Chapter Text
Day One
April unfurled like a promise, sky clear, air warm and playoffs right around the corner. It was one of Shane’s favorite times of the year, when the air seemed electric with the promise of some fucking great hockey and — most importantly, now — a full summer at the cottage just around the corner. He was hardly the sentimental type (except, in very particular circumstances, when his boyfriend was involved), but this morning, stupid things like the bright taste of the berries in his smoothie and the pink blossoms on the trees and the way the barista curved the e in his name into a star on his cappuccino made him smile.
He was still smiling as he pulled his Porsche Cayenne into the garage under the training centre in Broussard. Texted Ilya — now in his phone as Ilya Rozanov ICE — and texted arrived 💙.
“Good evening, Hollander?” Hayden called as he parked his minivan in his spot down the row. His best friend smirked; Ilya and the Generals had had an afternoon home game on a night the Metros were off and at home, and Shane had gone to Ottawa, watched the game from Ilya’s suite in a ballcap, spent the night. All worth the 5:30 a.m. alarm to drive back.
“The best,” he smirked.
“Your boy looked hot.” Hayden prodded. Shane still reflexively looked around, but they were the last two to arrive — Hayden because of his thousand children, Shane with the two-and-a-half hour drive from Kanata.
“Of course he did,” Shane replied, tone neutral but smirking, and Hayden laughed. While Shane had quietly come out to the team, as well as Coach Reilly, as soon as camp started two summers ago, Hayden was the only player who knew who, exactly, Shane’s boyfriend was. And really, only because Jackie was persistent, wily, and much smarter than her husband. “Looks like they’ll end up getting the wildcard spot.”
“Jack’s claimed the sixteenth for a celebratory dinner at Mon Lapin.” Shane nodded, slightly nervously; it was the day after the regular season ended. “Schedule some charity appearance or some shit,” Pike suggested, picking up on the nerves. It was their usual cover, at least around Montreal. Then he cocked his head. “Wait. Are we gonna have to knock him out of the playoffs?”
The door sprung open, effectively ending the conversation.
And, as soon as Shane saw JJ’s face, his good mood ended as well. “What’s up, Boizau?”
JJ looked at Shane, then his phone, then Shane again. “Your very private citizen boyfriend is Rozy?”
Fuck.
His phone beeped. Coach Reilly. Upstairs. Now. Lauzon wants to talk.
“Fuck.”
“Shit.” Hayden, scrolling his phone frantically, smacked his bicep several times. “Shane, Shane, Shane.”
“Now, Hayden.”
He scrolled Hayden’s phone. A Twitter post from The Goal Post, a gossip blog that mostly traded in trade speculations, with a link, which he clicked. It led to a Tumblr post from a user with five followers: Shane and Ilya, with David and Yuna, up in Quebec City for Christmas. His mom and Ilya wanted to see the Christmas markets. They’d gotten a table at Taniere3 for Christmas Day, quiet and private and exclusive. But one of the other thirty-six guests at the restaurant had snapped a series of blurry photos: Ilya’s hand casual and possessive on Shane’s neck; Shane leaning in, his forehead tapping Ilya’s; Shane’s fingers looped into the back pocket of Ilya’s pants; Ilya’s arm wrapped around Yuna, who was patting his cheek fondly.
She’d captioned the series Ilya Hollander incoming?
There was a smattering of comments below:
Ilya would make a great WAG.
No wonder Shane’s looked hotter the last few years.
The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.
And
Oh yeah, my cousin’s a bartender at the Fairmount Mont Tremblant, where they were all staying. He definitely saw them making out in a corner Christmas Eve. One sec.
Two months later — three weeks ago — they’d posted a blurry video: Ilya pressing Shane into the doorframe of their hotel room, Shane’s hands scrabbling all over before yanking Ilya’s thigh over his hip. Then, when the door opened, Shane yanked Ilya inside by the lapel of his Canada Goose.
It had been a good night.
From there, the commenters on the subreddit had merrily posted their own photos, mostly innocuous, but now cast with their own shitty commentary and speculation: Ilya’s cheek kiss at All Stars 2017 was the start of it all. Exchanging a look at a press conference from their rookie year personified the yearnification. Grinning at each other at a charity clinic last year meant that Ilya’s going to make an honest man of Shane.
It was small, it was nothing, and then it was picked up by Twitter, and it was something, and now it was everywhere.
Shane exhaled, two long breaths through his nostrils trying to give him control. “I gotta call Ilya,” he breathed.
“Rozanov?!” JJ squeaked, but much louder than he probably intended. Then, when he got Ilya’s stupidly-smug voicemail — because he was probably getting hauled in front of his GM too — and Shane started to leave a message, he added, “You speak Russian now, too?” Shane stalked off back toward the elevator bay, JJ shouted, “Is this why you did that thirsty underwear ad together?”
Hayden smacking the back of his head was the last sound Shane heard.
The elevator deposited him on the sixth floor, an orderly matrix of all-glass conference rooms and offices overlooking the St. Lawrence. He didn’t need to ask the receptionist where to go; Coach Reilly and Lauzon — the GM — as well as Marcel from PR and a guy Shane recognized from the holiday party and every time he signed an extension on his contract. He felt incredibly underdressed in his leggings, joggers, and undershirt.
“Do I need my lawyer?” He asked, walking in. “Or my mom?” Running a hand through his hair — at Ilya’s insistence, he’d grown his bangs out about four inches for playoffs last year, and they were long enough that he needed to wear a headband under his helmet — he threw himself into a chair, trying to channel Ilya’s brashness.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Coach Reilly replied, a pained look on his face. “Come on, Hollander, don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“Oh, did we invite Legal to help me sue the bastard who violated my privacy?” He kept his voice light, contained, controlled. Just like always.
Marcel pursed his lips. “This is Pierre, our General Counsel. We’ve gotten more than 100 calls in the last hour demanding to know if your personal relationship has had any implications on their bets —”
“For fuck’s sake!” So much for fucking calm. Sports betting was, in Shane’s opinion — in every athlete’s opinion — the worst thing to happen to sports in his entire career. It was relentless, between people finding his Venmo and demanding payment to people DM’ing him threats on every social platform and shouting at him at games.
“—And New York’s calling too —”
“Are you fucking kidding me, what does MLH have to do with this?”
“This isn’t a trial, Mr. Hollander,” Pierre said. “But it’s to your benefit to cooperate.”
“Shane —” Reilly was a genuinely good guy, but he seemed small and lost among the suits. “When you came out to me last year, I was supportive. Right?”
He sighed. It had been right after he and Ilya’s first summer at the cottage, right after Yuna adopted Ilya as her next project, right after they’d hatched the plan for a transfer to Ottawa and the nonprofit and the hockey camps. He’d walked in, shaky but sure. Said exactly what he’d rehearsed ten times, and no more. “Yeah.”
“Incredibly supportive,” Reilly repeated. “We’re inclusive, at the Metros. Allies. We put a float in the Pride parade for the first time ever, last summer. We had a quote from you in Marcel’s press release.”
“Because I’m the captain.”
“We’re fine if you’re gay. And perfectly happy to support your decision not to come out publicly.” Armand Lauzon was sixty-three, and the General Manager of the Metros. Shrewd and contained, he spoke English with a light accent, befitting his status as a member of Montreal’s French elite. It meant, Shane knew, that he was one of the more conservative GMs in the League — insisted everyone wore a tie for game-day walk-ins, forced more curfew checks than almost any other team. Shane had always gotten along with him. Shane had always insisted on staying on his good side. “But when you told management —”
“— Because I didn’t want anyone blindsided if trash like this leaked —”
“You did, conveniently forget to mention that you were …” He sniffed. “Sleeping with the enemy.”
“Ilya isn’t an enemy; he’s competition,” Shane said hotly.
“Were you together at last year’s playoff game?” Lauzon’s tone snapped into fury: The Metros had lost to the Raiders in the conference finals.
“You didn’t think it was relevant?” Reilly cut in calmly. “Scott Hunter was already out. Nobody would care if you were too.”
“That’s not quite true; Scott had at most two years of playing time left,” Marcel said. “End of career, not that many sponsorships at the time — shrewd move on his part to become The Gay One.”
“And the boyfriend is a nobody,” Armand added.
“He sells juices,” Pierre snorted.
“Smoothies,” Shane corrected. Kip was nice. Scott was enjoying being retired, drinking smoothies, and collecting corporate appearance fees from every nightclub opening on Fire Island or McKinsey-sponsored downtown retreat. “And he owns the chain now.”
“Exactly. He wasn’t the second-biggest name in the MLH,” Armand said. “And Hunter never lied about his relationship.”
“I said I was gay, I said I was in a relationship, and I said we were incredibly private. I didn’t want to be some sort of poster boy and I had every intention of never mentioning this when I was an active player. Where is the lie?”
“You don’t think the fact that it’s Rozanov is pertinent information?”
“I actually don’t.” He leaned back.
“You don’t think it looks bad?” Lauzon asked.
“For who?”
“The Metros.” Lauzon looked furious. “We spend millions in getting fans invested in this rivalry, in you, we have given you everything as a player, since you were eighteen years old, and you blindside us —”
“Shane,” Reilly interrupted, trying to play good cop. “We have to ask. Have you ever shared any strategy with Rozanov?”
“Of course not!”
“Left your play notebook on the counter?”
“Does your wife go rifling through your work papers?”
“Thrown a game because it would benefit the Raiders or the Generals?”
“You’ve seen the tape! Every single game I’ve played is right there for inspection. Tell me which game you think I threw.”
“If it wasn’t pertinent, why didn’t you share this information?” Lauzon finally cut in. “If it was anyone else — even a man — you’d at least tell your teammates his first name, yes?” At that, Shane could only lean back and sigh.
“So can you at least answer a couple of questions, hmm?” Reilly asked. “We need information if we’re going to answer the League’s questions.”
His phone buzzed: Ilya’s face, making a face as he licked an enormous ice cream cone, filled the screen. He muted it and texted getting fucking screamed at in meeting. Call as soon as I can? “What’s up?” Shane asked tiredly. He just wanted this to be over. Asking for his lawyer, or Yuna, felt like it might be held against him — surely, he could make them understand. He was valuable for them to lose.
A beep. Tell them to fuck themselves harder than I fucked you last night.
“So you two have been … an item … for two years?”
“Longer.” He rubbed a hand over his face and then faced them, defiantly. “When did we finally decide to really make it work? Yeah, two years in July. But ask any of the vets how many nights I spent in the team hotel in Boston over the last six years.”
Lauzon, lover of curfew, reddened. “When did it begin?”
“Honestly?” He raised his eyebrows. “In juniors. Before we were even drafted. So there’s no way we could have thrown anything because it’s every game.”
If he thought that would somehow nullify their irritation, it did not. “Nine years, you two have been fucking under the MHL’s nose …”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He retorted angrily. “I’ve read my contract: No extreme sports, no more than three missed practices a year, no failed drug tests —”
“ — And a morality clause around sportsmanship, including influencing game outcomes,” Lauzon cut in. “Did your relationship have anything to do with his trade to a much worse team?”
“Why does his team matter to the Metros?”
“Shane, we’re just trying to get some answers for MLH, that’s all.” Reilly glanced at Lauzon, still steaming. “You’re our captain, you’ve led us to two Cups. We’re on your side.”
“Yeah, it would be more convincing if you sounded like it.” He sighed, tired. He’d been the Metro’s fucking golden boy for nearly a decade. He’d done everything they’d ever fucking asked, because he loved hockey, loved playing.
“OK. We’re not going to get much farther here, are we?” Reilly sighed. “Shane, we’ve all got a conference call at three. The league is very concerned about the possibility of thrown games.”
“Are we — suspended?”
“Not yet,” Reilly said. “But I’d expect it, after the 3 p.m., as a formality. They’ll need to investigate.” He stood. “Tape review in ten. Don’t say anything to the team, please.”
Instead of going to the conference room, though, Shane ducked into the stairwell and went down a floor, to the private room Lauzon had given him for an office just last year. Nobody else had one; it was a gift for reaching his fifth year as team captain. Dropping into the chair, he took a minute to rub his hands over his eyes. Then, he video-called Ilya.
“Baby,” Ilya drawled, his teasing tone counterbalanced by the worried look in his eyes. His golden hair was tied back in a half-ponytail, and he wore a printed silk Prada shirt, one of his favorite styles post-his Yuna Hollander glow-up. He must’ve gotten waylaid before even making it to the lockers, too.
“Hey,” Shane said roughly. “How’re you doing?”
“Good, all things going,” he replied with a shrug. Clearly, he was a lot more worried about Shane. “Yuna is here.” He tilted his phone to show Shane his mother.
“Really not beating the accusations that you have a favorite child, Mom,” Shane said. Stupidly, he wished she was with him. Honestly, he wished he was with both of them.
“Twenty minutes’ drive versus two hours, honey.” Yuna at least looked chagrined. “As soon as I got the alert I came in.”
Ilya made a fond little you know Yuna gesture. “Are you OK, Hollander? Is Lauzon mad?”
“I’m good, I’m fine, I’m … yeah. It’s a lot.” He rubbed his face again. “How was Weibe and …. Cunningham?” He couldn’t remember the Generals’ GM right now.
Ilya shrugged. “Is fine, they think is stupid. Said MLH may suspend because of betting but they’ll keep it low. Still want playoffs.”
“What?” Shane was astonished. “Lauzon was practically fucking spitting.”
“The teams are in very different situations,” Yuna reminded them both, unnecessarily. “Shane, you’ve been with them nine years versus Ilya’s one. Most of this happened with the Raiders, not the Generals. And their records and depth are …. Different.”
“Still fucking hurts.”
“I know.” Yuna shifted a bit in the frame. “Now, are you ready to talk next steps? It’s unfortunately getting everywhere. I think we need to put out a statement.”
“No way. It’s in gossip mags. ESPN and the CBC and everyone won’t run it.”
“Until the MLH follows through with a suspension. We prepared for this.” They had, drafting statements for every scenario. “I think we need to go before the 3 p.m.”
“Won’t that piss them off?”
“Shane, I think with them, we’ll need to be on the offensive.” Yuna’s tone was sympathetic, but firm. “Would Hayden and Cliff and maybe some Generals be willing to say something?”
“Am good with that.” Ilya nodded, but his eyes were incredibly worried. “And yes.”
“I’ll call Shirla —“ the MHL VP for Marketing — “and let her know. She’ll be the most sympathetic there and will check a box. Shane, let Reilly know at tape. I’ll drive into Montreal and give all your sponsors a head’s up, and call your agents to prep for 3. And then I’ll post from Ilya’s account, collaborate with you and the Foundation. Can one of you please send me some photos?”
“Will do.” Ilya’s eyes didn’t leave Shane’s face. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just wish I was in Ottawa.” There was no time for moping though. “I’ll see you both soon, though. Love you.”
—
For the second time that day, Shane’s heart was racing in the second-floor elevator bay. This time, though, he was in his nice Tom Ford, and was reading his phone as he waited for his mother. Her post had gone up a little over 30 minutes earlier, and had already garnered more than 2 million likes and 100,000 comments. He didn’t read all of them, but he had more than $10,000 in Venmo requests, most with a pissed and/or homophobic tag, and that couldn’t be good.
He should decline them, right? And delete all the comments? He didn’t know; he didn’t even know his Instagram password.
Earlier today, photos of us in an intimate moment were shared without our knowledge or consent. And while we wish that we could have shared this news on our own time and terms, we also see no reason to hide our happiness: we are in a committed romantic partnership, and have been for several years now. And while we’ll remain fiercely protective of our privacy, we’re incredibly proud of our relationship, each other, and the sacred, profound, and fearless space we’ve carved out for ourselves.
We know that this may come as a surprise to many, and we’d like to assure our fans, teams, sponsors, and nonprofit partners that our personal relationship has never interfered with our professional obligations, particularly our competitiveness and commitments on-ice. We believe our records show that very clearly. While this may be new to many, it is not new for us, and doesn’t change how show up as players, people, or partners. We’d also like to thank our close family and friends for helping us maintain our privacy over the last several years. We appreciate everyone’s care and concern during this time, and ask for continued respect. Love, Shane and Ilya.
Yuna’d also posted a carefully selected carousel: The two of them helping each other with their bowties right before the last MLH Awards was the cover photo, but the images that followed were increasingly unguarded: Playing videogames on the couch at his parents’; laughing and relaxed at a dinner with Hayden and Marlieu; a selfie with his parents at the lake last summer; hugging after a hockey camp; Ilya teasingly pressing his finger into Shane’s cheek during a game of cards; Shane carrying Ilya in a piggyback at the cottage; the two of them sleeping on each other on Ilya’s couch; laughing together at the damned underwear shoot; Ilya giving him a sleepy morning hug from behind as he’d made a smoothie.
“Hi darling,” his mom, crisp in a grey pantsuit, said as she emerged from the elevator with a cool ping. “How’re you doing?”
“Mom.” He leaned into her for a long hug that said everything he couldn’t. “Fine.”
She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Good. I sent your dad to be with Ilya. Figured it would be good to have an attorney with government connections near him right now. That post definitely broke twelve laws in Moscow.” Shane’s heart dropped again: he hadn’t even thought of that. Ilya had started the permanent residency process as soon as he was able to, but there was a long way to go.
“Do you —“
“No. He’s fine, honey, I promise. Now, I talked to all the A Tier sponsors —“ Coke, Prada, CK, Lululemon, Beats, and Porsche for Ilya; Rolex, Reebok, Canada Dry, Blue Apron, CK, and Speedo for Shane — “and they all see the possibilities. I know you’ll have playoffs but keep your schedule clear the rest of April; they’ll need to do some Pride content.”
He swallowed, throat dry. He did not want to do any Pride content, be anyone’s poster boy or relationship but — “Fine. We’ll make it work.”
“Yes. Remember, it’s leverage.” She searched his face, then nodded. “Alright. What conference room are we in?” He pointed, and she strode ahead of him, nodding at the receptionist and entering the room at precisely 2:59 with a cool,“Gentlemen.”
Shane followed, tugging nervously at his cufflinks. They were the Metros logo, given to him by Shane last year when they’d made the playoffs. The number of suits from the Metros had doubled to six, and there were far boxes in the video screens than he had anticipated: The Generals’ front office and MLH headquarters in New York, of course, but also the Raiders team in Boston, Hockey Canadai in Calgary, and his and Ilya’s shared agent — John, Rose’s brother — and lawyer — Sid, David’s law-school roommate — in two separate Toronto offices.
Fuck.
“Madame Hollander.” Lauzon shook her hand. He was, in Yuna’s presence, far more agreeable. “We appreciate you coming in.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “Though I have to be upfront, Armand, that I’m not particularly appreciative of Shane’s treatment so far.”
“Let’s all sit down and discuss then, Yuna,” Hank — the SVP of Hockey Operations for MLH — said from New York. “I assume everyone knows each other.”
“Yes,” Yuna said. “Why don’t we start by discussing why the League feels it needs to be involved in players’ private lives?”
Clark — the president of Hockey Canada — scowled. “Nobody is disputing their right to date whomever they want in their private lives.”
“In the past three years, 28 of 32 teams have started a Pride Night, including all three teams at this table,” Hank added. “But this does potentially impact our marketing capacity, if our two biggest names are caught in a scandal.”
“It’s only a scandal if you let it be one,” Shane cut in. Then, hot with all the eyes on him, he added, “Sir.”
“And if any games were impacted, our fans will come for us. Betting pools per game are up to three million from one million two years ago; we just renegotiated with DraftKings for 60 million.”
“The last Montreal-Boston playoff series’ pool was five million per game and went to six games,” Armand added, face still stormy. “Phones are ringing off the hook, Madame Hollander.”
“Both Shane and Ilya’s contracts — Ilya’s with both teams here — make interfering with game outcomes a fireable offense,” MLH’s legal guy said.
“You think I fuck Shane to fuck my career?” Ilya piped up, and Shane very much wanted to pinch his thigh. “Boston wins series, Shane scores more goals than me. Tell me how we interfere with betters’ pool?”
“I’m not sure how you leaving us to move to fucking Ottawa and be closer to Hollander doesn’t fuck with us,” Oates, the Boston GM, said with a glower. The Raiders were going to miss the playoffs for the first time in years this spring.
“This is just fucking insulting,” Shane added, unable to help themselves.
“If you want to be taken seriously, I think both of you could treat the situation with slightly more seriousness,” Clark said from Toronto.
“If you fire anyone for breach of contract because of who they are sleeping with, you bet your ass the Supreme Court of Canada will hear this case.” Breck, who Shane liked already, went up a few points in Shane’s eyes.
“Can we all take a step back?” Yuna asked calmly. “You’re talking about the two highest-profile stars in your league, who both have extensive personal contracts, and have never let down any team they’ve played for. Both teams won two Cups. Besides Ilya getting a few cards pulled on him in his early seasons, and a barfight or two defending teammates, have either of them ever received any demerits for personal behavior?” The line went silent. “Nobody has gang-raped a drunk girl in a hotel.” That was directed right at Hockey Canada. “Nobody has been arrested for scamming their translator out of tens of millions, or caught with performance-enhancing drugs.” That was for the MLH. “Their sponsors are excited to represent the first openly out couple in all of professional sports. I think this is a huge opportunity for everyone at the table.”
“We still need to know a lot more information before making that determination,” MLH Legal Guy finally said. “To protect every entity here from lawsuits — including the two of you, personally — we need to thoroughly understand and investigate every allegation, and clear all of our names.”
“That’s all good and noble, Stu, but the Gens are likely in the playoffs for the first time in seventeen years,” Cunningham said. “If you wanna talk about fucking with betting markets and fans, fucking over my playoff run definitely qualifies.”
“Welcome to the club,” Oates retorted.
“So like, what, a fucking deposition? About our relationship?” Shane tossed out.
His mother’s hand moved to cover his. “Nobody here has anything to hide, and everyone is happy to cooperate. However, I don’t think I need to remind any of you that Ilya’s still a citizen of a country that would be happy to put him in prison, after more than a decade of profiting from his talent. I certainly hope that every investigation will be handled with the utmost discretion and appreciation for his legal status.”
“We’ll make sure of it, Yuna,” Sid finally joined the conversation.
MLH and Hockey Canada’s little pictures both seemed frozen and tense, as they weighed everything in front of them. “Three games each,” Clark finally said. “That takes us through the Gens’ Saturday game. Cunningham, that won’t impact your standing. And nobody’s making any decisions yet, gentlemen, we both hope that you are active players in the League for many years to come. Yuna, we’ve been in business for years. You know that we’re doing this in everyone’s best interest.”
“So I’m benched tonight?” Shane exclaimed. “Do I suit up?”
“No, besides your meeting with the attorney, you can’t come into Metros’ facilities. Pike will serve as captain,” Armand said. “We have to give the appearance of utmost diligence at the moment. This isn’t punishment, Hollander.”
Yuna held out a hand. “I’d like to see the statement before MLH sends it out. And Hockey Canada — I think a statement of support would be appreciated.”
“We’ll be putting out a statement supporting Rozanov tomorrow,” Wiebe said.
“Wonderful. Armand?” She arched an eyebrow.
“I think a reassuring statement would go a long way,” Marcel volunteered. “An investigation but, you know. Covering all our bases. Due process.” Armand, after a beat, nodded. With that, everyone said their goodbyes.
Less than a second later his phone beeped. Ilya Rozanov ICE: come home.
--
“Do you want to borrow my publicist? She’s covered up murders. I mean, I haven’t asked. But that’s because I don’t want to know,” Rose, FaceTiming from a set somewhere in Hungary, asked him — her expression was completely serious, but she was covered in a liter of fake blood, making it hard to take her seriously. Shane just whimpered. “Truly, though, I don’t think it’s that bad. There are some trolls, sure, but mainstream coverage is pretty positive. Minus Fox News and the Daily Mail, but fuck them, my lawyer has sued them both before. If you need.”
“It just … It’s all over.” His news alert had included his name in a Farsi headline. He’d seen his face on three channels within five minutes before turning off the TV.
“I mean, yeah, it’s blowing up. You might be more famous than I am right now.”
“I don’t even like being Hockey Famous, Rose.”
“It’ll pass, I promise. Oh, and there have been some super-cute fan edits of you two — Lover is really popular, and so is Dancing with a Stranger.” She shimmied, humming a song he’d heard before.
“Fan edits?” Was the brand-new AC broken? He was so hot.
“You have shippers.”
“How did boats get involved?” He was so, so confused.
“You’re such a Boomer. Do you guys realize how many longing looks you’ve shared over the last decade? Also, my god — Shane, this was all if not when, have you seen yourself look at Ilya in the last two years?”
Shane squirmed. He and Ilya had been living under the radar, not under a rock. Sure, they acted differently at the cottage than they did at a playoff press conference, but after a while they’d … let people’s assumptions about hockey players and about them do a lot of the covering-up for them.
If nobody thought you could possibly be gay with your biggest competitor, it was startlingly easy to simply not be that, to the public.
Until, of course, people thought you could be gay with your biggest competitor.
“I don’t know. I only see him, Rose,” he finally said.
“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said, Shane Hollander.” She grinned. “Anyways. I know you don’t read coverage, but trust … It’s not as bad as you think. I mean, yes, probably thousands of death threats from sports betters, but … Nobody thinks you’re a bad hockey player. And more importantly, nobody who counts thinks you’re a bad person.” She paused. “I think it’s just whether or not the MLH and Hockey Canada are going to listen to the 2 percent of assholes or … everyone else.”
He hung up, finally going back into Instagram to see what people were saying. The most liked comments, he noticed, were ones of support, but the most frequent type of comment, by far, was an asshole complaining about his bet. Followed closely by casual slurs. He flinched at a couple of death threats. How could people possibly take hockey this seriously? Even he did not.
On his newsfeed, it was wall-to-wall coverage. ESPN, The New York Times, Sports Illustrated, Rolling Stone, the Athletic, the Ringer, the CBC, CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, E-talk, literally everyone was running a story, had an opinion, had facts, when Shane himself barely had facts.
His ears started to ring.
Shaking his head, he wandered into the kitchen, where Ilya was stress-cooking with the Raiders press conference on the big screen, Anya dozing at his feet. Watching Ilya cook was always an entertaining production; he expended far too much of his precious energy, approached it as chaotically as he approached a play on the ice. Like with everything, he was more committed, more passionate, more alive, than anyone, anywhere. Tonight, he was standing like an orchestra conductor, fingers curled and feet wide as he designed the perfect pizza. A flour-bomb had gone off in their kitchen, but even with all the stress and anxiety of the day, Shane couldn’t bring himself to mind. Too much. Instead, he leaned against the couch, watched a master at work, and started to relax.
They hadn’t discussed it in so many words, but the Kanata house, purchased when Ilya signed with the Gens, was home. Located in the Rockeries, a private development just a few miles from the practice rink, Shane had worked with the architect to make sure that everything was absolutely perfect, and it was: All leather and natural woods and metal and marble, seeming to fold directly into its woodsy surrounds. Every room had floor-to-ceiling windows, and they didn’t worry at all about a neighbor spotting them. They’d completely tricked it out, of course, even added a full sheet of ice and complete equipment room to the basement. Ilya’d insisted on a little movie theatre and speakeasy to entertain (not that they did a lot of that, but one day); Shane had added a lot of appliances and tech that he admittedly wasn’t sure how to work. There were six bedrooms, a four-car garage, an outdoor kitchen, a pool, a tennis court, even a pitch for soccer or baseball in the summer.
But more importantly, they’d built a life in this house. Shane’d been pleasantly surprised that Ilya had settled into Ottawa so well: He’d always been so restless, so relentlessly extraverted, so in need of external stimulation, of distractions, of danger. And Ottawa, famously, had given Shane his boring.
These days, though, Ilya was as likely to spend the night at Shane’s parent’s house doing puzzles than dancing at a bar. He’d been the first to suggest a dog, was comfortable enough to simply assume that Yuna and David could simply take her during away games. Now, he went out with the Gens after a game, bought the first round, and went to the hotel to call Shane or watch his game. He cooked (was much better at it than Shane, but much less likely to stick to the meal plan), and they watched movies and played video games and bickered about how to organize a closet and went to the cottage as soon as their seasons ended. There was a life there, big and tender, now that they didn’t need to negotiate a few stolen hours across a season. At one point, three months after Ilya’d moved in, Shane had asked him to take out the compost, then blurted out the question: did Ilya miss the clubs, the partying, the women? “No.” Ilya’s tone had been thoughtful. “I needed — to be busy. To forget. To fill time. Not anymore. Everything here — does that. Is better.”
They’d fucked right there, compost container abandoned on the floor.
Now — “Our suspension is only four days,” he reminded Ilya, watching him crank out more and more Parmesan.
“Then we eat pound of cheese per day, and your pacing burns it off,” Ilya replied. Annoyed, he started intently frisbeeing pepperoni on top. “Anything extra, happy to fuck out.”
“Sorry,” he signed, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend and kissing his neck. “Just — this is really fucking unfair.” At this, Ilya stopped flinging meat, and moved Shane’s hand up to his mouth, silently kissing each knuckle. “I’m kind of freaking out.”
“You? Shocker,” Ilya drawled, and he laughed. “Will be okay,” Ilya murmured. “We have each other, no? And the comments on Instagram … mostly positive, yes?”
“Don’t know. Rose said yeah, but I stopped reading,” he lied.
Ilya didn’t seem to catch it, though. “Yuna will be so proud of you. You can be favorite son for day.”
He was about to say something when the camera cut to Cliff, just outside the dressing room before the Raiders’ game. Instead, he reached behind Ilya to grab the remote, making his boyfriend groan.
“Yeah, I saw the news of the suspension, and I think it’s total trash,” TV Cliff was saying. “I played with Rozy for eight years, anyone who thinks he’d throw a game is absolutely out of their mind. That dude’s just an absolute top-tier competitor. Trash talking, slapshots, fakeouts, crosschecks, he’s the best at every single one. And honestly, you watch him against Hollzy — they just get better. Like it’s insane freaking hockey to watch. It’s better hockey to watch. I want to see them both back on the ice soon, because when we win the conference title it’s because we beat the best.”
Shit, Marlieu. “Well,” Shane exhaled. “That’s pretty fucking nice.”
“He has always been good guy.” Ilya concentrated on sliding the pizza into the pizza oven. “OK. So we talk. Process?” It was a word that the Gens’ sports psychologist had taught him. He claimed Russians didn’t process. “Is very long and shitty day.”
Shane sighed. It was like the end of a game, after a brutal loss, when the adrenaline stripped away and you realized you didn’t have the stamina to figure out how you felt about your performance. He couldn’t figure out if he needed to read more headlines or throw the TV into the pool. Shane solved problems and right now, there were too many, urgent and heavy and competing: Should he make nice with Metros management first? Worry about Ilya and his shaky legal status? Call his sponsors? Protect his brand, obsess about what they were saying about him on social media? Ten hours ago his life made sense, with his next three months perfectly mapped out; now if he thought too hard about everything that was going wrong, his vision started to go black at the edges. “Can we … not?” He finally asked, kissing the tips of Ilya’s fingers. “Unless … You want to?” They should. They really should. Shouldn’t they?
“You know I prefer actions to talking,” Ilya responded, nuzzling closer to him before pecking him with a kiss.
“It’s just — ” And his boyfriend did a half-laugh, half-groan, like he couldn't be irritated at the predictability. “We’re getting deposed, like criminals. Our privacy is fucking blasted all over the internet. Armand is going to fire me. Every sponsor is going to drop us, oh, and you’re going to get deported and imprisoned.”
Ilya slid a hand down his stomach to his dick. “You think too much,” he murmured, squeezing gently. “Let me take mind off.”
“You’re seriously not worried about getting deported?”
“No, I am, which is why I would like to fuck you.” With that, he sucked a hickey into Shane’s collarbone, started pushing him toward the leather couch, the end table with the lube.
Shane fell back onto the couch, Ilya’s weight warm and welcome in his lap. Pulling back just slightly, he said, “Hey. Hey —” As Ilya started to kiss her neck. “Just for the record — you’re not getting deported.”
“Shane, Russian players can’t — won’t — can’t-won’t even put fucking rainbow tape on sticks for Pride.” Ilya didn’t even like rainbow tape or jerseys; performativeness made the MLH’s best performer scoff.
He stretched his thumbs under Ilya’s eye sockets, across the dent from a scar where a puck whizzed his cheek as a child. “I’ll stand in front of the plane. Or stow myself away and we can share a cell together in Siberia.”
Ilya’s eyes got watery. “I love you for pretending that is even option,” he said, grinding against Shane’s dick a bit, reaching into his shorts to stroke it. “Cell is too small. I am too tall to share.”
“Because it won’t come to that. I know it’s … a lot right now. But I’m never going to stop fighting for our future.” Shane stared at him long and hard, and suddenly, the anxiety from the day seemed to ebb: Yes, things would be awful, for a very long time. Tomorrow would be fucking brutal. “We’re good, and we’re together. No matter what. OK?”
A tear dropped from Ilya’s cheek, and Shane brushed it away. “Yes, Hollander. No matter what.”
They fucked slowly on the couch, let the pizza burn before ordering takeout and settling in front of the TV. When the Boston game ended and Montreal came on, Ilya moved to change it, but Shane grabbed his wrist. “Nah. I wanna see.”
He was glad he did: Two hundred kilometers away, every Metro tumbled out of the chute with rainbow tape on their stick.
“Hayden golden retriever idiot, but not too bad, eh,” Ilya observed. Tousling Shane’s hair, he added, with more confidence, Shane knew, than he felt, “This will pass. All will be OK.”
For the first time all day, Shane felt like that was maybe true.