Archive of Our Own

Like all terrible things in Shane’s life, it starts with a stupid, avoidable social blunder. It’s mid-March, during the league’s experimental first “Green Week” when Shane is ambushed by a journalist who asks him what he personally has done for the environment. 

Shane wants to tell the guy to fuck off. He’s the best hockey player alive, by far. That’s what he’s done for the environment. He nets his team and the league millions of dollars in profit every year, then they donate that money to whatever environmental cause so Shane doesn’t have to think about it. He put the stupid green logo on his social media. He wrapped the stupid green tape on his stick, even though it distracted him at one point during a game. He went to the stupid St. Lawrence River cleanup so they could photograph him with a garbage bag in his hand, even though it cut into his personal time. He even thanked the volunteers there and signed some autographs.

But Shane can’t say any of that. They already know all of that, and basically every player is also doing all of that. No, this reporter expects him to go above and beyond other players. It’s the story of Shane’s life, what else is new? ‘Good enough’ for other players is never ‘good enough’ for him. Fucking Scott Hunter just appeared in a Prius commercial, the lucky ancient asshole. It’s too late to book one of those before he has to answer this question, isn’t it?

“I have my own water bottle,” he responds weakly. That’s environmental, right? No one needs to know he only has one because he hates the way the disposable plastic bottles crinkle under his fingers, and his metal one is soothing for him, and he thinks the water from it tastes better, no matter what Hayden says. 

The reporter looks at him like that’s not an answer. It’s no Scott Hunter Prius commercial. So Shane wracks his brain for other things he—as an individual—could do for the environment. 

It’s a dumb question, he decides while he should be thinking of an answer. He doesn’t have control over the world. He barely has control over his life. He has two weeks a year that are his, and the properties he—the properties! “…and I’m getting solar panels installed,” he declares proudly. 

No, he isn’t. 

But that night, he watches his interview replayed on the sports roundup (why this is more interesting than his win, he’ll never know), and hears his stupid voice say those stupid words. Why does every social interaction yield extra problems for him? He figures he should at least look into solar panels, in case the reporter digs. 

So he searches for solar panel companies, wondering the whole time if that’s even a thing, and clicks on the top search result: Solar Panel Associates of Montreal. He doesn’t care if it’s an ad and they paid to be the top one. He doesn’t check the reviews. He just wants the fucking solar panels before he sees that journalist again. He completes the online form, makes an appointment to get a quote. Maybe he can get this done before playoffs.

The next day, the same journalist asks Dallas Kent the same thing and he literally says, “Fuck the environment. Next question.” 

So that media circus eclipses Shane’s and for once he silently thanks Dallas Kent for making his stupid water-bottle-solar-panel answer look good. He calls and leaves a message to cancel his appointment for solar panels and goes to sleep peacefully, never to think about the whole thing again.

...That was almost a week ago. And now, staring down the barrel of the end of the season, trying to get his team out of a losing streak so they can maybe scrape up a wildcard spot in the playoffs, Shane hasn’t gone one day without hearing “Hi Shane! It’s Cyrus.”

Or, “What’s up, Shane? It’s Elaine again.”

Or, worst of all, “Hello Shane, this is Ilya.” Shane finds it the most irritating when it’s Ilya. Some combination of his accent and his attitude makes him sound overconfident, like he knows he’ll get the sale. 

He will never get the sale. 

They use his first name. They act like his friends. He’s tried blocking them, but they always call with a different number. He recognizes the area codes they’ve been calling from, and he stopped picking up. Voicemails are filling his phone faster than he can go through them.

The final straw comes when he misses an important call from the team doctor because of his call-screening crusade. He’s been avoiding talking to these people after the initial cancellation, but he’s frustrated. 

His phone buzzes. It’s them. He knows it without even looking. “Hello?”

“…hi! Shane, this is Elaine with—”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, but you have to stop fucking calling me.”

He hangs up. That should do it. 

It doesn’t. If anything, it gets worse. He gets five calls in three days. J.J. says answering was a mistake, Shane just showed them it’s a real number. 

No one can figure out how to get him on the Do-Not-Call list, or how to get the Do-Not-Call list to actually work. His parents, Farah, even the team lawyers are trying. He starts looking at reviews of the company and they’re bad. He should never have given them his number. Horror stories flood the internet. 

“Better to just change your number!”
“I got solar panels so they’d leave me the heck alone!”
“I can’t even look at the sun anymore!” 
“I hear from Elaine more than my own daughter.”
“On fucking Christmas, guys.”

Shane has a gazillion dollars and he’s famous for fuck’s sake. He should be able to get a shitty fucking local solar company to stop calling.

Today, Shane has a strategy when his phone lights up. He puts on his most polite voice for his “Hello?”

“Hello, is this Shane?” Ugh, it’s Ilya. “This is Ilya—”

“Hi, Ilya. Listen, can I please be taken off the list?” Shane tries kindness. Maybe the internet reviewers never said please. “Sorry, no offense.” 

“You do not want solar panels on your house?” Ilya’s accent floats over the question, and Shane realizes that despite hearing this voice so much in his voicemails, he hasn’t heard a wide variety of words or any long sentences. The voice is low, and it beats down on Shane’s chest… it’s kind of entrancing. What is this guy doing selling solar panels when he could be narrating audiobooks or something? 

“I don’t have a house.” The correction isn’t necessary, and Shane cringes as he says it.

“You are homeless?” 

“No, it’s an apartment.” 

There’s a beat of silence. “…Why did you fill out this form if you live in an apartment?” 

“I own the building—” he snaps back but shakes his head and tries to ignore the annoying question from this pest, sticking with his polite strategy. “It doesn’t matter. Either way, I’m not interested in installing solar panels. Thank you.” 

“Ok, Shane. You will let me know when you change your mind.”

“Not fucking likely.” So much for politeness, but that attitude is irritating to Shane. Like it’s a matter of when and not if.

Ilya sounds like he’s smiling when he says “Have a nice day, Shane. Talk soon.” 

Ilya’s warm, smiling voice really throws Shane out of orbit, and he doesn’t stop thinking about it. To be so certain and smug, to really think you’re going to get the sale… Shane loses a game and thinks, ‘Would Ilya have lost?’ The guy is so pushy and cocksure, he’s probably never lost at anything in his life.

Shane wants to give the guy a piece of his mind. 

Maybe that’s why he answers again instead of letting it go to voicemail. “Hello?” 

“Hi! Shane? This is Cyrus with Solar Panel Associates of Montreal—” Shane hangs up. He doesn’t even really know why he answered. 

He remembers why the next day when he gets a voicemail. It’s Ilya, and he actually listens.

“Hi Shane, Ilya again! Wanted to talk about the free quote for your house—sorry, apartment.” He emphasizes the word like it’s a big imposition for him to correct himself. “Call back when you get a moment.” Shane hits delete, but he gets an empty feeling. Hayden and J.J. always talk about FOMO when gatherings happen without them, and Shane never can relate. He’s always happier not being included in social situations. But right now, he has FOMO. He should have answered.

Shane is just settling into his couch after an afternoon loss. He always takes a moment of silence before he starts watching ESPN to see what people are saying, or the game replay to see what actually went wrong. The possibility of going to the playoffs is sinking with every loss, and it’s his fault. Sure, he’s the highest scorer and rarely messes up, but he’s the Captain. Any loss is his fault, even if he plays well. He closes his eyes.

He tilts his head back and barely takes one breath before his phone buzzes. It’s that area code.

“What.” Shane answers with malice. God help whichever poor salesperson it is, because he’s not in the mood. They’re about to hear a meltdown. He hopes it’s Ilya, he would never take this out on Elaine or Cyrus. 

“Hi Shane. This is Ilya with—” Yes.

“Fuck, man! Please,” Shane is just desperate enough to beg. “Please stop calling.”

The line is quiet for a moment, Shane thinks maybe Ilya took the hint. No luck. “It is a bad time?”

“What? No! There’s no good time! I don’t want them. I—”  

He cuts Shane off. This fucking guy. “—We have on record you were interested in solar panels.”

“I was. For like, a day. After this, I never want to see another solar panel in my life.”

Ilya fucking chuckles. Shane’s blood pressure rises. “But you were interested?”

“It was a fucking PR thing!” Shane whines, “That’s the insane part, I didn’t even want them!” He realizes he’s gesturing to an empty room.

“Why not?”

Shane huffs with frustration and wipes a hand down his face, “Jesus Christ, this is so annoying. I don’t want unnecessary construction on my building, it’s a hassle, and I travel too much for work. I can’t leave workers there while I’m gone.”

“Installation is fast, and they don’t really need to be in the house—”

“It’s an apartment,” Shane reminds him, though Shane is starting to think these slip-ups are intentional.

After another beat of silence, Ilya cautiously asks, “…You are Shane Hollander, the hockey player, yes?”

This catches Shane off-guard. He didn’t think they knew of him. Otherwise why would they still be calling? “Yes?”

“So, you have people in your house every day,” Ilya says simply. “Staff, cleaners, landscapers, solar panelists…” he trails off. 

“No, I don’t. I like my privacy.” Shane turns red as he remembers he doesn’t have to answer to this man. Ilya doesn’t have to know Shane is protective of his space, that he only lets the cleaning crew in while he’s home. Sure, he only has two dildos on the premises, and he knows they’re locked away, but Shane is always nervous they’ll roll out into the kitchen or something, grow a mouth and vocal cords, and scream ‘Shane Hollander likes butt stuff!’ Or his lube will walk from the cabinet into the living room. Or his laptop will self-open and autoplay the instructional video for the prostate massager he’s considering. No, no one enters Shane’s place without him there. 

It’s not that he’s gay, or bisexual or whatever. And if he is, he can blame Jessica, his high school girlfriend, for putting the tip of her finger up there one time. Since then, he’s been reassured by multiple Reddit threads that what he does is normal for straight guys. Enlightened, even. It’s normal. He just… doesn’t need it known. 

“Ok, Mr. Privacy,” Ilya coos sarcastically, and Shane’s blood boils at the audacity.

“How is this professional? Fuck off.” 

“So private,” Ilya ignores him, “but you put your real number on a website?”

…this is a very good point. Honestly, Shane hadn’t even thought of that. It’s so seldom he’s asked to give his number, and he tries not to get himself into situations where anyone asks for it romantically, but it never occurred to him how quickly he gave his real number to an internet form. 

So that’s what Shane means. What comes out is more like, “I don’t get asked for my number a lot. I don’t just give it out to anyone, though.”

Ilya makes a sound of surprise, and then lowers his already-seductive voice, “...then it is a good thing I already have it.” Shane’s stomach does something troublesome.

“No— I mean…”

Is this guy hitting on him? Ilya isn't really going to use his number for anything …untoward, right? Nothing could be worse than what’s already happening, which is basically harassment as it is. And what do people do after they get a phone number, like in the movies? They call to go on dates, or something? Shane certainly won’t be saying yes to a date with Ilya. He doesn’t even know what this guy looks like. And Ilya is a guy, which… Why is that the second thought? Shane is straight. 

Deciding he probably doesn’t have to change his number, yet, because he’ll say no to any advances, Shane amends his statement. “I mean I didn’t even think about it. The form just asked for a number, I put it down.”

“Ok, Shane.” Ilya has that smug lilt to his voice again, like he knows he’ll get the sale. But it’s weird… They weren’t talking about solar panels. “So, when can we schedule an assessment?”

“Fucking— no! No assessment. Ever. Stop calling.” He hangs up and instantly feels a black hole in the room. He’s faced with the horrifying realization that he liked playing cat and mouse with the solar panel guy with the mesmerizing voice. He wants Ilya to call back right away, just so he can ignore the call. He wants to answer the call and argue with him. He wants Ilya to poke holes in his logic and try to sell him these stupid solar panels. He shakes his head. It’s getting weird. He’ll do the first thing, he’ll ignore the calls.

After days of diligent ignoring, Shane’s voicemail storage is dangerously close to full, so he relaxes on the couch again one night after practice and starts to sift through them. He doesn’t even hold the phone up to his ear, he can hear the tinny voice screeching the words he’s come to despise.

“Shane? This is Ilya—” delete. 

“Hello Shane, this is Ilya—” delete. 

“Hi Shane, it’s Ilya—” delete. 

Wait. The other salespeople aren’t calling? Is it just Ilya? And the number usually changes in the 15,000 calls Shane has gotten, but some of these voicemails are from a repeat number. Meaning he could just… block this number?

He actually listens to the next one. 

“Hello Shane, Ilya again. I know you are ignoring me, but you played very well last night. I liked what you did in that second period power play, but I might have passed to Pike. He is a very bad player, but he was wide open and had a clear shot to goal.” He watched the game? He knows about hockey? “You won anyway, you do not need my help. You do need solar panels on your house—oops, apartment, though...” Shane laughs. Still, delete. 

He hits the next one. 

“This is Ilya, calling for Mr. Hotshot. You looked very happy tonight after the win. It was cute.” Shane blushes. “Maybe you celebrate with a solar panel or two?” Delete. 

“Hello there, I am Ilya, trying to reach Shane Hollander.” The accent is thicker than normal, a little garbled. Is… no, he can’t be— Is Ilya drunk? Isn’t this his job? “Ah, but Shane Hollander is not picking up for me because he is currently crushing Toronto Guardians. You are so good at hockey, should be studied in laboratories. I’m sure I am better, if I played but… you look so pretty out there. I can not believe how many goals you have scored this year, is really…” he blows some air out, and it’s followed by a second of silence before his voice gets more serious, contemplative. “You should really consider solar panels for your building, Shane Hollander. I think you would be a lot happier. I would help you. God… you skate so fast, solnyshko. Call me back.” 

Shane swallows. If there was any doubt about whether Ilya was hitting on him, it’s rapidly disappearing, but Shane isn’t as annoyed as he wants to be. In fact, he’s flattered. That’s ok, right? When someone gasses up your skills and calls you pretty, you don’t have to be annoyed with them, do you? It’s normal to have some sort of agitation in your solar plexus when you think about it. Right? 

There’s one more message. Really, he feels like he needs to recover from the last one for some reason, but he hits ‘Play’ anyway.

“This is Ilya again, calling for Shane.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So. There was no game tonight, and I missed watching you, so I typed your name in my computer to see you anyway. Maybe watch an interview?” Oh god, Shane can guess where this is going. “You will never guess this: Found one from Green Week.” Ilya’s voice is devious and Shane’s heart plummets onto the ground with dread. Ilya hums on the voicemail, and Shane’s heart flips where it lies on the ground. “It was very interesting, Shane. See, they asked what you are doing for your planet. The planet that provides you oxygen and life, you know, this planet? Anyway… you said water bottles, which… is 2016, Shane, everyone has water bottles.” Ilya scoffs. “But then do you know what I hear? These beautiful words in your beautiful mouth: am getting solar panels installed.” Ilya groans like he’s eating something delicious or… Shane’s face heats up. “Cannot tell you what I felt then. Anyway, call me back when you can, I would love to schedule your assessment.” Shane’s finger lingers over the delete button for too long before he decides against it. He saves the last two messages. Because clearly he’s simply lost his mind.

The risk of actually talking to Ilya again after those messages is daunting, so Shane is still screening his calls. His phone buzzes constantly, sometimes multiple times a day. Like now, at lunch with his mother.

Yuna looks at his phone with interest. Shane knows what she’s thinking: Maybe it’s a girl, maybe it’s a date… Shane doesn’t date enough for his parents’ liking, but Shane doesn’t like dating enough to care. He loves his parents, but he hates the awkward polite dinner conversation of a date. Even when there’s a shared interest, date-conversation runs dry in thirty seconds. Shane would probably have a better time talking to Ilya from Solar Panel Associates of Montreal than any woman he’s been on a date with. And that's saying something, because he hates Ilya from Solar Panel Associates of Montreal.

Even more awkward than the conversations on dates are the awkward sexual encounters after them. He hates wondering whether he should just admit defeat and not try to finish, or ask the woman for what he actually wants. He hates feeling like maybe he’d rather… it doesn’t matter. He can’t tell his mother any of this anyway. 

“It’s the fucking solar panel people again.” Shane says and hits ‘Ignore’. “I still can’t get them to stop.”

Yuna shrugs. “Why don’t you just get the damn solar panels? It might look good for your brand. Some climate change deniers might be miffed but overall, I think the reception would be favorable.”

Shane can’t explain to his mother that her son has turned this into a sick, pseudo-sexual game with a male telemarketer he’s never seen. He tries something close to the truth, “It’s the principle of it now. They’re all such jerks. And this one guy...” Nope, too far, Hollander. Pull it back.

“I know, I know. You don’t like to admit defeat. Maybe another company, then.” But Shane can’t even think about that. Ilya would hate that.

Shane collects the strength to listen to the new messages. He gets comfortable on his couch, like usual, and hits ‘Play’ on the first one. It’s from the frequent number that Ilya has been using a lot lately. He really should block it.

“Hi Shane, this is Ilya. You are playing New York tonight? I hear Scott Hunter has solar panels, so you need to get them too, right away. His clock is also solar-powered. Because it is a sun dial. He is one thousand years old.” Shane laughs at that one, but deletes it. 

He is about to start the second one when his phone rings: That area code. In fact, it’s that number. 

He’s alone. He’s relaxed. He’s not doing anything else. He’s in a good mental state to entertain a frustrating conversation with an annoying solar panel salesman with a bad attitude and a very alluring voice… he picks up. “Hello?” 

“Hi? Shane?” Ilya sounds surprised he picked up, but quickly locks into sales pitch mode. “Hope I am not interrupting.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” Shane grins to the empty living room. Got him.

“Hmm well, if you were on the ice, or performing surgery, or there was a fire in your house, I would let you hang up.”

Shane’s body warms up and his grin doesn’t fade. “Let me?” 

Ilya continues unfazed, “But you are just sitting alone on your couch?” How did he know? 

“Uhhh yeah, actually I was just listening to your voicemails.” He kicks himself for being honest. 

“Oh?” Ilya sounds like he’s beaming. “I thought you delete them.”

“I do. Well— I usually do. But I…” know that it’s only you leaving them now, sometimes from the same number? “Sometimes I listen to them first.”

Ilya hums smugly, “Ok. And tell me, now that I have you,” Shane stifles a gasp at the idea that Ilya ‘has’ him, “…how long were you letting me suffer before telling me there is video of you on the internet being so pretty, saying you want solar panels so badly?”

“Fuck off. It was a trap, they always do that.”

“Is my favorite video on the whole internet now. I have watched it for hours.” Something about his voice is inherently raunchy. All the words would be innocent, but Ilya’s tone makes it sound like it’s a different kind of video.

Shane’s face glows and he’s grateful no one can see it. “I— that’s…” 

“You made a promise to that poor reporter, Shane.” 

“No, I didn’t.” Shane remembers to be annoyed. “Plus, did you see what Dallas Kent said the next day?”

“Oh,” Ilya says sarcastically, “You are not as bad as Dallas Kent? Nevermind, then.”

“Shut up.” Shane chews his lip so he doesn’t smile any more. “I didn’t know you watch hockey.” How could he? He knows literally nothing about this person.

“Obviously I watch. I am in Montreal, I think televisions here are only legally allowed to show hockey.”

“You’re in Montreal?” Shane is surprised. He shouldn’t be; Ilya works for the Solar Panel Associates of Montreal.

“Yes, you hear my Quebecois accent?” Ilya jokes. 

Shane almost lets the words leave his mouth: ‘I like your accent. It’s the best accent I’ve heard in my life.’ But that’s not really something you say to a stranger, especially a guy. 

One thing is bugging him about some of the voicemails. They were super unprofessional. There’s no way Ilya works in an office and said some of that stuff, made those sounds in between suggestive and flirtatious words. “You work from home?” 

“…sometimes.” Ilya has a question in his voice. “Sometimes we go to the office but if is just calling and not door-to-door that day, I stay home. Like tonight.”

“Oh, you annoy people in person too?” Shane can’t stifle the tiny bolt of excitement. What would happen if Ilya came here? The gate usually scares off solicitors, but Ilya would probably ring the intercom. He’d demand to be let in. If Ilya was at his door, would Shane recognize him without hearing the voice first? What would Ilya do then? He would give his sales pitch? He wouldn’t take no for an answer? 

“Sometimes, yes.” Shane can hear Ilya’s smile. He wants to hear it more. And that’s… not ok. None of this is ok. 

Shane guesses off a hunch. “And this number? It keeps showing up. It’s your personal number?”

There’s silence on the line. “We’ll be in touch soon to schedule your assessment.” The phone call ends abruptly. Shane is left stunned. 

Well, if it gets them to stop calling. 

It doesn’t. 

The next day, Shane checks his phone before practice: 1 new voicemail. His heart races, and he breathes to calm it down. No one should get this excited over anything, especially a spam call about solar panels. He toys with the idea of saving it until he’s home, but he can’t wait. He presses the phone to his ear. 

“Hi Shane,” it’s Elaine. “It’s Elaine—” Fuck. Delete. Why is he so disappointed it’s not the annoying Russian guy?

Maybe Elaine was on vacation last week. With Cyrus. That’s why Shane wasn’t getting calls from them. Maybe he was imagining the added attention Ilya was giving him. Ilya is just a really good salesman, that’s all. 

Comeau notices Shane’s apparent storm clouds, “You got a girl on there, Hollander?”

“What? No,” Shane shakes his head rapidly, “No, just a spam call. The damn solar panels still.”

Comeau nods, appeased. Everyone has heard Shane rant about his feud with this company.

After practice, Shane gets off the ice and checks his phone. Nothing. That’s fair, it would have been two calls in one day. That’s harassment; Shane shouldn't want that. 

The next day, Shane keeps his phone on through traveling, a tape meeting, and the team lunch. As he’s walking down the hallway to his hotel room, his phone buzzes. The area code. 

“Hello?”

“Hi Shane, this is Cyrus with—” Dammit, he wouldn’t have answered if he knew it was Cyrus. 

“Hi Cyrus, I’ve tried to tell you guys a bunch of times I don’t want solar panels, and I don’t want you to call me 24/7.”

“Oh, sorry! A quote is free, though, and—” 

“It’s not about paying for a quote or not, I just don’t want them.”

“Have you considered the resale value of your house?” 

“It’s an apartment.” Why is it not as much fun quarreling with Cyrus? Shane hangs up on him.

He has a good feeling about the next day, having heard from the other two salespeople since hearing from Ilya. If they’re taking turns, it would be Ilya next. Shane wishes he kept track of any patterns so he could know when to pick up. He’s getting dressed for the game when he gets the call, so he doesn’t see it. He checks his phone just as they’re about to go on: One voicemail. 

There’s no time to listen now, and for whatever inexplicable reason, Shane’s emotions are linked to this solar panel spam call, so he focuses on the game. And if he plays better, as if playing harder will make the game end quicker, that’s only for him to know.

They win. They’re winning more recently, and people are starting to talk about a wildcard spot in the playoffs for Montreal. 

“Hi Shane, this is Ilya.” Fuck yes, Shane’s body sings with relief. For a flash, he thinks it’s the best thing that’s happened to him all day, but didn’t he win a crucial game today? It’s not long-lived, anyway. “Just wanted to check in and schedule an appointment for your free quote and consultation. Give us a call back. Thanks!”

It’s the standard message. In the standard tone of voice, nothing else. No rants about hockey. No weirdly feminizing compliments. Shane wants to say fuck it and call him back. But what would he say? Shane doesn’t want solar panels. He just wants to, what? Hear Ilya’s take on tonight’s game? Hear Ilya calling Scott Hunter old? Hear Ilya chastise him for the war Shane is single-handedly waging on the planet? Does he… maybe want to hear Ilya’s rambling voicemails because they always contained a sigh or accidental moan? The more Shane thinks about it and replays them, the more he knows those were on purpose.

Elaine and Cyrus are relentless, and Shane is due for a call from Ilya, but it never comes. 

It’s the night of a home win against Boston, their division rivals. The playoffs are looking even closer to their reach, and they have a day off tomorrow, so the whole team thinks it’s a good night to let loose. Even though his alcohol tolerance is shit after not drinking the whole season, Shane can be a good captain and join them for a beer or two.

Or six. Plus shots. He fumbles through his phone to find the number Ilya used a few times. Shane has replayed their last conversation in his mind day and night. Ilya panicked when Shane asked about this phone number, so he knows he was right. He doesn’t know why it scared Ilya off. He was asking a ton of questions: where he lives, where he works, so whether he’s been calling from a personal number should have been just like those… why was that the weird one?

If this is really Ilya’s personal number, it’s probably a cell phone. That’s something Sober-Shane figured out a while ago. Drunk-Shane has just decided what to do with this information. 

Shane: Whyy ddi you stop o callng me ?

Ilya: Shane?
Ilya: You might have the wrong number. This is Ilya, from Solar Panel Associates of Montreal.

Shane: I knw who yuo are, Mr. Ilyaa the solr panel
Shane: Why did y stip calilng me?
Shane: miss you

Ilya: Are you drinking? I heard you do not party.

Shane: ou dont knw me.
Shane: leave me a viocemal
Shane: a goid onne!!!!! 😡

Shane wakes up cloudy with a headache. He mentally prepares himself before opening his eyes and checking the time on his phone: 5:45 am. Fuck his internal clock for not letting him sleep off whatever he put in his body last night. But right under the displayed time is a notification: 1 new voicemail, just before midnight. It’s from a saved number, a contact with the name Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue. Shane’s heart pounds. Oh god, what did he do? He clicks on the voicemail and covers his eyes with a hand, like he doesn’t want to watch. 

“Hi Shane, is Ilya. Thank you for ordering fifty solar panels, to be installed tomorrow at 6 o’clock in the morning. I agree, it is a good celebration of your win. You deserve them. Have a great day!” He sounds like he’s laughing. What did Shane agree to? He quickly calls the number back, hoping he can catch them in time to cancel the appointment.

A groggy voice answers. “‘ello?”

“Ilya! It’s Shane… Hollander. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to order solar panels last night. I’m such an idiot, but please can I cancel the appointment? Did I put down a deposit or anything? Please, just—”

“—Hollander! Shane. Is so early. Still dark out?” Ilya sounds pissed off. “You have no appointment. Was a joke, because of the text. Leave me alone.” He hangs up.

If Shane weren’t so relieved, he’d be hurt. He sighs, but then the panic boils up again. What text? He cautiously opens his messages to find a thread with “Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue”. Shane is mortified. He curls up in a fetal position and rereads his words. He can’t stop himself from sending another. Ok, or two more.

Shane: Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Please disregard these messages, clearly I was celebrating a win.
Shane: I do not want solar panels. Or anything else.

Mid-afternoon, a response finally comes.

Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue: Sounds like you do though.
Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue: Have you ever tried solar panels? Or “anything else?”
Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue: Might like them.

Shane: I have not.
Shane: I am happy with my regular energy.

Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue: Does not replace your regular energy
Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue: Just adds to it. 

Shane: I know. It’s a hassle. I’m not interested. 

Illyaa the Solar Panel hottue: I would make it so easy for you.

Shane looks at this for too long. He decides it’s the contact name, that’s what’s why he’s staring at it. He changes the contact name.

He gets a voicemail from Elaine while he’s in the shower after his sunset run. That’s good, it means he’s probably done with hearing the words ‘solar panels’ for the day. 

He’s half-right.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Good Evening, Shane. Any thoughts on solar panels? Or anything else?

Shane: No.
Shane: Yes, one thought: no thank you.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Why not?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Could install in the off-season when you are home.
Ilya (solar panel pest): You will lose to Texas and the season will be over next week

Shane: Fuck off.
Shane: We’re not losing to Dallas. We’re making the playoffs.
Shane: And I leave for the summer.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Where?

Shane: It’s not your business
Shane: I have a cottage.

Ilya (solar panel pest): …
Ilya (solar panel pest): Shane.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Shane!
Ilya (solar panel pest): Shane.
Ilya (solar panel pest): You are saying you have TWO houses
Ilya (solar panel pest): And ZERO solar panels?

Shane: It’s a cottage. And an apartment building.
Shane: Zero solar panels. I intend to keep it that way.

Ilya (solar panel pest): I am looking at this house.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Shane this is not a cottage.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Could fit one million solar panels on this roof.

Shane: Don’t look up my properties.
Shane: Creep.

Ilya (solar panel pest): This makes me think you have more. 

Shane: I do.
Shane: Real estate is a good investment. 

Ilya (solar panel pest): You have so many properties.
Ilya (solar panel pest): How many solar panels do you have. 

Shane: You already know.
Shane: Stop asking about my properties. 

Ilya (solar panel pest): You like it. 

Shane: Very unprofessional.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Oh and telling me you miss my voice was super professional?

Shane: I don’t think I said I missed your voice. 

Ilya (solar panel pest): You say you miss me.
Ilya (solar panel pest): What else would you miss?
Ilya (solar panel pest): All i have done is talk about solar panels

Shane: That’s not true.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Oh?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Oh so you missed me moaning into the phone? 
Ilya (solar panel pest): Or when I got too excited watching you play?
Ilya (solar panel pest): You miss me watching your interview videos?
Ilya (solar panel pest): And touching myself to them? 

Shane: I’m straight.

Shane is fucked. It’s only when he’s pulling his messy hand out of his sweatpants that he knows it. This is so fucking weird. This is a guy. And this guy could be a hundred years old. Or hideous. Or both. But Shane feels like he’s not. Ilya is too cocky to be unattractive, and that’s annoying in itself. 

Shane: What do you look like

He realizes his misstep after sending the message. It’s been an hour since Ilya’s texts turned Shane on so much he had to do something about it. It implies he’s thought about Ilya for the full hour…which he has. Ilya doesn’t need proof of that, though. 

Ilya (solar panel pest): 😂
Ilya (solar panel pest): You want to make sure you did not jerk it to someone ugly?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Just for that i will not tell you

Shane: No
Shane: Asshole
Shane: I’m not superficial. 
Shane: And I’m straight.

Ilya (solar panel pest): So you did jerk it though?
Ilya (solar panel pest): ... No answer? Typing dots?
Ilya (solar panel pest): This is a yes.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Did not know solar panels did it for you like this Shane

Shane: Fuck off
Shane: I’m not into solar panels sexually

Ilya (solar panel pest): mmm ok
Ilya (solar panel pest): Then you can just picture me as a solar panel
Ilya (solar panel pest): So you are not tempted to jerk off again

Shane stops responding. Nothing good can come from this conversation. He should go back to screening his calls.

Cyrus leaves a message that Shane deletes without even hearing the name. Montreal wins their game in Dallas, putting them one step closer to the playoffs. 

That night, his team goes out to celebrate but Shane stays behind in the hotel. He hasn’t recovered from when he went out the night before last, and they have to get on a plane and play Tampa tomorrow.

He finds himself hoping for a distraction, actually. He’s missing his own bed, the privacy and solitude of his house. His dildos, if he’s honest. He’s a little ashamed of what comes next. 

He reclines on the hotel bed and replays Ilya’s voicemails. He only saved the ones where there’s something… notable… happening. And Shane fast-forwards to find the most notable parts. A tiny groan for emphasis, breathy little laughs, any time Shane is referred to as ‘pretty’… He replays them, over and over. Just as he’s about to admit what he’s doing, take out his dick and start going at it in earnest, his phone dings with a text. 

Ilya (solar panel pest): [photo]

Shane drops his phone like it burned him. It continues to ding on the bed.

Ilya (solar panel pest): [photo]
Ilya (solar panel pest): [photo]
Ilya (solar panel pest): Some presents for you, winner
Ilya (solar panel pest): You deserve them
Ilya (solar panel pest): You deserve to know i am not a sentient solar panel.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Like toaster from the movie

These pictures are graphic. The first is the reflection of a man’s chest in a mirror. It’s sculpted like out of stone, and Shane immediately doubts that it’s real. No one looks like this.

The second is a penis. Shane has never received— or wanted to receive— a dick pic. He’s always tried not to look at the dicks in porn, on the rare occasion he watches it. But this one is dazzling. It’s being held up by a big hand, but it’s so hard, the hand is probably not necessary. Beyond the focal point, hairy legs are stretched out on a bed, and there’s a messy dresser blurry in the background.

The next is better. The same dick, but this has the camera turned the other way. It’s the other side of it, like the phone is in selfie mode, and a blurry face looks down at it in the background, on a blurry head resting on blurry pillows. The stomach hair trails up until it’s unclear, too.

Shane zooms in on the blurry face. Fuck. 

If this is actually Ilya… Fuck. 

There’s no way this is the person Shane has been talking to. Ilya pulled these pictures from some porn site. 

Shane: This isn’t you.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Am not actually a solar panel
Ilya (solar panel pest): Lied about that.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Hope you can still be sexually attracted to me

Shane: You got these pictures off the internet.
Shane: And i was never sexually attracted to you.

Ilya (solar panel pest): [video]

Shane clicks on the video.

It’s the same face, laying back against a pillow like in the picture. It casually smiles and then says, “Hi Shane, Ilya again. Wanted to see if you have thought more about solar panels. Call me back.” The sky-blue eyes blink once and the video ends.

Shane freezes the instant he hears the voice. He can’t even think, let alone move, at all.

This is who he’s been talking to? He has ever, even once in his life, told this man to stop calling him? Shane doesn’t like men, but… He shakes his head. He doesn’t like men, right? He swipes back and forth through the pictures. He zooms in on the man’s hand, a loose grip with a prominent vein bulging from the sun-kissed wrist up the thumb. He zooms in on the hair on the stomach and tries to see if there’s chest hair, too. He confirms by zooming in on the mirror picture, there’s chest hair. God, even in his team’s locker room of professional athletes, no one looks like this. 

He watches the video again. Ilya’s shoulder muscle is moving slightly, slowly, repetitively, as he speaks the words. Shane wonders what he’s doing with his hand off camera. Maybe he’s petting a dog or playing with some sort of anti-gravity bed yo-yo. If Shane lets himself consider this video along with the pictures, because the position of the man is the same, and the sheets are the same, maybe his state of undress is the same… Ilya might be touching himself. 

Shane doesn’t like men, but the hardest boner he’s ever had seems to suggest otherwise. 

He returns to the pictures and considers the dick. Could Shane actually like it? It’s not that much different than a dildo, right? This looks bigger than any of his toys anyway, it might feel really good. He takes his own cock in his hand under his sweatpants and thinks about it. It would probably be warm, for starters. The skin on Shane’s dick is softer than the toys he has, and Ilya’s skin looks pretty soft, too. He could keep comparing, but staring at this picture now, it’s a lost cause. He knows he would let this man put that thing anywhere he wants, he actually has a blinding need to let him do it, and whether that makes him gay…

Ilya (solar panel pest): What do you think?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Is it me?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Am I a solar panel?

Shane has to say something, but his mind is blank. He’s been rude to this guy. He insulted him. If Shane knew what he looked like, or that his dick would make his mouth water…

Shane: You are not a solar panel.

Ilya (solar panel pest): 😥
Ilya (solar panel pest): You are disappointed
Ilya (solar panel pest): I can pretend.
Ilya (solar panel pest): Ooh sun-Shane, fill me up with energy, am so full

Shane: stop

Ilya (solar panel pest): Oh is it more like
Ilya (solar panel pest): I am a solar panel and you are the roof?
Ilya (solar panel pest): My nails and bolts are inside you?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Drilled so deep in you
Ilya (solar panel pest): Neither of us can even move
Ilya (solar panel pest): I have all my weight on you?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Attached so tight you can not pull apart? 

Shane: yeah
Shane: i guess that one

Ilya (solar panel pest): Is what I was hoping
Ilya (solar panel pest): God I would stretch your little roof
Ilya (solar panel pest): Never had a solar panel there before
Ilya (solar panel pest): Have to drill the hole myself

Shane: This metaphor is weird.
Shane: Is this really your dick?

Ilya (solar panel pest): You are still looking at pictures?
Ilya (solar panel pest): Shane you will kill me
Ilya (solar panel pest): And Cyrus will get commission from your sale
Ilya (solar panel pest): Because you will want solar panels to remember me

Shane: Fuck off
Shane: Not getting solar panels

Shane’s phone lights up with a call. 

“Hello?”

“Hi Shane, is Ilya,” Ilya’s voice is breathy and heat courses through Shane’s body. 

“I know who you are—”

“Just— calling to see if… you want to schedule, ahh-assessment…” 

There’s no question in Shane’s mind what Ilya is doing now. It also physically hurts to still be in pants. He pulls them down and groans when he touches his cock. 

Shane swallows and hopes his voice isn’t as scared as he is. “I would do it… I think I would do it just to get you in person,” he breathes out a shaking laugh because he can’t even believe it. And because his hand feels good, and because Ilya is breathing loudly in his ear. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya mumbles. “I will. I will be there.” Shane can almost hear the rhythmic slap of his hand. “Ahh fuck... You tell me when. I will nail those panels on your roof myself. I will be so deep, nail you so hard.”

Shane gasps and instinctively tightens his grip. Ilya could say literally anything in this winded, sultry, accented voice, and Shane would feel the same electricity. Who was he ever trying to fool? “Do it. Please. I think— I need you.” Shane has completely lost his mind, that’s the only explanation.

There’s a groan and some garbled Russian words on the other line. Shane listens to Ilya’s escalating breathing and cursing until he can’t take it anymore.

“Ilya, I’m— fuck,” he whines as he finishes into his hand with a sob. Ilya’s whimpers inspire him to keep it going as much as he can, moving his hand way past when it’s comfortable, just to still be in it when the sound of Ilya coming becomes more evident. A little more comes out when he hears Ilya moan his name the loudest, when Shane tries to picture what’s happening on the other line.

Neither speaks as they catch their breath. Ilya gradually stops vocalizing every exhale. He finally sighs, “Jesus, Shane.”

Shane immediately feels awkward. He shouldn’t have picked up the phone, why did he let Ilya cloud his judgement? This was so dumb. And gay. Getting off just listening to another man’s sounds… that's pretty gay. 

At the same time, Shane meant it. He wants Ilya at his house. And Ilya would probably do it. They could actually do this, in person. That scares him more than the gay thing. He can’t do that. He can’t do any of this.

“I gotta go.”

It’s starting to dawn on Ilya that this is real. 

A month ago he was inputting data from the forms on the company’s website, wondering what idiot put “Shane Hollander” as an alias to avoid getting spam calls for the rest of time. Now he is looking at a blank phone screen with jizz drying on his hand, wondering what the fuck just happened. 

Shane Hollander happened. 

Svetlana will never believe him. She didn’t even believe him when he said it was the real Shane Hollander. Then she didn’t believe him when Shane texted him. This… this is fucking unbelievable. 

Ilya looks at the muted post-game sportscasters on TV. They couldn’t shut up about how well Shane Hollander did tonight, saying his name so many times that Ilya needed Shane Hollander’s undivided attention. Shane wouldn’t pick up the phone for any of these commentators. He doesn’t even pick up for Ilya’s colleagues anymore. But he picked up for Ilya.

He unmutes the TV and they’re still talking about Shane Hollander. They don’t know Shane Hollander just jerked off on the phone with a man. With him. A cruddy solar panel salesman just years out of Russia. 

Ilya could have Shane Hollander. Ilya can’t believe he ever thought Shane would turn him in for using his personal number. The whines and moans are on repeat in his mind, but so is “need you” and the “miss you” from those drunk texts. Surely Shane didn’t mean it, right? What the fuck does Shane Hollander want to do with Ilya? He said he’s straight, so he probably hasn’t hooked up with any guys. It must be hard to get laid as a gay hockey player, and Shane is at least a little queer, despite what he insists. He might want to just try it out, but Ilya doesn’t mind being an experiment. It’s Shane fucking Hollander, he’ll be grateful for whatever he gets.

Ilya still can’t believe it the next day. His daily routine now includes watching Shane’s games or, when they’re not playing, trying to find an interview he hasn’t seen before. Luckily there’s a Montreal game tonight in Tampa, because he’s running out of interviews. 

They win, because they’ve been on a winning streak. It means Shane has to win one of the remaining two games to make playoffs. After the game, Ilya has learned to leave the TV on so he can see Shane talk. Ilya is content to watch his lips move during the post-game, because they always say the same thing: “We just have to keep up momentum, score goals, and keep our defense ready.”  

But tonight, a reporter asks something that makes Ilya’s ears perk up. It was something about winning in the “Sunshine State” and Shane’s face is now pale and blank. Clearly Shane is embarrassed about having had phone sex with a solar panel salesman. Ilya takes a sip of his drink. 

Shane’s eyes focus on something in the distance and he smirks. “If this is the Sunshine State, I feel like a solar panel. Maybe the sunshine here gave us the energy for the win.” 

Ilya’s drink sprays out of his mouth. His mouth hangs open as Shane leaves his screen and commentary starts up.

By the time he recovers enough to check his phone, he ignores the enthusiastic question marks from Svetlana. There’s something much more interesting.

Shane Hollander: Come over tomorrow.
Shane Hollander: You have my address.

Ilya: For solar panels?

Shane Hollander: No. For me. 

Fuck. Ilya is going to die. 

Ilya arrives in his shitty car and enters the gate code Shane gave him. 

This is Shane Hollander’s building. Shane Hollander, who is the captain of a team about to clinch a playoff spot. Within a week, he’ll probably be captaining a playoff team. Shane Hollander, whose car looks like it cost more than all the money Ilya’s ever had combined. Times twenty. And it looks like there are more cars beyond that one. 

The landscaping is immaculate on the walk up to the door. Ilya wonders if he could puke in one of the potted plants and would Shane notice? He’s so fucking nervous he could die. 

He rings the intercom. 

The door swings open and Shane, hair damp, appears in front of him. “Sorry. I just got back, too.” He’s out of breath. “This might have been a dumb time.” He leads them up the stairs.

Once in Shane’s apartment, Ilya thinks the entryway is larger than his whole place. Shane is still walking, as if Ilya should follow. They land in a gourmet chef’s kitchen.

“Can I get you anything? I have…” Shane looks like he wants to give a list and thinks better of it. “…most things.” 

Ilya wants to make a joke and test the limit of what Shane considers “most things,” but he wasn’t invited here for that. It’s becoming more and more clear he’s here for Shane Hollander to experiment with. That’s actually not a bad deal for Ilya, at least he gets to have sex with the hottest man alive, stake his flag down like the moon landing. There will be others, probably, but Ilya can be first. That’s still pretty cool, cooler than anything Ilya thought he’d do in his life.

Ilya takes his eyes off trying to decide if those are actual diamonds on the kitchen chandelier and gazes at Shane. He realizes Shane has been ogling him the same way he’s been ogling Shane’s opulent living space. Ilya steps closer to him, stalking him like prey. 

“Wait.” Shane puts a hand on Ilya’s chest when he’s close enough. The move was probably meant to stop him, but Shane’s fingers trace Ilya’s pecs once they make contact. The touch stops Shane short and he looks hypnotized by the muscle under his hands. Ilya’s confidence comes back a little and he smirks, which breaks Shane from that spell. “I’ve never done anything with a guy.” 

“Am not a guy, just a solar panel.”

Shane smiles weakly and exhales a laugh from his nose. “Right. Well. I guess I can do it with a solar panel.”

Ilya doesn’t let him say anything else. He takes Shane’s face in his hands and kisses him.

It’s not that he’s sexually attracted to his work. He’s not even a super environmentalist. But hearing Shane surrender even a little bit, play along, cede to Ilya’s weirdness, makes his insides light up. He can be the best experiment ever for Shane Hollander.

An hour later, Ilya is ruined for any other humans. How is he supposed to have sex with anyone else ever again? Now that he knows what being inside Shane Hollander feels like? Twice? 

Just minutes ago, he came harder than he has maybe ever. And he thinks the same is true for Shane. He wants to tell him this level of chemistry isn’t normal, but doesn’t know how to say that without sounding clingy. Fuck, this man could be winning a cup in the next few weeks. He’s a celebrity. Ilya can’t be getting clingy.

He breathes deeply on the most comfortable bed he’s ever felt. He could fall asleep here. He won’t, because that’s not why Shane invited him here, but he could. 

Shane giggles and covers his face, breathing in his own revelations on the pillow next to him. “This was so stupid,” he whispers to the ceiling. 

And that’s just not what you want to hear, is it?

Ilya swallows. “But fun, no?”

“What?” Shane turns his head toward Ilya, “Yeah, duh. Obviously. It was… probably too fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just… fuck. Don’t like— you can’t tell anyone.” He continues before Ilya can respond. “Like, anyone, anyone. Whatever they try to pay you for the story, I’ll double it. I’ll pay your rent, whatever you need. I’m just… It can’t get out.”

“Hollander. Was not planning on selling anything. Except… you know.” 

“Good. This was… Yeah. Good.” He smiles again. “And maybe take me off the solar panel list?”

“There is only one way off the list.” Ilya shakes his head, “You buy solar panels, you get off the list.” 

Shane’s hand finds Ilya’s thigh, “Maybe I’m an exception?” 

“Not a chance, Hollander. Now that I have seen how many panels will fit on your roof?” 

Shane props himself up on his elbow to face Ilya, now less seductive and more annoyed, “Really? I still don’t get off the list?”

“This place is huge! Think of the commission! I would never need to work again!”

A fallen expression graces Shane’s face, “You… you would want that?”

“To not have to work?” Ilya laughs, “Everyone wants that, Hollander. Unless they are playing games for a living.”

“Fuck off,” Shane tries to hide his smile as he plops back on the pillow. He whispers, almost like he doesn’t want Ilya to hear, “I think that could be arranged.”

Ilya tries not to think about how he felt when Shane said their meetup was stupid. He doesn’t think about it when Shane gets on the ice for the second-to-last game of the regular season, and he certainly doesn’t think about it when Shane loses. Was that Ilya’s fault? Ilya has gotten his coworkers to lay off Shane’s account until the playoffs are decided, and they’re texting him the whole game mourning the loss. All three of them want to be the one to make Shane’s sale. Ilya thought he’d be the one to do it, but now he’s not so sure there will be a sale. 

When they lose the second-to-last game at home against Edmonton, Shane blames Ilya. Stupid, annoying, resplendent Ilya. He blames the soft phantom burn of his ass as he skates, even though he skated faster and more deftly than he has in his life. He blames the stupid solar panel company and the reporter who asked that stupid question in the first place and he blames celebrities with private jets, and microplastics, and the fucking Exxon-Valdez oil spill, for making people care about the environment. If they lose this last game and are out of playoff contention, Al fucking Gore’s “An Inconvenient Truth” will be to blame. If Al Gore were president, he wouldn’t have made that stupid movie. So Shane blames Florida. The fucking Sunshine State.

On the flight to L.A. for their last game of the regular season with playoffs on the line, Hayden won’t let him take it all on himself. “It was the team. You were on fire.”

Right. Like the fiery sun, the source of energy for the stupid solar panels. 

Unfortunately the coaches, and commentators, and even tape evidence shows that Hayden was right. Shane was radiant in that last game. 

“Whatever you did before that,” Coach Theriault tells him, “It needs to happen again now. Everything’s on the line.” 

Shane and J.J. are scheduled to talk to reporters as soon as they land, the day before the game. If it weren’t enough to have all the season’s pressure on this game, the press has a new angle they are trying out. 

“Shane, L.A. is a fairly sunny city, too…” His heart sinks with dread at the reporter’s words. “…It was Sunny in Philadelphia for you last week, you won against the Dallas Stars, and you called yourself a solar panel after winning in the Sunshine State. Are you attributing your success to the weather? Do you think it’s good luck? Are the sun rays filling up your team’s solar panels?” He can never tell if these reporters are teasing him or not, because their questions always sound this absurd. 

He focuses on a spot in the distance so he doesn’t blush. “No, I am attributing our success to our hard work and team dynamics,” he says seriously. The question makes him nervous, like maybe they’re getting too close to the truth. He really shouldn’t have made that solar panel comment. He doesn’t even know what he was thinking. He wasn’t. He hasn’t thought of anything except Ilya in weeks. 

J.J. butts in at the microphone, “But I’ll tell you what! If we win and make it to the playoffs, the sun is our new mascot. Hollzy is bringing a solar panel to every game!” The reporters laugh, though they probably aren’t in on the joke. His whole locker room knows about his beef with Solar Panel Associates of Montreal, but it hasn’t extended to the press. Shane sweats a little, hoping the original clip of his Green Week Gaffe doesn’t resurface in light of all of this solar panel talk. He still hasn’t gotten solar panels. He still doesn’t plan to. He hates to say it, but Ilya is so hot in sales mode. And if Shane gives in, the game is over, and Ilya would have no reason to call anymore. 

He knows Ilya will have something stupid to say about J.J.’s comment regardless of their result tomorrow night. He’ll tell Shane to celebrate his win with solar panels… Or drown his sorrows… in… solar panels. 

Shane doesn’t want to do either. He wants to drown in Ilya. His coach gave him permission, right? He said Shane should do whatever he did before last game. He did Ilya before his last game. His coach practically told him to have gay sex before the game tomorrow, right?

Shane: Come to LA

Ilya (solar panel pest): ???

Shane: I’ll buy your tickets
Shane: And your hotel room, unless you want to stay in mine.
Shane: And food, whatever, anything else you need. 

Ilya (solar panel pest): Why?

Shane: You know why.

Ilya (solar panel pest): Want to hear you say it. 

Shane: Fuck off. Flight in 6 hours, is that ok?

Shane is on him before the hotel room door even closes. It’s only been two days, but it feels like he’ll explode if he doesn’t get Ilya’s dick in him, in some way, immediately. How did he go his whole life? How did he think toys or his fingers were enough? How did he ever look at this dick, now in his hand, and wonder, even for a second? He should have known. 

“I thought maybe you had your fill,” Ilya quips between kisses along Shane’s jaw. His labored breathing makes him sound a little less cocky but no less mesmerizing. It’s so much better than it ever was over the phone. The low tone resonates in Shane’s chest. 

“Ilya…” Shane throws his head back against the wall. They haven’t even gotten to the bed yet, and he’s already wrecked. The breath and hint of stubble is tickling his neck and Shane thinks maybe if something brushed against him right now, it would be all over. Maybe that’s why he’s so honest. “I don’t think I could ever get my fill of you. It was so good… you’re just—” luckily Ilya sinks to his knees and gets his mouth on Shane before he can finish that sentence. ‘You’re just it for me.’ 

Later, after fulfilling Coach Theriault’s wishes, Ilya has his head on Shane’s chest and it seems like he’s asleep. Shane brushes his lips on Ilya’s forehead and thinks maybe this is the happiest he’s ever been. Is that why his chest feels so warm?

It’s weird to think about in the post-coital haze, but his coach was right. Shane could win the fucking Cup if he keeps Ilya around.

The next day, Shane plays like the blazes and they win the game. 

“Shane Hollander, you just got Montreal into the playoffs, how will you celebrate your moment in the sun?”

“I think I have a date with a solar panel,” he responds with a wink.

Being Cup-Champion Shane Hollander’s boyfriend comes with some serious perks. It didn’t end with Shane’s surprise all-expenses-paid sex trip to Los Angeles. After that, there were seats to all of the playoff games, and because his dick proved to be good luck in L.A., Shane made sure Ilya was there. Then there’s the house— sorry, apartment— itself, and the cottage, where they spent two weeks basking in bliss after Shane’s cup win. The best for Ilya, though, is unlimited access to the most attractive man in the world. 

Then there’s the small stuff, which Ilya never would have considered “small” before. Like one day, Ilya’s car didn’t start. Shane simply told him to take one of his. When Ilya tried to give the keys back that evening, Shane said, “No, really. Take it.” 

This kind of thing should make Ilya uncomfortable. He has a job, he can afford to take out a car loan and get a new car, but Shane shows him bank balances for several banks, and Ilya doesn’t feel as bad after that.

One day, about six months in, Ilya is alone at Shane’s, waiting for him to get back from practice. Shane walks in with the mail in his hand and Ilya goes to properly welcome his man home when Shane takes an envelope from the stack. 

“I think this is yours.” He says nonchalantly. Ilya’s brow sinks. 

“Why would I get mail at your house?” He asks, but takes the envelope and opens it. 

Shane laughs, “You basically live here. When was the last time you checked your own mail?” he ribs, but Ilya is frozen. 

“Hollander, what are you doing?” The contents shake in his hand. It’s a credit card, heavy and black, with Ilya’s name on it. 

“I just…” Shane rubs the back of his neck, suddenly a little more nervous, “I can get you into the games and everything but you still have to pay for stuff. And when I’m on the road I want you to be able to stay here and order food or… And the other night you didn’t want to stay for drinks because an Uber would be too much… It’s just— I don’t want you to have to think about that stuff. And you said you wanted a second rowing machine in my gym so we could race—”

“This was a joke!” Ilya exclaims. “I cannot use this.”

“I want you to.”

In Ilya’s head, an idea starts to form, sparkly and dangerous. “And I can put anything on here?”

“Yes.” Shane looks relieved that Ilya is surrendering. “I think the credit limit is high enough to do whatever you want…” he trails off to examine the paper that came with the card. He points to a number and Ilya feels a bead of sweat. He really could do anything with this card. 

“Anything?” Ilya clarifies again.

Shane’s brow scrunches, “Yeah? Anything. I trust you.” He shrugs and pecks Ilya on the cheek, like that’s the easiest thing in the world, like Ilya wasn’t a stranger seven months ago.

The next day, Shane leaves for a week of away games. Even when he’s gone, Ilya has been spending time at his place. He has a key now, he has access to everything. Shane wants him to feel at home. 

And what better way to feel at home than to make decisions for the household?

“Ilya?” Shane comes home at the end of the week and drops his carry-on bag with gusto. “What the fuck did you do?”

“What? What do you mean?” Ilya might as well be batting his eyelashes with how innocent he is trying to look. 

“I realized I hadn’t gotten a call from your company in six days. Six days, Ilya. And then I start thinking about what you said… what’s the only way to get off the list?”

“You have decided to get solar panels!” Ilya exclaims. “I have great news for you—”

“You already got them?” Shane guesses and lets his head fall back with a groan.

“I already got them!” 

“I fucking hate you.”

“I think you might love me.”

“I do.”