Chapter Text
April 2017 — Montreal
Boston versus Montreal.
It was the matchup fans circled on their calendars every season. They came for the rivalry. They came to watch Hollander and Rozanov battle it out on the ice.
If only they knew.
Shane had spoken to Ilya a handful of times since Montreal had arrived in town, but only briefly. A few stolen conversations. A few texts. Nothing close to enough.
Now, as both teams warmed up before the game, Shane couldn't take his eyes off him.
He should have been focused on the ice. On the game. On his own teammates.
Instead, he found himself watching the Russian across the centerline.
Ilya's helmet was off, his brown hair damp from the warmup. He was listening to one of his teammates, nodding absently as they talked. From a distance, he looked perfectly normal.
Untouched.
Unbothered.
But the news about his father's death had spread quickly through the league. Reporters had asked questions. Analysts had speculated about whether it would affect his game.
At least that gave Shane an excuse.
If anyone noticed him staring, they would assume he was checking on a rival player going through a difficult time.
Nobody would suspect the truth.
Nobody would know that Shane had already skated to the centerline during warmups and quietly arranged to meet Ilya after the game.
Nobody would know that what looked like a brief exchange of condolences had really been two people making plans to spend the night together.
Because that was who Shane Hollander was.
Golden Boy Hollander.
The league's favorite son.
The captain who always said the right thing, did the right thing, and never gave anyone a reason to look too closely.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
On the other side of the centerline, Ilya pushed the thought away and skated back toward his teammates.
“What did Hollander want?” Cliff asked as the team resumed their stretches.
Ilya dropped onto one knee and reached for his skate. “To ask you on date.”
Cliff's head snapped up. “What?”
A few of the guys nearby snorted.
Ilya didn't even look at him.
“Get back to fucking stretching, Marlow,” he said dryly. “We need win.”
“Funny,” Cliff muttered.
“I know.”
The corner of Ilya's mouth twitched.
Across the ice, Shane was laughing at something one of his teammates had said. The sound didn't carry over the noise of the arena, but Ilya knew exactly what his laugh looked like.
For a brief moment, their eyes met again.
Too long.
Just long enough for Ilya to feel that familiar pull in his chest.
Then Shane looked away and skated toward the bench.
Ilya forced himself to do the same.
A few more hours.
One game.
Then he could stop pretending he didn't know him.
~~~
Ilya loved battling Shane for the puck in the corners almost as much as he loved having him all to himself.
Faceoffs were fun. There was something satisfying about lining up across from Shane in front of thousands of people and knowing none of them had any idea what existed between them.
But the corners were better.
Messier.
Closer.
A stolen shove. A shoulder pressed into the boards. A quick glance hidden behind cages and visors.
Little moments that belonged only to them.
Both of them wore mouthguards, despite half the league acting as though losing a tooth was some kind of badge of honor. Most players seemed eager to collect scars for the game.
Not Shane.
Not Ilya.
As they battled for possession, Shane glanced over his shoulder and flashed him a grin.
The clear mouthpiece made him look ridiculous.
Ilya felt laughter bubble up in his chest.
Дурачок
Idiot.
Shane won the puck battle and skated away with it.
That wasn't surprising. Shane's hands were better. His stickhandling was among the best in the league.
But Ilya was faster.
Always had been.
He pushed off hard and chased after him, closing the gap with ease.
A fact that carried over into their private life as well.
The thought nearly made him laugh as he reached out and poked the puck off Shane's stick.
Shane shot him an offended look.
Ilya only grinned and kept skating.
The puck changed possession twice before Montreal finally buried one in the back of the net.
The crowd erupted.
A whistle blew.
Ilya peeled away from the play and headed toward the Boston bench as the next line prepared to jump over the boards. Hockey moved fast. One second you were battling in the corner, the next you were catching your breath while someone else took your place.
As he skated toward the bench, he noticed Cliff watching Shane.
Not the puck.
Shane.
Ilya knew that look.
Cliff Marlow was an enforcer. He was one of the biggest players on the team and had built an entire career around protecting his teammates. If someone took a cheap shot at Boston, Cliff made sure they paid for it later.
The problem was that Cliff thought Shane Hollander was Ilya's biggest problem.
He wasn't.
Shane was the reason Ilya smiled during games.
The reason he looked forward to playing Montreal.
The reason he had a hotel room waiting after the final buzzer.
Most people saw a golden-boy captain. A media darling.
Cliff saw the guy constantly battling Ilya in the corners and stealing pucks from him.
To Cliff, that was reason enough.
Cliff leaned closer. “You want me to run him?”
Ilya nearly snorted.
If only Cliff knew.
Shane was probably the last person in the league Ilya wanted flattened into the boards.
Ilya immediately shook his head. “Back off Hollander. I got him.”
He chewed on his mouthguard as he spoke.
Cliff frowned. “What?”
“I said I got him.”
It wasn't unusual for a captain to give instructions during a game. Line matchups. Defensive assignments. Who to pressure and when.
Cliff might not understand the order, but he respected Ilya enough not to argue. “Whatever you say, Captain.”
Ilya nodded and settled onto the bench.
Across the ice, Shane was already hopping over the boards for his next shift. For a brief second, their eyes met. Then Shane skated away.
And Ilya found himself smiling around his mouthguard.
A few shifts later, they were back on the ice together.
Shane had the puck. Ilya immediately accelerated toward him.
There was no hesitation. No thought. Just instinct.
Shane saw him coming and tried to angle away, but Ilya caught him and drove him into the boards.
The impact rattled through both of them. Shane grunted. Ilya leaned his weight into him, pinning him there as he searched for the puck.
“Let me go,” Shane muttered.
“No.” The answer came automatically.
Shane huffed out a laugh. “The puck is gone.”
Ilya finally glanced away from him.
Sure enough, the puck had already squirted free, and Cliff was carrying it up the ice.
Their teammates were halfway to the opposite zone. Neither of them moved.
For one ridiculous second, they remained pressed together against the glass.
Close enough for Ilya to see the familiar dark brown of Shane's eyes through his visor.
Close enough to remember exactly what those eyes looked like when they weren't on a hockey rink.
When they were soft with sleep.
When they were dark with want.
When they were looking at Ilya and only Ilya.
“You are distraction,” Ilya said.
The corner of Shane's mouth twitched.
“Pretty sure that's your fault.”
Maybe.
Probably.
Ilya pushed off the boards first and skated after the play, unable to stop the grin tugging at his mouth.
Behind him, he could practically feel Shane smiling too. The feeling lasted all of thirty seconds. Then the game demanded his attention again.
By the end of the second period, Montreal was still ahead. The horn sounded, and Ilya's good mood vanished. He skated toward the tunnel with the rest of the team, his jaw tight.
Enough.
He'd spent too much of the game thinking about Shane. About later. About the hotel room waiting for them after the final buzzer. None of that mattered right now.
They were losing.
As soon as he stepped into the locker room, Ilya shoved everything else aside and became the captain his teammates expected.
The room was quiet except for the sound of equipment being adjusted and frustrated breaths.
Nobody was happy.
Good.
They shouldn't be.
Their coach was already pacing in front of the whiteboard, looking ready to tear into them.
Ilya welcomed it.
The team needed a fire lit under its ass.
They needed to remember they were the Boston Bears, not some junior team happy to be there.
The coach stopped pacing and looked around the room.
His gaze landed on Ilya.
A silent understanding passed between them.
The coach would start.
Then Ilya would finish it.
And if his teammates expected the easygoing version of him from warmups, they were about to be disappointed.
Because Captain Rozanov was angry.
And Boston still had twenty minutes left to fix this.
Meanwhile, the mood in Montreal's locker room wasn't much better.
Their coach was pacing in front of the room, picking apart every mistake despite the fact that they were leading.
Too much puck possession given away.
Too many sloppy passes.
Not enough pressure on Boston's defensemen.
“You're letting them get comfortable,” he barked. “And comfortable teams come back.”
Nobody argued.
Not even Shane.
Because every player in the room knew the truth. It didn't matter if you were winning or losing. Coaches were never happy until the final horn sounded.
A one-goal lead meant nothing in hockey.
Hell, a three-goal lead sometimes meant nothing.
Games could change in seconds.
One turnover.
One bad line change.
One lucky bounce.
One mistake.
And suddenly everything looked different.
Shane sat at his stall, listening to the lecture while stripping the tape from his stick.
Across the hallway, he had no doubt Boston was getting the exact same speech.
Maybe louder.
Especially from Ilya.
The thought made the corner of his mouth twitch.
Right now, Ilya was probably pacing around the locker room looking murderous.
His teammates would be nodding along while secretly wondering who had pissed him off.
If only they knew.
The coach's voice cut through his thoughts. “We have twenty minutes left. Twenty minutes to put this game away.”
The room fell silent.
Shane leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
Twenty minutes.
Then the game would be over.
And if everything went according to plan, he'd be seeing Ilya shortly after that.
Aggressive.
That was the word both coaches had used during intermission.
Aggressive wasn't hard.
Both team captains knew how to do that.
The difference was that every player defined the word differently.
For some guys, aggressive meant dropping the gloves. Throwing a hit just because they could. Starting a fight to change the momentum of the game.
For Shane, aggressive meant chasing every puck like the game depended on it. It meant winning races. Finishing checks. Forcing turnovers. Making the other team work for every inch of ice. That was his version of aggression.
And if Boston wanted to come back in the third period, Montreal would need every bit of it.
The coach clapped his hands once. “Let's go.”
Players rose from their stalls.
The room filled with the familiar sounds of skates on concrete, sticks being grabbed, helmets snapped into place.
Shane pulled on his gloves and followed his teammates toward the tunnel.
On the other side of the arena, he imagined Ilya doing the exact same thing.
Probably with a much angrier expression.
The thought almost made him smile.
Almost.
The doors opened. The noise of the crowd rushed over them.
Third period.
Twenty minutes.
Anything could happen.
And somehow, Shane had a feeling it would.
Only a few minutes into the third period, Shane and Ilya were battling for the puck again.
Some things never changed.
Ilya was playing harder now. Meaner.
The coaches had spent days debating whether he should even be on the ice after his father's death. Whether they should give him time away from the game. Whether he was mentally ready.
Ilya had shut down every conversation before it could begin.
He wasn't fragile.
He wasn't broken.
And he sure as hell wasn't sitting in the press box.
So he skated harder.
Hit harder.
Played like he had something to prove.
Maybe he did.
Shane managed to win the puck battle and took off down the ice.
Ilya chased him automatically.
It was instinct at this point.
Ahead of them, Cliff Marlow changed direction.
And suddenly, Ilya's stomach dropped.
No.
Cliff had seen Shane with the puck.
Cliff was lining him up.
Fuck.
Ilya dug harder, pushing himself faster.
"Marlow! I got him!"
The roar of the crowd swallowed the words.
Cliff didn't hear him.
Or maybe he did and didn't care.
Shane kept skating.
Cliff kept closing in.
Everything seemed to happen at once.
Ilya pushed off with everything he had.
If he could get there first—
If he could separate Shane from the puck—
If he could stop Cliff from taking his head off—
The collision happened in an instant.
Ilya reached Shane first.
He drove into him.
Hard.
Too hard.
Much too hard.
Shane lost an edge immediately.
One skate slipped out from under him.
His body twisted awkwardly.
Wrong.
Everything about it looked wrong.
And then Shane crashed headfirst into the boards. The sound echoed through the arena. A sickening crack of helmet against glass.
The crowd gasped.
The puck skittered away unnoticed.
For one horrible second, Shane didn't move as he lays on the ice.
Ilya's heart stopped.
No.
No, no, no.
Not him.
“Shane,” Ilya whispered.
Not Hollander.
Not the Montreal captain.
Shane.
The name slipped out before he could stop it.
Before he could remember where he was.
His skates felt glued to the ice.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't look away.
“Wake up,” he muttered.
The words were barely audible beneath the noise of the arena.
“Wake up.”
Shane remained motionless.
And suddenly Ilya wasn't twenty-six years old standing in an NHL arena.
He was twelve.
Standing in a tiny house in Russia. Staring at his mother.
Waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for someone to tell him this wasn't real.
That she was only sleeping. That everything would be okay.
But she hadn't woken up.
No matter how much he begged.
No matter how hard he cried.
No matter how desperately he needed her to.
The memory crashed into him with brutal force.
“Please,” he whispered.
His chest hurt. His vision blurred.
On the ice below him, trainers were already rushing toward Shane.
Players were gathering around.
Someone was blowing a whistle.
Someone was yelling.
Ilya couldn't hear any of it.
All he could see was Shane. All he could think was please.
He wasn't a religious man.
Not really.
But he wore the silver cross his mother had given him before she died.
It rested against his chest beneath his equipment every single game.
A habit.
A superstition.
A reminder.
Now, for the first time in years, he found himself praying. Not caring who listened. Not caring if anyone listened.
Take anything.
Take the game.
Take my career.
Take whatever you want.
Just let him wake up.
Because Shane couldn't be gone.
Not Shane.
Not him.
Then Shane moved.
It was barely noticeable—a twitch of his head, a small shift against the ice—but Ilya saw it immediately. His entire body locked onto the movement.
The trainers were already rushing onto the ice. Players from both teams were gathering nearby, their expressions ranging from concern to outright panic.
Ilya didn't see any of them.
His eyes never left Shane.
For a second, Shane's gaze seemed unfocused. Dazed. Then it landed on Ilya.
“Ilya,” Shane whispered.
The word was weak enough that maybe nobody else heard it.
Ilya did.
Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.
He's alive.
Shane was alive.
Confused. Hurt. Probably concussed.
But alive.
“I am here,” Ilya said automatically, taking a step forward before he even realized he was moving.
A referee skated into his path. “Rozanov, off the ice.”
Ilya ignored him.
Shane was trying to sit up now. One of the trainers immediately stopped him, keeping a hand on his shoulder.
The sight made Ilya's stomach twist.
This was his fault.
If he had just let Cliff handle it.
If he had been half a second slower.
If he hadn't hit him so hard—
“Rozanov.” The referee's voice sharpened. “Get off the ice. Now.”
Ilya finally looked at him. “What?”
“The trainers need room. Get off the ice.”
Behind the referee, Shane winced and closed his eyes. “Ilya,” he said again, softer this time.
Not Rozanov.
Not Captain.
Ilya.
Like they were alone.
Like there weren't twenty thousand people watching.
Like none of it mattered.
The referee grabbed his arm.
“Rozanov, if you don't leave the ice, you'll be ejected.”
For the first time in years, Ilya couldn't have cared less about hockey.
The score didn't matter. The game didn't matter. His captaincy didn't matter. Shane mattered.
“Eject me, then.”
The referee blinked.
Ilya ripped off one glove and let his stick fall from his hand. It clattered loudly against the ice.
A collective murmur rolled through the arena.
He didn't care.
Let them talk.
Let them speculate.
Let them fine him.
Shane was hurt, and he had said Ilya's name.
Nothing else mattered.
Ilya skated toward him anyway.
The trainers looked annoyed when he dropped to one knee beside Shane, but nobody stopped him.
Not yet.
Shane's eyes were open now, unfocused but unmistakably awake.
Thank God.
"That was good hit," Shane coughed out.
For a second, Ilya just stared at him.
Then a disbelieving laugh escaped him.
Only Shane Hollander would compliment the man who had just sent him headfirst into the boards.
"You are idiot."
A faint smile tugged at Shane's mouth.
"I know."
The sight made something tight in Ilya's chest loosen.
Not completely.
Never completely.
The guilt was still there.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Every time he looked at Shane lying on the ice, all he could see was his own shoulder driving into him.
His own mistake.
"I guess our plans are off for later," Ilya said quietly.
Shane huffed out something that might have been a laugh.
"Just a little."
A trainer stepped forward carrying a spinal board.
"We need to move him now."
Ilya didn't move.
Couldn't move.
His eyes remained fixed on Shane's face.
He needed to know he was really awake.
That this wasn't some cruel trick his mind was playing on him.
That Shane was still here.
The trainer cleared his throat.
"Rozanov."
Still, Ilya didn't look away.
If some higher power had appeared in that moment and offered to trade their lives, Ilya would have accepted without hesitation.
Take the hockey.
Take the money.
Take everything.
Just leave Shane here.
The guilt threatened to swallow him whole.
"You said my name," Ilya said.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Shane's face.
Then he nodded.
"Yes."
The arena suddenly felt very quiet.
Too quiet.
"You never say my name here."
A trainer shifted uncomfortably beside them.
Another glanced toward the referees.
Shane's eyes focused on him a little more.
"I know."
The realization landed between them.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Neither of them had ever been this careless.
Not on the ice.
Not in public.
Not where thousands of people could hear.
But Shane didn't look sorry.
If anything, he looked confused about why Ilya was surprised.
As if waking up after slamming into the boards had stripped away every instinct to hide.
As if the only thing that had mattered in that moment was reaching for the person he loved.
And that terrified Ilya almost as much as the hit itself.
Because Shane had said his name.
In front of the referees.
In front of the trainers.
In front of twenty thousand people.
And somehow that wasn't the thing Ilya was thinking about anymore.
Shane was alive.
That was it.
That was the only thought left in his head.
Alive.
His hands were shaking.
He hadn't even noticed until now.
The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind nothing but relief and guilt and a fear so deep it made his chest ache.
He almost lost him.
One second.
One stupid decision.
One hit.
That was all it would have taken.
Shane watched him for a moment, his dark brown eyes clearer now than they had been a minute ago.
“Ilya.” The sound of his name broke whatever restraint he had left.
Before he could think better of it, before he could remember where they were, Ilya leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Shane's forehead.
It was brief.
Barely more than a second.
But it felt like the entire arena stopped breathing.
The trainers froze.
The referee froze.
Someone in the crowd gasped.
Ilya didn't care.
For years they had hidden.
For years they had lied.
For years they had pretended to be rivals whenever anyone was watching.
And for what?
For this?
For a moment where he thought Shane was dead?
No.
Never again.
When he pulled back, Shane was staring at him.
Not surprised.
Not angry.
Just looking at him with that same softness he only ever showed in private.
The look nearly undid him.
“I thought…” Ilya's voice cracked.
For the first time since he was a child, he didn't care who heard it.
“I thought I lost you.”
Shane reached up slowly, his gloved hand brushing against Ilya's wrist. “You'd have to try harder than that.”
The joke was terrible.
Absolutely terrible.
Ilya laughed anyway.
Then he lowered his head for a moment, pressing it against Shane's glove as relief finally crashed through him.
Around them, cameras flashed.
Nobody was pretending anymore.
Ilya lifted his head and found Shane already looking at him.
The arena had become a blur of noise and movement.
Referees.
Trainers.
Teammates.
Reporters waiting to write tomorrow's headlines.
None of it felt real.
Only Shane did.
Ilya leaned forward until their foreheads touched.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
They simply breathed the same air.
Shane was alive.
That thought kept repeating itself in Ilya's head.
Alive.
In another second, a trainer would pull him away. A referee would remember he was supposed to be ejected. Someone would start asking questions neither of them could avoid answering.
The world would come crashing back.
But not yet.
Not this second.
He had already made one stupid decision.
Then another.
And another.
He'd ignored the referee.
Thrown away the game.
Kissed Shane on the forehead in front of twenty thousand people.
Rivals don’t do that.
At this point, what was one more?
A small smile appeared on Shane's face, despite the pain he was obviously in.
As if he knew exactly what Ilya was thinking.
As if he had reached the same conclusion.
Ilya tilted his head forward just enough that Shane would have to meet him halfway.
A challenge.
An invitation.
A choice.
For years they had hidden.
For years they had waited.
For years they had convinced themselves there would be a better time.
There wasn't.
There was only now.
Shane leaned forward. And kissed him.
The arena erupted.
Gasps.
Shouts.
The rapid-fire click of cameras.
Somewhere in the distance, someone yelled something neither of them heard.
Neither of them cared.
The kiss was brief.
Soft.
Certain.
When they finally pulled apart, Shane rested his forehead against Ilya's again.
“You know this is going to be a mess, right?” he murmured.
A laugh escaped Ilya's throat. For the first time all night, it felt genuine. “Da.”
Shane smiled. “You still coming to the hospital with me?”
The question hit Ilya right in the chest.
After everything that had happened.
After the hit.
After the fear.
After the secret they had just shattered in front of the entire hockey world.
Shane still wanted him there.
Always.
“I am not leaving you.”
The trainers finally stepped forward. This time, Ilya let them.
As they carefully began securing Shane to the spinal board, Shane's hand found his one last time.
Ilya held on until he couldn't anymore.
Then he watched them wheel Shane away.
The game was over.
The secret was over.
The life they had built around hiding was over.
For the first time since he was nineteen years old, Ilya Rozanov had no idea what came next.
And standing there in the middle of the ice, with twenty thousand people staring and cameras pointed in his direction, he realized he didn't care.
Shane was alive.
Everything else, they would figure out together.