Chapter Text
The figure skater landed cleanly, his blades cutting a sharp curve through the ice as the music swelled through the arena and rolled up into the rafters. Carter Vaughn immediately started clapping, the sound bright and a little too loud in the half empty building.
"Holy shit," he said, leaning forward in his seat with his elbows braced on his knees. "This guy is amazing."
Shane dragged his attention back toward the rink. He had technically been watching. His eyes had been pointed in the right direction, anyway, but he'd barely registered the last thirty seconds of the program, and when he tried to picture what the skater had just done, nothing came back to him but a blur of white ice and colored light.
"Yeah," Shane said. "He's fucking great."
Scott Hunter nodded from Shane's other side, not looking away from the ice. "Yeah, he really is."
The three of them were sitting several rows above the rink, surrounded by patches of empty blue seats that stretched up toward the roof in uneven clusters. The arena wasn't deserted, exactly, but it wasn't anywhere close to full either, and the applause rising from the spectators scattered through the lower sections echoed strangely in all that empty space above them, thin and scattered instead of solid.
Shane pulled the zipper of his Team Canada fleece a little higher, working it up past his throat with two fingers.
It was fucking cold in here.
Maybe it was the ice. Maybe it was the fact that their seats were far enough back that none of the warmth from the crowd below seemed to reach them. Whatever the reason, the chill had worked its way through his clothes a while ago and settled against his skin like it planned on staying there.
Or maybe he was just tired. He hadn't slept much the night before, and every time he'd closed his eyes, his mind had gone somewhere he absolutely did not need it going.
Ilya. More specifically, the first time they'd been together.
Shane had spent a lot of time trying not to examine that night too closely. He'd filed it away as something confusing yet wonderful, something that had happened between two men who were supposed to hate each other and had been stupid enough to find out what happened when that hatred got mixed up with attraction. That was the version of it he let himself keep.
Except that wasn't what Shane remembered when he actually allowed himself to think about it. He remembered Ilya being gentle. That was the part that fucked with him more than anything else. Ilya Rozanov, who could be arrogant and infuriating and deliberately cruel when he wanted to be, had kept checking on him that night. Quietly. Repeatedly. Watching Shane's face, making sure he was okay, slowing down whenever Shane seemed even a little uncertain.
Shane remembered how safe he had felt with him, which was insane, because nothing about Ilya Rozanov was supposed to make anyone feel safe. And yet.
Carter leaned closer to him, dropping his voice like he was about to share something important.
"You know what else?" he said.
Shane blinked and turned toward him. "What?"
Carter nodded toward the skater, who was gliding into his final pose as the music faded out. "It's incredibly brave."
Shane frowned, not following. "What do you mean?"
"Well." Carter lowered his voice even further, leaning in like the words were too heavy to say at full volume. "Obviously he's gay."
Scott barked out a laugh beside them. "Jesus, Vaughn. Don't assume."
Shane shook his head, forcing himself to look amused even as something in his chest pulled tight. "Yeah. Don't be so judgmental."
Inside, that something tightened immediately, and it was ridiculous how quickly it happened. One second he was sitting there watching figure skating with two teammates, and the next every muscle in his body seemed to be bracing for something, waiting for danger that wasn't actually there.
Carter looked between them and raised both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. I didn't mean it like that."
Scott gave him a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised.
"No, seriously," Carter said, and this time he sounded like he meant it. "You guys are right. That was shitty. I shouldn't assume anything about him."
Shane glanced down at his phone, thumb hovering over the screen before he even unlocked it. Nothing. His messages were right there, laid out in a neat little column, including the one he had sent Ilya hours ago. No response. He locked the screen again and shoved the phone against his thigh like it had personally offended him.
He knew Ilya had to be having a terrible time. Russia losing to Latvia had been an upset nobody had expected, least of all the Russians, and Shane could only imagine what Ilya had been dealing with since then. The press. His coaches. His teammates. His own impossible expectations, stacked on top of anything else.
He wanted to know if Ilya was okay. Apparently Ilya didn't want Shane to know.
Carter bumped Shane's elbow with his own. "Come on, Hollander. You're Canadian. You're supposed to be genetically immune to cold."
"Fuck off. I am." Shane pulled his fleece tighter around himself anyway, arms crossing over his chest. "But it's pretty fucking cold in here."
He looked around the arena, taking in the whole shape of it. "You know, it's not very packed either."
There were whole sections of empty seats higher up, and Russian flags still hung over the railings here and there, limp and mostly forgotten. The atmosphere felt muted compared with the other Olympic events Shane had attended so far, and even the applause seemed restrained, like the crowd wasn't sure it was allowed to be loud.
Scott followed his gaze up into the rafters. "Probably because everyone here was hoping for a better win from Russia. Latvia winning was a hell of an upset."
Shane swallowed. "Yeah."
His eyes drifted over the crowd, moving from section to section without really settling anywhere. He wondered how many people here had watched the game the night before. How many had screamed at their televisions or sat stunned in their seats afterward. How many Russian athletes were waking up today feeling like they'd personally let their entire country down.
How Ilya was feeling.
"Fuck," Carter said suddenly, shoulders hunching. "It is kinda cold in here."
Shane bumped his shoulder against him. "Man up."
Carter shoved him back, harder than necessary. "Asshole."
Shane laughed despite himself, the sound surprising him a little.
Carter studied him for a second, head tilted, and then smiled. "You know, Hollander, you're actually pretty down to earth."
Shane stared at him. "Actually?"
"Yeah. You always seem so wound up."
"I do not."
Scott made a noise beside him that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, quickly muffled.
Shane turned toward him. "What?"
"Nothing, rookie."
"I'm not a rookie anymore."
"You're always a rookie to me."
Shane rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling when he did it.
Carter pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb already moving over the screen. "Grab my number. Next time I'm in Montreal, or you're in New York, we should hang out."
The offer caught Shane slightly off guard, and it took him a second to answer, looking at Carter like he was checking for a catch.
"Yeah," Shane said finally. "That'd be good."
"Grab mine too," Scott said, not looking up from his own phone. "You're not nearly as boring as Rozanov says you are."
That got a smirk out of Shane, though he could feel it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Fuck him."
Carter's attention suddenly shifted, sliding past Shane's shoulder toward the upper seats.
"Hey. Speaking of Roz."
Shane's heart jumped in his chest before his brain had even caught up.
"There he is."
His head turned before he could stop himself, some instinct pulling his eyes toward that one spot in the arena. Carter was looking toward one of the higher levels of seating across the aisle, several sections above them, and Shane found him immediately, like he'd known exactly where to look all along.
Ilya. Sitting alone.
Of course he was.
Ilya had on a dark peacoat, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward as he stared toward the ice without really seeming to see it. The whole section was empty by him, like he was a virus no one wanted to catch, a little island of space that nobody had bothered to close. From this distance Shane couldn't make out his expression clearly, but he didn't need to. There was something about the way Ilya was sitting, something folded in and closed off, that told Shane everything he needed to know.
He looked fucking miserable.
All the irritation Shane had been trying to hold onto disappeared at once, like it had never been real to begin with.
"Hey," Shane said abruptly, already standing and stepping over Scott's knees. "I'm gonna go find the bathroom. Be right back."
Scott barely glanced away from the ice. "Okay."
Carter looked at him for a fraction longer than that, something assessing in his expression, but he didn't say anything.
Shane ignored it and slipped out of the row, moving fast toward the concourse before anyone could ask him a real question.
The noise changed the second he passed through the entrance tunnel. Music and applause became muffled behind thick concrete walls, replaced by the low hum of ventilation and the occasional squeak of shoes against the polished floor. Shane walked past the bathroom without slowing down.
Then he found the stairs.
His shoes struck the concrete steps in quick, hollow beats as he climbed, two at a time in places. The metal railing was freezing when his fingers brushed against it, cold enough that he pulled his hand back after the first touch.
His heart was beating too fast for someone who was just going to ask another person if he was okay, and he knew it, and he kept climbing anyway. This was stupid. He shouldn't be doing this. They were in public, surrounded by players and coaches and journalists and Olympic officials and fans who could be anywhere, watching anything.
He wasn't going to do anything. He just needed to see Ilya. That was all he was telling himself, and he made himself believe it for as long as it took to reach the top of the stairs.
When Shane reached the upper level, the cold seemed even sharper, biting at the back of his neck. There was no one there, and the enormous concrete space swallowed most of the noise coming from below, leaving behind something closer to silence.
He spotted Ilya at the end of the row and slowed his steps, approaching carefully like he was trying not to startle something.
Ilya didn't turn around. "Not here, Hollander."
Shane stopped a few feet behind him. "I know."
"Then go away."
Shane stared at the back of his head, at the tense set of his shoulders under the dark fabric of his jacket. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."
"I am fine." Ilya's voice was flat, clipped at the edges. "Now go back to your seat."
Shane's chest tightened. "Are you alright? You didn't answer my text."
Ilya's head snapped toward him, and his eyes were cold when they landed on Shane's face. "No. I did not answer your boring text. Now will you go back to your seat?"
Shane recoiled slightly, like he'd been shoved. "I was just checking on you."
"I did not ask you to."
"Okay, but..." Shane lowered his voice, glancing at the empty seats around them before he kept going. "I thought that we were..."
He didn't even know how to finish that sentence. Friends? They weren't friends. Boyfriends? Absolutely fucking not. Something? Maybe, and that was the word that scared him most, because he didn't have a better one.
Ilya stood abruptly, the motion sharp enough that his jacket caught the light. "We are nothing, Hollander!"
The words cracked through the nearly empty section and seemed to hang there afterward.
Shane froze.
Ilya's eyes moved, not toward Shane but past him, over his shoulder, and something in his face changed all at once, tightening and shutting down in the space of a heartbeat. His jaw clenched, and his hand came up to grab at the lapel of his jacket, fingers twisting into the fabric like he needed something to hold onto.
"Blyat," he muttered under his breath.
Shane turned.
Carter Vaughn was standing several feet behind him, hands loose at his sides, watching both of them with a careful, unreadable expression.
For one horrible second, nobody said anything.
Then Carter lifted his hands slightly, palms out. "I was going to the bathroom," he said. "Saw Hollander coming up here. I just wanted to make sure he was okay."
Ilya's expression hardened further, his grip on his own lapel tightening. "What are you, his fucking keeper now?"
Carter's face changed immediately, jaw setting, and his hands curled into fists at his sides before he seemed to catch himself. "Fuck off, Roz, you piece of dog shit."
Ilya gave a humorless laugh, short and ugly. "Yes. Fine. I am dog shit. Now take Hollander with you and leave my fucking sight."
Shane stared at him, something hot rising in his throat. "What the fuck? I was just checking if you were okay."
Ilya said nothing. He wouldn't even look at him now, his gaze fixed somewhere over Shane's shoulder like Shane had already left.
"Hollander," Carter said quietly, stepping closer and putting a hand near Shane's arm without quite touching it. "Let's just go, man."
Shane waited another second anyway. Some pathetic part of him was waiting for Ilya to stop him, to say something, anything, that would make this make sense.
Ilya didn't.
"Yeah," Shane said, and his voice came out strange, thinner than he meant it to. "Okay."
He turned and followed Carter back toward the stairs. Neither of them spoke as they headed down, their footsteps echoing through the stairwell, louder going down than they had been going up. Shane could hear every strike of Carter's shoes behind him, slightly slower than his own, like Carter was pacing himself on purpose.
Shane descended faster. Too fast. His lungs suddenly didn't feel right, like the air in the stairwell had gotten thinner somewhere between the top and the bottom.
He took another step. Then another. The stairwell seemed colder now, and smaller, pressing in from every side. His fingers were tingling.
"Hollander?"
Shane reached the lower floor and immediately walked away from the stairwell, putting distance between himself and the door like it mattered.
"I need a minute."
"Shane?"
"I just..." He bent forward, planting both hands against his knees, his arms shaking under him.
Fuck. No. Not here.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Hollander."
"I'm fine."
Carter moved closer, his voice pitching low. "Hey. Hey, hey, hey."
"I said I'm fine."
"No, the fuck you are not."
Shane tried to straighten up and couldn't seem to get a full breath, his chest working hard for something that wouldn't quite come.
Carter's voice immediately softened, losing all its earlier sharpness. "Okay. You're having a panic attack. That's all. Just breathe through it."
"No, I'm..."
"Stop arguing with me for five fucking seconds."
Shane looked at him. Carter was standing directly in front of him now, close enough that Shane could see every detail of his face, the concern written plainly across it with nothing held back.
"Just breathe with me, okay?"
Shane shook his head. "I can't..."
"Yeah, you can. Here."
Carter took Shane's hand before Shane could ask what the hell he was doing, and pressed Shane's palm flat against the center of his own chest, holding it there.
Shane stared at him. "Feel that?"
Carter deliberately inhaled, slow and exaggerated, then exhaled the same way. "Follow my breathing."
Shane's hand rose slightly against Carter's chest with the next breath, tracking the motion almost against his will.
"That's it," Carter said. "Breathe with me. Focus on my voice."
Shane nodded and tried. His first breath came too quickly, ragged at the edges.
Carter didn't react, didn't flinch or pull back. "Again."
Shane inhaled. Held it. Exhaled.
"Good."
Shane closed his eyes, chasing the dark behind his eyelids like it might help.
"No, no." Carter squeezed his wrist lightly. "Keep looking at me."
Shane opened them again. Carter's face was calm, steady, with no judgment in it and no questions waiting behind his eyes.
"That's it," Carter said. "Just look at me. You're okay. Try to relax a little."
Shane concentrated on the rise and fall beneath his palm, letting it anchor him in a way he didn't fully understand. Carter put his own hand over Shane's, keeping it in place.
"Follow my breathing."
In. Out. In. Out.
The roaring in Shane's ears slowly faded, retreating like a tide going out. His shoulders loosened. His arms stopped shaking. Eventually, Shane realized he could breathe without thinking about it, the air moving in and out of him on its own again.
Carter seemed to realize it at the same time. He released Shane's hand, and Shane pulled it back against his own chest, flexing his fingers like he was checking they still worked.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Shane cleared his throat.
"Thank you."
Carter nodded. "You're welcome."
Another awkward second passed between them. Then Carter glanced down at Shane's hand, and something shifted in his expression, easing back toward something lighter.
"You know, Hollander, you've got some seriously soft hands for a hockey player."
Shane blinked. "What?"
"How many times a day do you moisturize?"
A laugh burst out of Shane before he could stop it, surprising him for the second time that day.
Carter grinned. "There he is."
"Fuck you."
"Seriously. Twice? Three times?"
"Shut up."
Shane was still laughing, some of the tightness finally starting to leave his chest for good.
Carter's smile widened, and something about it made the last of the pressure in Shane's chest ease all the way out.
"Seriously, though," Shane said, sobering a little. "Thank you."
"Anytime."
"And about what you just saw..."
Carter's smile disappeared, not entirely, but enough that Shane noticed.
"Hey. You don't have to explain anything to me. I won't say anything."
Shane's stomach dropped anyway. "But it's not what you think."
Carter gave him a look, steady and unimpressed. "What?"
"Shane."
It was the first time Carter had used his first name since they'd come down here, and it landed heavier than Shane expected.
"I saw your eyes up there. Those weren't exactly the eyes of someone dealing with something that's no big deal."
Shane looked away, jaw tight. "Fuck."
Carter waited, patient, not pushing.
Shane rubbed both hands over his face like he could scrub the last few minutes off his skin. "Fuck. You can't tell anyone."
"I won't."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"No one, Vaughn."
"I said I won't."
Shane searched his face for any sign that he was lying, but Carter looked completely serious, none of his usual mischief anywhere in sight.
Finally Shane nodded. "Okay."
Carter leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossing loosely over his chest. "I don't know what your history is with Roz."
Shane immediately opened his mouth to say something.
"And I'm not asking," Carter added, before he could get a word out. "But whatever it is, you don't deserve that shit. You should be treated right."
Shane stared at the floor, at the pattern in the tile that suddenly seemed very interesting. "He's probably just upset about losing to Latvia."
"Maybe."
"It was a huge upset."
"I know."
"He's got his entire country watching him."
"I know."
Shane frowned, looking up at him. "You don't understand what he's..."
"No," Carter interrupted, gently but firmly. "I probably don't. And I'm not saying I do. Maybe he's going through absolute hell right now."
Shane looked at him, waiting for the rest of it.
"But that doesn't mean you get to be his punching bag."
Shane didn't have an answer for that. He turned the words over in his head and found he didn't want to argue with them.
"Yeah," he finally said.
Carter pushed away from the wall, some of his usual energy coming back into his movements. "Come on. We should get back before Scott sends out a search party."
He put a hand on Shane's shoulder and started steering him toward the arena entrance, easy and casual, like it was nothing.
Shane looked at the hand. Then at Carter.
"Aren't you afraid somebody's going to say something because you're touching my shoulder?"
Carter stared at him, genuinely baffled. "Jesus Christ, Hollander. We're not fucking in the middle of the room. I think I'm allowed to touch your shoulder."
Shane stopped walking. That was a weirdly specific conclusion to jump to, and he knew it even as the thought was still forming.
Carter kept walking for another step before realizing Shane had stopped. He turned around. "What?"
Shane was staring at him, trying to work out what exactly had just happened in his own head.
"Nothing."
Carter laughed. "What is it?"
"Bullshit."
"You just surprised me, that's all."
Carter's grin became almost mischievous, tugging up at one corner more than the other. "Well." He shrugged, easy and unbothered. "We all have surprises."
Shane narrowed his eyes at him, trying to decide if that meant what he thought it meant. Before he could ask, Carter turned around again.
"Now come on."
Shane followed, still turning it over.
"And," Carter added, "I think tonight you, Scott, and me need to go out."
"Go out where?"
"There are some very racy clubs around here."
Shane groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh my God."
"We're in Russia. We can use a night out."
"I don't know."
"Hollander, when the fuck are you going to be in Russia again with nothing better to do than go clubbing?"
Shane considered that and found he didn't have a good counterargument.
Carter glanced at him sideways. "We can even find you a nice friend for the night."
That made Shane laugh again, sharp and surprised. "No. Absolutely not. We are not finding me a friend."
Carter stopped walking, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated offense, a hand pressed dramatically to his own chest.
"Wow."
"What?"
"Get your mind out of the gutter, Hollander. What if I meant an actual friend?"
"You did not mean an actual friend."
"You don't know me."
"I know enough."
"Judgmental."
"Whatever."
They started walking again, falling back into step together. Shane realized he was still smiling, and that the smile hadn't taken any effort to hold onto this time.
Maybe Carter was right. Not about finding him a fucking friend, obviously, but about going out. He was at the Olympics, in Russia, with people who apparently wanted to spend time with him for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey or anything else. And instead of enjoying any of it, he'd spent most of the last twenty-four hours staring at his phone and worrying about Ilya.
Maybe one night could just be his.
"Okay," Shane said.
Carter turned toward him. "Okay what?"
"We can go out."
Carter grinned, delighted. "But I'm sticking with you the whole night."
"Fine by me."
"And I'm not doing anything stupid."
"Of course not."
Shane didn't trust the innocent expression on Carter's face for a second, but he let it go.
Carter slapped his shoulder. "But I do plan on getting you drunk, Hollander."
"Oh, fuck. I'm a lightweight with booze."
"I figured."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Don't worry about it. I won't leave you by yourself."
Shane looked at him, and something about the simple certainty of it caught him off guard, the way Carter said it like it wasn't even a question.
"Thanks."
Carter smiled, softer this time. "I'm just glad you're smiling again."
Shane looked toward the tunnel leading back into the arena. He could hear the applause again, rolling and steady, another skater must have finished their program while they'd been down here. The sound rolled through the concrete corridor and surrounded them on all sides.
For the first time since he'd seen Ilya sitting alone upstairs, Shane didn't feel like he couldn't breathe.
"Yeah," he said. Then, quieter, "Fuck him."
Carter nodded solemnly, like he was agreeing to something official. "Absolutely."
They made it another few steps before Carter glanced sideways at him again.
"Okay, but seriously."
Shane immediately knew he wasn't going to like whatever came next.
"What?"
"Do you have a thing for assholes?"
Shane's mouth fell open.
Carter continued, completely straight faced, like he was conducting a serious interview. "Is it some kind of control thing, or..."
"Oh my God."
"I'm just trying to understand your type. Are you into getting spanked?"
"Shut the fuck up."
Carter's laughter followed them all the way back toward their seats.