shoulder rest, like even in his sleep, his body has tried to keep itself turned towards Ilya.

The music is playing on low. The scenery passes by smooth and steady and slow. Ilya is being careful behind the wheel. His right hand is still stretched out across the console, fingers tangled up in Shane’s.

He must twitch a little, or maybe Ilya has just been checking on him every now and then, because Ilya glances at him for a moment before looking back at the road. “Go back to sleep, my love,” he murmurs, squeezing his hand gently. “We are not there yet.”

And so Shane does, nodding off again between one breath and the next.