cecelia08



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    “Can I ask you something?”

    There’s a flash of what looks like fear that crosses Ilya's face before he sits back, his posture slightly closed off as his arms cross in front of his chest. “Depends on what it is,” he says, eyes somewhat steely.

    She gets why people are intimidated by him on the ice.

    “Why Ottawa?” She knows it’s something everyone has been asking, but she feels like it’s a legitimate thing to ask. “I mean, I get maybe you’re not happy in Boston, but you could have gone anywhere.”

    “Not anywhere,” he says with an almost pout.

    “But almost anywhere.”

    He lets out a long breath of air through his nose. “I know it does not make sense, but it should not have to make sense to anyone but me.”

    Kate tilts her head to the side, appraising him from across the table. “That’s not an answer.”

    Ilya shrugs, but he holds her gaze steadily. “Maybe one day you will understand. But for now, know I am where I am supposed to be.”

    And who is she to argue with that?

    __

    Or, everyone asks 'why Ottawa?' Ilya's neighbor, Kate, just happens to figure it out first.

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    03 May 2026

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    Shane picks up on the third ring.

    “What?”

    Ilya closes his eyes, humiliation twisting his gut. Still, though, it’s nice to hear his voice. His shoulders sag a little. “Hollander?”

    “I don’t–” Shane sighs, long and heavy. “Why are you calling?”

    Why is he calling? Ilya couldn’t answer. Not in any way that makes sense, anyway.

    Voice wobbling, Ilya says, “I am sorry.” He inhales, breath hitching horribly. “Was mistake.”

    On the other line, Shane goes quiet. Then, shuffling around, he says, “What’s going on, Rozanov?”

    Or: Ilya calls Shane in the middle of the night, and against his better judgment, Shane comes to find him.

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    02 May 2026

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    “So,” Ilya says, dragging the word out. He’s swiping at non-existent crumbs on the counter, avoiding his eyes. “You have dinner at parents on Christmas, yes?” 

    “Yeah.” 

    Ilya nods. “I can house-sit while you are away. Make place pretty, if you have decorations. Make it less boring.” 

    Shane’s eyebrows fly up. “What? You don’t want to come with?” 

    Finally, Ilya looks up at him. Hesitantly, he asks, “You want me to come with?” 

    Frowning, Shane says, “I– yeah. Yeah, of course. You think I invited you here just so you could spend Christmas alone?” 

    Looking away, Ilya shrugs. “I am intruder here, Hollander. You have family. I do not. Makes situation… difficult, maybe. You forget the world thinks we are rivals.” 

    “Not difficult,” Shane says immediately. “You want to come, you’re coming.” 

    Or: Ilya's in Montreal alone during the week leading up to the Winter Classic. Shane doesn't let him spend Christmas alone.

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    02 May 2026

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    The morning after Shane's heat breaks, he wakes up in an empty bed with a deep, throbbing mark on his neck and a text on his phone from Ilya that says, I am sorry. We should break the bond.

    Or, a bite in Vegas ruins everything, for a while.

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    02 May 2026

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    The replay of the high sticking penalty is shown to the crowd, which screams and boos Rozanov. He can’t do that. He shouldn’t fucking be able to do that.

    But even Shane’s body reminds him, as it tips ever-forward into the breakthrough heat that he has unfortunately come to expect every game against Boston: there are different rules for Ilya Rozanov.

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    02 May 2026