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Three weeks. It had been three fucking weeks since Ilya had asked, no demanded, Shane to leave his place on boxing day.
It had been the worst fight they had ever had. Shane sat with a twist of guilt as he reflected on Ilya declaring, in a broken voice, that he had already given up everything for Shane.
Shane spiralled, realizing he had fucked up. When he was halfway back to Montreal, he was tempted to turn the car around and drive back. But he knew that Ilya needed space. He would give it to him.
Shane texted Ilya as soon as he got home. I’m sorry. Let me know when you are ready to talk. I love you.
Nothing. Fine. That’s fine. Ilya was still upset.
The next morning, Shane had heard nothing back. He texted again. Slept terrible. I hate fighting. Please, call me.
Nothing. Shane paced his apartment all day, constantly picking up his phone to check for a reply. Nothing. Still left on read.
That evening, Shane called Ilya. “This is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”
Shane left a voicemail anyway. “Ilya. Fuck, I’m sorry. You were right. I, fuck, can you just call me back?”
Nothing.
Day after day. Shane called and texted. He had to go on the road three days after their fight for a string of away games, and Ilya still hadn’t responded.
After a week of unanswered phone calls and texts, Shane gave up, sending a final text. Okay, I’m sorry. I guess you really need space right now. I’ll stop bugging you. Maybe we can meet and talk when we’re both back in town next week on the 14th?
Nothing.
On the 14th, Shane called and texted before he drove over to Ilya’s place. He knocked, he rang the bell. He let himself in with his key. He couldn’t find Ilya anywhere, but his car was still in the garage and the back door was slightly cracked. Shane wandered the property at the back of Ilya’s place, but still couldn’t find him. Shane went back in and waited for a few hours, before eventually giving up, leaving a note on the counter. I miss you. I’m sorry. Please, just let me know you’re okay. He left to make the drive back to Montreal for practice the next morning.
He finally broke down and called his mom in tears, explaining everything. An hour later, Yuna called Shane back and said Ilya had answered her call, and that he was fine. She didn’t say anything more, whether because she didn’t know more or because she wanted to honor Ilya’s confidence and privacy, Shane didn’t know.
A part of Shane was relieved. He was alive, at least. He hadn’t done something to hurt himself.
Soon that relief turned to anger. Ilya was willing to answer Yuna’s calls but not his.
He texted Ilya, Glad to hear you’re still alive.
Nothing. Left on read.
Rage. What Shane felt now was rage.
Two days. In two days, he was going to see Ilya on ice. Montreal was playing in Ottawa in two days. There was no way for Ilya to avoid Shane when they had to play a literal game against each other.
Shane’s calls and texts the morning of the game went unanswered.
Shane skated out onto the ice, getting close to the line, waiting for Ilya to skate up to him, or fucking look at him, something. Nothing. Ilya pointedly faced away from Shane and stretched on the ice, chatting with Troy.
Fine. Fucking fine.
Shane skated up to Ilya to line up for the face off.
“Hey,” Shane said.
Nothing. Ilya’s eyes were glued to the puck. Ilya won the faceoff.
Shane was furious now. He played angry. He chased his boyfriend all around the ice, slamming him into boards, barely trying to get the puck back. “Fucking say something!” he growled at him against the board. Nothing. Ilya shoved him off and skated away with the puck.
Shane fought Ilya every minute they shared the ice together. He played hard, he played mad. He scored three goals to Ilya’s two, but he didn’t even feel the glee of satisfaction. He just felt fucking angry.
When the final buzzer sounded, Shane lingered on the ice, but Ilya was one of the first players off the ice.
Fuck that. Shane sprinted across the ice to be first to the locker room. He had stripped himself down to his under armour layer and shoved his feet in his shoes by the time his teammates had even started streaming into the locker room.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” JJ called out as Shane bolted from the locker room.
Shane let his anger drive his actions as he stormed through the tunnels of the stadium until he found himself in front of the double doors of the Centaur’s locker room. He heard sounds of laughter and overlapping conversation flow through the crack of the door before he slammed the door open with a bang.
The locker room dropped into shocked silence as every player whipped their head to look over at the sudden intrusion. As soon as they saw Shane Hollander standing there, radiating rage, eyes locked on Ilya, several players stood immediately, ready to defend their captain from his rival.
“Hey man, you gotta go, you can’t be here,” Bood said, standing defensively in Shane’s way, trying to push Shane back toward the door. Shane didn’t budge. He barely even registered the man’s presence, his eyes locked on Ilya over Bood’s shoulder.
“Ilya!” Shane shouted.
Ilya’s eyes widened in shock, taking in his boyfriend’s presence in his locker room. He looked up from his spot on the bench, where he had been leaned over tying the laces of his sneakers. He dropped his head back down and pretended to focus back on his laces. “Not here, Shane,” he said to the floor, but Shane heard it.
“Not here?” Shane scoffed, shrugging off Bood’s hands as if he were a pesky fly instead of a six foot tall man trying to defend his captain. “Are you fucking kidding me? You lost the right to have any say in where we do this when you fucking ignore me for the last three weeks. You won’t answer my calls or my texts, you won’t answer the fucking door when I come over. You won’t look at me on the fucking ice, and…. Ilya, look at me.” Ilya stared determinedly at the floor. Shane sidestepped Bood to plant himself right in front of Ilya. “Goddamnit, Ilya, look at me!” Nothing.
“ILYA GRIGORYEVICH ROZANOV, you look at me right now or I swear I will walk out of here and never speak to you again!” Shane bellowed at the man, shocking him into finally looking up at him.
“You don’t get to fucking do that to me anymore!” Shane continued shouting, pointing an accusatory finger at Ilya. “You don’t get to shut down and push me away like that! I’m not putting up with that shit anymore.”
“Shane,” Ilya croaked out.
But Shane was too worked up to listen. He barreled ahead. “No, you are going to fucking sit there and listen to me because I am so fucking mad at you right now, Ilya. You are a grown ass man now! You have to learn how to fucking have an adult conversation for once in your fucking life! I swear to god! You dropped all that shit on me in one afternoon, ask to change the whole fucking plan on a dime, and lash out at me when I fucking hesitate? God, you have to fucking talk to me, Ilya! I can’t fucking read your mind! If you are struggling, you have to fucking tell me!
“And you can’t fucking push me away like that! You can’t ice me out for weeks and just expect me to just put up with that shit. I’m not 22 anymore. Do you know how fucking worried I was? I called my mom because I was worried you had done something fucking dumb. And you answer her call, but not mine? Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t fucking care if you are mad at me, have the fucking decency to let me know you’re fucking alive!”
Shane stood there panting, his hands balled into fists at his side as he tried to contain his anger.
Ilya stood slowly, hands out in front of him like he was trying to sooth a dangerous animal. “Okay,” he said softly. “I am sorry I ignored your calls.”
“And texts!” Shane added.
“And texts,” Ilya amends. “And ran away out back like coward when you came to my door.”
“I knew you were fucking home!” Shane declared, mostly to himself.
“Yes, yes, I am sorry,” Ilya said, taking a cautious step in Shane’s direction.
“You have to promise me, Ilya,” Shane pleaded, his eyes filling rapidly with tears. “You won’t pull that shit again. You can ask for space, but you can’t disappear on me like that.”
“Shhh, okay, okay,” Ilya soothed, gently clasping Shane’s shoulders with his hands. “I promise. No more disappearing. We will talk like grown ups.”
“I’m still really mad at you,” Shane grumbled, his whole body stiff under Ilya’s hands.
“I know, is okay, you can be mad,” Ilya reassured, closing the distance and wrapping his arms around Shane’s stiff body.
At first nothing happened. Then, a sniffle. Then Shane’s hands came up and fisted the back of Ilya’s shirt. “I missed you,” Shane mumbled into Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya kissed Shane’s hair. “I missed you too. I am sorry for fighting. I am sorry for disappearing and scaring you.”
“I’m sorry too,” Shane mumbled into Ilya’s shoulder.
“Da, we are both sorry,” Ilya observed. “Makes us even, no?”
Shane pulled back to glare at Ilya. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
Ilya braved a cocky smirk at his boyfriend. “Yes, but you like that, yes?”
“Fuck you,” Shane said before crashing his lips to Ilya’s.
Ilya threaded his fingers through Shane’s hair as he deepened their kiss. They parted with a pant, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed as they took a moment.
“Can I come over tonight or are you still needing space?” Shane asked softly.
Ilya pulled back enough to press his lips to Shane’s forehead. “Come over, please. I miss you. I’m sorry.”
Shane nodded against Ilya’s lips. “I have to go get my stuff from my locker.”
“Da, I have to finish here. I meet you in parking lot?”
Shane nodded, pulling back to give Ilya a quick peck on the lips before turning and registering with some delay the captive audience they had.
A sea of shocked Centaurs with their mouths hanging open stared back at the pair.
“Um, hi guys,” Shane said, giving a little wave. “Sorry you had to see that.”
The Centaurs blinked, mouths still hanging open.
“Do not be weird,” Ilya used his captain’s voice to address his team. “Is not first time you see lover’s quarrel.”
A younger player, Shane was pretty sure it was Luca Haas, choked on his own spit.
Shane turned to extend a hand to Bood. “No hard feelings?” he asked, referencing Bood’s failed attempts to get Shane to leave the locker room.
Bood blinked, somewhat stunned, shaking Shane’s hand.
“I hear you throw a pretty awesome barbeque party. I hope I can catch the next one.”
“Um, yeah, would, uh, love to have you,” Bood stammered out.
Shane nodded as if he got what he needed out of his time in the locker room.
“Cool,” he said in closure before turning to Ilya. “I’ll see you in the parking lot. Can we do that Ethiopian place tonight?”
Ilya smiled and agreed.
Shane gave one last wave to the stunned team and made his way back into the hall. He smirked as a cacophony of shouts sounded from the locker room. One standout voice cried, “Dude, you bagged THE Shane Hollander?!” Followed by "Dude, you nearly fumbled THE Shane Hollander!"