If you had asked Ilya what he wanted out of the next year of his life the day before he flew to Ottawa to start his NHL career, he would probably have said:
Score at least 50 goals
Make it to the Stanley Cup finals
Be voted rookie of the year
Buy a Porsche 911
Depending on who had asked, he'd also probably have said: have a lot of sex with a lot of hot women (and some men, but he wouldn't have said that to anyone).
He would not have said fall in love with his future Canadian teammate who he sort of hated because he had beaten him at World Juniors and because he was unbearably attractive in a straight-laced, too-serious, boring kind of way.
But that's where he found himself by February of his rookie year.
Not for nothing, he was going to be closing in on 50 goals soon enough, the Centaurs were looking likely to make it to the playoffs for the first time in a decade, and he had the Porsche 911 and the Cayenne.
But in the last six weeks, he'd only had sex with one person. Shane fucking Hollander. And the worst part was, it was so much better than any sex he'd ever had before. And Ilya had had a LOT of great sex, if he did say so himself. But fucking Shane, everything was hotter, more fun, more intense, just more. Ilya was normally so in control, but Shane made him feel untethered.
When he got the text from Shane asking what he was doing, his immediate reply was "nothing." So then he had to scramble to get out of his plans to go out with Lapierre — he wasn't going to take anyone home from the bar or anything like that, but it was their week off and he needed to maintain appearances a least a little. But not when Shane needed somewhere to go and Ilya had a perfectly good apartment, and a perfectly good bed, that he was dying to get Shane into.
Ilya would have to thank Hayden and his misguided new girlfriend.
But what was he going to do with Shane? He couldn't just text him back "come over I will fuck you and make you come as many times as I can." That would be implied, but would probably scare Shane away. Ilya smiled, imagining Shane's face if he really did send that text — bright pink, freckles highlighted by his blush, eyes wide with shock.
He was so easily flustered, it was fucking adorable. So yeah, he was going to invite Shane over and he was going to cook for him and he was going to fuck him. But first he had to make him squirm a little.
Ilya rushed to shower, and opted to skip putting on a shirt after. Looking in the mirror, he adjusted his sweatpants so the waistband of his boxers was showing, and gave himself a once over. Yeah, he was definitely hotter than Scott Hunter. Fuck that guy.
He let Shane sweat it out for a few minutes, but couldn't keep his hands off of him for long. After the All-Star weekend, Ilya had given up all pretense of trying to keep his emotional distance. Shane had wrapped himself so tightly around Ilya's heart, it was a miracle his blood was still flowing through his veins.
When he rocked into Shane for the first time, it was like stars exploding inside of him, shockwaves rippling through his entire body. Shane reacted so beautifully, his whimpers and moans seeping into Ilya's pores and heightening the sensation of every slick slide of his cock. He unraveled inside of Shane, lightheaded and nearly forgetting how to speak English. By the time he came hot and hard inside of Shane Hollander, fucking hell, he was babbling in Russian, losing English altogether.
So easy for me, you take my cock like no one else, you have ruined me.
Fuck, he was a second away from saying I love you.
But the true unraveling happened when Shane started crying in his kitchen, spilling everything that he'd been holding in — everything that Ilya had suspected Shane had been feeling. Ilya felt it too, of course he did.
Shane had looked so small, and in that moment Ilya felt so young, so powerless to do anything but hold this precious human to him. He hated that Shane felt so torn and so lost inside this picture-perfect life they were living. Shane, who skated like he owned the ice and made plays and scored goals against the best hockey players in the world like it was easy. He had every confidence on the ice, but off of it — he was a lost puppy who didn't know where to go.
Ilya was powerless, but he could hold Shane, give him somewhere to go. He could let him cry and tell him he understood and try to make him smile and laugh. He'd almost let Shane walk out when he asked Ilya if he wanted to be together if they could, almost let Shane's heart break again in some twisted attempt to protect them both — but he couldn't do it. They had gone too far, and now he needed Shane, he couldn't live without him.
Everything was so much more complicated than it felt when he signed his contract. He was certain that they were headed for disaster, but as he held a crying Shane in his arms, rubbing his back and whispering comforting words, Ilya had never been more certain that Shane was worth it.
The two of them were alone — placed on this precarious pedestal by the hockey world, unsteady and trying to find their footing, with everyone watching and waiting for them to fall. They were alone up there, but at least they were together. And if they fell, they'd fall together.Shane and Ilya settled into a surprisingly easy routine for the rest of the regular season. Hayden and Jackie got very serious very fast — she essentially become a third roommate, staying at their apartment whenever they were home. Shane liked her, he really did, and he liked it even more that she kept Hayden distracted enough that he didn't really question why Shane was spending so many nights at Ilya's. Not every night, but between road trips and their sleepovers during home stretches, Shane was spending more than half of his nights with Ilya.
Ilya continued to go out to bars and clubs with Lapierre and the other guys, even dragging Shane along sometimes. But Shane hated seeing girls flirting with Ilya — and hated seeing Ilya play along and flirt and dance even more. He knew why Ilya did it, he didn't want anyone to be suspicious, and Ilya never took the girls home. But that didn't make it feel any better.
The word "boyfriend" flitted around Shane's mind like a bug trapped under a jar, demanding attention and to be let free. But he wouldn't utter the word. They weren't officially anything. Just exclusively sleeping with each other and spending at least 80% of their time together. That's all, no big deal.
Delzy had eventually cornered Shane and sat him down for a talk about how he had to be careful — careful about getting caught, and careful not to get his heart broken.
Don't make the same mistakes I did. That's what he said.
And Shane did appreciate Delzy looking out for him. He took his advice when it came to keeping everything locked down and not doing anything in public that might give them away. But when it came to Shane's heart, that was already long gone. It had probably been gone when Ilya told Shane to call him by his first name all those months ago. And Shane accepted his doomed fate, but Delzy didn't need to know that.
The Centaurs had clinched a spot in the first round of the playoffs, and things were pretty much exactly how Shane had hoped at the start of the season. Ilya had 63 goals and 47 assists, Shane had 49 goals and 62 assists. It was really a toss-up between them of who would win the Calder trophy for Rookie of the Year, but Shane was sure Ilya would win. Goals were always more impressive and important than assists, Shane expected. Either way, they both had record-breaking seasons for the Centaurs, the fans loved them, and it was just the beginning of their careers.
So Shane went into the first round of the playoffs against Montreal feeling invincible and ready to prove to the world that the Centaurs weren't to be overlooked — and that he was living up to the hype. Montreal was also in a rebuild era, but had a few more years of development than Ottawa did, and everyone was predicting the Voyageurs would sweep the Centaurs. But Shane wouldn't let that happen.
Practice took over Shane and Ilya's lives — they were pushing themselves harder than ever, and some nights they spent together they didn't do anything more than rest their sore bodies, make out, and fall asleep tangled up in each other. It was more than Shane could have dreamed for, really.
The work was paying off, too. They'd pushed Montreal to a game six in Ottawa after losing three games and winning two, and even though Jackie wasn't staying over at their place, Shane kind of needed to be with Ilya the night before that game. He told Hayden he was spending the night with his parents, for some kind of good luck thing — Hayden didn't question it, hockey players were doing much weirder things to try to gain even the smallest cosmic advantage in the playoffs.
Despite their aching muscles and sore bones, and the fact that they had to play another grueling game the next day, they couldn't keep their hands off each other. Shane knew his high-strung energy was getting to Ilya, who kept placing a firm hand on Shane's shaking leg while they sat on Ilya's couch watching the Boston vs. New Jersey game.
Eventually, he settled Shane's nerves with a long, slow, torturously good blowjob that left him completely sated and still, and Shane fell asleep only a few short minutes later. Shane returned the favor in the shower in the morning, and they both walked into the dressing room for their early-afternoon game feeling rejuvenated and ready to fight for a game seven.
"The rookies are looking too chipper today — why the hell are you two so happy?" asked Clarkson, one of the D-men, side-eyeing Shane and Ilya. He was looking pretty bruised and battered himself.
"Uh…" Shane stuttered, caught off guard by the question. "Just ready to beat the Voyageurs. We're ready to take them to game seven."
"Damn right," Clarkson knocked Shane on the shoulder and returned to taping his stick.
By the time they made it back to the dressing room after three brutal periods and eking by with a 2-1 win, Clarkson was looking as happy as Ilya did after coming down Shane's throat that morning. He walked up between Shane and Ilya, all three of them in various stages of undress and drenched in sweat, and threw his arms over their shoulders.
"Buds, whatever was in your orange juice this morning, let's do it again before game seven, eh? I need those smiles from this morning back on your faces in Montreal!"
Ilya looked at Shane with the most self-satisfied smirk Shane had ever seen and said, "You are right. Shane, we must have same orange juice in Montreal. You can bring some, yes?"
Shane went beet red and glared at Ilya, but choked out a reply. "Yep, of course. Great game Clarky."
Clarkson patted them on the backs again and went back to his stall to finish undressing.
"Get that look off of your face," Shane grumbled out of the side of his mouth to Ilya.
"I am thinking of my favorite orange juice, it makes me smile, Hollander," Ilya said with a wink, then dropped his boxer briefs and sauntered to the showers.
Shane leaned forward and bonked his head against the wall of his stall, annoyed but also grinning like an idiot in a way no one else needed to see.
While they walked down a hall towards the players exit, Shane turned to Ilya and asked, "So, uh, do you have plans tonight?"
Shane wondered if he could get away with another night in Ilya's bed. Ilya knew what he was really asking, but to Shane's complete surprise, Ilya said, "Ah. Yes."
"You do?" Shane replied, eyes wide. He knew there was a pretty strict unwritten rule: don't party until we win the cup (or lose and need to drown our sorrows). So he didn't expect the guys to be going out.
Ilya swallowed hard — he rarely if ever looked this uncomfortable, and it was jarring to see the pained look on his face now.
"I have, ah, dinner. With —" Ilya was cut off by a beautiful girl running down the hall toward them.
"Ilya!" She yelled with a slight Russian accent, jumping into his arms. She was much smaller than Ilya, and Shane for that matter, and Ilya easily lifted her into his arms and she smacked a loud kiss on his mouth. When Ilya set her down, his hands lingered on her waist, and he smiled down at her brightly.
The girl began chattering excitedly in rapid Russian, and Ilya had the kind of happy, open look on his face that Shane usually only saw when they were alone together.
Who was this? Why hadn't Ilya mentioned her? Why were his hands still on her hips? How did she even get back here?
Shane was beginning to freak out as he stood there awkwardly listening to the two of them chattering in Russian. He took a step back, ready to run away and panic in the comfort of his car, when they finally turned to him.
"Shane this is Svetlana," Ilya said, a giant grin on his face. "Svetlana, this is —"
"I know who Shane Hollander is, you idiot!" She smacked Ilya's side. "Hello, Shane, it's a pleasure to meet the soon to be Calder trophy winner."
"What?!" Ilya looked genuinely offended. If he wasn't so confused, Shane would have found it funny. Who the hell was this person?
"Um… hi?" Shane said to — apparently — Svetlana.
"Svetlana Vetrova." She stuck out her perfectly-manicured hand to shake Shane's. "Ilya has not told you about me? Why am I not surprised? We are friends from childhood."
"No… he hasn't," Shane said slowly as his heart rate started to even out. He absently shook her hand. It was small but her grip was firm. Then something sparked his memory. "Wait, Vetrova? Are you Sergei Vetrov's daughter?"
"Yes!" Svetlana's eyes brightened and a wide, genuine smile spread across her delicate features. "Ilya, I like him more than you already."
Ilya huffed and folded his arms.
"So, how do you know each other?" Shane really needed more answers and less banter from these two.
"When I was young, we would spend summers in Moscow. Ilya skated at the same club as my father, we became friends. Well…" she smirked and leaned in conspiratorially, "more than friends."
Shane blanched and hoped he didn't actually flinch.
"But that was never going to work out," Svetlana continued, waving a hand dismissively. "We eventually stopped returning to Moscow, stayed in Boston full-time. I've been trying to catch Ilya for a visit, but he keeps avoiding me. So I decided to say fuck it and fly to Ottawa!'
"Oh," was all Shane could say. It was a lot of information to take in. But it sounded like Ilya was not romantically involved with Svetlana, so that was a relief. Although he still felt the sting of jealousy knowing they once had been, and she flew all the way here just to see Ilya.
Shane finally made eye contact with Ilya, who gave him an apologetic look and a small shrug. Even though whatever was going on with Svetlana wasn't romantic, Shane was still hurt that Ilya hadn't said anything at all about her.
In fact, Shane realized he knew very little about Ilya, his childhood, his life in Russia outside of hockey — none of it. Shane shared so much of himself with Ilya, invited him to the house he grew up in, told him about his insecurities and fears and struggles. And Ilya, especially in these last few months, offered Shane camaraderie and humor and sex, and all of it was wonderful. But it dawned on him that Ilya almost never reciprocated sharing his own memories or feelings. Shane was instantly embarrassed. But he was being impolite.
"It's such a pleasure to meet you, Svetlana," Shane plastered on his media face and looked into her soft blue eyes. "I'm a big fan of your dad — even though he played for Boston. And it's great to meet a friend of Ilya's. I hope you have a nice evening."
Shane turned to leave without looking at Ilya again, afraid he'd reveal the hurt that was beginning to fester in his gut.
"Shane!" Ilya called after him. "Will text you!"
Shane turned back, his professional smile still pulling tightly against his cheeks, "No worries, I'll see you on the plane!"
"Okay…" Ilya's voice faded and Shane walked quickly towards the exit and his car, leaving Ilya and Svetlana to whatever they were doing.
What felt like less than a minute later, Shane was surprised to find himself in the parking garage at his apartment building. He'd been so lost in thought, he didn't even remember driving.
He was wracking his memory for details about Ilya's life. There was that one time Ilya had told Shane about his dad and brother being terrible, and that his mother had died, but that was pretty much it.
Ilya did talk about his ambitions and frustrations with hockey, but those were things he'd share with any teammate. Honestly, he'd tell anyone who asked that he was going to win ten Stanley Cups and beat every goal record in existence. And he'd tell the media how much he disliked any opponent, without shame or apology.
This whole friendship, relationship, whatever it was, suddenly felt so lopsided. Shane was open and vulnerable, and what did Ilya offer in response? A kiss and blowjob? For the first time, that didn't feel like enough for Shane. He wanted to know Ilya, really know him as a person. For a few weeks now, Shane had been thinking some truly crazy things. Like maybe he was actually genuinely in love with Ilya. But how could he love someone he knew so little about?
The certainty he thought he felt about Ilya was starting to unravel, and the fear that Ilya was just using him for sex and comfort during the season clawed its way out of that festering feeling in his gut and lodged itself in his throat. Shane was perilously close to crying. He needed to get his shit together and get out of his damn car.
He looked at his phone and saw a text from Hayden saying he was spending the night at Jackie's. Perfect. Shane could go upstairs and collapse into bed, sleep, and ignore the sadness creeping up on him. He had to focus, they had a game seven to win. There was no time for sadness, not now.
Ilya did text Shane that night, but Shane was already asleep. When he woke up, he saw the notification on his screen.
Ilya: sorry about that
Shane didn't know what to say to that. What was Ilya sorry about? Not telling him about his plans with Svetlana? Not telling him that Svetlana even existed?
Shane sighed, and replied.
Shane: i was asleep. can we talk tonight?
Ilya replied immediately with a simple "yes."
There was a palpable tension between them on the flight to Montreal, but fortunately it was an extremely short flight. They went straight to practice from the airport, so they really had no chance to talk until they were in their hotel room that night.
Shane played like shit in practice, and their coach pulled him aside in the hall before they reached the dressing room.
"Everything okay, Hollander? If you're sick or hurt, I need you to tell me now."
"No, sir. I'm fine, just tired nerves. I'll be good for the game. Sorry about today."
"Don't be a hero Hollander — we might be able to beat Montreal without you, but definitely not Boston. If you're hurt and need to rest…"
"No, I swear. It's just nerves. I'm ready to play."
"All right then, hit the showers. And get your head right before tomorrow."
Getting a talking to from the coach was not how he wanted this practice to end, and Shane was mortified. He needed to talk to Ilya if he was going to be able to focus during the game, but what the hell was he even going to say?
The team had a catered dinner together in a hotel meeting room after practice, and Shane sandwiched himself between Hayden and Delzy to avoid talking to Ilya. He wasn't sure he'd be able to talk to Ilya without either lashing out or breaking down — or both. It had to wait until they were alone.
The whole day, he'd been spiraling. Shane wanted to grab Ilya and beg him to talk to him, beg him to tell him everything about his life and his heart. Being a friend, teammate, and fuck-buddy wasn't enough. Months ago, Shane had told himself he'd take whatever he could get and be happy with it, but he just couldn't anymore. He wanted to have all of Ilya. But he was terrified that Ilya would never give that to him, that if he asked, Ilya would back so far off that Shane would never be able to reach him again.
Shane lingered in the hotel lobby with Hayden, reminded of that awful week back in December when he and Ilya were avoiding each other like the plague. It hurt, being back in this position. Shane needed to be brave and just talk to Ilya.
When he finally walked into the hotel room, Ilya instantly jumped off the bed and strode towards Shane. He took Shane's face in his hands, and before Shane could do or say anything, Ilya was kissing him, swiping his tongue into Shane's mouth and making Shane moan helplessly. Shane wanted to let everything go and give in, but he was determined to talk and not let Ilya brush it aside with seduction. Not this time.
He pushed Ilya back by the shoulders and breathed, "Wait. Ilya, wait."
Ilya immediately backed off. His lips were already swollen, and his eyes were hungry and a little scared.
"Shane, I am sorry. I should have told you about Svetlana." He reached for Shane's hand as he spoke, and Shane's resolve weakened a little. He sighed.
"Can we sit? And talk?" Shane asked, using the hand Ilya was holding to pull him towards the bed.
They sat on the edge of the bed, facing each other.
"Shane…" Ilya started, but Shane interrupted him.
"It's more than Svetlana," Shane began. Ilya looked confused, and Shane felt a kindling of frustration light inside him. Why couldn't Ilya just know what was wrong like he always did?
"I feel like I don't know you," Shane said, almost pleadingly. "Like, you have never shared anything about your life before being drafted."
"Oh," Ilya scoffed. "Why do you want to know that? Is boring, stupid. My life is nothing."
"Your life isn't nothing, what the fuck? I didn't even know about one of your closest friends, but you know, like, everything about me."
Ilya rolled his eyes, which made Shane's frustration flare.
"Don't roll your eyes!" Shane stood and faced Ilya. "This is important to me."
"I do not know why." Ilya wouldn't make eye contact with Shane, and it scared him.
"Because, I care about you!" Shane's voice was rising, and he needed to keep it down. "I care about your life."
"Okay, so, you met Svetlana. She is my old friend. We used to hook up before she moved to US all year. I skated with her father sometimes. That good?"
"I don't know, not really. What was your favorite subject in school? What did you do other than hockey growing up? What is your family like?"
Ilya stood now, anger flaring in his eyes.
"Already I told you about my stupid brother and terrible father. And my mother… what more is there to tell? Stop this, Shane."
Shane folded his arms defensively, but stood his ground.
"I don't understand why you won't tell me things about yourself, Ilya."
"Is none of your business. Why do you need to know these things?" Ilya threw his arms up in frustration and began pacing in front of the bed.
"Because I want to know you. I want to understand you the way you understand me! Because I —" Shane cut himself off abruptly. He had almost said because I love you. It was on the tip of his tongue all the time, but he'd never let it slip out.
Ilya stopped his pacing and looked back at Shane.
"Shane," Ilya walked towards him, stopping only inches away from him and gently placing a hand on Shane's cheek. "You do understand me. More than anyone else."
"I do?" Shane didn't get it, but the warm look in Ilya's eyes made him believe it.
"Yes," Ilya said, and leaned down to kiss Shane so sweetly his knees almost buckled.
"But…" Shane persisted with his argument when they separated, but Ilya claimed his mouth again, with more heat this time, and Shane whimpered into the kiss, giving up the fight.
They fell into bed, and when they were both naked and flushed and sated, Ilya pulled Shane tight against him and fell asleep almost immediately. Shane lay there, comfortable and warm in his arms, but his mind wouldn't calm down.
"Is none of your business." That's what Ilya said. And nothing that happened after that could ease the sharp sting of those words. Shane had begged Ilya to open up to him, and Ilya couldn't have made it more clear that he didn't trust Shane enough to let him in. Shane believed it when Ilya said Shane understood him more than anyone else — but that wasn't enough.
He wanted to shake Ilya awake and continue their argument, to beg and plead with Ilya to share more of himself. But he also wanted to shove Ilya out of the bed, protect the soft vulnerable parts of himself that he'd revealed to this man who wouldn't reciprocate.
But Shane did neither. Because he was weak and he needed the comforting press of Ilya's body against his, the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Despite his anger and disappointment, he still needed Ilya. This was probably exactly what Delzy had been warning him about. Fuck.
Tomorrow they had a day off — which wouldn't be all that restful, with practice and watching game tape and physical therapy. Shane really needed to focus. He told himself to just let it go. He had plenty of time to figure out this shit with Ilya. But he only had one more game between moving closer to the finals or going home. That's what mattered most. Shane eventually fell into restless sleep, both consoled and set on edge by Ilya's presence.
Everything was pretty normal between them the next day, and Shane was able to set aside his worries to focus on getting ready for game seven. And because he wasn't one to mess with superstitions, he wasn't going to not repeat the morning blowjob from before game six. Shane even insisted that Ilya's had to be in the shower to most closely replicate the previous game. But Shane's focus was not where it needed to be when they arrived at the arena.
He pushed hard through the first and second periods, getting a ton of shots on goal but nothing would get past Montreal's goaltender, and Shane's patience with himself was wearing thin.
Finally, on a powerplay in the third period, when Shane's muscles were almost numb from overuse and they were down 5-3, Shane managed to shake something loose. He, Ilya, and Delzy were playing keep away with the puck, maneuvering around Montreal's penalty kill line, desperate for any opportunity to shoot as the penalty clock ticked down.
Shane shot the puck around the boards to Ilya, then bolted over to the net, hoping Ilya knew what he was trying to do — and he did. Ilya caught the puck and pushed off on a Montreal defender, then shot the puck cleanly through the crease, between their goalie and D-man. Without hesitation, Shane swung back his stick in anticipation, and as soon as the puck was in position, he smacked it between the goalie's leg pad and glove right into the net.
Delzy, Ilya, and the rest of their line descended on him, engulfing Shane in a giant hug and shouting.
"Fuck yeah!"
"Hollander you beast!"
"That's my rookie, baby!"
Ilya was right in the middle of the huddle, arms around Shane, and Shane hated how good it felt. Ilya touched his helmeted forehead to Shane's and said, quiet enough that only Shane could hear him, "Beautiful, Hollander."
Shane let out a deep exhale. In that moment, he wanted to let it all go, all his fears and disappointments from his argument with Ilya. And all the noise around them and the secrets and worries about being found out. He wanted to rip Ilya's helmet off and kiss him hard on the mouth, then shove him away and tell him he couldn't get all of Shane without giving something more of himself, and then pull him back and beg him to never let go.
But he didn't do any of that. He simply replied, "Get us another goal, Rozanov."
A few minutes later, Shane watched as Ilya took a pass and went off on an unbelievable breakaway, swerving around defensemen, not a single player on the ice able to catch up with him. Shane held his breath while the rest of the bench yelled and urged Ilya on.
Come on come on come on, fucking do it Ilya.
And he fucking did. Ilya did his signature move, faking the backhand and going for the forehand, knocking the puck cleanly over the goalie's shoulder. The bench went crazy, all jumping up and cheering, banging their sticks on the boards, and Ilya's linemates swarmed him on the ice. Shane's heart swelled with pride as he threw his arms around Hayden and jumped up and down with the entire team. They tied the game, they could actually win this thing.
But no matter how hard they tried, neither team could get another goal. And after 60 grueling minutes, they were going into overtime. The Centaurs marched determinedly back to the dressing room at the end of regulation, steeling themselves for another round.
Delzy stood at the center of the room as the rest of the team sat in their stalls, some refueling with sports drinks and carbs, some holding their heads in their hands or praying, some of them even choking back mustard packets to prevent cramping. Shane just looked to Delzy, their captain, desperate to hear his words of wisdom.
Shane had been asked by a reporter months ago if he thought their team — mostly young players and a few seasoned veterans — was experienced enough to handle the playoffs, and he thought they'd done a damn good job of proving that they could. But he knew that if they lost this game, the media narrative would be that Shane and Ilya were too green and that Delzy and Eggy were too old for the team to go all the way. He fucking hated it, for himself and Ilya, and for his mentor. They were a great team, and they could win this game, Shane had to believe they could.
With a nod from their coach, who looked too worked up to speak, Delzy called for everyone's attention.
"Hey! Everyone shut up and listen to me. I know you're tired. I'm fucking exhausted. But I know you want to win more than you want to rest, right?"
The team shouted "right!" in booming unison.
"Everyone out there is doubting us — the fucking Montreal fans, the media, fucking all of Canada. None of them thought we'd get this far, but here we are. I've been fighting to get here my whole career, and it's thanks to you guys that I'm even here. Every single guy in this room has it in him to get us this win. We have our plays down, we have the drive, we have the passion, we have the fucking skills. We have to fucking dig deep, but we can fucking do this."
Another cheer from the team. Delzy looked directly at Shane when he spoke again.
"All the expectations, all the cynics — forget them. Be in the moment." Shane nodded, closed his eyes, and tried to absorb those words and let them sink into his aching body to give him the energy to keep going.
"This is what we've worked for all season, let's fucking take it!"
The dressing room exploded with a roar from each and every Centaur. Shane made eye contact with Ilya across the room and scrunched his face in determination. Ilya nodded at him, equally determined.
But despite their renewed energy and Delzy's rousing speech, the Centaurs just could not keep up with the Voyageurs. Three minutes into overtime, their star forward eked in a dirty goal — but a goal nonetheless. And that was it. Montreal would advance and Ottawa's season was over.
Shane watched as the whole Montreal bench emptied onto the ice, descending on their teammate who had scored the game winning goal. The roar of the crowd was so loud, Shane thought his ears would be ringing for days. But it was nothing compared to the voice in his head telling him he was a failure. He'd done exactly what he'd been telling himself not to do — he let his situation with Ilya get in the way of hockey, steal his attention, and leave him coming up short.
His parents were in the crowd, watching him fail, surrounded by cheering fans who had prayed on his downfall. Shane couldn't imagine being more of a disappointment than he was right now. And he still had to wait to shake the fucking hands of the triumphant Voyaguers, who got to keep going toward Shane's dream. What a cruel joke, making them shake hands, rubbing salt in the wound. But Shane would suck it up, he was a professional, he was an adult. Sportsmanship was important, or what the fuck ever.
It was at least comforting that the rest of the Centaurs looked as devastated as Shane felt. Shane's heart broke for Delzy, who was in the playoffs for the first time in seven years and had never made it past the first round. It broke for the guys on the team who had never been to the playoffs before. It broke for Ilya, who was so sure they could go all the way this year. It broke for the Ottawa fans who had been so good to Shane in his first year in the NHL.
They got through the excruciating handshake line and left the ice, heads-down. Ilya was leading the way, anger and frustration painted across his face. Behind him, Shane threw an arm around Hayden, who looked like he might cry, and they walked down the tunnel together.
"This is just the beginning, Hayd," Shane knocked their helmets together as he said it, trying to cheer himself up as much as Hayden.
"We'll get 'em next year, right?" Hayden replied.
"Right," Shane sighed.
The room was quiet while they all undressed and showered, the silence eerie as the sounds of celebrations in the arena boomed around them. In a moment of weakness, knowing no one would be paying much attention, Shane went over to stand next to Ilya, craving his touch and too defeated and exhausted to resist. Without looking at him, Shane inched to the right so that his side was lightly pressed up against Ilya's. He exhaled slowly at the grounding press of arm against arm, hip against hip. Ilya swayed ever so slightly into Shane, and with that small gesture, the tears crawling up Shane's throat to his tired eyes threatened to escape. Neither of them said anything, but Shane stayed close to Ilya the rest of the night.
On the bus to the airport, squished between Ilya and the window just as he wanted to be, Shane checked his phone and saw a text from his mom that brought the tears back to his eyes, but he held them back again.
Mom: We love you and we're proud of you, never forget that.
Shane: thanks mom. tell dad thanks 2. love u. talk 2morrow
Mom: Take all the time you need, sweetie.
Shane's parents were too good, he didn't deserve them. He thought about Ilya's family, what little he knew of them, and his heart ached. With sympathy, and a bite of bitterness, too.
The plane ride was the same, Shane wedged between the window and Ilya. He'd considered sitting with Hayden, but he had his headphones on and was rapidly texting, probably Jackie. Shane absently thought about how they weren't supposed to text while the plane was in the air, but couldn't bring himself to care right then.
Instead, he leaned his head on Ilya's shoulder. Ilya tilted his head onto Shane's. And they just breathed together, letting the disappointment sink into their bones.
***
Uncharacteristically, Shane slept late the next morning. He didn't need to get up and run. His entire body hurt, and his heart hurt even more. He didn't want to be seen by anyone — not his neighbors, not people on the street, not other runners on the trail he usually ran — who all knew he was a failure, most of whom had probably witnessed their epic defeat last night on national television. He didn't want to interact with Hayden or Jackie, who had been here waiting for them when they got home.
So, even after finally waking up at 10am, Shane stayed in bed wallowing until about noon, when he got so hungry he couldn't stand it anymore. He dragged himself into the shower, and finally emerged to find not only Hayden and Jackie, but also Delzy sitting in his living room.
That was a first, their captain had never been to their apartment before. And Shane was momentarily terrified that he was in trouble. But what could he possibly be in trouble for? The season was over, they'd lost. So what the hell was this?
"There he is," Hayden leaned his head back on the couch to look at Shane. He had an arm around Jackie who was half in his lap, and was smiling upside-down at him. Shane felt like he'd been hit by a bus, physically and emotionally. Hayden looked like his usual happy self. It was kind of fucked up, Shane thought, for Hayden to be so blasé about this.
"Hey guys. What's up Delzy?" Shane asked suspiciously.
"Have you eaten?" Delzy stood while he spoke.
"No… I was going to…" Shane gestured to the kitchen.
"How about we go get some food and leave Hayden and Jackie to catch up?" Delzy asked.
"I mean, Jackie was here last night," Shane hedged.
"Hollander," Delzy sighed. "Get fucking lunch with me."
Shane rolled his eyes, but gave in. "Fine."
He slipped on his sneakers and grabbed his phone and wallet, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. It wasn't even that cold out, but Shane needed the emotional protection it offered. Climbing into Delzy's Land Rover, Shane turned to his captain expectantly.
"So, what's going on?" Shane asked, a little impatient now.
"Can't a guy want some company for lunch?" Delzy asked with a nonchalant shrug as he drove.
"No. He can't. Not when we've literally never just gone out to lunch together before, and when you could have invited Hayden too." Shane wasn't in the mood for bullshit.
"Damn, kid. Okay," Delzy huffed. "It looked like you took the loss pretty hard. Fuck, I took it pretty hard too. So maybe I wanted some company to commiserate. And most of the other guys have their wives and girlfriends. And we obviously don't. So."
Delzy shrugged, and Shane felt bad for his shitty attitude.
"Oh. Okay."
They drove in silence until a thought entered Shane's mind.
"What about Ilya? Why didn't you invite him, or like, Lapierre?"
Delzy looked at Shane with a raised eyebrow that said, "Really?"
"Fine, just Ilya then."
"Do you want to call him and see if he wants to join us?" Delzy asked skeptically.
"Whatever, shut up."
"That's what I thought. We clearly have some shit to talk about."
"I'm not talking about that, especially not in a restaurant."
"What restaurant?"
It was then that Shane realized they were on the route to Delzy's needlessly huge house in a gated community. Apparently he'd ordered them a giant pizza, which was delivered only minutes after they arrived. Once they were settled with their food on plates, standing at the kitchen island, Delzy brought Ilya up again.
"So what the fuck is going on with you and Rozanov now?"
"Can't we talk about anything else? Don't you want to talk about the game yesterday?"
"We'll have plenty of time to dissect that shitshow tomorrow and the day after and probably every day for a month. Let's give ourselves at least one day to forget about it."
"Fine. But I'm still not talking about Ilya."
"You are. Because I'm making you, Hollander. It's a good thing the rest of our team is fucking stupid and doesn't pay any attention, because it's pretty obvious something happened between you again, and it wasn't good."
Shane sighed and set his plate on the counter.
"Do you have beer? This ginger ale isn't going to cut it if you're making me talk about this."
Delzy grinned and chuckled, "Let's do it, bud."
After Shane had eaten another slice of pizza and drank half his beer, he finally started talking.
"I think I'm in love with him." Shane stated plainly. Because, at this point, why lie?
"Well that much is obvious."
"Shut the fuck up, no it's not," Shane insisted.
"It kinda is, sorry kid. But keep going."
"Fuck you. So yeah. I think I'm in love. Whatever. But after we won game six, this girl showed up hugging and kissing him back by the player entrance."
"What the fuck?" Delzy interrupted.
"I know right? He's bi. That's not important. The thing is, she was his childhood friend, maybe his ex-girlfriend, who lives in Boston now. Actually, this is kind of cool," Shane took a swig of his beer. "She's Sergei Vetrov's daughter."
"No way."
"Yeah. Crazy, right?"
Now that Shane had gotten started, it all came spilling out. Meeting Svetlana, Shane's realization that he knew so little about Ilya. Their argument and how hurt Shane was by all of it. Shane's inability to stay away from Ilya despite all of that.
"So I'm kind of where I was before, but I feel like this fog has lifted and now I can't ignore that I want more, but I have to." He finished with a big sigh.
"You want my advice?" Delzy asked.
"Not really," Shane said honestly.
"Well, you're getting it. Shane, you know this is only going to lead to you getting even more hurt, right?"
"Not if I know that it's hurting me!"
"That makes no fucking sense."
"I know, but if I don't have expectations, then it won't matter."
"You think you don't have expectations, but you do." Delzy set a strong hand on Shane's shoulder. "You played your ass off last night, and that goal was a beauty. But I could tell you were struggling, and if this shit with Roz is impacting your game, that's not good. If you don't distance yourself now and give yourself time to recover this summer, it's only going to be worse in the long run."
"No, fuck that. You don't know that." He shrugged Delzy's hand off his shoulder. Shane was getting angry. Who was Delzy to tell him what he was feeling? And sure, he let the whole thing with Ilya get into his head for the game, but he'd get that under control by next season.
"I'm just trying to be helpful, as someone with a lot more life experience, kid."
"No!" Shane stepped back. "Stop calling me kid. I'm an adult, I can make my own decisions, and this is fucking stupid. I know what I'm doing, Delzy. I'll take what I can get, and that'll be enough. And I'll know if I need to break it off, but I don't yet."
Shane was breathing hard, anger rising in his chest and pulsing through his veins. He knew he was being irrational and immature, but he couldn't stop. Delzy was trying to take away the only person who understood him, the only person who wanted him for him, not for his skill or proximity to fame and success and money. After losing that game and getting knocked out of the playoffs, Shane was more certain than ever that he needed Ilya. He didn't care anymore if Ilya didn't reciprocate, Shane would take what he could get, whether he would open up to Shane or not.
Delzy stepped closer. He towered over Shane in a way that made Shane feel tiny and very much the kid he claimed not to be.
"Listen. I'm just trying to be a friend," Delzy took a deep breath. "But you're right, you're an adult and you can do what you want. I'm only your captain on the ice, I can't tell you what to do off of it."
Shane deflated.
"I'm sorry, Delzy. I know I fucked up in the game yesterday, and I promise I won't let this interfere with how I play next season. I'm really going to work on that. But I can't… I need him."
It was pathetic and kind of embarrassing to admit, but what did Shane have to lose at this point?
Delzy wrapped him up in a bear hug and Shane went limp — the emotions of the last 48 hours overwhelming him again.
"Like I said, I can't tell you what to do. You know what I think, so we can drop it and finish this damn pizza."
***
Delzy dropped Shane back at home, but instead of taking the elevator to his apartment, he pulled out his phone and immediately texted Ilya while walking to his car in the garage.
Shane: this fucking sucks
Ilya: yes
Shane: what are u doing rn?
Ilya: no gnsthink
Shane: ??
Ilya: no thing
Ilya: vodka
Shane: want company?
Ilya: ye
Twenty minutes later, Ilya opened the door in a torn up old t-shirt that was ripped at the collar, which was annoyingly sexy. Shane walked in without saying anything and shoved a giant McDonald's bag into Ilya's hands.
"You're drunk," Shane said flatly, sitting down next to Ilya, who was rifling through the bag and arranging the ridiculous amount of food on the coffee table.
"Da. How you know?" Ilya slurred a little, his English not holding up under the circumstances.
"Your texts were almost incomprehensible."
"In-com…what? What this word Hollander?" Ilya looked at Shane with annoyance, like he was offended that Shane used a word he didn't know.
"It means they were a mess," Shane laughed.
"Oh." Ilya took a giant bite that was basically half of a big mac, and shrugged.
Shane just watched as he devoured the burger, feeling the dark cloud that was hovering over his head since last night start to dissipate.
"You doing okay?" Shane asked.
"Pfft," was Ilya's reply around a mouthful of fries.
"That sounds like a no."
"Is not no. Fuck off." Ilya rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm not doing great either. I slept til 10 this morning."
Ilya nearly choked on another bite of fries, looking at Shane with big eyes.
"Early worm Shane Hollander not up at dawn? This is very bad." Ilya smirked at him, his eyes a little glassy, but amused.
"You mean early bird?" Shane laughed, chasing that cloud a little farther away.
"Stupid English, I do not know," Ilya scoffed, and flopped back on the couch, letting his head loll.
"But yeah. It was bad." Shane sighed, matching Ilya's position, both of them turning their heads to look at each other.
"Am bad too. Fuck Montreal." Ilya signed.
"Yeah," Shane agreed. "Fuck Montreal."
"I… want to win. Like the most. To lose. I hate it."
Shane chuckled darkly, "I hate it too. We should have won that one. I feel like it's my fault."
"What? No…" Ilya trailed off, eyes closing.
"I don't know, after we argued the other night, I felt off," Shane admitted. It was easier to say when Ilya wasn't looking at him.
"Me too. Off. Want… fuck," Ilya sighed. "Shane, want you not to be sad."
"Really?" Shane lifted his head and stared at Ilya, whose eyes were still closed, head tilted back.
"Da." Ilya took a swig of the glass of vodka that had been left untouched while he ate, and Shane wondered if he should take it away. But Ilya kept talking.
"Am not good enough for Shane Hollander."
"What the fuck, Ilya, yes you are!" Shane insisted, turning to fully face the drunken man who looked near tears next to him.
"No. Am terrible. Awful guy. The worst." Ilya stood and started walking, a little wobbly, away from Shane towards his bedroom. Shane followed, wrapping an arm behind Ilya's back to steady him.
"You're just drunk, Ilya," Shane soothed. "You don't know what you're saying."
Shane was freaked out to see Ilya like this. He'd only seen a Ilya happy or horny version of drunk-Ilya, never this self-deprecating, almost pathetic version of him. It was throwing Shane off, and he didn't really know what to do.
"Yes, Hollander. Am saying. You said. Cannot tell you bad things. You cannot see."
"Um, let's get you to bed, okay, Ilya?" Shane had no idea what to say. He wasn't sure exactly what Ilya was talking about, but regardless, he was afraid that Ilya would regret everything he was saying right now when he sobered up.
"Pshhh, not tired," Ilya turned in Shane's grasp and threw his arms over Shane's shoulders. "Wanna fuck you, Hollander."
Shane's cheeks burned. He wanted that too, but not when Ilya was like this.
"How about you take a nap, and we can talk about that later."
Ilya ignored him, and instead leaned in to kiss him, but Shane dodged it. Ilya's breath reeked of vodka, and Shane tried not to grimace.
"Come on, let's get into bed," Shane urged them towards the bedroom.
"Much better," Ilya smirked sloppily.
Shane pushed him onto the mattress and said, "I'm just going to use the bathroom."
"Mmmmm," Ilya hummed, face pressed into his pillows.
A minute later, Shane returned. As he'd expected, Ilya was snoring. Thank god. Shane draped the blanket over him, and returned to the living room to clean up the mess of food packaging.
He'd come here seeking comfort and release, but now all Shane felt was confusion and more sadness. What bad things was Ilya talking about? What didn't Shane see? It was probably just drunken nonsense, right? Shane sighed, and lay back on Ilya's couch. He should really go home, but he wanted to soak in the scent of Ilya that lingered in the air just a little bit longer.
After a few minutes, Shane finally dragged himself up and scribbled a note for Ilya using the pad of paper that was stuck on the refrigerator with a magnet.
You fell asleep. Text me when you're human again. – Shane
He inexplicably contemplated putting a heart next to his name, but thought better of it. Instead, he added a smiley face, just so Ilya knew he wasn't upset with him.
You fell asleep. Text me when you're human again. – Shane :)