Chapter Text
It comes in a wave, the same way it always does. Like a tide pulling onto the shore.
There’s a moment where he thinks he can still breathe, where he thinks he might be able to outrun it. Then it reaches his chest, cold and cloying, and he remembers how small he is against it.
The commentators grow louder. Shane shuts his eyes and wonders how long it would take for his body to fight back if he decided to hold his breath and never let it go.
“He’s dragging his left leg,” his mom says. Her voice is a distant echo, despite how close she is. That should be scary. He should be worried about the health of his ears. But he’s been here a million times before. In this mental bubble. In this precarious place between consciousness and drowning.
His dad’s voice is only a low rumble, the words indistinct, so Shane presses his face further into his mother’s leg and sucks harder on the string of his hoodie. The fabric is damp between his teeth.
He’s not sure how much time passes, but he stirs when his mom’s hand moves from his hair to his face, her thumbs brushing gently over his closed eyelids until he flutters them open.
“Pills, honey,” she murmurs, soft and gentle and sweet. Shane stares at her and wonders how he got so lucky, how he was given a mom as perfect as her. As patient. He opens his mouth and lets her place the pills on his tongue, tips his head back when she lifts a water bottle to his lips.
He feels like an infant. Like he’s regressed a decade in the blink of an eye.
Depression does that.
It hunts.
It changes.
It ruins.
The pills go down with a practiced swallow, chalky bitterness chased by plastic-tasting water. His mom caps the bottle and sets it on the coffee table, close enough that he can see it if he opens his eyes again. Her hand returns to his hair without thinking, fingers moving in slow, absent patterns.
He brings his hand to his mouth and absently sucks on his knuckle, eyes fixed on the television, unseeing.
Boston is playing.
Ilya is playing.
Ilya. Ilya.
Ilya is everything; and Shane is a mess. A burden. Everything a normal, healthy person is taught to avoid.
He’s needy and desperate and needs help just to survive. He is good at hockey, but he is this, too—this twisted, selfish thing that takes and takes and never quite gets better.
He draws his knees up to his chest, feels his eyes burn. His mom leans down and presses a soft kiss to the crown of his head. A tear slips free anyway.
He’s lucky.
He’s weak.
“’M sorry,” he says, the words catching, his breath hitching around them. He’s crying, he realizes, as his cheeks begin to itch with the wetness of it.
“Sh,” his mom soothes. “Sleep, baby. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”
He knows he won’t. Sleep doesn’t fix this. He’s tried and tried and tried.
Still, he closes his eyes around his tears and hopes she knows how earnest he is. How genuinely sorry he is for being like this.
She stays bent over him for a while. Like she’s guarding him from invisible dangers.
Her hand cups the back of his head, steady and warm, thumb brushing slow circles into his hairline. His dad turns the volume down on the TV, the commentators fading into a soft murmur, and the room settles into something quieter, safer.
His tears ebb the way they always do. Into sore eyes and a wet nose and dry lips. His chest aches, his throat tight and sore, but the worst of it pulls back enough that he can take a breath without it shaking.
He keeps his eyes closed.
Eventually, his mom shifts his head off of her lap, easing his head onto a pillow. She tugs the heavy throw blanket from the back of the couch up over his shoulders, tucking it around him.
Her lips brush his forehead once more, feather-light. “Love you,” she whispers.
Shane doesn’t trust his voice, so he just nods, barely, and lets the warmth of the blanket and the room press in around him. He floats there, half-asleep, hoping; stupidly, desperately, that when he wakes up, the tide will have turned.
—
He’s in New York.
His hotel room is nice. The minibar is stocked with ginger ale and low-sugar granola bars, thanks to his mom’s pre-planning.
But he’s in New York.
He sits on the floor in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, knees tucked under his chin, staring out at the skyline. It’s breathtaking. Something out of a movie.
It doesn’t feel real.
It’s close enough to touch, and it feels fake.
His vision blurs. His chest tightens. Breaths come shallow and sharp, and he knows what this is. He knows the signs.
He can’t do this.
He can’t be this man.
He can’t keep up. He can’t keep letting the world drain him of everything he has and leave him like this—hollowed out, barely human.
He’s weak. He’s a loser.
He’s gasping for air on a hotel room floor in New York City when he reaches for his phone, fingers clumsy, desperate as he scrolls. He needs his mom. He’s scared and alone and hurting, and he needs his mom.
He finds her name. He calls.
She stays on the line as she rushes from her room to his. When she gets there, she pulls him into her arms, and he comes apart completely.
“I can’t do this,” he sobs, and it feels like a betrayal—to throw everything she’s done for him back in her face. But she only holds him tighter, rocking them gently side to side. He doesn’t remember deciding to keep talking, only that the words won’t stop.
“I’m sorry,” over and over, broken and small.
It’s his second year in the MHL.
He’s signed off for the last fifth of the season.
The press speculate. They push. They argue that if he can’t handle his contract, he shouldn’t have a place to return to at all.
Six months later, he sits in a small office and is told, plainly, that he meets the diagnostic criteria for autism.
His mom inhales sharply beside him. Shane stares at the doctor and waits.
Waits to be told how to fix it.
There is no cure.
He goes home. He reads fifteen books on the topic. He learns.
He is not a shell. He is not broken.
He is burnt-out. He is shutting down. He is overstimulated.
He is autistic.
His mom talks to his coach, the team’s medical staff, and the mental health team. He’s signed back on and confirmed for the following season.
He’s excited and scared. He loves hockey. It’s his first love. The reason he lives.
He’s back on the ice. Hayden is right there next to him, and it’s like he never left.
But he stops letting them pressure him into going to bars after every game.
He stops forcing himself to participate in every non-mandatory aspect of the sport.
He meets Hayden’s girlfriend. She’s sweet, and he likes her. He likes how she talks with her hands.
Hayden becomes a good friend. His only friend, really. But that’s okay. He doesn’t need friends. He just needs space. Peace. Routine.
He works with a nutritionist to remove the stress of thinking about food—another weight off his shoulders.
He carries a portable steam cleaner to every hotel room to sanitize the pillows. He discards every piece of clothing he hates but bought to fit in, replacing them with plain cotton and linen alternatives.
And throughout it all, he doesn’t see Ilya once.
He can’t. There’s no room in his brain for an Ilya-sized compartment.
It would consume him.
Because even without seeing him, he thinks about Ilya constantly. Not the whole day, not all the time. Just in small, electric flashes. His laugh. His smile. The way he moves.
It makes his stomach coil.
He’d looked it up. Autism and sexuality aren’t mutually exclusive. He’d wondered after the diagnosis if he was asexual, or at least ace. He’d never been interested in dating. Not really. Jessica had been safe—predictable. They kissed once, and it had been fine. Then it ended.
But Ilya was different. Shane imagines kissing him. Feels the tilt of his head, the heat, the closeness. His stomach flips, a dizzy thrill that makes him want to lean forward, to let it happen.
He pushes it down.
Stupid. Childish. Ridiculous.
Better to keep it locked away. Better to focus on hockey, routine, routine, routine.
—
He starts seeing a therapist. She’s easy to talk to. She’s nice. They talk about hockey, his childhood. Real estate. Interior design.
Then, in the middle of a session, Ilya texts him—for the first time in eleven months.
He seizes. Breath catches. Chest tightens. Hands shake.
“Shane. Breathe. In… and out. Slow,” his therapist says, calm, steady.
He follows, trembling, until the panic dulls.
And then he tells her everything.
—
“Hollander,” Ilya drawls, deep and low and perfect, as he crosses the hotel room and meets Shane at the door.
Shane catches his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing up at Ilya from beneath his lashes, nervous and wanting all at once.
Ilya’s hand comes to rest easily at the scruff of his neck. Familiar. Possessive. Shane’s breath hitches, traitorous and pleased.
“Da?” Ilya croons.
Shane feels like a fucking idiot.
He’s so easy. So fucking easy.
“Da,” he echoes anyway.
Ilya takes him apart. Teaches him. Makes him feel whole and empty at the same time.
“Goodnight, Hollander.”
It’s a dismissal.
Shane leaves. He doesn’t go back to his room. He goes up to the rooftop, grips the railing, and screams into the night. He screams until his lungs burn, until his throat aches, until the tears come hot and uncontrollable. He wants to be tough. He tries so hard.
He can’t.
They can’t keep doing this.
He won’t survive it.
—
Shane spends the flight back to Canada writing a list of rules he’d enforce if this thing between him and Rozanov ever had a real chance.
It doesn’t. It’s laughable. A desperate attempt to fill the gaping hole left in his heart from their last night together.
If it were up to him, Ilya would not kiss anyone else. He would not sleep with anyone else. He would cuddle Shane for more than twenty-three seconds at a time. He would definitely stop smoking.
Shane runs his thumb over his messy handwriting and winces as the ink smudges.
He crumples the paper, shoves it into his hoodie pocket, and he’s suddenly furious at himself.
He goes home. He does yoga. Watches the home shopping network. Talks about his new sponsorship contract with his mom.
On the second day, he goes out to the water and, after a beat of hesitation, hurls his phone into it.
He plays it off as an accident.
His dad just kisses the side of his head. “I’ll pick up a new one for you tomorrow,” he says.
Shane nods.
And when he goes to bed that night, he doesn’t spend an hour re-reading every single text he’s exchanged with Ilya.
Because he can’t.
He lies down and closes his eyes.
Counts his breaths. Counts the ceiling tiles.
And in the end, it’s useless.
Because he falls asleep thinking about Ilya anyway.
—
Lily:
Send me pic
Of you
Naked
Hello?
Hollander.
Are you ignoring me?
Boringggggg
Jane:
TNTMobile: This number has been disconnected.
Lily:
What the fuck
—
Ilya is kissing a woman in the corner of the room, and Shane feels sick.
The sponsorship event has turned into a night out for a handful of players chosen to work with the soda brand.
Shane stays in the shadows, watching.
He watches the world move without him. He watches Ilya step forward and away and away. Then Hayden is there, arm flung around his shoulders, pulling him toward the bar.
Shane doesn’t look at Ilya for the rest of the night. It would hurt too much.
He goes back to his hotel room early. Pulls out his weighted blanket, wraps it around his shoulders. Puts an aquarium livestream on his phone. Lies in bed. Lets himself zone out.
He drifts.
He falls asleep and dreams of extravagant fish tanks. Coral blooms. Neon tetras darting like tiny sparks of light. Shadows gliding past in silence. Each bubble rising slowly, perfectly, endlessly.
He wakes up crying.
It’s the middle of the night. Two a.m.
He lies still, shoulders tight under the weighted blanket. Heart hammering. Breath jagged.
And, traitorously, he wonders if Ilya spending the night taking apart someone else. Touching someone who isn’t him.
The thought makes his stomach twist. Makes his throat burn. Makes him feel ugly and raw and ridiculous.
He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Opens up the aquarium stream on his phone. The fish move in loops, oblivious, serene. He tries to imagine himself like that; oblivious, serene.
It’s an impossible task.
—
He meets Ilya’s eyes across the ice. They face off. Shane wins. The Metro take the victory.
The team rushes him. He keeps his face neutral. Inside, he’s buzzing—triumph tangled with exhaustion.
He goes through his post‑game motions. He showers. Changes. Goes straight back to the hotel.
And then he steps out of the elevator.
Rozanov is there. Arms crossed. Lips pressed into a thin line. Glaring.
Shane flushes. His heart slams. Panic flares. He glares back, but it’s defensive, not aggressive. The world narrows to Ilya.
He ushers him down the hallway, frantic, breath fast, muscles tight, and gets them into the relative privacy of his hotel room.
“What the hell are you—”
“You ignore me,” Ilya says, tilting his head, voice smooth and sharp, irritation threaded through every word. “Block number. Do not answer. Ghost. And now you look at me like I am insane. Cute. Very cute.”
Shane swallows. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “I—I didn’t—” His voice is tight. “I didn’t block you.”
Ilya snorts. “Oh, really? You didn’t? Funny. Very convincing. I almost believe.” He steps closer, eyes cold, mouth curling. “I am not good enough fuck for you anymore?”
Shane flinches. His heart is racing. His breath feels trapped in his chest. He wants to argue. Wants to run. Wants to disappear.
“I just—” he stammers. “I can’t—”
Ilya laughs, low and humorless. “Cannot, huh? Always cannot. You push. Always push.” He gestures vaguely between them. “And me? I am just fun toy to play with, yes?”
Shane feels nauseous.
He steps back, fists clenched inside his hoodie. “I’m not—this isn’t—” His voice breaks. He squeezes his eyes shut, chest heaving. “I love you,” he blurts.
Silence.
Ilya jolts. Takes a full step back. Then he laughs again, sharp and brittle, shaking his head. There’s no warmth in it at all. Shane curls in on himself instinctively.
“You—you are idiot,” Ilya says, spitting the words like poison. “We fuck, what, three times? And you love me?” He scoffs. “No. You are confused. You are young.” A dismissive shrug. “Is nothing.”
Shane stares at the floor. His voice is quiet. Flat. “Okay.”
He doesn’t look up when Ilya storms out, the door slamming hard behind him. He just sinks down slowly until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn in, rocking—back and forth, back and forth.
—
Google is useless.
It doesn’t have a clear answer on how to stop loving someone.
All the forum posts say the same thing: give it time. But he doesn’t have time.
One post says, “Get under to get over.”
He blocks that user out of pure anger.
In the end, he makes a list.
They will not text or call. Shane will not look at photos. He is not allowed to be where Ilya might be. He is not allowed to think about Ilya—unless they are on the ice, and it is about strategy.
He tries to sleep. Tries to zone out. Tries to drown the itch of missing someone he cannot have. Tries to fill the hollow with routine.
For a few hours at a time, it works.
But he dreams of Ilya every single night.
—
He struggles for a while after that.
He’s lucky it’s summer.
He spends a week hibernating in his mom’s arms, letting himself float. He watches old hockey games on repeat. Plans the blueprint for the cottage he wants to build on the empty plot a few miles from his parents’ summer house.
He’s half-asleep when his phone buzzes under his pillow. Bleary-eyed and croaky, he answers. “Mhm?”
“I cannot love you.”
Shane blinks himself awake. Ilya. Ilya, Ilya. Ilya. “How—”
“I cannot love you, Hollander,” Ilya repeats, cutting him off. “Is not… possible for me. To love you. You understand this?”
Shane feels like he’s going to die. “Okay,” he whispers.
“You are good,” Ilya says. “You are what I want, da? But I cannot have.”
Shane closes his eyes. “Okay,” he repeats.
He imagines Ilya pacing, running a stressed hand through his hair. Maybe he’s in Boston. Maybe he’s in Moscow.
“I am sorry,” Ilya says.
Shane feels sick. “For not loving me?” he asks.
Ilya is quiet. “No.” And then the call ends.
Shane sets the phone down, climbs out of bed, and goes to the master bedroom. He crawls in between his parents. They curl around him on instinct, a few muffled greetings.
He lets himself feel the heartbreak.
He wishes that Ilya had kissed him one last time.
—
Scott Hunter bodies Shane into the barriers.
Hayden retaliates instantly, fists flying.
Shane is caught in the middle. His head snaps. Stars bloom behind his eyes.
They pull him off the ice.
Mild concussion. The headache thumps in time with his heartbeat.
He sits on the bench, helmet off, hands pressed to his temples, breathing shallow.
After the game, Scott finds him. Apologizes. Shane shrugs. It’s not a big deal. Hockey happens. People get hit.
Later, Scott sits next to him in the hotel lobby. Offers to buy him an apology drink.
“Cannot drink alcohol with concussion,” Ilya says, Russian clipped, precise. He appears out of nowhere. Shane jolts violently at the sound of his voice.
Scott laughs, shrugs. “Fine. Soda then?”
“Ginger ale,” Ilya rumbles. Shane finally turns, just in time to see him stalking away.
“You two friends?” Scott asks, twisted smile on his face.
Shane shakes his head, jaw tight. “No. Not friends.”
“Right,” Scott says. “Hey, have you spoken to your mom yet? Bet she’s worried.”
Shane shrugs again. “Yeah.”
Scott studies him for a moment, then leans back. “Okay. Good. Shouldn’t let her worry too much.”
Shane nods, eyes on his soda.
Ten minutes later, he’s back in his hotel room.
He curls up on the couch, thinking about the smell of cigarettes.
He wakes to a hand on his face and jolts, scared, but it’s just Ilya. Ilya is there, kneeling in front of the couch, caressing Shane’s face.
Shane stares, eyes glassy. Ilya whispers words he doesn’t understand, soft and rolling, and somehow they feel like safety. They feel like home.
Shane lets his eyes flutter closed again. Weightless. Arm tucked around his back, another beneath his knees.
Ilya tucks him into bed. Turns on the white-noise machine. Lingers long enough for Shane to smell the cigarette clinging to his clothes.
“I miss you,” Ilya murmurs, thick accent, heavy with something emotional.
And then he’s gone.
Shane stares after him, half-asleep, half-yearning, caught between relief, confusion, and an ache that will not be quiet.