Chapter Text
Shane answers the first few questions the way he always does.
Short. Polished. Careful.
“Yes, it was a physical game.”
“No, I’m not commenting on officiating.”
“We’ll review the tape and move forward.”
He keeps his hands folded on the table because if he doesn’t, they’ll shake. He doesn’t say Ilya’s name. Not yet. He keeps his eyes level, his voice even. He gives them nothing they can use.
It had been a shitshow of a game tonight. They barely managed to pull out the win, all them rattled by the loss of their captain. It was their third game against Montreal for the season, and once again his husband was the target of all their anger. Shane will admit that Ilya doesn’t always make not wanting to punch him easy, and chirping is all part of the game, but this was more than that. Every game they have played against Montreal since Shane started with the Centaurs last season, his husband always comes home with a new bruise. And this time…this time they went even harder and Ilya was injured enough to be out for the rest of the game and more than likely the next few weeks. All Shane wanted to do was get out of this ridiculous post-game attire and find his husband. He wanted to go home to his dog and crawl into bed with Ilya and not talk to anyone for the next 48 hours. But seeing as his husband was currently in the training room, most likely fighting with their trainer Matt, trying to convince him that he didn’t need to go to a hospital and that he was fine - “Russians don’t feel pain,” Shane was stuck. Shane knew whatever Ilya claimed was a lie, his husband was the biggest softie he knew. My god, he wants to get out of here.
The room comes back into focus, humming with expectation. Cameras whirr and pens hover.
A reporter near the aisle in the first row raises his hand.
“Do you think emotions played a role tonight,” he asks, “given your personal relationship with the player who was hit?”
The word personal lands wrong. Too intimate. Too pointed.
Shane raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You left the bench,” the reporter presses. “You were visibly upset. Do you think that impacted the flow of the game?”
Shane’s jaw tightens.
“I mean,” The reporter continues, “Given what was said on the ice, and the nature of the hit…”
“I know exactly what was said, because my Captain was lying on the ice when it was said to him." Shane says, interrupting him. “And I reacted because Rozanov took a dirty hit,” he says. “What I did didn’t affect the game. The hit did.”
The reporter nods. Reasonable. Professional.
“And what about what was said to Rozanov afterwards, while he was down?” he asks. “There’s been a lot of chirping on the ice between Ottawa and Montreal these past few seasons. Do you think you may have overreacted to what was being said?”
Shane goes still.
“Chipring,” the reporter continues lightly, “is part of the game. Do you think-”
“No,” Shane cuts in sharply. “We’re not doing that.”
The room freezes. “There’s chirping,” Shane says, voice low, furious, “and then there are slurs. And if you can’t tell the difference, that’s a problem.”
Harris shifts besides the cameras. Careful, the look says.
Shane’s jaw tightens. “Rozanov took a dirty hit and then he was called a slur. Not because of how he plays. Not because of the jersey he wears. But because of who he goes home with.”
A murmur ripples through the room and dies. The reporter doesn’t back off.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, “when emotions are high, lines blur. And given your relationship-”
Shane has always prided himself on keeping his head on straight…most of the time. Ever since the video was released, both him and Ilya have been bombarded with questions about their relationship. Shane has always been a private person, separating work and his personal life as best he can. But when those two worlds collided, it was like people felt this sense of entitlement to his life. He would usually ignore and deflect, to not dignify these questions with responses.
But tonight, he’s hit his limit.
“Don’t,” Shane snaps. “Don’t imply that who I love is the reason someone else chose to cross a line.”
A beat.
Shane sighs, taking a deep breath. He closes his eyes for a second, to regain control. He really wishes he was home. He opens his eyes, keeping them trained on the floor in front of the table.
“I’ve been asked before at other games why I never retaliated. Because this isn’t something new, other players, going after Rozanov and it’s definitely nothing new for Montreal.” Shane looks up at the room of reporters. “I’ve been asked why I don’t lose my head. Why I don’t make it worse.” He exhales sharply through his nose.
“Beacuse I have spent my entire life being told to rise above it. I have spent my entire life hiding who I am. And so while I do have a personal relationship with a player, I also have a professional relationship with him. And when we’re on the ice, that is the relationship I maintain.”
He folds his hands together, knuckles whitening. He draws in a breath, preparing to move on. To shut it down. To give them the version of himself that survives these rooms.
The reporter doesn’t let him.
“Just to be clear,” he says, holding his mic steady, “I’m not excusing what happened tonight.”
Shane nods once, stiffly.
“But” the reporter continues, “this is a very physical league.” His voice is calm and measured, but Shane can hear a touch of smugness to it. He’s looking for a rise, a reaction - he’s looking for a headline.
“Everyone here knows that this is a physical league. You and your husband are two of the most visible players in the sport.” Another pause. “That visibility brings attention. From fans. From opponents and from the media.”
Something in Shane’s chest tightens.
“So when we talk about risk,” the reporter says, “isn’t it fair to ask whether being so publicly open about your marriage creates additional risk for you and your husband on the ice?”
Shane couldn’t even believe what he was hearing. It was so absurd he couldn’t do anything but laugh. He saw the reporter furrow his brows, other reporters and journalists start shifting in their seats, looking around, not understanding.
“You know it’s so fucking hilarious, the irony of that statement, isn’t it?” Shane says, chuckling. He can see Harris stiffen up at the curse word. He knows he should end this - whatever this fucking thing is - before it goes to far. But he is so fucking tired, so fucking sick of the double standard. And it has already gone too far, these thinly veiled insults disguised as interest and curiosity.
A few heads tilt and Shane sees a few people inch closer in their seats, leaning forward like that would help them understand better. But they’ll never understand or maybe they just don’t want to understand.
“You call us visible,” Shane sighed, bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead, hoping to rub away the worry lines. He lowered his head, staring at the table. “And then talk about us like we’re careless.” he continues.
He finally looks up.
“My husband and I are private to the point of obsession. We don’t post our lives. We don’t give interviews about our relationship. We don’t offer timelines. We don’t give you access.”
Shane pauses. He hears the door open at the back of the room, a mop of curls he knows intimately slips in quietly. A few of his teammates stagger in behind him, a wall of protection, the way they stand behind Ilya. He sees the way Hayes crosses his arms and looks around the room, making sure everyone is in his line of sight. He’s always been like that - the most observant on the team, probably what makes him a damn great goalie. He sees Troy, Boodman, and Luca stand shoulder to shoulder with Hayes. He feels something warm well up in him, love for a team that has his husband's back, that has his back. It’s more than he ever got before, and maybe more than he deserves.
Ilya stands there, with his arm in a sling and a bruise on his cheek. Shane’s sure if he lifted his husbands zip up, he would find red and purple marks up his ribs. He feels his chest constrict at the sight. God, he loves this man. He looks directly at his husband as he continues.
“And if I’m being honest,” Shane adds, quieter now, “that’s more on me than it is on Ilya.” Shane sees Ilya’s brow furrow. He’s missed the beginning of the interview, he doesn’t know that Shane is revealing more than he should. He can probably see how Shane is losing it. But Shane can’t seem to stop.
A few heads nod, considering this statement.
“My husband is very good at making sure I’m comfortable. But if it were up to him, he'd scream his love for me at the top of his lungs.” The corner of Shane’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. He sees Ilya stiffen a bit, but then a small, lazy smile flickers across his mouth. He sees his teammates look between them quietly behind Ilya. They know how private Shane is, they know how protective he is over his life.
“And it’s not that I love him any less. I don’t” His voice tightens. “My god, do I love that man! Sometimes it feels like a weight on my chest, constricting my airways just by how much I love him.”
He sees Ilya draw a breath in at the same time as him. It’s like Ilya is holding his breath, probably wondering where Shane is going with this.
“And I’ve always been this private person. But there’s a difference between being private and being almost nonexistent.” He swallows. “And I’ve been taught - over and over- to take up less space. To be less present.”
His gaze drifts from his husband, to the floor, unfocused.
“I’ve never been straight enough for this league. Or white enough. Or neurotypical enough.” A beat. “I grew up with so much internalized homophobia that for a long time I didn’t know who I was allowed to be, or who I was allowed to love. And honestly, I still struggle with those demons.”
The room is silent.
Shane continues, steady but raw now, “I struggle daily with the fear that people are watching me. Judging me. Looking for a reason to hate me.” His fingers curl into his palm. “Hiding isn’t easy - it’s hard and gut wrenching. But it’s a learned behavior, a downward spiral that is hard to unlearn. And it’s what I had to do to survive.”
Shane took a beat. “But it shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t have to worry about every little thing.” He mutters, looking up. “I agonize over the words I use in rooms like this. I think about every sentence. Every implication. Every way something I say might make someone else uncomfortable.”
He sees Troy walk over to Harris and whisper quietly in his ear. Harris quickly looks over his shoulder at Ilya and Ilya looks back, trying to ask What the hell is going on? Harris shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head. I have no clue.
“But you can’t have it both ways.”
The words land clean.
“You can’t tell me I’m too visible when all we’ve ever done is try to make ourselves smaller. You can’t accuse us of inviting attention while also demanding more of our story.”
Shane is grinding his teeth so hard, he’s afraid they might chip.
“Ilya isn’t just my captain. Or my teammate. Or my line partner. He is my husband. And loving him does not mean I forfeited my right to professionalism. It does not mean I forfeited my right to safety.”
He unlocks his fingers and rests them on the table in front of him, lightly rubbing his fingers back and forth, something to soothe him.
“And it does not mean other players get to decide that just because they know who I go home with at night, that my family is suddenly fair game.”
Shane follows the movement of his fingers, calmed by the repetitive motion and the texture of the fabric. “I don’t touch him more than other teammates. I don’t speak to him differently. I don’t celebrate with him in public differently. I am constantly aware - painfully aware - of how closely we’re being watched.”
His words carry a heavy weight.
“He is the man I love. And I should not have to make myself smaller - make my life quieter, colder, more palatable - so that other people don’t have to confront their own discomfort.”
He takes a breath in through his nose.
“But calling my husband a slur makes it personal.”
His eyes lift now. Sharp. Unyielding.
“That is not chirping. That is not part of the game. That is an attack on my family.”
Shane sees Ilya shift forward, but he shakes his head lightly, hanging his head and looking down so people don’t notice that he was shaking his head at Ilya. Shane doesn’t want the attention to shift to him, he doesn’t want Ilya to be hounded the way he’s being. He wants to protect him.
“Ilya took a dirty hit tonight, and after my husband was already lying on the ice, injured, someone decided that our love was the sharpest thing they could throw at him.”
Shane takes a deep breath and holds his head up high.
“There is an unspoken rule in the league,” Shane says, “That out on the ice, families and partners are off limits. Wives are off limits. Girlfriends are off limits. Children are off limits.”
Shane looks back to that first reporter, the one who started this.
“So tell me why is it different for me?”
Silence.
He takes a moment, preparing to move on. To shut this down and end it here. To give them the version of himself that survives these rooms.
“I didn’t mean any offense” the same man says. Shane thinks this man is asking to be punched. He hates when people say something offensive to then just say “no offense."
“And I hear what you’re saying,” the reporter replies, nodding like everyone else in the room is in agreement with him. But from the looks Shane sees the other reports giving this man, he’s not so sure that’s true.
“But with all due respect, this wouldn’t be an issue if there weren’t so many unanswered questions. Part of the reason people keep asking is because you’ve never clarified when this relationship began.”
He lifts his mic slightly.
“You’ve asked for privacy, but you’ve also acknowledge when it first came out that this relationship has been going on for several years before it was revealed. A pause. “How many years? Through which phases or your career did it start?”
Shane’s fingernails are back to clawing at his hands. He feels the pressure before the pain, if he was more aware, he would be afraid of drawing blood.
“Given that you and Rozanov spent years as rivals, sometimes as teammates, as opposing captains, - how do we know this never affected a game’s outcome? Whether intentionally or not? I’m not trying to be an asshole here but you won Montreal three cups, how many of those cups were maybe already predetermined? I mean, I’m just going to say what we’re all thinking, have you or Rozonav ever thrown a game for the other? Did you truly trip in that game a few years ago?”
Someone gasped in the crowd, and the room went deathly still. Most of the reporters in the room were giving this man disgusted looks, but some look genuinely interested in the answer. This was the first time someone was so blatant in asking. Ever since it happened, ever since he tripped, people would tiptoe around the topic in the politest way possible - but those still felt like sharp knives to the jugular. Shane could see Ilya fuming the in the back, Hayes and Troy both holding one of his shoulders. One would consider it a reassuring gesture, but it looked more like they were holding back a ticking bomb - one about to explode. Shane shifted his attention back to the reporter in the first row.
The reporter continues his questions. “Don’t you think it’s reasonable for people to want to know whether that personal relationship ever overlapped with professional competition?”
He looked Shane directly in the eyes. “So,” he says, gently, like he’s being kind, “honestly - how long has this relationship been going on, Shane?”
The room stills, deathly silent in the wake of this man's condescension.
Shane doesn’t answer right away. Because this isn’t new, this isn’t a new fear. This is the thing they talked about in hotel rooms with the lights off. In whispers. This is the fear that sat between them when they decided to give themselves a shot. To hide away, to keep to themselves. To not say anything at all. This whole night has been a fear coming true - a nightmare in real life.
Shane remembers lying in hotel rooms with Ilya’s hand laced with his, staring at the ceiling and thinking What if loving me gets you hurt? What if choosing me ruins you?
Shane can see people shifting uncomfortably in their seats. He can hear a camera lens zooming in, slow and deliberate. This night has gone off the rails and Shane wants nothing to do with it. The reporter waits patiently - he’s not sneering or being loud, but his judgement can be felt all throughout the room. He sits there with a calm look on his face like he’s asking something reasonable. Like love has made Shane compromise his morals and who he is as a person, as a player and as a captain.
Shane looks out at all the faces in the room - some familiar and comforting, some with pity written across their faces. Shane sees his husband, his gorgeous beautiful husband standing there looking like he wants to take him in his arms and protect him from everything bad in this world.
He sees the door on the left side of the room open quietly, and his heart seizes up. Four Montreal players slip in - Drapeau, Hayden, J.J. and Comeau are all standing there - looking at him. Looking at Shane with his hands on the table, and the posture he’s perfected - controlled, contained, managed, and something inside him…just gives up.
Shane stops. Not abruptly. Not for effect. He just - stops.
He exhales, long and unsteady, and when he looks back to the room again, his anger is just gone. What’s left is exhaustion. Bone-deep exhaustion. The kind that comes from holding your breath for decades.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he says quietly.
The room closes in, leans forward without meaning to.
“You’re asking me if I fixed games,” he says, “You’re asking if I threw away my body, my career, my integrity, just because I fell in love?” He leans forward.
“I bled for this league. I broke bones for this league. I gave it everything I had.” His eyes burn. “And you think I’d cheapen that because I’m in love?”
Shane can see Harris moving to the side of the room, closer to the table, inching forward like he’s about to intervene.
Shane becomes unreasonably irritated by this - he has been silent for too long and he will not let anyone else silence him - including a friend.
“You want to talk about risk? Shane continues, voice low in a growl. “You want to talk about what makes someone a target?”
Harris moves in. “Shane, I think we should-”
No,” Shane says, slamming his hand on the table, “I’m answering this.” He sees Harris step back, until he’s closer to the wall and he’s hit Troy’s chest. Troy must’ve followed him up, one of his hand steadying Harris’s waist, the other resting on his shoulder. He looks a little miffed at Shane, at the way he talked to Harris most likely. But Shane can see the worry marring both their faces, outweighing any other emotion. He’ll make sure to apologize later.
He steadys himself again, dropping his shoulders, staring once again at his hands. These hands that have fought and strategized and loved.
“I have spent my entire life terrified of people finding out who I am. Of people looking at me differently.” His voice cracks. “I have lived my whole life in the shadows, and behind doors and I hid the love of my life for years. Fucking years.”
His breath comes hard. “Do you know what it’s like to have a fear so big you can’t breathe? To lie awake shaking because you know if anyone ever finds out, everything changes?” His eyes are fogging up. “To be a lonely kid who hates himself because the world taught him that loving someone like that makes him a problem?”
Shane thinks of his old team - how they changed when he told him. How they confirmed every one of his worst fears and he hates them for it. He hates them for how they left him and how they hated him and how they threw him away. Why is he still protecting them? Why does he care so much?
“I came out to my old team long before the video was ever posted,” Shane admits. “Before any of them knew about me and Ilya. I came out to them as gay and they told me it wouldn’t change anything.”
He looks up now. His vision blurring with unshed tears, his face red. He looked right at them - his old team, his old friends…his old family. He never thought one could have an “old” family - family was forever. Family was your ride and die - they had your back for everything. But these people - they left him out to dry. No…they threw him out and they locked the door - maybe he put his faith in the wrong people. Maybe he was too naive to actually believe them, to trust them and take their word at face value. Maybe…maybe he was the problem.
A bitter laugh wells up. “Well, it fucking did. It did change everything.” He stares down Drapeau and Comeau - unflinching in his gaze and the betrayal he felt open for everyone to see.
“I knew those guys for eleven years. I bled for them. I stood beside them on their wedding day as a groomsmen. I held their kids. I was an uncle to their families.” His jaw clenches. “I held them up when they fell apart as they lost a loved one” He looks straight at Drapeau as he says this, remembering the day he broke down in Shane’s arms - crying at the loss of his dad. “And when they found out who I loved, without giving me a chance to explain, they threw me away like garbage.”
Drapeau and Comeau grimaced and looked down at their shoes - looking ashamed for the first time since everything happened. Hayden looked like he couldn’t decide if he should be pissed, sad, or guilty and J.J. - well he chose guilt.
Someone in the room gasps, a sob. Quiet and unchecked.
“They said it wasn’t about me being gay. And maybe for some of them that’s true.”
His voice drops. “But some of them did have a problem with me being gay.” Comeau and Drapeau’s shoulders stiffen as he says this.
“And the rest?” Shane says, his gaze shifting to Hayden. His best friend. He loves Hayden and his support meant the world to Shane. But there is a small part of Shane - a part he feels guilt about most of the time - that is angry with his best friend. And a part of that is that he’s angry that Hayden was so careless and that the video was released but most of the time he’s grateful everything is out in the open - he just would’ve rather he’d been the one in control of it. But no - most of that anger is because even though his best friend never had an issue with him being gay - he has an issue with whom he chooses to love. He makes small jokes and quips about his husband - would joke asking “You couldn’t have found a nice guy in Montreal?” And Shane knows they’re jokes and he knows that Ilya and Hayden don’t actually hate each other - but they don’t exactly like each other and that hurts. It hurts that his best friend can’t be happy for him, can’t try and be friends with his husband - not Ilya Rozanov the Captain of the Ottawa Centaurs, not the asshole from the ice - but his Ilya. The most caring and loving and amazing man he knows.
Shane continues as he looks at his best friend. “They said it was because it was him.” He sees Hayden flinch - he knows Shane is talking to him. He never wants to hurt his best friend, but he’s been hurt these past few years and he needs relief. “They said they could look past me being gay, but me being with Ilya was too much. Too Much?” Shane mutters.
Shane’s eyes blaze with years of pain. “Do you know what it’s like to lose your entire team, your support system, your career and legacy - your family - all because of the person you choose to love?” He swallows hard. “I chose him. I choose him every day, after every struggle and every cost - I will always choose him over everything - even hockey.”
His voice breaks open at the end. Shane wipes at his face quickly, head down so people don’t see the first tear fall.
“But the truth is - I also never really had a choice. Because it has always been him.”
He exhales, long and unsteady, and when he looks up again, he looks wrecked. He looks at that reporter - and he looks…Shane doesn’t know. Uncomfortable, intrigued, smug, sorry - all the above?
“I am done protecting other people’s peace at the expense of my own.” His voice is softer now. “I’m done being terrified and polite and small.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You want to know about us?” He asks. “Then listen.”
He moves his gaze to his husband, who’s silently crying in the back of the room. Crying for Shane, for himself, for them. Shane’s gaze softens as he starts, finally sharing the truth.
“I was a boy who fell in love with another boy.” Shane says.
Shane’s gaze stays on his husband, caught by him once again. He knows he might regret revealing so much later - but right now he just wants everyone to know how powerless he was to Ilya Rozanov. How falling in love with him was the easiest thing in the world - it was the world that made everything else difficult.
“My first thought when I met Ilya in that ally outside that dingy rink at the Junior Championships was “My god, he’s gorgeous.” Shane sniffles, and he hears many people gasp. “My second thought was “My god, he’s an asshole.” A ghost of a smile flickers and fades on his face. “Neither of those things have changed.” Shane can see Ilya huff out a small chuckle.
“We didn’t mean for this to happen. We weren’t brave or rebellious - at least I wasn’t.” Shane concedes. The room gives a small huff - a sign of life within a otherwhat quiet room. “We weren’t trying to make a statement - we were kids. Ilya and I didn’t plan it, didn’t choreograph it, didn’t choose it the way people like to believe love works. It just…did - work that is. At least in a way.” Shane admits - guilt warring inside himself that he doesn’t think he will ever be able to truly let go of.
“There are a thousand things I would change if I could go back. But there are also things I wouldn’t change for the world.” Shane’s voice tightens, he feels like his throat is closing up, being overwhelmed with all these emotions.
He looks down at the table as he says, “I have only ever loved one person in my entire life. My first love. My only love.” He looks up at the room, scanning faces - searching for answers. “How many people get to say that? How many people are lucky enough to meet the person who sees them at their best and their worst - on top of the world and completely shattered - stripped of every title, every wall, every defense? How many people get it right the first time?” Shane wonders what the answer is - at least in this room.
“And that’s not to say Ilya and I got it right from the start, because we definitely didn’t. We fucked up so many times - both too afraid to say anything to each other. But we found our way”
He sees people wiping their eyes, most of the phones and microphones sitting on laps or limply hanging from peoples grips.
“I am a man who loves another man. But that isn’t how it started. It started with a boy who thought another boy was cute. People keep asking “how long.” As if you’re owed a number. As if love is something that can be measured in seasons and contracts. As if love keeps score. As if you are entitled to the timeline of our hearts.” He swallows. “You want answers, you want a number - then fine. Here it is.”
He takes a moment. Makes them wait.
“I was seventeen.” A breath catches in the room. “He was supposed to be my rival. My competition. The guy I was meant to beat. The guy standing between me and the top spot.” Shane’s voice softens. “I wanted to introduce myself to the competition but also meet the player who was amazing to watch - who could keep up. I saw him leaning against the building smoking somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. The first thing I ever said to him was, “You’re supposed to smoke over there.” Shane shakes his head chuckling at his younger self.
“He looked at me and I forgot how to breathe. He had these ridiculously soft looking curls and the most unfair eyes I’d ever seen and just like that, something in my chest split open.” He can hear a sniffle from the back of the room. His husband reliving that day with him.
“It had nothing to do with hockey. Nothing to do with medals or rankings or flags on our jerseys. We were just boys. Boys falling in love with each other. If you ask him he’ll tell you he fell first. He jokes about it. Says it was my freckles - his Ангельские поцелуи, angel kisses he calls them. I fell for his confidence. We had no idea what we were doing. We were kids pretending to be men on a world stage where people expected everything from us. We carried our entire countries on our shoulders - he carried expectations and I carried fear. We were terrified - terrified to acknowledge what we felt, terrified to what it would cost us if we did.”
Shane can feel tears silently falling down his face, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold he feels inside. He feels his face tingling and his hands are shaking. He puts his hands in his lap behind the table.
“We were afraid to admit what we felt for each other, to name it, so we didn’t. We went years seeing each other - pretending it didn’t mean anything. No attachments, no commitments, no strings. But if I’m honest with myself I fell in love faster than I admitted to him or myself at the time. I was committed to him most likely from the beginning. I loved him long before I ever said it out loud.”
Someone sniffles and Shane sees a camera being lowered.
“If you’re wondering whether we fixed games - no. Never. That accusation is insulting.” He shakes his head, containing the small spark of anger at just the thought. “And many of you keep saying “rivals” like it’s a falsity, like it’s the plague.” Shane continues. “I want to be very clear about something.”
He looks directly into the camera at the back of the room.
“Yes. We were rivals. That part is true. We pushed each other harder than anyone else in this league ever did. We play liked we had something to prove every time we shared the ice. But there was never hate there.”
Shane looks at Ilya - a little afraid as he doesn’t think he’s ever told his husband this.
“What I hated,” Shane starts, “was myself. I hated how much I wanted him. I hated that I didn’t understand it, that I didn’t know what it meant, or what it could cost me, and how I wasn’t allowed to feel it.” He sees his husband brow furrow.
“The rivalry gave me somewhere to put all of that. It gave me control. It gave me an excuse to watch him, to care about him, to want him, without ever having to say why.” He continues to watch the emotions playing out on his husband's face - his face falling at each of Shane’s confessions.
“And if I’m being honest - I liked the rivalry.”
He could see the surprise on other peoples face in his periphery view. But his eyes never strayed from Ilya’s. A few murmurs rippled throughout the room but quickly died down. It was like everyone was afraid to break the silence in fear of Shane stopping. But it’s like Shane can’t stop.
“ I liked the rivalry because even when I was convinced this could never work - that we could never work - at least it meant that his attention was always on me. At least I mattered. At least I wasn’t invisible.”
And that seems to be the thing that breaks Ilya, Shane can see him sob quietly and tears fall down his face. Ilya brings a hand to cover his mouth, like he can silence his pain by sheer will. Shane sees their teammates rally behind him. All holding on to him in some capacity - trying to be his strength, to be each other's strength.
Shane looks back to the reporters in the room. This part was a message for them.
“So don’t rewrite our history into something convenient.” Shane demands, “You spent years calling us rivals because it was easier to understand. And now you want to take the truth - that there was something more - and twist it into something ugly.” He shifts his jaw slightly, having pain from clenching it too tightly.
“Loving someone doesn’t make you dishonest. Wanting someone doesn’t make you unethical. And it doesn’t mean every moment that came before was a lie. We weren’t scheming. We weren’t fixing games. We weren’t playing some long con.”
His voice softens as he breathes out. “We were two kids doing the only thing we knew how to do in a world that didn’t give us any room to be anything else - competing, pretending that was all it was because it had to be.”
Shane sighs again, it’s like his body and his mind have finally decided to reveal his exhaustion of this whole thing.
“Can you imagine accusing someone of throwing away their entire career - eleven years of your body, blood, your life, for a secret you were already afraid to hold?”
Silence.
“Imagine asking a straight man if he threw his career away for following in love with a girl. Just imagine a guy falling in love with a girl at seventeen and being forced to hide her. Being told that his love was suspicious. Dangerous. That strangers had a right to dissect it. That’s what you’re asking of us. Imagine telling him he didn’t deserve his wins because he had a heart.”
Shane hiccups, fully crying. He closes his eyes, not wanting to think about the worst parts of their relationships.
“I almost lost the love of my life in a plane crash and no one would’ve known. No one would've known about us. And it’s not like I can show people our lives. We don’t even have that many photographs together because we were constantly scared. Of being exposed. Of being punished. Since the beginning, we hid - because the world taught us to be afraid. We lived in constant terror of being discovered, of someone breaking into our lives and stealing the only thing that was truly ours.”
And it was theirs - it was terrifying and tragic and gorgeous.
“I didn’t even tell my parents for most of it. They found out by accident. Do you know how lonely that is, to lie to your family and friends. To know this thing about yourself but be so ashamed of it. But to have this person you love and be so proud of them and not be able to share them. I couldn’t tell my mom about this amazing man in my life. I couldn’t show my Dad that I had a partner who would help carry the load. We were completely alone for those first few years and I admit - at the time that’s how I wanted it. There is so much shame that comes with being an athlete and being queer, or just differently. So we loved quietly. Carefully.” Shane says quietly, having no more energy to fight.
Shane breathes slowly, a small smile making his way onto his face.
“But my god you should’ve seen us - it was beautiful. Our love was beautiful…it is beautiful.” Shane whispers. He straightens, a sense of pride rushing through him.
“I am a man who loves another man. But once, I was just a seventeen-year-old boy who fell in love with another boy. Do not punish those kids for finding beauty in each other in a world determined to tell them it is wrong. Do not punish those kids for simply falling in love.” Shane begs.
He looks back at the man - that fucking man.
“We were fucking seventeen. Did you have it all figured out at seventeen?” He gestures helplessly at the room. “Your first kiss? Your first love? Did you know who you would become? Would you have wanted the world demanding answers about your heart?”
Shane wipes at his face once, rough and unashamed.
“Ilya and I have a foundation for mental health in sports because I worry about the next kid like us. I worry about the next seventeen-year-old who thinks they’re alone. Who thinks they owe everyone their silence.”
His heart breaks thinking about some lonely kid out there by themselves. He looks around the room - he really looks at them. He can see his teammates practically holding up each other. Crying for him, grieving with him. He can see the way Ilya’s shoulders are tensed and back, posture pin straight - the best it can be with the sling. He can see most journalist wiping their eyes or looking away when he meets their eyes - ashamed of their behavior.
Shane breathes. He really breathes. He lets go of everything. He feels free - free in a way that feels scary. Like he’s in freefall - and it feels exhilarating but soon he will get closer and closer to the ground and he doesn’t think he has a parachute or something to soften his landing. He’s going to crash. But he keeps going - he keeps going for the next kid.
“They don’t owe you explanations. They don’t owe you timelines. They don’t owe you shame.”
Shane pushes his chair back.
“They only owe themselves the right to fucking live.”
Shane starts to stand up - he leans forward into the mic.
“There will be no further questions.”
He gets up and turns toward the door - walking out and leaving behind everything else.
The room is crying when he walks away.
Even the ones who never thought they would.