Archive of Our Own

“Please?” 

Shane’s defenses were actively crumbling. How could they not, with the way Ilya’s eyes were wide and imploring, his lips pouting ever so slightly, his chin pressed against Shane’s sternum, his limbs covering Shane’s like a weighted blanket… Yeah, Shane stood no chance. 

It was the second week of May. Ottawa had been knocked out of the playoffs by New York only last week, and although it had stung, Ilya’s mood had greatly improved since returning home. The five or six blowjobs seem to have done the trick. Or at least Ilya was trying to make it seem like that was the case. 

Shane also hadn’t bothered to make the return trip to Montreal since the end of Ottawa’s playoff run. He was a little suspicious that that might have something to do with Ilya’s bounciness. Well, that, and their more frequent conversations about the general shittiness of a few certain professional hockey players that may or may not play for Montreal, and spinning wild tales about who Shane might play for if he left, not bothering to take it seriously just yet. 

If he left at all. Shane had yet to actually make that decision. He felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one hand, he’d given Montreal the best years of his career. He wanted to keep going, wanted to solidify that team into an unbeatable legacy that would be remembered for the next century of the sport. He wanted his number up in those rafters, dammit. He wanted it to be joined by more banners, more trophies… Seven cups, that was his goal. He’d wanted all seven to be for Montreal. 

But the thought of walking back into the Montreal locker room after everything that had happened in the past month… It sent such a strong wave of nausea over him that he almost had to push Ilya off of him to hurry to the bathroom and vomit. 

Shane had thought that waiting on this decision would hold him back from the brink of doing something drastic. Now, he was worried that by letting this decision fester, he was only making things worse. 

He could tell Ilya had been holding his tongue, too. Shane was pretty sure, though, that Ilya just didn’t want to get his hopes up, because they both knew full well that, in the end, if Shane did decide to leave Montreal, there was only really one place he would go: Ottawa. 

God, that would be incredible. Shane’s heart swelled just thinking about it. But, surely, it was too good to be true.

He’d hoped, foolishly, that the vitriol in Montreal would die down, that the opinion pieces would stop coming, and people would finally fucking realize that, no, Shane Hollander did not trip on purpose. What a ridiculous thing to suggest. 

He’d hoped, possibly even more foolishly, that the team itself would come to their senses. That maybe the work he’d put in would mean something to them, and that Hayden and JJ wouldn’t be the only ones who could appreciate (or at the very least accept) that Ilya Rozanov was the love of his life. 

He’d been proven wrong on both counts, so far. 

“Where did you go?” Ilya’s voice brought him back to the present, and Shane blinked down at him, his brain refocusing. 

“Sorry,” Shane muttered, tracing the curl of Ilya’s hair with the tip of one finger. “Just… thinking.”

Ilya’s face fell, just a little. “Oh. You don’t have to come. But I figure we are out now and everybody knows–” 

“Oh!” Shane finally remembered what they’d been talking about. He felt slow and stupid. “Oh, no I was thinking about something else. I got distracted.” 

Hope flooded back into Ilya’s eyes, and Shane wondered briefly how he could have ever kept this man in the closet for as long as he did. All Ilya had ever wanted to do was love Shane as loudly as he did everything else. How could he refuse him this one thing? “Yeah, I’ll come with you.” 

Ilya’s carefully crafted exterior broke like the sun streaming in through a cover of clouds, making way for a splitting grin and a wrinkled nose and glittering eyes. “Yesss!” Shane laughed as Ilya’s hands clasped his cheeks and hauled him in for a kiss that was interrupted by stupid giggling. “You will have so much fun, I promise. You meet the whole team, and the WAGs and Wiebe – you will like him, he is very nice.” 

Shane couldn’t stop smiling. 

That night was the end-of-season dinner for the Ottawa Centaurs, and Ilya had conveniently forgotten to mention it until that very moment. Shane had a sinking suspicion that Ilya had thought Shane might have said no, like he did to Bood’s Boxing Day party. But how could he refuse this time? He knew Ilya didn’t really go to team parties unless they were official team events, having spent every spare moment he could making their long-distance relationship work. Shane certainly appreciated it, but he felt really bad that Ilya had missed out on so much time with his team, too. 

As much as coming out had terrified Shane, those years when their relationship had been a secret had been torture, not being able to hold Ilya’s hand in public or having to pretend they were only friends when all Shane really wanted to do was be close to him. Being outed like that had sucked, but it also felt like a weight off his shoulders. He wasn’t quite sure what things were going to look like now, but he figured this might end up being a practice run, or something. 

“What do I even wear to this thing?” he asked Ilya a few hours later, pondering the collection of clothes he had in the second closet of the master bedroom. He’d never really considered it his closet, because Ilya had so much overflow of his own that he took up all of his own and more of the second, but whatever. “This isn’t the usual banquet, is it?”

“No, is for players and WAGs. Wiebe hosts at his house, no management,” Ilya said from across the room, his sentences clipped in the way he always did when he was too distracted to translate full sentences, but knew Shane would understand regardless. “Casual, you know?”

That didn’t help Shane make a decision. “What are you wearing?”

“Would you like me to pick outfit for you, Hollander?” Ilya said, sharper than before. “A not-boring outfit?”

Shane’s silence was clearly enough of an answer. Ilya made a huffy little sound of light annoyance as he walked over from the bathroom, his hair still wet from his shower, but wearing that black V-neck shirt that Shane always found so distracting. He could see muscles of Ilya’s chest flex as he plucked hangers off the rods with intention, lips pursed in concentration. Shane was not paying attention at all as Ilya started handing him clothes, lost in silence as Shane watched those muscles in Ilya’s arms ripple beneath his skin, the gold chain of his crucifix drawing Shane’s eye like a moth to a flame.

“Here,” Ilya said after a minute, pushing the assembled outfit into Shane’s arms. “You worry about everything. Don’t you have a stylist for this?” 

“Huh– what?” Shane shook his head like it would clear his head and distract him from the growing stiffness between his legs. “Oh. Thanks.” He looked up to see Ilya’s eyes still on him, but the expression behind them had shifted from amused annoyance to outright glee. 

“Am I distracting you, Hollander?”

“No,” Shane shot back defensively. “You can’t wear that shirt, I’ll be staring at you all night.” That was the wrong thing to say. A frisson of energy shot down his spine, warmth pooling between his legs. 

“And if I want you to be staring at me all night?” Ilya propped an elbow up on the nearest closet rod and subtly flexed his bicep, tracking Shane’s eyes as they darted to it against his will. 

Fuck it. 

“Then…” Shane glanced back up at him and, holding his gaze, traced a finger up the crotch seam of Ilya’s jeans, earning himself a delighted and hungry grin that he wanted to drown in. Feeling very confident all of a sudden, Shane stepped in closer and pressed his lips to the tantalizing divot above Ilya’s pecs, then traced a path with his lips up his neck to Ilya’s ear. “Then wear the shirt.” 

“Hollander.” 

“Yes?” Shane drew back and blinked up at Ilya in the way he knew drove him crazy. Go big on the eyes, that was the trick to Ilya’s deeper urges. Shane loved pressing that particular button. He reached up and tugged at Ilya’s gold chain with a single finger, tugging him closer and deeply enjoying the low sound that escaped Ilya’s throat. 

“Shane.” 

“I’m right here,” Shane said innocently, his fingers dipping down to the waistband of Ilya’s pants, ghosting down to Ilya’s crotch again and palming him right over his cock. 

Ilya’s eyes widened and then narrowed again, the slash of his mouth deepening as his fingers came up to grasp Shane’s chin. “You’re going to kill me, Hollander.” His voice was hoarse. 

Shane grinned and sank to his knees, mouthing at the growing bulge of Ilya’s crotch and deeply enjoying the ragged inhale he heard above him. “Give it to me.” 

“Fuck.” Ilya’s hands fumbled with his belt as Shane continued to nuzzle into Ilya’s clothed dick. “Fuck. You cannot say these things.” 

Shane just hummed as the belt finally came loose, pushing Ilya’s shirt up under his armpits to palm at his chest and kissing at his abs as Ilya pushed down his pants and his cock came free, bobbing up and leaving a wet trail on Shane’s neck. 

Shane shivered, one hand coming to grasp at Ilya’s cock and stroked it a few times and, after a tremulous pause, licked a line up Ilya’s v-line. Just because he could. 

“Hah–” Ilya’s chest heaved and Shane grinned as he laved his tongue across Ilya’s balls, dipping behind them to lick at his perineum, all the while stroking his cock, long and slow. “Fuck, Hollander.” 

“Maybe later,” Shane muttered, pressing chaste kisses now to the head of Ilya’s cock, looking up at him and finding Ilya’s eyes glazed over, his mouth slack, abs trembling. “Fuck my mouth.” He ran the tip of his tongue along the underside of Ilya’s cock and preened at the moan that earned him. He looked up at Ilya’s face one more time and delivered the finishing blow: “Please.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya muttered, then again in Russian just for good measure. He tilted his hips back and took his dick in hand, squeezing at the base and hissing lowly. Grasping Shane’s hair with the other hand, he lined his cock up with Shane’s mouth and let the head rest on his tongue. Shane’s moan left his open mouth like a sigh and his eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of the weight on his tongue, intoxicating and filling his brain with nothing but Ilya and sex. “Uh-uh,” Ilya tutted from above him. “Eyes on me.”

Shane peeled open his eyes with a substantial amount of effort, but the view was pretty nice, too. The contours of Ilya’s abs and pecs were only partially visible under his shirt, which was unfortunate, but the way Ilya loomed over him sent Shane flying in a way that lifted him out of his own body, carrying him on the wind. “Good,” Ilya murmured and Shane moaned again, unable to stop it. “So needy. Show me–good. So good.” 

Shane’s hand came to rest on Ilya’s thigh, the other curled around his calf, ready to squeeze twice if he needed air. Not that he had any intentions of breathing once Ilya’s cock was down his throat. He rocked forward so Ilya’s cock slid along his tongue, needing it faster, but the hand in his hair yanked his head back and Ilya’s cock fell out of his mouth. Shane whined. 

“Nyet.” Ilya’s voice was ragged and strained as he positioned his cock just out of reach of Shane’s mouth. “Hold still.” 

“Please,” Shane whined again, squirming on his knees and not daring to touch his own dick for fear he’d come the instant he laid a hand on it. “Please, Ilya. Need you. Give it to me.” 

“Be good,” Ilya muttered, looking just as drunk as Shane felt. His feet shuffled on the ground and he braced himself on the wall. “Fuck. I’m going to come so fucking fast–” 

The electricity that shot through Shane’s spine at the words felt like physical pain, crashing into his own pleasure and making his dick throb. He moaned again, louder, digging his nails into Ilya’s thigh. “Ilya. Need you.”

“Open up. There… fuck…” 

Shane had to focus to keep his eyes open as Ilya’s cock slipped into his mouth. He’d trained himself out of a gag reflex a long time ago just for this, and he rocked forward again just to tell Ilya to go deeper. Take me all the way.

“Fuck,” Ilya moaned above him, tipping his head back as his hips rocked back and forth, before snapping his gaze back down to Shane like he didn’t want to miss a thing. Shane clutched at his thick thighs, feeling the muscle there and losing himself in this feeling, completely lost to it, to Ilya’s pleasure and his own choked moans. 

Ilya’s voice filled his ears as his hand cradled the back of Shane’s neck, ghosting up into his hair, caressing his cheek. “So beautiful… All mine…” 

Shane lost himself in it, and for a brief moment, wondered if this was what it felt like to be high. His mind was so far above this, driven out by the feeling of Ilya’s heavy, hot cock pumping in and out of his mouth, filling him, banishing all his senses away… 

“Eyes. Shane, eyes.” Shane barely heard him, hardly registered the words besides another order, but wrenched his eyes open anyways. “So good,” Ilya mumbled under his breath, a punched-out moan filling the air and spinning around Shane’s brain like in an echoing cavern. He couldn’t see Ilya through the blurring of his eyes, wetness filling his eyes and dropping down his cheeks, but he didn’t dare signal for breath, he was being good, just for Ilya–

“Oh– fuck… Shane–” 

Shane thought the look on Ilya’s face as he came was probably the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. The way his eyebrows creased, the way his mouth dropped open, the deep rumbling of his voice… but most of all, he loved the way Ilya said his name, every time, without fail. 

Shane kept his eyes open and on Ilya as he came down, chest heaving under his shirt, petting Shane’s hair as he pulled his cock out of his mouth. “Come here,” he mumbled, slurring ever so slightly. 

Shane’s legs were wobbly, and Ilya wasn’t much help as he tried to pull him up. But it didn’t matter, because then Ilya was kissing him and kissing him and Shane felt himself being backed up into the wall of the closet and pinned against it and he was exactly where he wanted to be. 

Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and sagged against him, boneless and grinning. Ilya’s breaths were ragged still, filling his ears like white noise. They were basically hugging, leaning against the wall, smiling into each others necks, and Shane was so fucking happy that this was where he’d ended up after all this time. With his beautiful fiance with nice muscles and a really nice dick, pinned up against the wall of this dusty closet and so fucking loved. 

This was a lot of emotions to be experiencing after having been face-fucked into oblivion, but Shane was too in love to care. 

“So beautiful,” Ilya whispered into his neck, then again in Russian. “My love.” 

“Kiss me,” Shane whispered, tilting his head back so Ilya could capture his lips. Shane sighed happily, feeling Ilya’s lips move across his, his tongue in Shane’s mouth, Ilya’s clever fingers dipping below his waistband–

Then the sound of Shane’s phone blaring with a call pulled him right out of it. 

Ilya whined pitifully, dipping his head on Shane’s shoulder and palming at his waist. “Ignore it. I want to touch you.” 

“It might be important,” Shane mumbled back, but it was half-hearted. Nevertheless, he extricated himself from Ilya’s arms and grabbed his phone from off the closet shelf. “It’s Farah.” 

“We can call her back,” Ilya pouted, resting his chin on Shane’s shoulder. “Please let me get you off. I’ll make it so good-”

“Fuck off,” Shane grinned back at him and ducked out of the closet, hitting the answer button and putting her on speaker and hoping that would be enough to get Ilya to behave. “Hey, Farah.” 

“Hey,” Farah sounded tired. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good,” Shane said, smacking Ilya on the leg as he made a suggestive expression. “We’re good over here. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to do a temperature check with you.” At the very least, she sounded sad that she had to pop their happy bubble, which was what Shane had a sneaking suspicion she was about to do. “I’ve been getting some attention from the Montreal General Manager over the last few days. He wants to know why you haven’t extended your contract yet.” 

“Does he, now?” Ilya said testily. 

“Well, yeah,” Farah sounded apologetic still. 

Shane worried his lips between his teeth. His contract, still unsigned and incomplete. His contract, which would tie him to Montreal for another year… All he needed to do was finish it, sign it, and give it back to Farah. It had been sitting in his email for several weeks now. 

“Thing is, Shane,” Farah started again, “you can hold off on turning it in as long as you want. But that’s going to make it look like you’re going on the market.” 

“But I’m not,” Shane said instantly, putting the phone down on the bed and flopping back on the bedspread. “Or, at least I haven’t decided if I’m doing that.”

“And you don’t have to make that decision today,” Farah interrupted. “But you need to tell the GM that it’s a decision you’re considering. We can’t just blindside them and jump ship on July 1st.” 

“Why not?” Ilya asked sourly. Shane glared at him, not that he really thought Ilya would ever try to convince him to do that. 

“Well, if I do go to market, they’re going to be pissed I didn’t tell them that before the trade deadline, so Montreal would lose me and get nothing in return,” Shane said, even though he was fully aware that Farah and Ilya definitely already knew how trades work. 

“Exactly,” Farah said. “So, with your permission, I’m going to send an email to the Montreal GM and tell them you’re going to hold out on extending your contract–” 

Shane groaned and covered his face with his hands. This all felt too real, too fast. “Fuck. I’m–” He felt sick again, that same nausea flowing over him and making his stomach turn. “Oh, god.” 

“We call you back,” Ilya said quickly and hung up on Farah before she could start talking again. Tossing the phone away, he crawled up to Shane’s head and took his face in his hands. “Lyubimyy. You do not have to decide today.” 

“I know, but–” Shane rubbed at his eyes. “It just–” He stared up at the ceiling, feeling his eyes grow damp. “Fuck. Can we go back to five minutes ago?” 

Ilya just smiled and kissed him. “Tell me, moy kofeynaya chashka.” 

Shane thought for a moment. “Coffee cup?”

Ilya smiled wider. “You are so smart.” His thumb brushed Shane’s freckles and they were quiet for a minute. “Tell me. Please.” 

Shane stared up at the ceiling again. He sighed, shaky and hesitant. Everything he’d been keeping inside for the last month was threatening to boil over into a ugly mess, and his eyes stung. “I–I thought that if I could just ignore it, it would go away. I thought that… if I gave it more time, I’d keep myself from doing something drastic.” 

He rubbed at his face, and kept his hands there, a careful shield to protect him from the crushing weight of the decision he knew he couldn’t keep running from for much longer. “It’s been weeks, and I don’t… I don’t know what to do. I feel sick every time I think about going back, but I don’t…” He looked back at Ilya and saw the blue eyes there creased with concern, sadness, and that simmering sense of anger at everything that had ever hurt Shane. He sniffed and braced himself. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to leave. Leaving feels like giving up. But so does staying.” 

“No.” Ilya shook his head and shuffled forward on the bed so his body was mirroring Shane’s, twin parentheses encompassing their shared years in between worn bodies. “No, my love.” 

Shane looked up at him and felt a few tears spill over. “You are not giving up,” Ilya murmured, dropping his lips to Shane’s temple and breathing in his hair. Shane’s eyes slipped closed as his hands crossed Ilya’s back and tugged him impossibly closer. “You are not giving up. It is… letting go of something that hurts you.” He drew back and tilted Shane’s chin up so their eyes met. “But I cannot make decision for you.” 

“But if you could–” 

Ilya’s laugh was wet. “If I could, you would have joined Ottawa with me three years ago. But is different now. Montreal has hurt you, I can’t tell you to go back to more pain. You don’t deserve that. You are Shane fucking Hollander, you deserve better than teammates who call you traitor and talk shit about you behind your back. You deserve better than a city that hates you because of who you choose and call you a loser for tripping once. And you know this too, lyubimyy.”

Shane ran a finger through Ilya’s hair, then remembered he’d just styled it, and settled for resting a hand on the back of his neck. He sighed, and swallowed, letting Ilya’s words wash over him. 

“I am also selfish,” Ilya continued, his voice forcibly lightening as he sat up and let himself speak his own desires. “I do not want to be long-distance married.” 

Shane sighed, feeling calmer. “Yeah, that’s a good point.” 

Ilya smiled tremulously. “I used to live for the summers. I want that all the time.” 

Shane sat up too, falling into Ilya’s arms once more. “Me, too.” 

That admission was nothing new. Shane had always wanted that, to wake up next to Ilya and make breakfast with him and go to the rink together. He wanted to witness all of Ilya, the parts he never got to see during the season. He wanted to witness Ilya’s rituals, wanted to take his pre-game naps with him, wanted to watch him settle into himself, wanted to be there for every goddamn second. He wanted all of it, their future, their life. 

Logically, holding out on extending his contract was essentially telling the Montreal GM that he was considering free agency, and the possibility of leaving entirely. That was a level of trust he would never be able to rebuild with management, regardless of whether or not he actually left. Could he really choose to go back to Montreal at this point? Either way, Farah was right: he needed to tell the GM he needed time before deciding on the extension of his contract. Basic manners, hockey etiquette, all that. It was just going to suck. 

“Call Farah back now?” Ilya murmured into his neck. 

Shane nodded, and Ilya released him only enough to grab Shane’s phone from where it had been discarded on the bedspread. Farah picked up after the first ring.

“Sorry,” was the first thing she said. 

“Don’t be,” Shane shook his head before realizing she couldn’t actually see him. “It’s– it’s just been a crazy few weeks.” 

“I can’t blame you,” Farah said sympathetically. Shane looked over at Ilya, who hadn’t stopped looking at him. And Shane, for some reason, smiled. 

Farah read him the email she’d drafted out loud, and he’d approved it. In truth, there was no problem with his contract; his hesitancy to extend it had nothing to do with the money and everything to do with the team, but notifying the GM was just the courteous thing to do. 

A few minutes after they ended the call with Farah, she’d sent the email and cc’d him, and he read it five times like he hadn’t already approved it. Ilya had stayed close the whole time, his arm loose around Shane’s waist and thumb tracing nonsensical patterns on Shane’s thigh. It was only after a few minutes that Shane caught the hint. 

“Can we get back to…”

Shane checked the time, and sighed. “No, we’ll be late.” 

Ilya pouted. “Fine. After. Best orgasm of your life, I promise.”

“That’s a big promise,” Shane grinned at him, though not as wide as he would have normally. His emotions were all over the place, and he wasn’t sure he’d actually be in the headspace to give Ilya all the attention he’d usually give him when Ilya said shit like that, anyways. 

“Yes, well,” Ilya shrugged and trailed off, laying back in the bed as Shane ducked back into the closet and picked up the outfit Ilya had picked out for him: black pants (Shane was pretty sure Ilya had picked these because they made his ass look good) and a cashmere sweater in tawny brown, soft to the touch. “Wear the Nike shoes. The white ones.” 

“Not like I have another color,” Shane said under his breath. His shoe collection was mostly Reebok, he only had one pair of Nikes and he only wore them when he was sure he wouldn’t be photographed. 

He emerged, fully dressed, and spread out his arms for Ilya’s approval. “Good?”

Ilya’s grin was wide. “Very”

“You’re going to be cold,” Shane said over his shoulder as he went downstairs.  

Ilya hadn’t grabbed a jacket, which Shane thought was optimistic. May in Canada was nice, but not that nice. “I am Russian, I do not get cold.” 

Shane almost pointed out that Ilya hadn’t been to Russia in years, and hadn’t spent a winter in Russia in even longer, but he figured that was probably pushing it and decided against it. But when Ilya wasn’t looking, he snagged one of Ilya’s nice denim jackets and shoved it in the backseat of the car while Ilya was giving Anya a tearful farewell. 

Wiebe’s house was a twenty minute drive from Ilya’s, which only gave Shane twenty extra minutes to freak out. He’d never met the Ottawa Centaurs. Well, he had, in those brief moments of mutual acquaintance when Ottawa and Montreal played each other, but not like this. Not in a normal, social setting, like he was about to meet his fiance’s coworkers. Well, that was exactly what was about to happen. 

Last time, he had been separated from Ilya’s team by hockey. There was going to be no such separation this time around. It was kind of terrifying. 

He thought back to those kind words they’d given him at the end of their last game of the playoffs. It had only been a few weeks ago, but it felt like it had been months. He wanted to thank them for those things they’d said. He wanted them to know how much it had meant to him, at that moment. 

“What… what did you tell them?” he asked quietly, playing with Ilya’s fingers where they rested on his own thigh from over the center console of the car. 

“Hm?” Ilya hummed absentmindedly, drawing his eyes from the road ahead to look at Shane in confusion. “I told them I would try to convince you to come–”

“No,” Shane shook his head. “I mean… the playoffs. At the end, they were all saying nice stuff, I wondered if you’d told them something.” 

Ilya nodded once in understanding. “Ah. No. They… they noticed Montreal was not communicating well, I said is because they are losers who can’t handle that their captain likes to suck my dick.” The joke didn’t make Shane flush and say ‘fuck off’ like it normally did, and so Ilya tamped down his grin to something more somber. “I didn’t tell them to say anything to you, they did that on their own.” 

Shane swallowed, and stared at the road ahead. “You’ve got some great guys on that team.” 

Ilya’s smile was sad. “Yeah, I know.” 

It could be my team, too, Shane thought. Ilya was probably thinking the same exact thing.

They were quiet for a bit longer. Shane’s eyes kept drifting to their ETA. Five minutes. Logically, he knew it would be fine, and he had no reason to be nervous. That didn’t make him less nervous. 

“They are excited to meet you,” Ilya said, probably sensing Shane’s discomfort. Shane looked back at him, and caught Ilya gazing at him with some complicated emotion on his face. “Not just because you are you, you know?”

Shane paused. “Huh?”

Ilya grinned. “I mean… you are Shane Hollander, anybody who knows anything about hockey would be excited to meet you. But… is more than that. They are excited to meet my fiance.” 

A fluttering feeling surged in Shane’s stomach, and he couldn’t help but grin too. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Ilya said vehemently. “And I am excited to show you off. My super sexy hockey husband.”

“Almost.”

Ilya’s eyes shone as he looked back at Shane, who was a little worried his heart might explode right then and there. “Almost.” He grabbed Shane’s hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it once and then keeping it there for just a moment. 

“I’m gonna marry you so fucking hard,” Shane blurted out before he could stop himself, and relished in the sound of Ilya’s laugh. 

His heart was right back in his throat by the time they pulled up to Wiebe’s house, but Shane forgot his nervousness at the sight of it. “Ooh,” he sat up in his seat, and Ilya snickered. “Shut up, it’s a nice house.” 

Indeed it was, all sleek lines and warm external lighting in the setting sun. The grass off the long driveway was already flattened by the numerous cars, though, but Shane figured one could probably just add some gravel or pavers–

“Are you going to come inside or do you want to take a picture and jerk off to it later?”

“Shut up, I’m coming,” Shane grumbled, opening the door and climbing out. 

“I know you are.”

“Oh, my god. Stop.” 

That didn’t stop Shane from admiring the house as he followed Ilya up to the front door, but before they got there, it swung open and Zane Boodram stood there to greet them. Shane could see Wiebe behind him. “Rozy! You’re late!”

“Yes, sorry,” Ilya waved a hand and clapped him on the back, doing the same to Wiebe as he shouldered past Bood to the door. “Shane was jerking off to your house, coach, he has a real estate fetish.”

Shane turned on his heel and marched back down the driveway, feeling his cheeks flush a violent shade of pink. “Nope. Fuck off. I’m going home.” Bood and Wiebe laughed loudly as Ilya caught Shane’s hand and tugged him back. Shane went, despite his embarrassment. “Great first impression, you asshole.” 

Ilya kissed his temple by way of apologizing, which Shane didn’t think was particularly good enough, but let Ilya tuck Shane’s left hand in the crook of his arm in a sweet caricature of escorting him into the house. Fuck. It was adorable and handsome, and almost (almost) made Shane forget what his fiance had just said to his own fucking coach. “Still an asshole.” 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya patted his hand endearingly as Wiebe and Bood looked on. 

“Great to finally meet you,” Wiebe extended a hand and Shane took it. “You’re incredible to watch. I’m a little awe-struck you’re in my house, to be completely honest with you.”

“Oh– really?”

“And humble, too,” Bood added, which made Ilya cackle before shaking Shane’s hand too. “Like you’re not the best player in the league.”

“Oh. I think–” Shane started before Ilya clapped a hand over his mouth.

“My fiance is terrible at taking compliments,” he said like he was apologizing for some egregious sin. “You should see his trophy room.”

The emphasis on the last two words went unnoticed by Bood and Wiebe, who both nodded understandingly, but Shane felt like an iron rod had just been slammed through his spine. He squeezed Ilya’s bicep warningly, and Ilya’s grin only grew darker. 

“Well, come in!” Wiebe gestured them inside. “Almost everyone is here now, dinner’s almost ready.”

Shane kept close to Ilya as they entered the house. Most of the other players and WAGs were congregated in the massive living room, most of them already holding drinks. Shane accepted a beer as Bood handed it to him, not quite sure if he was going to drink it, but gave Ilya a reassuring nod before they entered the fray together. 

“Captain’s here!” Bood roared to the room, and Ilya’s arrival was met with a surge of volume as people registered his presence. Then, there was a slight pause as the room registered exactly who was with him. 

“Everyone,” Ilya said to the room, patting Shane’s hand again and smiling so fucking wide that Shane couldn’t help the flush that built in his own cheeks. “This is my fiance, Shane. Is our newest WAG. Be nice.” 

Shane wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a raucous cheer. “Fucking finally!” Wyatt Hayes clambered over the back of a couch and took Shane’s shoulders, shaking him slightly. “Pumped you’re here, man.” 

“Thanks,” Shane grinned embarrassedly. 

Wyatt was the only one on the team he really knew from their time together coaching camps, but his greeting had definitely broken the ice. Troy approached next with his own boyfriend Harris, who was on the Ottawa staff, which Shane thought was cute. 

He knew most of the guys on the team just from how much Ilya talked about them: Luca Haas was just as adorable as Ilya had said he was (he called Shane ‘Mr. Hollander’, which kind of stung), and Evan Dykstra and Nick Chouinard both greeted Shane with mischievous grins that told Shane he was about to get more than just the traditional WAG welcome, only for Ilya to shoot them a warning glance when he thought Shane wasn’t looking, which was enough to make them back off. 

Everyone was very nice to Shane as he followed Ilya further into the room, meeting more players and their wives and girlfriends. Most of them looked awe-struck, which Shane was used to by now, but one girlfriend looked very lost as to why. She’d come with one of the DLs whose name Shane was having a hard time remembering, and wrinkled her nose in confusion as Shane introduced himself to Wyatt’s wife, Lisa, and got a dreamy “I know” when he’d done the not-awkward thing by saying “Hi, I’m Shane.” 

“I’m sorry,” the girlfriend muttered to Lisa. “Who is this and why do we care?” She hadn’t said it unkindly at all, just genuinely confused. “I don’t actually follow hockey at all,” the girlfriend said, finally introducing herself as Monique. “This is Jack’s world, not mine.”

“Um,” Selena Chouinard raised a finger and pointed it at Shane. “For the plebians. This is Shane fucking Hollander. Put some respect on the name.”

“Um–” Shane started, but Ilya covered his mouth with his hand again. 

Monique shook her head. “That does not answer my question.” 

“He also plays hockey in the league. He’s Montreal’s Rozanov.” 

“Fuck Montreal!” echoes around the room like a call-and-response. 

“Oh–” Shane looked around the room, bemused and surprised. 

“Not you, dude,” Bood yelled at him from across the room. “You’re good.” 

“Anyways,” Selena gave Shane another glowing look. “He’s, like, hockey royalty. You are standing in the presence of one of the league’s top scorers, three-time Stanley Cup winner, 2011 Rookie of the Year–”

“Okay,” Shane raised his hands. “I think she gets it–”

“No, keep going,” Ilya urged her on. 

“And you guys are engaged?” Monique pointed between Shane and Ilya. “How does that work when you play each other? Isn’t it weird?” 

“Wouldn’t we all like to know that?” Selena wiggled her eyebrows at Shane, who gladly let himself be tugged from the conversation to meet Wiebe’s wife. 

“Oh, wait!” he could hear Monique say as he ducked away. “Isn’t he the guy Rozanov is rivals with?” 

“Oh, now you remember.” 

“I don’t follow hockey, but I know that much.” 

“Jack, get your girlfriend in line!”

“This is chaos,” Shane muttered to Ilya fifteen minutes later, having finally met everyone in the room and barely remembering half their names. 

“Is fun, right?” 

Shane thought for a moment, then smiled. “Yeah.” He was surprised that it wasn’t even a lie. 

Somehow, he ended up clutching his still-full beer in a corner with Cassie Boodram and Wiebe when the sound of breaking glass made all three of them turn their heads. “Zane!” Cassie scowled across the room. “What the hell?”

“It’s fine!” Bood yelled back, and then they were having a conversation with the entire team playing witness. 

“Broom is next to the oven,” Wiebe said conversationally, and Cassie slumped off to go deal with her husband’s bullshit, only for him to push her away until they were wrestling for the dustpan. 

“You’ll do it wrong!” 

“It’s not that fucking hard, babe.” 

“Yeah, you’ll still fuck it up!” 

Wiebe’s smile was fond. “They’re great together. Life of the party, both of them.” 

Shane grinned to himself, wondering if people would say something similar about him and Ilya. He thought back to their double date with Ryan and Fabian, feeling both like it had been two weeks ago but also ten years. He remembered what Ilya had said then, about how they might be bad at showing how in love they were when they were allowed, and that only made him want to cross the room and take Ilya’s hand, to glue himself to his fiance’s side and never let go. 

“Shane,” Wiebe started again, and Shane’s gaze snapped back to him, his heart suddenly up in his throat even though he knew logically that Wiebe wasn’t about to say anything terrible. “I just want you to know… There were times in the last year when I was really worried about Ilya. Mentally, you know. I could tell he’s got some baggage, and I can’t imagine how being in the closet for so long made him feel.” 

Shane hummed in understanding and agreement, his heart sinking. Even Wiebe had noticed, it seemed. And then Shane felt guilty all over again, for not pushing Ilya a bit harder to go to therapy when he had first suggested it, for making Ilya feel like Shane wouldn’t always be there for him… But Shane wasn’t always there, was he? Most of the time, he was in Montreal, two hours away at the very least… 

“I think it’s been a while since I’ve seen him this happy. Maybe I haven’t.” Shane looked back at Wiebe and saw him watching Ilya goad Bood on with fondness in his eyes. “He’s got baggage, yeah, but you make it lighter, and that’s the makings of a good marriage right there. I only ever want what’s best for my players, but seeing Ilya now… it’s like I see the whole person in a way I never did before.” He cuffed Shane on the shoulder. “You’re a great player, Shane Hollander. But you and Ilya make each other great men, too. We’ll support him together, you and me. Okay?”

Shane nodded slowly, horrified at the sudden burning feeling in his eyes and a ball in his throat. “Yeah– uh, thanks. I–” He inhaled deeply, letting it out slowly again. Wiebe didn’t say anything, just let Shane collect himself, which meant more to him than Wiebe could ever possibly know. “Thank you, I guess. For supporting him when our… whole thing came out, I guess. I–” His voice broke, and he tried to cover it up with a cough, but didn’t feel judged in the slightest, which was more than he could have ever said for Theriault, who thought tears coming from the eyes of a grown ass man was the most embarrassing and humiliating thing that one could experience. 

“I didn’t get that.” Shane could hear his voice trembling as he admitted it, speaking the truth he’d known for weeks but hadn’t quite been able to articulate yet. “What Ilya received from you and the team was more than either of us let ourselves hope for, that was why we hid for so long. I was terrified to come out, I think because I knew my own team wouldn’t be there for me like you guys were there for him. So… thank you.” 

Wiebe just clapped him on the shoulder, and was silent for a moment before he spoke again. “It might not be my place to say, but you deserve to feel safe and accepted and celebrated for being who you are, not just tolerated. I hope you find that.” 

Shane stared at him, sure there was some underlying message he wasn’t getting, but he only received a wink before Wiebe trotted off to go shoo Cassie and Bood away from the broom, where they were still bickering instead of actually cleaning up the broken glass. 

“He is nice, right?” Ilya sauntered up to him and slipped a hand around Shane’s waist. Shane just nodded, still a little choked up. Ilya must have noticed, because he leaned in close. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane muttered, pressing quick fingers against his eyes. “Just… still thinking.” 

Ilya just hummed in understanding, kissing him on the temple once more. “I told them nothing about what the Metros did and said. You can tell them if you want–”

Shane was already shaking his head. “No. At least not tonight. This is your guys’ night, I don’t want to make it about me.” 

“Hm, but they want to make it about you. They want to know everything about you.” He whispered the last few words into Shane’s ear, accentuating it with a kiss on his cheek. 

“Shut up,” Shane grumbled. 

“No, I am serious,” Ilya leaned back and gave him that little pout. Yeah, that one. “They ask me so many questions about you.” 

It's like I see the whole person in a way I never did before.

Wiebe’s words echoed around his brain like a gong and a sick sense of guilt washed over him. How could he have ever asked Ilya to hide so much of himself? Ilya, who was like the sun, shining brightly even in his own darkest moments, just to bring light to others. 

He hardly noticed it when Ilya smoothly took the beer from Shane’s hands and replaced it with a bottle of ginger ale. It was one of the nicer brands, too, the one Shane never bought himself. He looked over at Ilya, who just gave him a wink, but furrowed his brow as he looked down at the still-full bottle of beer he’d just taken from Shane. “Oh, you did not drink any of this?”

Shane just laughed as Ilya took a swig, looking down at the ginger ale and taking a sip. “No. Did you–”

“I might have mentioned it.” 

Shane grinned at Ilya, wondering once more how this man could love him so much, and tucked his hand back in the crook of Ilya’s arm. “So, you told them I like ginger ale, but you didn’t tell them anything about our relationship.” 

“Mm, yes.” 

Shane just shook his head, bemused, but saw it for what it was. Do this with me, Ilya’s eyes seemed to say. Ilya had kept this secret for so long, from these men he cared so much about. Shane could hardly blame him for not wanting to face the inevitable questioning alone. But… Ilya also wanted to share this thing with his team, and that was something Shane couldn’t quite relate to. He couldn’t imagine what Ilya must be feeling, this itching desire to spill, because he’d been terrified to do the same thing with Montreal. 

And for good reason, in hindsight. 

Maybe that was the worst part, was that his fears had been realized. Most other times in his life, when he’d faced situations that made his breath quicken and shorten, and the goosebumps had crawled up his flesh, and he felt like he might die, that crushing anxiety had usually been followed by something much less climactic than he’d anticipated. Obviously, it never made him less anxious, but it was at least heartening to know that the overwhelming terror was temporary, short-lived, and usually without substantial reason. 

This was different. He’d been right to be afraid. 

“Hey,” Ilya murmured, squeezing Shane’s hand where it rested on his arm. “Come back.” 

“I’m here,” Shane nodded quickly. 

“Still thinking,” Ilya hummed, not letting Shane escape this time. “Is okay.” 

“I wish– I want–” Shane shook his head, unable to find the words. 

“To not think?” Ilya’s eyebrows wiggled. “Well. I haven’t paid you back yet.” 

Shane glared at him. “Fuck off. We are at your coach’s house. They’d notice if you went missing for more than five minutes.” 

“Hm. Is a good point.” Ilya leaned in close again and his lips brushed against Shane’s ear: “I am going to need much longer than five minutes to pay you back.” 

Shane was positive his face was beet red, but he couldn’t quite tamp down the grin that crawled up to settle easily in the miniscule space between them. “Shut up.” 

“You like it.” 

“I don’t,” Shane lied as he tried to wipe the smile away. 

“You are a terrible liar.” Ilya seemed to be waiting for something, and Shane could only sigh and relent, dropping a quick peck on Ilya’s lips and darting back before he could get any sinful ideas (or any more of them, at the very least). 

Satisfied, Ilya nodded to himself. “Better?”

It took Shane a moment to comprehend what Ilya was talking about, but smiled when it came to him. Something had soothed deep in his chest in the last few moments, Ilya’s presence smoothing over the rough edges of his own mind to something, if not quite at peace yet, at least calmer. “Yeah. Better.” 

Ten minutes later, he found himself on the back porch of the house, huddled next to Ilya on the a loveseat, sitting around a fire with about half the Centaurs, and not quite remembering how he’d gotten there except the part where he’d refused to sit in Ilya’s lap. That was maybe a bit much, for now. 

It wasn’t like Shane had a thing against PDA. It was just going to take some getting used to being allowed to do, but he’d settled Ilya’s hand on his thigh, looping his own arm around Ilya’s to rub nonsensical patterns onto the skin of his forearm. 

Ilya was just yapping his way along, and Shane was happy to be silent as a door mouse. Frankly, he loved when Ilya did all the talking. Shane liked hearing him talk. Which was probably a good thing, because it was a very frequent occurrence. 

But for all Ilya’s insistence that the Centaurs wanted to know everything about Shane and their relationship, the topic had yet to be broached. Instead, they just kept stealing furtive looks that made Shane’s alarm bells ring in the same way they did when someone like Dallas Kent opened his mouth, even though he knew that was a ridiculous thing to suggest: with two openly queer players on one team, homophobic shit like that wouldn’t fly, but that didn’t quite quell the flash of panic in Shane’s gut. 

Ilya noticed, because he always did. 

The conversation was floating around some bullshit trade San Francisco had made, which Shane would normally be paying more attention to if it weren’t for the circumstances.  

“And Driscoll is so slow!” Ilya butted in. “Clearly San Francisco does not want fast players, otherwise they would have asked for me, I am the fastest–” 

“Second fastest,” Shane interrupted on reflex. But also, he might be a little slow in social situations, but he wasn’t dense enough to not recognize an easy in on the conversation like that. 

“Was basically a tie,” Ilya grinned at him, their easy refrain. 

“Time is a very objective metric,” Shane shook his head. “I am faster than you, fair and square. Suck it.” He said it without thinking, then regretted instantly as Ilya’s eyes flashed dangerously and Shane had a split second to slap his hand over Ilya’s mouth. “Can you keep it in your pants for a few fucking hours?” 

A boisterous laugh pulled him out of Ilya’s sultry gaze, and Shane turned to see Wyatt and Bood howling, doubled over. Troy, Harris, Luca Haas, Dykstra, and Chouinard were all resting somewhere on a sliding scale of shock and entertainment. 

“Anything for you, lyubimyy,” Ilya smiled wide and caught one of Shane’s hands, pressing it against his mouth with a glint in his eyes. 

Shane shook his head, bemused, but let Ilya tug him just a little closer. They’d already been sitting thigh-to-thigh, but Shane deeply enjoyed the way he ended up tucked under Ilya’s arm, trading the hand on his own thigh for a hand on Ilya’s instead. 

“Can we finally talk about this?” Harris blurted out, and Shane felt his entire body tense until Harris continued: “They’re fucking adorable. I’m going to vomit.”

“Thank you!” Wyatt threw his hands in the air. “I didn’t want to be the first. I have so many questions. So. Many.” 

“I came with a list,” Bood huddled forward in his chair and pulled out his phone. “Cassie prepped me. Follow-ups and everything.” 

“Oh, my god,” Shane stared at them all as Ilya cackled his amusement out after throwing an ‘I told you so’ look in Shane’s direction. “Seriously?”

“Take it from our perspective,” Dykstra rubbed his hands together and splayed them out in midair. “You’ve known this guy for three years, you spend more time with him than your own family during the season, right? Three years. And this guy also has a reputation for being the biggest slut in the league–” (“True,” Ilya added with a smug nod) “But in all the time I know him, he’s never picked up a girl once.” 

“And he left a great team, a Stanley-cup-winning team, to come to fucking Ottawa.” Wyatt sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and shook his head patronizingly while giving Shane a look of mocking incredulousness, as if he hadn’t done the same thing too. “He didn’t make a lick of sense. We all thought he must have been having a quarter-life crisis or something.” 

“Not to mention,” Harris raised a finger, “nobody had any idea where he went on his days off. He’d, like, disappear off the face of the planet.” 

“I am a man of hidden depths,” Ilya said, still more smugly, which Shane thought was impressive.

“And then we all find out he’s had a secret fiance.” 

“And the secret fiance is Shane fucking Hollander.” 

“And this has been a thing for years.” 

Bood consulted his phone. “Which brings me to my first question.” 

“Oh, you were serious?” Wyatt leaned over to Bood and laughed loudly. “You do have a list!” 

“Please hold,” Dykstra hurried out of his chair and opened the door to the house. “Guys, get out here!”

“What’s going on?” one of the younger players asked, sticking his head out. Spying the other players huddled around Shane and Ilya, he gasped delightedly and tugged his girlfriend along. “Oh, my god. I gotta hear this.” 

There was a rustle of adjusting chairs as more players joined them on the back porch, jostling for position around them, but Shane only had eyes for Ilya, who was surveying his team like a shepherd might have watched his flock: protective and very fucking fond. 

Shane was struck by the realization that he’d never really seen this side of Ilya; he’d seen the hockey player, sure, but his glimpses of Ilya as a captain had been woefully minimal. He was just so good at it, a natural leader, magnetic in his personality. Every one of the guys there looked up to him, wanted to be just like him, and Shane didn’t think he could love this man any more than he already did, but he might be breaking his own records. 

“Okay!” Bood raised his hands like he was moderating a debate. “I have first question privileges.” 

“What?!” Holmberg asked furiously. “Why?”

“Because I have an ‘A’ on my jersey and you do not. Now shut up.” Bood held out his hands as if conducting an orchestra into silence. “First question. What’s the timeline? How long have you been together, when did you meet, yada yada.”

Shane wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up here. He understood why Ilya had been excited for this, the chance to be open about it after so long, but Shane definitely hadn’t expected to also enjoy it. But… it was kind of fun. 

Ilya’s face was like the sun: bright and impossible to look at, but drawing Shane’s eyes all the while. 

“Depends on how you define ‘together’,” Shane spoke first. “We’ve been dating, exclusive, whatever you want to call it… it’s been four years.” 

“Four years in July. Since 2017,” Ilya corrected him, because he must always. 

“But…” Bood looked like he was trying to solve a complicated mathematical equation as the rest of the team murmured amongst themselves. “Okay. So what were you before that? You don’t just go from rivals to dating all at once, right?”

“No,” Ilya shrugged. “We’d been–”

“Hooking up,” Shane said quickly, because he did not want Ilya to describe them as lovers (or worse, fuckbuddies) to his entire team, no matter how true it was. “We’d been hooking up since before that.” 

“For how long?” Wyatt asked, practically begging. “You were rivals, how did you just hook up?” 

“I bet it was the All Star game that year. Wasn’t 2017 the first time you played together?” Troy sat up in his chair and grinned at Ilya as a thought occurred to him. “Is that why you like All Star games so much? You two go to freaktown every year for a whole weekend, is that it?” 

That got an uproarious laugh, but it was quickly hushed as Shane pursed his lips, looked at Ilya, looked back at the team, and shook his head. “No… The first time was before that.” 

There was silence. “Well?” someone yelled from the back. 

Ilya had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face as he leaned back and slung his other arm over the back of the sofa. “Tell them.”

Shane rolled his eyes and grinned, looking over at Ilya, then back at the team, who were all watching him with bated breath. “Rookie season.” 

Silence. Then–

“What?!”

What felt like twenty minutes later, they were still asking questions. 

“How the hell did you even find the time for that?”

“Oh, we’d make time,” Ilya said smugly. 

“Ilya, you moved to Ottawa to be with Shane?”

“Yep.”

“Were you ever caught?”

“My dad walked in on us–” Shane answered, then pivoted. “With clothes on! That’s how I came out to my parents, actually. Definitely not ideal, but– 

“Two birds, one rock,” Ilya interrupted. 

“One stone, Ilya.” 

“Who proposed?”

“I did,” Shane said.

“Who said ‘I love you’ first?”

“I did,” Ilya grinned. “I beat him by several months.” 

Shane spluttered. “You said it in Russian, how was I supposed to know?”

“Was it weird, playing against each other?”

Shane considered. “No. I actually always really liked playing against you,” he said, looking over at Ilya to see him nodding his agreement. “Except the last time, when everyone knew. That was… not as fun.” 

“So…” Bood leaned forward. “The rivalry was fake the whole time?”

Shane tilted his head to the side. “Kind of. I definitely wanted to beat him, still do. Always.” He looked over to see Ilya’s smile was wide, but not smug or biting. Genuine, happy. Honest. “But we were never enemies.” He didn’t tear his eyes from Ilya’s as he matched the smile and just let the honesty feel good. “I never hated him. I loved him the whole time.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting,” Harris buried his face in his hands. “I have cavities.” He grabbed Troy’s arm. “I believe in love again.” 

“Hey!” Troy looked affronted, but looked back at Shane and Ilya. “Seriously, though. We’re all really happy for you guys. Welcome to the Centaurs, dude.” 

There was a general murmur of assent from the rest of the team, and Shane couldn’t help but grin at the pleased look on Ilya’s face before Wiebe’s wife opened the door to the house and called them inside for dinner. 

Food seemed to be the only thing that could distract a team of hockey players from the drama of the season. But Shane didn’t move, and neither did Ilya. After a few minutes, they were finally alone. 

“Okay?” Ilya asked quietly, leaning his head into Shane’s and nudging him ever so slightly. 

Shane smiled. “Yeah. You?”

Shane felt Ilya’s hand cup the back of his neck, and let himself be guided in for a kiss, short and as chaste as the two of them could bear (not very chaste, but oh well). “Very good,” Ilya murmured. 

Shane just kissed him again, then stood up. “C’mon.” He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, but ignored it as he tugged Ilya to his feet. “I’m hungry.” 

“Hm. Let’s see what gross food there is for you.” 

“I think I saw some grilled chicken,” Shane shrugged. “That should be fine.” 

“Would you like some bird seed, too?” Ilya grinned, gesturing over at the bird feeders hung from a nearby tree. 

“Shut up,” Shane grinned. “You’re insufferable.”

Ilya hummed and tugged Shane close to him, his chest pressing against Shane’s back and tucking his chin in the crook between Shane’s neck and shoulder. Shane stumbled to a stop, unable to keep the smile off his face. “You suffer me anyways.”

Shane spun in Ilya’s arms. “Yeah I do. For the rest of our lives.” He rested a hand over Ilya’s chest, only a few inches below the ring he’d strung on Ilya’s chain, resting against his crucifix. “Every fucking day. You’ll never get rid of me.” 

“I will never want to,” Ilya said, suddenly serious. 

Shane let the silence linger for just a second, letting those words wash over them, then dropped a kiss onto Ilya’s lips again, because he could, because this was his fiance, and would be his husband in a few months, and they’d settle down together and raise kids at some point, and grow old together. “I love you.” 

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” 

Shane repeated it, the syllables still slow on his tongue, but the frustration at his own fumbling mouth was wiped away by the way Ilya’s smile broke out on his face again.

“Lovebirds!” Bood called from inside the house. “Hurry up! You want food or not?”

“Shane only wants bird seed, he will be fine.”

“Shut up,” Shane shook his head, ignoring his phone as it buzzed in his pocket again and took Ilya’s hand once more. 

Shane found more than just grilled chicken, he piled up on a salad that Cassie had brought (he had tried to pick off the goat cheese, but she’d looked so offended that Shane just decided to consider it a cheat day and eat the damn cheese) and another ginger ale and huddled himself next to Ilya at the table in the kitchen, squeezed between him and Chouinard, content to listen to the ebb and flow of the conversation with Ilya’s thigh pressed against his. 

“Hey,” Harris said suddenly, looking between Shane and his phone. “Did you know you’re trending on Twitter right now?”

“That happens all the time,” Shane shook his head. “I’m sure it has something to do with Rose.”

“Um…” Harris hesitated. “It’s… not. Hunter Weaver posted something about you and it’s gone viral.” He scrolled along for another second, then read out loud: “This just leaked from Montreal: Shane Hollander considering free agency after eleven seasons with the Metros. It’s not hard to guess why; my guess is locker room issues in the wake of the NHL’s biggest scandal right now: BradGate.” 

Shane looked up at him, a swell of anxiety coursing through him like he’d been dropped in an icy pool of water with no warning. “No.” He looked at Ilya. “No way.” 

“That was fast,” Ilya commented, but it was weak as Shane slumped onto his elbows on the table.

Harris, horrifyingly, kept reading as silence dropped like a veil over their table. “It’s safe to say it’s not about the money, but Hollander’s scandal couldn’t have come at a worse time for a Montreal team with high hopes for another back-to-back Cup win. The decision to defer on his contract is apparently a personal one, but with the team’s poor communication in their playoff loss against Ottawa, it’s fairly obvious that the locker room fell apart and Hollander’s captaincy was probably at risk–”

“That’s enough, Harris.” Ilya’s voice was tight. 

Shane was cold. Really cold. His mouth was dry and his stomach felt heavy, and the smell of the food on his plate made him feel like he was about to vomit. “Fuck,” he muttered into the table. 

Harris’ eyes were big and imploring in Shane’s direction as he lifted his head. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

Shane’s lungs felt like they were expanding out of his chest, his heart was racing and he felt cold and hot at the same time. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered. 

“Shane–” Ilya started, his hand ghosting over Shane’s shoulder, the ghost of a touch, waiting for Shane to initiate, to tell him it was okay to touch, to comfort him… but Shane felt suffocated. The room felt too hot, and he was suddenly painfully aware of the scratch of his own clothes, each crease of his undershirt like a mountain against his back. 

“I–I need–”

“You okay?” Bood asked, looking down at him with clear concern. So did most of the people around the table, Shane realized as he looked around, and shied away at the thought of being perceived. 

“I need a minute. Can–” But Chouinard was already moving, sliding out of the way for Shane to scramble out of his seat and away from the table, brushing Ilya off with the promise to be right back, and slipped back out onto the porch, hiding himself into the shadows on the oncoming darkness, feeling the eyes on him from through the window. 

The cool air washed over him, the clean air filling his lungs, and his next exhale was shaky but came all the same. He checked his phone and cursed to himself. It really had gone viral, and fast. He had a slew of missed calls and texts from a few dozen people, most of them something along the lines of ‘please tell me this is fake’. 

While Ilya practically lived on Twitter, Shane only ever used it to post about the Irina Foundation. It took him a few seconds to find the trending page section, but when he did find it, he wished he hadn’t.

Mark Shackson @markieshakie

Hollander at the Cup parade last year: I want to be with Montreal until I retire

Hollander now: fuck that, dicks over cups

 

Tastaimi @metros4lyfe

Guess Hollander’s just running away from the problems HE MADE to go suck Rozanov’s dick after ELEVEN SEASONS?? AND THREE CUPS?? AFTER THE TRADE DEADLINE?!?! Loyalty is dead

 

Sarah K @rinkrat

Yeah that C on his chest stands for cock-sucking traitor

 

Mike Donnelly @blueehockey

I just bought his jersey YESTERDAY. This is so fucked. He couldn’t bother to let anyone know??

 

Big Dave @sec124screamer

Montreal: here you go, Shane, have a roster that we’ve curated just for you

Hollander: yeah, no thanks I’m off to suck every single dick in Ottawa

 

Tyler Novak @

Damn and I liked Hollander too I thought he was a good guy. But I just watched him throw a game for his boytoy and then totally blindside his own team after the trade deadline? Guess we know where his loyalties really lie jesus christ the Metros GM has got to be kicking himself rn

 

Dylan Mercer @puckpickty

Might as well just hand all our cup banners over to Ottawa. Go fuck yourself, Hollander

 

He closed Twitter with shaking fingers and called his mom back first. “Baby, what’s going on?” was the first thing she said. 

“It leaked so fast,” he choked out. “I only deferred, Mom. I didn’t say anything about leaving, I hadn’t even decided that yet. It’s so fucked.” 

“Okay,” Yuna’s voice was calm and level. “Okay. We need a plan. You need to call Farah, and then you need to call the GM– what’s his name?”

“Gary,” Shane said shakily, but he could already feel himself calming. Plan. Yes. Plans were good. 

“Gary, right. I’m just saying, neither you or Farah leaked the email, so it’s got to be someone on Gary’s end. You’re going to call him and he’s going to tell you who leaked your email–” 

Shane’s anger bubbled over. “And do what?” he snapped. “What good is that going to do? Great, we have someone to blame.”

Yuna’s voice was sharp. “No, Shane, if your star player and captain says he needs more time before deciding on his contract, you don’t just leak that! Did he even respond to your email?” 

Shane checked. Gary had, in fact, not replied to his and Farah’s email. It didn’t look like he’d even tried to get in contact with Shane at all. Nobody had. And yet, clear as day, Montreal had put it out to the world: Shane Hollander is leaving. Everybody point and stare. 

“Why would they do that?” Shane muttered, mostly to himself. Yuna didn’t answer that question. “I hadn’t decided yet. But–but I wanted to do it myself, you know? If the end of the season was shitty, so what? If I was going to go out, I wanted it… I wanted–” He broke off, unable to say anything else, unable to articulate the roiling storm of his own thoughts. 

“Call Farah. Then call Gary.” 

He was tempted to skip Farah and call Gary first, but he didn’t because he wasn’t going to be the one to make a stupid mistake. 

“I don’t know what happened,” is the first thing Farah said when the call connected. She sounded angry, more so than Shane had ever heard her before. “We were very clear. And I haven't been able to get in touch with Gary again, he’s not responding to my emails.” 

“I have his phone number,” Shane shook his head, eyes closed, trying desperately not to freak out. “I can call him, talk about retracting–”

“Shane, we can’t walk this back,” Farah interrupted. 

Shane’s stomach dropped, but less out of surprise and more in hearing the confirmation of what he’d been suspecting for the last ten minutes. “Are you sure?” His own voice sounded scared and childish to his own ears. 

“We might have been able to if the email stayed internal, but it leaked so fast that I’m worried we’d do more damage to your brand if we contested the statement. This whole thing makes you look flighty at best and outright backstabbing at worst. The best we can hope for is that you get some sympathy if we play up the truth: you’re leaving because of issues in the locker room.” 

“We’re not going to get pity points for complaining about homophobes to a homophobic fan base,” Shane pointed out. 

“Yes,” Farah said slowly. “That’s true. But the homophobes never liked you much anyways. We can save this for your fans, though. Montreal might be doing their best to burn their bridges with you and set you on fire in the process, but we don’t have to let them.” 

Shane heard himself make a noise like a dying animal and pulled at his hair. “Why would they do that? It feels like they’re trying to get rid of me.” Farah was silent and Shane realized what it meant this time. “Oh, my god. They are. This is an exile.” 

He never thought this would happen to him. Exile was something that happened to troublesome players, bad players, ones who quietly got dropped off rosters or not asked to return. Shane had thought he was safe from that. 

The giant pit of anxiety in his chest filled with something else, something sour and burning hot to the touch. You don’t just exile Shane Hollander. 

Shane had never had much of an ego. He knew how good he was, though. He knew that, without a doubt, he was one of the best players in the league. Eleven years of collected data had told him that. His bank account told him that. 

So there was zero fucking way that being in love with Ilya Rozanov diminished that. Fuck this. 

“I’m calling Gary,” he said coldly, and hung up on Farah, pressing buttons on his phone so hard he momentarily wondered if it would break the screen. 

Gary didn’t answer the first call. Shane called him again, listening to the dial tone with mounting anger. Finally, on the third try, the call connected. 

“Shane. How are you?”

“I’d be a lot better if you hadn’t leaked my email,” Shane snapped. “Thanks a lot.” 

“Look, Shane–” Gary paused, clearly wondering if Shane was going to interrupt him. When Shane didn’t, Gary continued, sounding a little bit like he’d wanted Shane to interrupt. “It was out of my hands,” Gary said, sounding tired. “There’s some things I can’t control.”

“Bullshit. I didn’t leak the email, my agent didn’t leak the email, so it must have been someone on your end. Bullshit!” Shane was only halfway aware that his voice had risen to the point where he was drawing eyes from through the windows of the house. “Jesus Christ, Gary.” He rubbed his face again. 

Gary paused on his end. “The decision to share that… in the way that it was shared… was not my decision.”

Shane lifted his head, the anger subsiding to something deeper. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t say anything else,” Gary said quickly, quietly, like he was in a public place and trying not to be overheard. “But… we’re walking a fine line. There’s dirty tactics, and you’re a few steps behind.” 

Shane’s head spun. Someone was pulling strings. Someone else heard about Shane’s email and told Gary to leak it. That certainly made more sense than Gary being an idiot. 

“Is it Theriault?” 

“I can’t say anything else,” Gary repeated. 

“Is it–” 

“I can’t say, don’t ask me.” Shane could practically see Gary shaking his head like an irritated dog. 

“...Is it Crowell?” Silence. “Oh, that motherfucker.” 

Shane, in hindsight, should have seen this coming. Crowell had people all around, didn’t he? He had ways of hearing things, a vast network of just the right people to do his bidding. Shane had been an idiot to think that Crowell wouldn’t take the first possible chance to tear Shane off the pedestal he’d built with his own hard work. Starting with burning his bridges with Montreal. Starting with exiling him from his own goddamn team. 

“Shane–” 

But Shane hung up on Gary before he could make some other bullshit, spineless excuse. Feeling in a daze, he turned and sat on the raised lip of the covered hot tub and let his phone hang limply in his hands, still buzzing against his fingers every couple of minutes. 

This was complete bullshit. He was sick of this, other people making his choices for him. He and Ilya hadn’t gotten to come out on their own terms thanks to fucking Brad, and now he hadn’t gotten the chance to decide on his own future because fucking Crowell was sticking his nose where it didn’t fucking belong, and wanted to ruin Shane’s life and career because he couldn’t handle–

A sob wrenched itself from Shane’s chest like someone had punched him in the solar plexus. It wasn’t fair. All that hard work for nothing. All that quiet sneaking around with Ilya just for it to not fucking matter because they’d been caught anyways. All that pain, all that deliberation over his contract just for it to not fucking matter because Crowell got to decide, Brad got to decide, the world got to decide. Not Shane. 

Shane was actively living in his worst case scenario, and he couldn’t think of a single way he could have avoided it. No amount of painstaking, diligent care and attention could have helped him out, no ten-step plans–

“Shane. My love.” 

Shane was reaching towards Ilya before he’d even fully registered his presence. “I’m so tired,” he got out between sharp breaths. “I’m so fucking tired of this. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know,” Ilya murmured, holding Shane close in the way he’d clearly wanted to at the table. 

“It shouldn’t matter,” Shane squeezed his fists around his phone, thinking about throwing it across the yard into the darkness in his mix of anger and deeper grief. “But it does, and so I have to deal with this bullshit–” He seized Ilya’s shirt and looked up at him. He wanted to drown in his eyes, wanted to be done with this. “I love you. So fuck them. Fuck Montreal, fuck Crowell. I’m done.” 

Ilya’s eyes widened as the words escaped Shane’s mouth. “You are… done?”

“I can’t go back,” Shane said, knowing he wouldn’t be able to say it later if he didn’t say it now. “I feel sick every time I think about it and now… now they think I've got up and left. I didn’t get to–” His voice was devolving into a jumble of senseless words, but he knew Ilya would understand, Ilya always understood him. 

He sagged into Ilya’s chest, arms wrapped tight around his neck, held close and safer than anything he’d ever felt. Safer than he’d ever felt in Montreal. 

He felt flayed open, displayed to his gruesome core. His churning mass of anxiety tucked deep inside his stomach was there for Ilya’s eyes to see, had always been, but Ilya hadn’t run. Not once had he looked at Shane unkindly or made Shane feel like he was too much. And Shane wanted him so badly. Wanted him in every way, every day, every goddamn second.

He’d never wanted something this badly before, like he was going to scream and cry if someone ripped it away from him. Suddenly, the ring on Ilya’s chain wasn’t enough. He needed all of it. He wanted all of it, to be selfish and hoard every second. 

He wanted it more badly than he had wanted his number up in Montreal’s rafters. He wanted boring domesticity with Ilya now more than he had ever wanted more cups with Montreal. 

When had he started thinking like that? Like his dreams for Montreal were now in the past-tense, lost forever and unobtainable? When had he left that behind? 

In his head, he knew it was the moment Ilya had suggested leaving Montreal the morning after their last playoff game. When had there ever been another option? 

“What did Farah say?” Ilya had clearly wanted to ask that when he’d stepped outside. Shane didn’t know how long they’d been here, sitting on the edge of the hot tub, his legs around Ilya’s waist, chests pressed together. 

“It’s too late to walk it back.” Shane laid his head on Ilya’s shoulder and stared out at the darkness of the yard. “And I called the GM too.”

Ilya made a sound of disapproval. “And what excuse did he make?”

“Crowell’s pulling the strings. Burned my bridges for me. Piece of shit.” 

Ilya tensed against him. “Crowell did this?” 

“Yeah.” Shane was too exhausted to stoke the flame of his own anger anymore. It was a plain admission, one of tired acceptance that things had gone to shit and there wasn’t any point in trying to pretend there was a way out. 

Ilya was silent for a minute. “We will make him pay for this.”

“Why? You didn’t want me to go back to Montreal either,” Shane muttered, knowing that was a crude way to put it, but he needed to say it. He didn’t know how to have this conversation, but he knew it needed to happen. Ilya didn’t want Shane to go back to Montreal, hadn’t for weeks. But he hadn’t said that as plainly as Shane had needed to hear it. 

Ilya’s voice was tinged with hurt. “Yes,” he admitted quietly, “but I wanted it to be your choice.” I wanted you to choose me, his eyes seemed to say. 

Shane leaned back, and Ilya’s arms slipped from his back to his waist, tense there like he was worried Shane would push them off. Instead, Shane looked into Ilya’s eyes and felt his heart break, just a little. “I–”

Shane felt Ilya backing up further, and had no choice but to lock his ankles behind Ilya’s body and tug him closer with his thighs. “Ilya,” he said quietly, testing the word in the air. “Please… please don’t think this was a hard decision because I don’t want to come to Ottawa. That’s not it at all.” 

“No, I know,” Ilya shook his head immediately, some complicated expression ghosting across his face, then disappearing. “I know that–”

“But that doesn’t mean you weren’t feeling… feeling like I didn’t want to?” Shane scoffed. He gathered Ilya’s hands in his and rested their foreheads together. 

Shane had never been very good at this, being honest and open about his feelings. It had always felt so vulnerable and uncomfortable, and he’d never been able to find the right words. But he tried now, because he’d been stupid and blind enough to not see Ilya suffering silently when he should have. “Making the move to Ottawa would have been the easiest decision in the world if it didn’t involve leaving Montreal. But it’s… it’s the only team I’ve ever known. I thought that history would matter as much to them as it does to me.” 

“But it doesn’t.” Ilya finished the thought for him, and Shane nodded. He should have known this would be so much easier to swallow, to speak into existence, with Ilya standing in front of him, piecing his thoughts together like he was doing now. 

“I want to play hockey with you. I always have. With you, or against you, I don’t care. But… I’m scared. I don’t like this, not knowing what might happen next, and I’m–” He inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck. I’m scared it’ll happen again, I’ll end up on some team that hates me, and I’ll fall off rosters and nobody will want me–”

“Hey,” Ilya interrupted, tugging his hands from Shane’s grasp and raising his chin with a palm on Shane’s jaw. “That is not going to happen.”

“But you don’t know that–” Shane couldn’t look at him, couldn’t meet his eyes–

“Look at me.” Shane did. Ilya’s eyes burned into his. “I will not let that happen. You are the best player in the league. You–”

“I’ve been exiled, Ilya. The team I’ve played for for eleven fucking years–” Shane accentuated each word with a fist on Ilya’s chest, light but forceful enough that it might make Ilya get it, because he felt so fucking alone, and nobody would understand– 

“Fuck them. Look at me, Shane.” Shane did, a flush of shame crawling up his cheeks as he felt his eyes burning, a lump building in his throat. Ilya’s thumb brushed over his lips, his grip on Shane’s chin a sharp contrast. “I know it hurts.” Ilya’s voice was soft, his accent curling around Shane’s ears and smoothing over his sharp edges with a gentle hand. “I know.” 

The first tear fell, and Ilya’s fingers smoothed it away. 

“Here is what is going to happen,” Ilya murmured quietly, lingering in the quiet with the early summer cicadas. “We are going to call Farah back first thing tomorrow and tell her you will not be resigning your contract with Montreal. Then we are going to tell her that you would like to come to Ottawa as your first choice. And if Crowell tries to shoot that down, we sue him for tampering. Yes?”

Shane nodded, inhaling shakily but stubbornly, clinging to the ‘we’ Ilya kept using. 

“And if anyone has anything to say about it, they will have to answer to me. And Yuna.” Shane cracked a smile, and Ilya lightened considerably. “And Ottawa will give you as much money as they can to have you play here, because you are Shane Hollander and you are the best player in the league.” 

“And the fastest.”

Ilya raised a finger in Shane’s face, his eyes dancing. “Careful.” His hand dropped to Shane’s waist, crawled up under his shirt, and palmed the skin of the small of his back. Shane looped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, playing with the hair on the back of his neck, feeling wrung out but calmer than he had in a month. 

“And then we are going to get married this summer and have a sexy honeymoon, and then we will win cups together and fuck anyone who has a problem with it.” Shane tucked his face into Ilya’s shoulder and breathed him in. He hardly noticed as Ilya plucked his phone from between his fingers. “Do you want to go home?”

Shane shook his head. “No. This is your guys’ night.”

“But–”

“Ilya.” It was true, he didn’t want to leave. Against all odds, he wanted to be there, to hang out with Ilya’s friends, his team. He liked them, a lot actually. More than he thought he would. So much so that it didn’t take much stretch of the imagination to picture himself among them, which was terrifying; it had taken a solid three months for Shane to feel the same level of familiarity when he’d first joined Montreal. 

Ilya looked down at him, long and hard, still rubbing at the bare skin of Shane’s back under his shirt. “Okay. We leave at ten. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shane tilted his head up for a kiss. The one he received was soft and warmed him down to his toes. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Ilya leaned in close, tucked his nose into Shane’s neck, leaving a few more kisses there. Shane’s phone rang again, and he could practically feel Ilya’s frown where it was pressed against his skin. “I will turn that off, too.” 

Shane tugged his arm up so he could pluck it from Ilya’s fingers, meeting little resistance as he looked at the caller ID: Hayden. Ilya made a huffy sound as Shane poised his finger over the ‘answer’ button. 

“Oh, come on. He probably thinks I totally blindsided him. I hadn’t told him I was even thinking about leaving.”

“You are about to.”

Shane paused. “True.” But he answered it anyway and put it on speaker. “Hey, man.”

“Um, hey,” Hayden said awkwardly. “I’m with JJ. Um… what’s up?”

“Jesus,” Shane puffed out all the air in his lungs and sagged against Ilya again. “Um, a lot.” 

“Is it true?” JJ’s voice was cold and hard on the other side of the call. 

Shane’s stomach dropped, but Ilya beat him to the punch. “It is now.” He was glaring at the phone as if JJ could feel it from the considerable distance between them. “Not that you will miss your star player if you think he trips on purpose.” 

Shane could hear JJ mutter something under his breath, probably cursing Ilya out or something. It had been a big hill to climb for Hayden to fully appreciate Ilya as part of Shane’s life, but none of the four of them were under any delusion that that would be a quick thing for JJ. 

“I know what this looks like,” Shane tried again. “And–Fuck. I’m sorry–”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Ilya interrupted him. 

“Just let me–” Shane glared at him, and tried again. “I had been holding out on resigning my contract, I emailed Gary earlier today and told him I needed more time to decide, and he took it upon himself to leak it without letting me know. I didn’t–” He could feel his voice wavering again, all the hard work Ilya had done to calm him down going straight down the toilet. He held out on telling them about the mess with Crowell, though. One big thing at a time. 

“I just… I can’t do this anymore. It’s not you guys, but… if this is how quickly they try to dump me, I don’t think I can–”

“It’s okay, Shane,” Hayden said quietly. “Nobody blames you.”

Shane snorted. “That’s not true and you know it, Hayd.” 

Hayden pauses. “Yeah, okay. Where will you go?”

Shane and Ilya exchanged a glance. “Ottawa,” Shane said shortly. “Where else?”

The silence descended again, broken only by the sound of talking and laughter from inside. But Shane kept listening. 

He was trying to convince himself he didn’t care what the rest of the Metros thought of him. But these two, his best friends… He might always have their skepticism when it came to Ilya, but he wanted their blessing for this. He just didn’t know how to ask for it. 

“I’m sorry,” JJ said quietly. “Both of you–well, fuck. Rozanov, too. I guess.” His sigh was heavy. “I shouldn’t have even suggested you tripped on purpose. That was shitty, and you would never have done it, and… fuck. I feel bad, okay? About all of it. And I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me about… about–Well, you know–”

“I have a name,” Ilya muttered. “I am not a sin.” 

“I–” JJ started, then cut himself off, clearly trying to bite himself back from saying something sharp and hurtful. “No. You’re not, and I’m… I’m sorry.” He sighed heavily, then addressed Ilya. “I don’t know what Shane sees in you, man. I think you’re an asshole and I don’t trust you, but I love Shane, I only want what’s best for him. I don’t… I don’t get it yet. But Hayden is under the impression that maybe I should try, so… I’ll try, okay?”

“Oh, Pike says this, does he?” Ilya bristled, but Shane pinched him lightly on the arm. “Okay. Okay. We try. For Shane.” 

“Thanks, JJ,” Shane mumbled. “Don’t get me wrong, I wish it hadn’t come to this. But… I can’t go back. I feel fucking sick every time I think about it.” 

“Yeah, fuck that,” Hayden spoke up, his voice sounding a little thin. “You shouldn’t force yourself into shit like this. It’s all shit.”

“Swear jar.” 

Hayden’s chuckle was definitely wet, and Shane heard a light sniffle. “God. I’m gonna miss you playing with you, man.”

“Make the All-Star team and you can,” Ilya blurted out, his need to insult Hayden far stronger than his self-control. “Would be a first.”

“Ilya.”

Hayden, surprisingly, laughed. “Man, you really are such a dick. Can’t believe Shane likes you.” Hayden had said shit like that before, but rarely with this kind of lightness in his voice. “I guess I’m retiring from Shane handling now. My first child, all grown up.”

“Asshole,” Shane said weakly. 

“It’s true!” Hayden said, a smile in his voice. “It takes a trained hand. Rozanov, take notes. He only likes a specific kind of tape–”

“The Abros brand, I know,” Ilya interrupted. 

“Yes, the black kind, and you have to make sure the end isn’t crooked at all, so if you ever borrow it, you better make damn sure it’s straight or you’ll have a pissy Shane on your hands all day. He says it messes up his handling.” 

“It does,” Shane protested against Ilya’s chest. 

Ilya ignored that and smiled against Shane’s hair. “Noted.” 

“His pre-game meditation is very intense, and he will try to get you to do it with him,” JJ added. “Proceed at your own risk.” 

Ilya snickered down at Shane. “Of course you would find a way to make meditating intense.” 

“And when you lose a game, he always likes a solid thirty minutes of silence afterwards. Like, do not disturb him.” Shane could practically hear Hayden shudder in horror. 

“But I’m very good at that.” Ilya was smiling now. 

“Pissing me off is his favorite way to pass the time,” Shane agreed. “You’re going to be insufferable.” 

“You’re very cute when you’re angry, though,” Ilya squeezed his waist and dropped a kiss on his neck, making it loud enough that Hayden and JJ could probably hear. 

“Speaking of,” Hayden interrupted a bit too loudly to be casual, “if he ever gets in a fight, he’s going to have the immediate urge to apologize afterwards. Don’t let him.” 

“He’ll remember why he was mad and then the fight starts all over again,” JJ added, laughing lightly. “Took us twenty minutes to break up that fight with Scott Hunter.” 

“Oh, I remember,” Ilya grinned. “I watched all of it.”

Shane’s cheeks were wet where they were pressed against Ilya’s shoulder, bound to his chest and held close. 

“He works too hard,” Hayden’s voice cracked. “Get him to relax every once in a while, yeah?”

Shane half-expected Ilya to make a dirty joke. He didn’t though, and Shane wondered if he might be imagining the wetness against his scalp where Ilya’s face was pressed. 

“I’ll take good care of him,” Ilya’s voice was rough in a way that maybe only Shane truly recognized. He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp pain in his chest building and skewering his heart with a complicated mixture of grief and relief. 

Shane sniffled into the silence. “Love you guys.” 

“Get out of here, man,” JJ said firmly. “This is shit, you deserve better.”

Shane took a few leveling breaths. “Have you heard from the rest of the team yet?” He hadn’t bothered to check the group chat yet, but Hayden and JJ’s silence was enough of a confirmation. 

“They know how to reach you,” JJ said, repeating Shane’s own words back to him. “If any of them want to fix this, that’s on them.” Ilya hummed in agreement. 

“Okay.” Shane nodded against Ilya’s chest, but JJ’s words hadn’t dissuaded him from the strong urge to check the Metros group chat to see exactly what vitriol he’d missed in the last fifteen minutes since the leak went viral. “Okay. We gotta go. Tell Jackie and the kids we said hi.”

“Will do. Love you, man.” 

“No love for me, Pike?” 

“Goodbye, Rozanov.” 

Ilya only snickered to himself as the call ended, but quickly shifted his attention in Shane’s direction, cupping his cheeks and examining him closely. “Feel better?”

Shane nodded (as much as he could with Ilya’s hands on his face). “Yeah.” He picked up his phone again when Ilya deemed that acceptable and removed his hands, but not before kissing him once more. “I’m going to call my mom again, you go back inside.”

Ilya made a sound of protest, but caved almost immediately. “Fine.” 

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“Five minutes.” 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded and waved him off, already raising his phone to his ear, “five minutes.” 

He tried to make his call with Yuna short, perfunctory. She made it very clear that she wanted to talk more about this, wanted to make a game plan for how they were going to systematically tear Crowell down from the top of the NHL. But Shane didn’t let her. 

“I…” He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t want to go public with that just yet.” 

“Why not?” Yuna sounded outraged. “He needs to–”

“This is bigger than Crowell, Mom,” he cut her off. “What I don’t want happening is some rookie who’s thinking about coming out getting scared back into the closet once he knows Crowell can pull shit like this and get away with it.” 

“But–”

“I’m not going to do nothing, don’t worry,” Shane assured her. “Before I call Farah back, first thing I’m going to do in the morning is tell Scott Hunter, he’s got this… thing he’s starting. A group of players who might be willing to put forward evidence for a class-action lawsuit, or something. It’ll take time, and it’s not the immediate fix, but–”

“Well, that’s great honey, but–”

“I’m leaving, Mom.” Shane just blurted it out before she had to take the pliers to it. “I’m leaving Montreal, I can’t do it anymore. And I’ve already made up my mind, I’m going to tell Farah I want to go to Ottawa, that’s my first choice.” 

Yuna was silent on her end of the phone. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Shane said firmly. He looked back towards the house, where he could see Ilya and Bood holding court over the dinner table once more. “Yeah, I–I really like these guys, actually. And the coach is great, too. Nothing like Theriault, but… maybe I need that. He really cares about Ilya, too. And… it’s more than just hockey now, too.”

Shane desperately wished he was having this conversation in person, because Yuna’s silence was kind of freaking him out. “What do you mean?”

“We were talking about it earlier today, and we said we’re done with long-distance, especially once we get married. We got so little time, and maybe we could have made it work, but it sucked and I’m not sure I want to go through any more seasons apart knowing the option is right here.” Shane inhaled deeply, and reminded himself that his decision was made and Yuna could try to stop him all she wanted, but Shane’s mind was made up. 

“He’s going to be my husband. I don’t want to pretend like that doesn’t change things, more than just being open about our relationship. We haven’t had much time to think ahead, with being outed and the playoffs and everything, but it’s crazy to assume that we can keep playing for two different teams until we retire. That’s, like, ten more years of long-distance if we get to keep playing for that long. That means putting off having kids for just as long and–”

“Wait–”

“Not that we’ve really talked about that either, but now we can and just letting myself think about that kind of thing just makes me want to do it more–” A horrible thought occurred to him, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. “And what if something happened to him? I’m going to be his emergency contact, but Montreal is two hours away and that’s assuming I’m not travelling!” His thoughts immediately began to spiral to the worst possible scenario: what if, when Ilya drops into his depression again, he gets so inconsolable that maybe he does have those thoughts of ending it all–and what it’s not just thoughts, what if he really does try something, and Shane had been too far away to do anything about it, then–

“Shane.” Yuna’s voice cut through his babbling like a knife. “I’m not saying it’s a bad idea. I just expected you to be a bit more broken up about leaving the Metros. It’s been eleven years.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Shane muttered, his anger leaking through into his voice even though his mind was still on the edge of panic. “I’m mostly just mad. I’m pissed, and I’m sure I’ll be more sad and maybe more pissed about it later, but… I can’t go back after all this. I–I deserve better than this.” 

The sharp inhale from Yuna was one he was used to–her way of bracing herself, a soft reset to clear her head and get her game face back on. “Okay, then. Okay.” 

She started to talk to herself about his sponsorships, visibility, public reaction, but he cut her off. “Tomorrow,” he promised. 

“Yeah,” she said quickly, then made a sound of hesitant anticipation. “This will be fun.”

“It’ll be fine,” Shane said, mostly to himself, not quite sure if he believed his own words. 

“It’ll be fine,” Yuna replied, with more confidence. 

“Okay. Love you.” 

It took a great deal of self-control to not open the Montreal Metros group chat and keep his deal with Ilya and head back inside, for he knew that he’d been on the phone with Yuna for much longer than five minutes. He settled for putting it on silent and slipped it in his back pocket, heading back up towards the house and wondering if Ilya had told the rest of the Centaurs what had just occurred. 

His question was answered almost immediately after entering the house again. “Fuck Montreal!” echoed around the room from all sides, and Shane spluttered out a bewildered laugh. 

“Dude, they’re assholes,” Bood clapped him on the back as Wyatt shook his hand with too much vigor. “Don’t know what they’re losing.” 

“You’d think they’d try harder to keep their star center,” Troy said, rolling his eyes. “Idiots.” 

Shane shot a look at Ilya, who raised his hands in surrender. “I technically didn’t say anything. They just asked all the right questions.” 

Shane just rolled his eyes, unable to tamp down his smile where it was stubbornly crawling up his cheeks. “You and your big mouth.” 

Ilya grinned and sauntered up to him, hands on Shane’s waist, and Shane knew exactly what he was about to say before it left his mouth: “Last time I checked, you like my mouth very much.”

“Oh, boo!” Wyatt made a sound of disappointed disgust behind Shane. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Shut up, Wyatt, I do not judge your weird version of flirting you do with your wife,” Ilya snapped back at him with no heat. 

Shane laughed loudly, feeling Ilya’s hands wrap around his body and pull him closer while he fought off his teammate’s critiques of his (objectively terrible) flirting. Ilya’s joy was infectious, filling him up and washing over him and god–how had he deprived himself of this for so long?

He felt himself being pulled into a kiss and it hardly mattered to him that it was in front of Ilya’s entire team, clapping and cheering Ilya on as they were, because why would he ever care about anything when he was being kissed by Ilya? How could he possibly give a shit about anything–the world could be burning around him and it wouldn’t matter, because Ilya loved him, and he loved Ilya, and they were going to get married and play hockey together and nothing else mattered. 

He remembered himself when Ilya tried to stick his tongue into Shane’s mouth, and that was maybe a step too far, because if it got much further Shane would be at risk of sinking to his knees for the second time today, or end up with a very obvious boner, and maybe his first impression on his hopeful future teammates should be a bit more professional. 

The next few hours were raucous and chaotic and Shane excused himself to the bathroom to decompress more than once. He was pestered for more answers about his and Ilya’s relationship by some curious WAGs but it was so easy to share. His departure from Montreal was hardly exciting news anymore, though, so nobody spoke much of it (although he did notice furtive glances exchanged every so often, the unspoken wondering of where now ringing throughout the house as if it wasn’t obvious). He was also dragged into a very intense conversation between Selena and Cassie on the best PK lineup, which Shane got overly invested in and had to be dragged away from.

He ended up back on the porch outside next to the bonfire with Troy, Wyatt, and Bood, tucked under Ilya’s arm while Bood regaled them all with one of his more adventurous outings in his younger days that involved hiring both a magician and a clown and Shane was confused but enjoying it regardless. 

Ilya shivered against him while Wyatt and Troy howled at Bood’s miming. Shane looked up at him and grinned. “Cold?”

Ilya pouted. “No.”

“Oh, okay,” Shane shrugged, leaning away from Ilya’s body and snorting at how Ilya chased his body warmth with a pitiful whine. “You baby. I grabbed one of your jackets. It’s in the car.” 

Ilya stared down at him, touched but clearly conflicted. “I don’t need it,” he muttered, but crossed his arms in an obvious attempt to stay warm without Shane pressing against him. After another minute, he huffed and stood. “Fine.” 

“I told you,” Shane said in a sing-song way that made Ilya frown, but tilted his chin up to accept Ilya’s kiss of thanks. 

He watched Ilya duck back inside the house and was suddenly left with the daunting realization that, besides his brief moment with Wiebe, he hadn’t been without Ilya by his side all night. Bood and Wyatt hadn’t seemed to notice Ilya’s departure, still deeply engaged in exchanging wild tales of misguided youth, too much money, and questionable sources of alcohol. 

Troy, however, leaned in towards Shane. “Welcome to the jungle, I guess.” 

Shane looked over at him and was reminded with a jolt that Troy had only recently joined the Centaurs, too. In only a few months, he’d endeared himself to Ilya and the entire team, came out, and started dating someone on staff. But more than that, Troy had a decently established career with Toronto, not unlike Shane’s time with Montreal. 

“Was it weird, when you joined?”

Troy snorted. “Oh, yeah. I was scheming my way out after less than a week here.” 

“And what happened?” 

Troy’s gaze slipped back towards the house where Harris was visible through the window. “Well. I found a reason to stay.” He snapped his gaze back from the house and gave Shane a very meaningful look and shook his head. “Not to say that the team itself wasn’t also a reason. I didn’t expect to like it here at all.” He sipped his beer. “The transition was weird. Toronto was the only home I’d ever known, and Ottawa’s so…”

“Calm,” Shane finished, and Troy paused, then nodded, like he’d decided that Shane’s word was a more apt description than what he’d been conjuring in his own head. 

“Yeah. I think I liked Toronto for all the ways it distracted me from myself, but I hate going there now. It’s like… bad nostalgia.” 

Shane snorted, wondering if that would be how he was going to feel every time he went to Montreal from this point onwards. For all the good memories it contained, eleven years of his career, his life… He wasn’t sure he’d be able to wash the bitter taste of its rejection the next time he approached the sun-bathed glass of her skyscrapers, or the paths she laid out beneath his feet. But Ottawa had always been home, safety and security in his parents house and the blissful solitude of the cottage, and the refuge of Ilya’s arms and home for the past few years. 

“You’re from here, right?” Troy asked, bringing Shane back. 

Shane nodded. “Yeah.” There was an awkward pause where Troy sipped his beer again and continued to watch Harris from through the window of the house while Shane built up the courage to ask what he needed to know. “...Do you still talk to any of your old teammates?”

Troy grimaced. “Ah… no. A lot of them took Dallas–Kent, sorry… a lot of them took his side when shit went down. As far as I know, they’re still on his side, even with the charges. And if any of them ever want to apologize to me for that, they have my number.” His voice was cold, firm, speaking from a place of long-established pain. Then his shoulders sagged a little and his eyes went glassy and unfocused. “Some of them won’t. And the ones that do… Well, I’m not sure I’ll forgive them. Too little too late.” 

Shane’s stomach had sunk to somewhere around his knees. “None of them have reached out?”

Troy shrugged. “No. At least, none that really mattered to me. The rookies that wanted to keep connections, sure, but nobody I was close with.” 

Shane stared down at the embers of the fire and thought. Some of the Montreal rookies, he was sure, would reach out to maintain a friendly relationship with him. It would pay to have Shane Hollander’s phone number in the future. But the others, especially the ones he had been on that roster with for more than a few seasons… Comeau and Drapeau would probably never speak kindly to him again, that was for sure. Berkes, Laine, and Taylor would probably also avoid him like the plague if they could. And more he wasn’t sure about, but–

“Is it bad?” Troy sounded hesitant, his gaze back on Shane. “With your team? Or, ex-team, I guess now.”

Shane adjusted his posture on the sofa and stared ahead blankly. “Uh… it’s not great. They’re all pretty pissed. I was lying to them about something this big for so long, and the fact that it’s been Ilya all this time really didn’t help. But… can you blame me?”

Troy snorted. “Definitely not. I would have done the same thing, if it had been me.” 

Shane closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “I never wanted to have to pick between them and Ilya. But I had to, so I did.” He splayed his hands and gestured widely at his surroundings, Wiebe's house, the Centaurs. “Pick being a loose term, though. They didn’t leave me much choice.” 

“What are they saying, now that it’s leaked?” Troy asked hesitantly. 

“Oh, I have no idea,” Shane leaned back on the patio sofa and rubbed his hands over his face. “I haven’t had the guts to look at the group chat yet. I’m not under any delusion that there's happy wishes in there.” 

Troy just hummed, but Shane could tell he was still curious. “You know,” he said after a less-awkward pause, turning his body to face Shane. “My word of advice, as someone who’s been in a similar situation… You deserve the last word.” Shane tilted his head at him, and Troy grinned a little too darkly to be completely innocent. “I mean, I always kind of wished I’d gotten the chance to call those Toronto guys out for all their bullshit before I got traded, same as I’d done for Kent.” He shrugged, as if he hadn’t just given Shane a terrifying but exhilarating vision. “Just saying. Air your shit, man. You deserve it more than they do.”

Shane stared at him, then nodded, feeling a smile grow across his face. “I’m not even sure what I’d say to them.” 

“Harris is very good at passive-aggressive texting,” Troy suggested innocently. “All those years on Twitter, I think.” 

Shane knew he shouldn’t. Things were already majorly fucked between him and the Metros. He shouldn’t. 

But he really, really wanted to. For so long, he’d been the perfect captain and even more perfect player. He was straight-laced (at least, as much as he could be throughout the whole process of falling in love with his rival), he was infallible. He had to be, because there were kids who looked like him, other people who looked up to him as an example–

But he was mad. And he felt like maybe he deserved to be mad. “No, I want to do it myself,” he said firmly. 

He was pulling out his phone as Harris and Ilya approached, Ilya wearing a jacket now and pulling Shane into his lap as he took his position on the couch again. “What’s up?” Harris asked, coming up behind Troy and taking his outstretched hand before sliding into the seat next to him. 

“We’re helping Shane break up with Montreal,” Troy said succinctly and Ilya laughed delightedly. 

“This is such a terrible idea,” Shane muttered through his grin as he unlocked his phone and gazed at the red bubble of sixteen unread texts from the group chat with a growing sickness in his stomach. “I haven’t read any of these, but I’m assuming it’s the same shit that’s all over Twitter.” 

“I haven’t looked at Twitter,” Troy hummed. “What’s everyone saying?”

Harris, who clearly had looked at Twitter, grimaced. “Um…”

“I think the person that said that the C on my jersey stands for ‘cock-sucking traitor’ is my favorite,” Shane added flatly. Harris gaped over at him as Troy did his best to cover his laugh with a hand. 

“Who said that?” Ilya demanded. 

“Some rando on Twitter,” Shane shrugged. “I’m just saying, I bet the team’s saying the same shit.” And, opening the group chat and scanning the texts, he was right. 

 

Comeau

[1 Link: Shane Hollander departing Montreal Metros after 11 seasons] 

 

Comeau

Okay. Would have appreciated a heads up. 

 

Drapeau

Oh okay. So even after eleven years, Rozanov’s dick takes priority. Got it. 

 

Drapeau

Hope Hollander knows he’s tanked his chances with every single other team in the league, nobody wants a traitor who will also fuck the entire opposing team

 

Berkes

What the fuck??

 

Berkes

No shame Hollander might as well just get on his fucking knees on center ice. Not anything we’ve never seen before

 

Laine

Imagine throwing eleven seasons out the fucking window for the fucker most likely to cheat on you

 

Laine

So much for ‘you guys are my Day 1s’. Pretty sure i’ve been hearing that for years, but now we get passed up for Rozanov?? And Ottawa??? 

 

Taylor

[1 Link: Sarah K @rinkrat: Yeah that C on his chest stands for cock-sucking traitor]

2 people laughed at this

 

Hayden Pike

Every single one of you needs to check yourselves. Shane is our teammate and our captain, and if that suddenly doesn’t mean anything to you just because of his relationship with Rozanov, then you need to stop being babies about it and grow the fuck up. 

 

Comeau

Stfu Pike you want to suck his dick too, you’re no better

 

JJ Boiziau

You stfu Gil, I should have punched your fucking face in the first time i heard you throwing slurs behind Shane’s back

 

Drapeau

What the hell JJ you hate Rozanov too

 

JJ Boiziau

Yeah well

 

JJ Boiziau

That doesn’t excuse the shit i’ve heard you say

 

Hayden Pike

As who’s actually gotten to know Rozanov over the past few years, you all are in no place to judge the character of someone you don’t know when you’re the ones treating your own friend and captain like this. 

 

Comeau

Ah yes the other traitor in our midst

 

Hayden Pike

Again, Gil, grow the fuck up. I’m trying to have an adult conversation about this. I can hardly blame Shane for not being honest about Ilya from the get go if this is what he was expecting from you all. If I knew my guys were going to be complete dicks about this, I would have kept it a secret too. 

 

Drapeau

Oh so it’s Ilya now. 

 

Shane felt a swell of emotion in Hayden’s proverbial direction as he reached the bottom of the text thread. It had been several minutes since the last text, and he could practically feel the tension rippling across his skin. 

Ilya had stayed completely silent as Shane had scrolled through, but Shane could usually tell what he was reading based on how tight his arms were around Shane’s waist. 

“You’re going to have to thank Hayden after this,” Shane said quietly. 

“Yes. Probably,” Ilya said, and Shane thought it sounded less like a grumble than it normally did. “What will you say?” 

Shane sighed and thought for a moment, then started typing. It took a few minutes, during which Ilya just waited attentively and Troy and Harris murmured away quietly, but by the end, he was mostly satisfied as he showed the others. 

You:

I’m not going to pretend I’m happy with how any of this went down. I know I haven’t been completely honest with you guys in the past, but I’m going to try now, because you deserve to hear it straight from me. You already know that Ilya and I have been dating for a few years now, but the whole truth is that we’ve never been the real rivals everyone thought we were. This is a secret we’ve been keeping since our rookie seasons. 

To me, that fact doesn’t change anything about how I’ve played for Montreal. Some of you guys have played with me for my entire career with the Metros, and you know how seriously I take this game, so to even suggest that I’ve ever thrown a game for him at any point in my career just says that you don’t know or understand me at all.

Keeping this secret from you guys has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but I did it because I had big dreams for this team and I didn’t think I could have him, too. My career means a lot to me, but I didn’t think I could be open and honest about my relationship with Ilya while also building Montreal’s legacy with you guys. I didn’t think the league would let me have both, and I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t be putting Ilya in a dangerous place in doing so.  

I hate to say it, but I was right to think that. 

I’m sure you all have seen the leak already. I emailed Gary earlier today and said I needed more time to decide on my contract and that I was considering free agency. Unfortunately, it leaked pretty fast and it only confirmed what I’ve suspected for years: I can’t have both. 

I have honestly never felt more unwelcome and unappreciated by this city and this team than I have in the last few weeks, especially in the last few hours. I know you all must hate to hear it, but Ilya is one of the only people who’s stuck by my side through all this bullshit, and that makes my choice pretty fucking clear. So, yes, I will be going free agent in July with the intention of leaving Montreal for good. And if I have my way, I’ll be going home to Ottawa. 

Ilya nodded over Shane’s shoulder as he finished, but the sinking feeling in Shane’s stomach was overwhelming any ability he had to press the button to send the damn message. 

“Do you want me to–”

“Yes,” Shane said immediately, and Ilya gently took the phone from his hand and sent it without any preamble. 

“There,” Ilya said quietly, kissing Shane’s cheek. “Is done now.” 

“You should leave the group chat,” Troy suggested. “They’ll reach out if they want to.” 

“Or that’ll just give them space to keep talking shit,” Harris pointed out.

“They were already talking shit,” Shane mumbled. “Talking about me like I can’t see what they say.” 

“So imagine what they say when you can’t hear,” Troy raised an eyebrow in his direction. “I’ve always heard that the Metros were nice and clean, but I bet keeping it quiet only made the shittiest guys more sneaky about it.”

Shane stared at him. He knew from Hayden and JJ that some of the guys, Comeau and Drapeau included, had kept the slurs and homophobic talk to a minimum after Shane had come out, had tucked it away to a place his ears didn’t reach and brought it out only when they were safe from the consequences. It was the same thing that had happened after Shane had been made captain, and had made it very clear from the get go that he wasn’t going to tolerate any sexism or misogyny. It had still happened, he was sure, just behind his back. 

The facade of goodness covering the rotting core of the Metros was almost worse than it being proudly on display like it was for other teams. And Shane couldn’t help but feel responsible. “I was a terrible captain,” he mumbled. “I always suspected it was going on behind my back, but once it became about my sexuality, I lost any credibility to call them out for it.”

“That’s not your fault,” Harris insisted. “It’s easy to tell people to be quiet, it’s much harder to teach them to be accountable for themselves. Obviously, that’s no excuse, but I’m sure there’s some guys on that team that really do respect what you tried to do. It’s on them to speak up about it, though.”

“Yeah, speaking up is powerful, but it doesn’t help when they’re scared for their careers.” Troy interrupted, which earned him a watery expression from Harris.

Shane thought about the younger guys on the Metros, the ones like Troy who might be inclined to call others out for their bullshit. He wondered what would happen if one of the rookies made a public statement against homophobia–would they, like Troy, get shunted to a no-name team to be kept quiet?

“Do you really think it’s that common?” Harris asked quietly. 

“Oh, yeah,” Troy nodded, looking up at Harris and smiling sadly. “Rose-tinted glasses, babe. I’m afraid the Centaurs are one of a kind. Plenty of other teams in the league are happy to keep the ugly stuff away from the cameras but don’t feel the need to actually clean house. Very few teams actually have clean houses.” 

“Did Scott Hunter tell you about this thing he’s cooking up?” Shane asked him. “He approached us during the playoffs, it’s some kind of… I don’t know. A group of nice hockey players–” 

Troy’s already nodding. “Yeah. He texted me about it a few days ago. I like it.” 

Harris nodded eagerly as well. “I think it’s exactly what we need. A unified movement to protect players like you guys from shitheads like Crowell.” 

As Troy started a well-deserved rant on all of Crowell’s faults, Shane looked down at Ilya, realizing he hadn’t spoken in a while and had passed up on the prime opportunity to trash-talk Scott for his considerable age. Ilya was still staring at Shane’s phone in his hand, his thumb hovering over the text Shane had written, lips moving silently. 

“What’s up?” he asked quietly, nudging Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya’s gaze shot up to meet Shane’s, his eyes wide and imploring. His hand reached up, his thumb brushing over Shane’s freckles. “I love you.” 

Shane fought the intense urge to make sure Troy and Harris weren’t listening in, the frantic desperation to hide. He forced himself to keep Ilya’s gaze, confused as he was at the sudden swell of emotion in Ilya’s eyes. He adjusted in Ilya’s lap to loop his arms around his neck, feeling hands tease the strip of skin between his waist and the hem of his shirt. 

He wasn’t sure where Ilya’s sudden burst of emotion was coming from, but knew better than to question his own inability to read Ilya’s mind all the time. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ilya shook his head quickly. “Nothing is wrong. I am happy.” He squeezed Shane’s waist. “I get to keep you.” 

And how could Shane resist the urge to kiss him again? He was a weak, weak man. 

Ilya’s breath was shaky as he pulled back. “You are so brave for me.” 

Shane wanted to grab Ilya’s face and tell him how easy it was, how normal it was supposed to be, to stand up for your partner and prioritize them over everything. He wanted to tell Ilya that there had never been another option, that he could never choose anything other than Ilya if it meant losing him. That he wanted Ilya to keep him, wanted to hold Ilya close and cherish him in ways he had always deserved, even if he’d never gotten it. 

Shane’s fingers played with the ring on Ilya’s chain, slipping it around the tip of his own finger. He didn’t know what to say, couldn’t quite articulate that. “You make it easy,” he said instead. He tugged at the ring and Ilya dipped forward to kiss him without any reservation, slow and tender. 

“I love you,” Ilya murmured against Shane’s lips, squeezing his knee twice before leaning back to break their bubble. 

But Shane held on, fingers playing with Ilya’s curls, holding the moment for longer than either of them had ever let it before. “I love you, too.” Ilya beamed, eyes crinkled and teeth shining, and Shane could swear he saw a tinge of a blush on his cheeks. 

Shane loved Ilya’s smile, the pure and unguarded one that rarely came out where others could see. Shane’s heart fluttered at the knowledge that Ilya felt safe and loved enough to be freely himself here, not just with Shane but with these other men that loved him, too. 

Shane grinned right back, pressing his fingers to the muscles of Ilya’s shoulders as he surged forward to litter Shane’s neck with light kisses, just enough to tickle. 

“Jesus,” Troy said behind them, his nose wrinkled in faux-disgust. “Get a room.” 

“Oh, I plan on it,” Ilya looked up from Shane’s neck to glare at him and grabbed Shane’s phone to check for the time, clearly remembering their promise to leave at ten just as Shane was having the same thought. “I think is…” 

His voice died as he looked down at Shane’s phone, his nose wrinkling and brow furrowing. 

“What is it?” Shane sat up, huddling in close, suspicion growing as he remembered he hadn’t been checking his phone since he sent his text in the team group chat. “What are they saying?”

“No,” Ilya’s voice was dark as he angled the phone away from Shane so he couldn’t see. “This is–” He scowled, scrolling through the texts with a darkness on his face. Shane was battling the urge to grab his phone from Ilya and break his own heart in the process, but Ilya’s gentle hand over his was strong and sure. “You do not need to see this,” Ilya said with a certain amount of finality that Shane didn’t want to challenge. 

He breathed through the need to control the situation and let Ilya guide him forward. “Okay.” 

Ilya’s eyes were clear and sharp on Shane’s, a silent understanding of trust stringing itself between them in a way that Shane would never be able to put into words. 

Ilya just nodded once, scrolled one more time on Shane’s phone, and pursed his lips in anger. “They only say these things because they do not have to say it to your face,” he said quietly. “It is nothing new.” Shane inhaled deeply, relaxed against the arm of the sofa, and watched Ilya’s expression closely. Then Ilya smirked. “They want to know how long we have been together.” 

“I told them,” Shane said simply. “Since rookie season.” 

“They don’t believe that,” Ilya snickered, still looking down at the phone. Then, horrifyingly, he began to type, reading his words out loud so Shane could hear too. “You are just mad… that I have been sucking his dick this whole time–”

“No, Ilya,” Shane gasped as Troy and Harris cackled. 

“Fine,” Ilya shook his head and started over. “You are just mad that I am gay for Rozanov and still better than all of you–”

“Ilya!” Shane shook his head wildly. “Don’t send that–”

“Too late,” Ilya shrugged. 

“Oh, my god,” Shane pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose and shrunk into the sofa. “I can’t believe you.” 

“Yes, you can.” 

Shane glared at him. “Yes. Unfortunately.” 

Ilya grinned right back, then spared another glance at the phone. “Oh. Comeau says ‘go suck Rozanov’s dick if it makes you so happy. See if we care’.” He started to type again, but Shane’s anger answered before his brain could.

“Already did. Might do it again later.” 

Ilya’s eyes danced in delight as Troy and Harris howled with laughter. Shane didn’t even have it in himself to be embarrassed anymore. Ilya’s fingers danced over the phone screen, then sent the message with a filthy smirk. 

“I should really leave that chat,” Shane said, his voice weak. 

“Yes!” Troy egged him on. 

“Yes?” Ilya asked, pressing more buttons on Shane’s phone, then watching for Shane’s nod of permission, which he gave before he could chicken out. “Okay.” With one final press of a button, Ilya nodded in satisfaction and handed Shane’s phone back to him. “Montreal Metro no longer.” 

“Woo-hoo!” Harris whooped and Troy applauded. 

Shane just rolled his eyes and leaned in to smack a kiss on Ilya’s cheek. “Is it ten o’clock yet?”

“It can be,” Ilya said quickly, standing up in a hurry and tugging Shane with him. 

“Leaving already, cap?” Wyatt raised a fist for Ilya, turning slightly from his conversation with Bood, Dykstra, Chouinard, and Luca, making space for Troy and Harris as they rejoined the circle too. 

“Yes,” Ilya said firmly, slipping an arm around Shane’s waist and raising an arm in farewell. “I have stuff to do.” He shot a wink over at Shane as the others laughed and catcalled. 

“Stuff, huh?” Bood took the bait and grinned knowingly. 

“Yes, this is my boyfriend,” Ilya raised an arm as if presenting Shane to the group. “His name is ‘stuff’.” 

Shane knew what Ilya expected, an embarrassed shove and a blush. But he just smirked. “Your fiance, Ilya.” 

The effect was instantaneous. Ilya practically melted, the flamboyant charm and charisma dissolving into as much mush as a six-foot Russian man could. “Oh, my god,” he muttered against Shane’s shoulder, slumping against him as Shane laughed. “Fiance. Even better.” He grinned at Shane and tugged at his waist again, speaking in Russian so the others wouldn’t understand: “I would marry you right now if I could call you my husband sooner.” 

And Shane kissed him in front of everyone again, because how could he not?

“They make me feel so single,” Luca groaned, slumping into his seat as the others laughed. 

“Bye,” Shane waved happily as Ilya tugged him along. They said a brief and rushed goodbye to the WAGs, thanked Wiebe and his wife for hosting, and were out at the car in record speed. 

But before Shane could climb inside, he was being pushed against the side of the car and kissed within an inch of his life. Ilya’s hand on his chin was tight and controlling, his lips and tongue caressing Shane’s with that commanding tenderness that he loved so much. 

His head dropped back as Ilya started attacking his neck, and Shane suspected that they were still within full view of the house and if anyone looked out the window they’d see the two of them necking like horny teenagers, but for once that prospect wasn’t terrifying in a way that used to send ice through his veins. 

“You had fun?” Ilya murmured against Shane’s skin in between kisses. 

“I’ll have more fun when we get home,” Shane said pointedly and relished in the sound of Ilya’s laugh. 

“Okay, okay,” Ilya sighed, releasing Shane and giving him a sultry once-over, his gaze lingering on the noticeable bulge of Shane’s crotch, as if he wasn’t sporting an erection, too. “You kill me, Hollander. So beautiful.” Kissing him once more, he opened the door of the car for Shane to climb in and hurried to start the car with too much haste to be casual. 

Shane was fully aware that they could take this time to debrief the night, gossip like normal couples might after a dinner party, but he was too horny to care. The fact that he hadn’t come yet since earlier today hadn’t been bothering him until now. Now, the heat under his skin was unbearable, and he needed Ilya to touch him more than anything. 

Ilya kept shooting hungry glances over at him as he started driving, pushing the car over the speed limit more than he normally did. 

“Ilya,” Shane sighed, and it sounded whiny to his own ears. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Why?” Ilya’s voice was rough. “You will come in your pants?”

Shane shivered at his words. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Maybe.” 

“Hm.” Ilya adjusted his pants with the hand that wasn’t on the wheel, but then replaced it immediately. For some reason, that pissed Shane off. Ilya was fully capable of driving with only one hand, he did it all the time. Granted, it was usually because he was holding Shane’s hand over the center console, but who’s to say it couldn’t be busy doing something else?

Shane’s annoyance must have been obvious as he slumped in his seat, every bump under the car was sending bolts of electricity up his spine. The anticipation was killing him. 

“Oh,” Ilya said with fake surprise as Shane adjusted his rock-hard dick in his pants. “Did you need something?”

“Ilya,” Shane whined again. “I need you.” 

Ilya licked his lips. “I can’t help you right now, lyubimyy. I’m driving.” 

Shane huffed, turning in his seat so he was facing Ilya. “Please.” 

“I need both hands, sweetheart,” Ilya grinned, sparing a glance at Shane and lingering on his crotch for longer than he should. “Wouldn’t want to damage this precious cargo.” He turned back to watch the road, and silence stretched between them, sharp and sultry. “Take your dick out. Touch yourself.” 

Shane’s breath caught in his throat, his reservations almost rising to the surface: what if someone saw? What if they were stopped at a light and someone looked over to see-

But the image was intoxicating. 

Shane felt woozy as he undid his fly with shaking fingers and took out his dick. This felt taboo, pleasuring himself while Ilya drove, like he didn’t even care, like Shane was just a pretty view. 

The first stroke of his cock felt like heaven. “Fuck,” he moaned, dropping his temple against the headrest. Ilya didn’t even look over at him, just smirked as he tweaked the wheel under his hands. 

“Don’t come until I say so,” Ilya said quietly. “Understand?”

“Yeah,” Shane sighed, working his hand along his cock in all the ways he liked. It occurred to him that the drive was probably going to be another fifteen minutes, but the thought made his skin tingle. He was going to edge himself, and Ilya was just going to ignore him and drive. For some reason, it was insanely hot.

Ilya couldn’t seem to stay quiet for long, though. He kept murmuring quiet encouragement as he drove, his hands tight on the wheel, and it only occurred to Shane then how much self-control Ilya must be using. “So pretty,” he said, stealing another glance at the head of Shane’s cock disappearing under his fist. “Making yourself feel good for me.” 

“Wish it was you touching me,” Shane goaded him on through the haze of his own pleasure. “Don’t you want to touch me?”

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned, adjusting himself in his pants again. “More than anything.” 

“I want your cock in me all the time, I want to make you feel good all the time.” Shane closed his eyes, squeezing the base of his dick as the pleasure mounted to the point of danger for the third time in as many minutes. “I thought about–fuck–I thought about sucking you while you drive.” 

“Oh, shit,” Ilya muttered. He grinned back at Shane. “That is a terrible idea, lyubimyy. I would crash the car if you made me come–”

“Then I wouldn’t make you come,” Shane rebutted. “I’d just… fuck. I’d just keep your cock warm. While you drove.” 

Ilya made a sound like he’d just been punched and pushed the car a little faster. “This was such a bad idea,” he muttered under his breath. 

Shane shoved his pants down under his ass, having an even worse idea, and angled his hips up so he could press a finger to his hole, although they didn’t keep any lube in the car for some reason (he would be rectifying that first thing tomorrow). Without lube, he couldn’t do much besides circle his entrance, but it had the intended effect. 

“So naughty,” Ilya said hoarsely, sounding strangely calm, like he was dying and he’d made his peace with it. “If only everyone knew how naughty you are.” 

“Just for you,” Shane sighed, the sound filling the car like a rushing tide. “Only yours.” He bit his tongue to hide the word that felt most accurate, and then his own horniness pulled it from his mouth: “Your slut.” Ilya started muttering in Russian, so quiet and fast that Shane’s sex-fueled brain couldn’t possibly keep up. He grinned. “You like that? Me being your slut?” 

Ilya glared over at him, but the effect was ruined by the smirk that was crawling across his face. “We are really discovering your hidden depths right now, aren’t we?” 

“I’d love to do something about my hidden depths right now, but we don’t have any lube.” 

Ilya’s face went blank, then he burst out laughing. He grinned over at Shane, chuckling lightly still. “My slut is funny, huh?” 

“Don’t call me funny when I’m, like, two seconds from coming,” Shane warned him, still snickering at his own joke. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Ilya murmured reverently, and his hand finally left the steering wheel to brush a bead of precum from the head of Shane’s cock with his thumb, just the lightest of touches that made Shane’s hips cant forward and his breaths come high and whiny. “Almost home. I’ll make it worth the wait,” he whispered, and licked his thumb without even looking over at Shane. 

“Asshole.” 

“You know what this reminds me of?” Ilya asked quietly.

“Vegas,” Shane breathed, his hand still working at his dick, slow and strong, enough to keep himself hard but not enough to come. “When you watched me.” 

“That was so fucking hot,” Ilya said hoarsely. “You were so beautiful. I should have kissed you, but I wouldn’t have been able to stop. Would have locked you up there forever, made you come over and over again–” Ilya’s words and the sound of his own choked-off moans filling the car was almost too much for Shane to bear. “I wish I’d recorded it,” Ilya whispered, his eyes glassy and unfocused on the road. “Just to go back and watch it. You should make a sex tape for me.” 

“I’ve thought about making one for you,” Shane breathed. “So many times. But it just–fuck–it seemed so dangerous.” He looked over at Ilya, and held his gaze for a moment, knowing Ilya’s eyes must be slightly tracking the movement of Shane’s hand in his peripheral vision. “I don’t want anyone to see me like that but you.”

“Oh, I thought you liked that,” Ilya teased. “I thought you liked it when other people could hear you.”

Shane whined at the thought of someone else overhearing them, hearing Shane’s moans and how good Ilya was making him feel. His hand continued to work at his cock as he toyed with it in his mind, not sure he’d be able to articulate it at any other time, his sex-driven brain giving him all the confidence to put words to his dirtiest urges. 

“I think I only like it when it’s you. When you’re the one making me feel good. I want everyone to know how–how good you give it to me. You’re the only one–” He whined as heat filled his body again and he had to grip the base of his dick to stop himself from coming. “You’re the only one that gets to touch me like that,” he finished the thought, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Just me,” Ilya said, his voice rough. 

“Just you,” Shane nodded, his eyes still closed as his hand left his hole to tease at his own nipples under his shirt. The sound of Ilya’s seat belt clunking open made him peel his eyes open. “Oh,” he murmured, drunk and stupid. “We’re home.” 

“Yes,” Ilya said, his voice rumbling and deep as he leaned in towards Shane across the center console of the car, one hand coming up to tug Shane forward by his throat, kissing him deeply. Shane could only moan into his mouth, completely boneless under Ilya’s hands. 

He chased Ilya’s lips, whining pitifully as Ilya broke their kiss. But before he could protest in words, Ilya’s hand was beating away the one Shane still had wrapped around his dick, which was quickly followed by the most intoxicating warmth–

“Uhn–” Shane sagged back into his seat as Ilya’s mouth worked over his cock, tight and hot and wet– 

He couldn’t buck into Ilya’s mouth like his body wanted to, the seatbelt still snug over his hips, so he was left to only hang on for dear life as Ilya sucked his brain out of his dick. It was addicting, the way he was bound here, subject to Ilya’s whims, his mouth, his hands–

“Oh, my god,” Shane panted out as Ilya’s head bobbed up and down in his lap, his hands tight and hot over Shane’s thighs. “Fuck–Ilya–”

His orgasm hit him like a fucking eighteen-wheeler. He only partially processed the high-pitched whine that left his mouth, his back arching off the seat, and Ilya’s mouth still working over his cock like it was a lollipop. The thought was so absurd to him that a strange giggle left his mouth in between his panting breaths that each sounded more like a moan than the last one. “Oh, my god,” he gasped as Ilya popped off his dick with a satisfied grin. “Asshole.” 

“Now Shane, is that how we thank people who give us fantastic blowjobs?” Ilya smirked at him. 

Shane rolled his eyes and tugged Ilya forward, taking his mouth possessively and kissing him like there was no tomorrow. The taste of his own come on Ilya’s tongue made him shiver. 

He loved the way Ilya kissed him, hungry and wanting. He loved how possessed he felt, how used he felt. Like he was just a means to an end for Ilya’s pleasure, Ilya taking what he wanted from Shane’s body. He deserved it all. 

He leaned back, grinning at Ilya, still feeling a little dazed. “Thank you for the fantastic blowjob. I did most of the work, though.” 

“Who is the asshole now?” Ilya snorted, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car.

Shane just grinned and tucked himself back into his pants, climbing out of the car and entering the house on unsteady legs as Ilya raced to let Anya out into the yard for her evening romp. But then Ilya was back, holding him up, leaning him against the kitchen island, and kissing him again, deep and steady, slotting his thigh between Shane’s legs and holding him close. 

“Fucking beautiful,” Ilya murmured. “Want to fuck you until you cry.” Shane moaned lightly. “You want that, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah,” Shane nodded weakly. “Want you to hold me down and take me–”

Ilya licked a stripe up Shane’s neck. “Who taught you to talk dirty like this? You have been making me hard all day.” To accentuate his point, he took Shane’s hand and pressed it to the bulge of his pants. Shane moaned at the feeling of hot, hard flesh under the thick denim of Ilya’s pants. 

“Pretty sure that was you,” he bit back without any heat. “You’ve tainted me.” 

“Oh, I’ll taint you–” 

The moment broke and Shane giggled. “Okay. Let me go, I need a shower.” Ilya’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively but Shane shook his head. “Not that kind of shower. You stay here.” 

“What kind of shower is it?” Ilya said, low and sexy, tugging Shane close to him again. “Tell me. If you won’t let me–”

“I’m going to clean my asshole so you can lick it,” Shane said bluntly, and Ilya’s sultry act broke again, a smile reappearing instantaneously and a sharp bark of amusement rising between them. “So, the shower is non-negotiable. But then–” He squeezed Ilya’s dick through his pants, earning himself a bitten-off groan and a wolfish grin. “I’m going to come back downstairs and you’re going to have me on any surface of your choosing. Sounds good?”

“Yes.” Ilya’s voice was hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes.”

“‘Kay,” Shane grinned, dropping another kiss on Ilya’s lips, and making a show of swaying his hips on his way upstairs. He was half-hard again by the time he got in the shower and cleaned what needed to be cleaned. It couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes by the time he shut off the water again, drying his hair and giving himself a once-over in the mirror. 

He made sure his ring on his own chain was visible over his chest, made sure he’d fixed his hair so it fell just right, and primped and preened more than strictly necessary because he wanted to look good for his fiance. He was sure he was going to look like a mess afterwards, but he was just imagining all the ways Ilya would call him pretty, heat spreading under his skin again. 

He forwent covering himself up again as he stepped out of the bathroom. Completely naked, he shivered at the cool air on his skin, the carpeted floors a stark contrast against his feet as he made his way back through the house, his half-hard dick thick and heavy between his legs. 

He was quiet coming down the stairs, so much so that Ilya didn’t notice. He was still fully dressed, leaning against the kitchen island, engrossed in his phone. 

Shane approached quietly, softly clearing his throat. “You busy?”

“No,” Ilya murmured absentmindedly, typing something quickly with his thumbs as if his own fiance wasn’t buck-ass nude and getting harder by the second not ten feet away. “I just–” He spared a glance up at Shane, looked back at his phone, then did a double take. “Ah.” 

His eyes raked over Shane’s body, his hips and belly and thighs, wide-eyed and hungry. “Never mind,” he muttered, and tossed his phone back on the counter without a care in the world, stalking towards Shane like a lion and caressing his body like it was a priceless item. “Doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters. Just–” He dipped down and inhaled the scent off Shane’s neck, letting out an appreciative grunt. “So beautiful.” 

Shane couldn’t help but grin, his fingers already working at Ilya’s fly, sinking to his knees for the second time today as soon as Ilya’s cock was within sight. It was just a natural reaction: Ilya’s dick was out? Shane was on his knees. Every fucking time. And Shane wouldn't have it any other way. 

“Fuck,” Ilya groaned as soon as Shane put his mouth on him, tilting his head back as Shane took him down as far as he could go. “Twice in one day. I am a lucky man.” 

“My record is much higher than twice,” Shane leaned back, caressing Ilya’s shaft with long strokes. “And I’m pretty sure I promised Comeau I’d suck your dick and be happy about it, so–”

“Maybe don’t mention Comeau when my dick is out,” Ilya interrupted with a wrinkled nose. “I will go soft.” 

“As if you would ever go soft while I’m down here,” Shane pointed out, kissing the head of Ilya’s cock for good measure. 

“Good point,” Ilya said breathlessly, giving Shane a few more minutes to nuzzle at his balls before tugging him back to his feet. “Get up here.” 

Shane let himself be pulled up, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s shoulders, relishing in the texture of Ilya’s clothes against his skin as Ilya’s mouth found his. He was still fully dressed, Shane realized with a shiver. There was something about that that made him feel used and possessed in such a thrilling way, the same way as in the car, like he was just a body for Ilya to enjoy. 

He really liked that, if he was being honest with himself. But at the same time, the look in Ilya’s eyes told him the exact opposite, that he was the thing Ilya cherished most, and that if Shane could never offer him sex ever again, Ilya would still stay by his side. That faith and trust they had was the thing that made all this possible, wasn’t it? The security he had with Ilya was why he was able to test the limits, explore himself, be free in ways he’d never felt before. 

Ilya’s hands pressed him against the kitchen island again, the cool marble a shock against his belly as Ilya’s hand guided him down to press his chest against it, feeling Ilya’s hands on the globe of his ass. “Wait–” he pushed up as he realized what Ilya was going to do. 

“What?” Ilya whined, impatient. 

“Your knee,” Shane pouted, turning to look at him. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“You have been on your knees twice for me today,” Ilya frowned. “I want to–”

“Yeah, but it’ll hurt–” 

They were talking over each other, Shane was trying to tug Ilya back to his feet, and it was a bit of a ridiculous conversation to be having with their dicks out. Ilya was the one to realize this first, shutting Shane up with a kiss. “Okay,” he acquiesced. “Fine.” 

With one sweeping movement, he grabbed Shane behind his thighs and picked him up, carrying him without struggle. Shane could only cling to his shoulders, the fact of his own nakedness in comparison to Ilya stark and obvious. “Oh, Jesus,” he muttered as he felt himself being laid down on the table, Ilya’s body strong and thick between his legs, and he was being kissed again, pressed into the wood, manhandled and positioned into place. “I’m glad you picked this table,” he muttered, somewhat delirious. “Very sturdy.”

“I never buy a table I can’t fuck someone on,” Ilya said seriously, then kicked a chair into position so he could sit between Shane’s legs, level with his ass, and buried his face there without any further ado. 

“Oh, fu–” Shane’s breath caught in his throat as Ilya’s tongue and lips moved wet and hot over his hole, his fingers tight on Shane’s hips. “Oh, my god,” he moaned, rocking his hips as much as he could with his knees up by his ears. “Fuck. You’re so good at that.” 

He felt filthy, pinned to this table while Ilya ate him out like he was a fucking meal. He’d stretched in the shower, so Ilya’s tongue met almost no resistance, thrusting in and out wetly as his lips pressed against Shane’s rim, the scrape of teeth just on the edge of too much, but perfect all the same. A slew of curses and threats and encouragement spilled from Shane’s lips, filling the silence that Ilya would on any occasion where he wasn’t intently eating Shane’s ass like he was born for it. His cock was thick and heavy on his stomach, the head resting against his belly and dripping steadily. He resisted the urge to touch it, to stroke himself to the same timing of Ilya’s tongue. 

Shane lifted his head ever so slightly, just to look down at Ilya from between his thighs, saw the blue eyes there piercing his, and shuddered violently as one of Ilya’s hands left his hip to tease along his rim right next to the lips that had practically sealed themselves there and seemed intent on sucking Shane’s brain out that way. “God. That–that’s… Fuckohmygodrightthere–” 

Ilya’s fingers slipped inside with his tongue with almost no resistance, crooking up to tease at his prostate, sending electricity up Shane’s spine as he arched against the table. One of his hands clawed against the grain of the wood, clutching at the edge and holding on for dear life as Ilya’s fingers attacked his prostate like a fucking joystick. “Ilya–Ilya if you don’t stop–” 

Ilya removed his tongue and lips not a moment too soon. Shane’s impending orgasm flew out of reach again, and he slumped back on the table like a puppet with cut strings. Ilya didn’t remove his fingers, though, still gently pumping in and out, strong enough to keep any coherent thought from forming in Shane’s brain but enough that he wasn’t about to blow his load before he could be properly fucked. Not that he would particularly mind if Ilya just fucked him regardless. He wouldn’t mind that at all, actually.

But before he could articulate that, suggest it into the sex-heavy air, Ilya was standing up from the chair and kicking it back. “So fucking beautiful,” he muttered against Shane’s skin, pointedly avoiding his dick but lowering himself between Shane’s legs to press him into the table with his own torso without pausing his ministrations in Shane’s entrance. Shane’s next exhale came out like a sigh of contentment as Ilya’s lips sealed themselves over his neck now, and Shane threaded his fingers through golden curls and hung on to his only anchor. 

Ilya’s fingers finally slipped out of him, and Shane whined pitifully as Ilya stood up, resting his hands on Shane’s hips and observing him, still spread out on the table. “All mine,” Ilya whispered mostly to himself as his eyes raked up and down Shane’s body. “Perfect. All for me.” 

Shane preened at the praise, squeezing Ilya’s hips between his thighs, wanting anything in that moment. “Please,” he whispered, lifting his arms up over his head and stretching languidly. 

“Please, what, sweetheart?” Ilya murmured, hands smoothing over Shane’s flesh, raising goosebumps in his wake. “Use your words.” 

“Please fuck me.” Shane closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the table as Ilya’s fingers found his nipples. “Lay me out on the bed and take me. Any way you want.” 

Ilya’s grin was wolfish and sharp. “How could I refuse?” His hands cupped Shane’s back and pulled him up to a sitting position on the table. “Come on, you beautiful thing. Upstairs with you.” 

Shane let himself be tugged upstairs through the haze of his own arousal, let himself be led through to the bedroom, let himself be sat on the edge of the bed. 

“I thought about tying you up,” Ilya said, breaking the silence as he stood in front of Shane, his sternum level with Shane’s eyes. “But look at you,” he murmured, tilting Shane’s chin in his hand like he was appraising a priceless jewel. “So obedient for me. So pretty. You would let me do anything to you.” 

“Anything,” Shane whispered. “Anything you want.” 

Ilya just breathed, then dipped to kiss Shane briefly, far more chaste than the situation called for. “Wait here.” He disappeared into his closet and came out naked, stroking his cock with one hand and popping open a bottle of lube with the other. “Lay back for me. Hips off the bed. Knees up.” 

Shane shivered and obeyed, resuming the same position he’d held on the table downstairs. The height of the bed was adjusted for just this: high enough that Ilya’s crotch was in line with Shane’s ass while standing. Shane shivered in anticipation. 

“Did you mean what you said in the car?” Ilya murmured, leaning over Shane and tossing the lube on the bed. He pushed in without any preamble, his dick hard and solid and Shane croaked out a moan as his hands scrambled for purchase, on Ilya’s shoulder, on his own knee, on the bedspread that suddenly felt far too flimsy to take Shane’s grip while Ilya was plowing into him and trying to have a conversation, for some reason. 

“Mean–mean what?” Shane said, and it sounded more like a whimper. “I said lots of things in the car. You–Jesusfucking–I’ve t-told you most of that–” 

“My slut,” Ilya growled against Shane’s neck, and Shane’s next moan was more like a keen, or a pitiful high-pitched whine. “Mine. For me.” 

Neither of them were making much sense, which was how it almost always went when they dragged it out like this, long hot hours of fucking with no sense of time and no urgency. The speech was just words thrown together, meaningless and shallow; the real language was the rhythm of Ilya’s hips against Shane’s ass, hands gripping shoulders and tangling in hair. 

The pace was never the same for very long. One moment, Ilya would be pressing Shane down on the bed and fucking him like a man possessed, moans turned into gasping airless screams, and the next it would be a languid circling of hips and exhales that maybe sounded like ‘I love you’s without half the consonants that made them mean anything. 

Ilya must have guided Shane into half a dozen different positions, up against the headboard, then with Shane on his knees with all his weight on his chest and a heavy hand between his shoulder blades, or when Ilya’s abs were cramping from exertion, he pulled Shane on top of him and watch as Shane bounced on his cock with pitiful whines filling the air on each downstroke. 

“You love working for it, don’t you?” Ilya said hoarsely, one hand above his head and the other gripping Shane’s hip tight enough to bruise. He wasn’t moving his hips at all, wasn’t helping Shane in the slightest, just watching, and maybe that was what was doing it for him. “Love squeezing my cock. You would do this for hours if I asked.”

“Yeah,” Shane nodded fervently, his head rolling back as Ilya’s dick brushed the edge of right where he needed it, his own cock bouncing untouched and ignored between them. “Wanna make you feel good.” 

Ilya croaked out a moan and surged forward, kissing Shane hard and flipping them once more so they were face-to-face, with Shane flat on his back again. Ilya took one hand under Shane’s knee and pushed it forward, and Shane’s stomach fluttered as Ilya repositioned himself before driving in one, two, three times, each hitting his prostate dead on. 

“Oh, fuck–” Shane scrambled for Ilya’s shoulders again, positive he was leaving scratch marks and thinking about how if anyone saw them they’d know it was because Ilya had fucked Shane so good he’d seen stars. Ilya would probably wear those scratch marks like a badge of pride. “Right there. Right there, Ilya–Fuck!” 

“Yeah?” Ilya asked breathlessly. “You going to come for me?”

“Uh-huh,” Shane screwed his eyes shut, fisting at his own dick as Ilya hoisted himself up to press Shane’s other knee back and piercing Shane through, straight into his throat. “Ilya–ohmygod–” 

“So pretty when you come,” Ilya’s voice reached him through the white-hot haze like nothing else did, his presence surrounding Shane in a cocoon of pleasure and sex and love. “All mine. So beautiful. Just for me… Fuck, Shane, you feel so good when you come, like you are trying to squeeze my dick off.” 

Shane giggled through the haze of his own orgasm, nudging Ilya’s hips forward with his heels. “Come on,” he urged Ilya quietly. “Want you to come inside me. Want to feel it.” 

“Hnh–” Ilya grunted, readjusting on his knees and setting a new pace, one just for him, quick and shallow, his breaths hot and heavy against Shane’s ear as he trembled and his nails dug into Shane’s thighs. “Fuck– Shane…” 

A heady warmth filled Shane that might not have just been from Ilya’s release, but he sagged against the pillows all the same and smeared his mouth over Ilya’s in a way that definitely wouldn't have been sexy if they’d been any more cognizant or less sex-drunk. But that was what Shane loved about them so much, was that even if it was weird or awkward, Ilya loved him, and he loved Ilya, and that was the only thing that mattered. 

“Fuck,” Ilya grunted, pulling out and Shane kind of wished he could see Ilya’s come leaking out of his ass, but that was something to experiment with on another day. He flopped down next to Shane on the bed and huffed as he caught his breath. “You know, they say the sex gets worse after you get married.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “I don’t believe them.” 

“Guess we’ll have to prove them wrong,” Shane grinned, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as the last of his orgasm faded and he came back to himself. “The bed's all dirty.” 

“Yes, darling.” Ilya’s hand petted at Shane’s thigh, squeezing the flesh and watching it give beneath his fingers. Shane smacked his hand away with a grin. 

Shane showered first while Ilya stripped the bed and brought Anya back into the house, and Shane put new sheets on while Ilya took his turn in the shower. It was an old routine, the first glimpse of domestic bliss they’d ever built into a steady routine, practiced hands and easy tasks. Shane was already tucked underneath the sheets before Ilya was out of the shower, and watched as Ilya toweled himself dry and slipped into bed next to him, still naked. 

“What are you up to tomorrow?” Shane asked, his knees knocking Ilya’s as he pressed their faces together in the darkness. 

“I am taking Anya to the doggy groomer,” Ilya hummed. “And maybe to the park. You want to come?” 

“Yeah,” Shane grinned. 

“What about you?”

“Well,” Shane paused. “I have to call Farah first thing. I also said I’d get in touch with Scott first thing, I guess I have to pick.” 

“Don’t pick Scott.” 

“Okay,” Shane rolled his eyes, but tucked himself under Ilya’s chin and smoothed his hands over Ilya’s chest, letting the sound of Ilya’s breaths lull him into sleep. 

He’d been wrong, it turned out. He didn’t call Farah first thing the next morning. He didn’t even text Scott before he did that. In fact, he didn’t even have sex first thing the next morning, which was almost a part of his regular routine as brushing his teeth was at this point. No, the first thing he did the next morning was put lube in the car, because he wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. The second thing he did was toss his ex-favorite Metros hoodie in the trash. Because fuck Montreal.