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Shane stares at the TV like his life depends on it. Something’s happening - Scott Hunter banging on the boards, calling down some fan or other from the stands. The other Admirals still whoop and cheer with their families, kids wiggling on shoulders and hanging off goalie pads, oblivious to the man in the denim jacket picking his way through the stands like they might explode.
What is happening, Ilya says. Shane doesn’t hesitate, typing without taking his gaze from the screen. I don’t know…?
Whatever it is, it feels monumental. His mom mutters something beside him but Shane’s eyes are drying out from the force of watching, other senses entirely forgotten. His phone buzzes again, Ilya probably, but even he can’t tear Shane away from where Scott Hunter is kissing a man on his TV. Shane feels every break in his collarbone, every inch of pressure on his inflamed brain as his dad gasps. There are no out players in the MLH. Gay stands as an acceptable chirp in most teams, fired across the ice like pansy and sissy and faggot if a player feels particularly nasty. Locker rooms filled with jokes about dropping the soap in the showers and hey, don’t look at my ass, you pervert.
There is no world in which this is possible, or feasible, or recommended. And here fucking dinosaur Scott Hunter is anyway, kissing this man, putting an arm around his waist and herding him over to the rest of the team, who stand in a stunned semicircle, the cup forgotten. The broadcast quickly cuts back to the announcers, a sweeping pan of the gaping crowd, before launching into replays. Man in the Crease is going to have a field day with this. His phone buzzes again, insistently, the dit-dit call pattern he picked out for Ilya when phones started to do that kind of thing.
He picks it up faster than he should, aware of his parents discussing the game, the ending, in measured tones behind him. He’s barely around the corner, all that escapes his mouth is what the- before Ilya cuts him off, sounding strong and certain and sure.
“I’m coming to the cottage.”
Typically Shane can only handle one world-ending event in a day. Hunter’s stunt counts for about three, and his mind can’t spin fast enough to track what Ilya’s saying, the departure from the conversation he’d been expecting.
“Uh-”
“You do remember inviting me, Hollander? I know you were on drugs, but-” Ilya’s voice tightens, enunciating the way he does when he’s upset. Shane doesn’t know when he started knowing that.
“No, no, I definitely do. And I definitely meant it. Sorry, I’m just kind of thrown by this whole Hunter thing. I didn’t… I didn’t know.” Shane exhales, listening to the man on the other end of the phone do the same. He wanders outside, shutting the slider behind him, sealing out his parents still dissecting the Admirals. Still dissecting Hunter, if he had to guess.
“Me either. But I am glad. Always thought he would be a good fuck.”
“Hey!”
“Don’t get underwear in knot, Hollander. I am coming to your cottage to fuck you this summer. Also Hunter is probably boring monogamist like you. Would not want me and mystery jacket man.”
“Monogamist?”
“I read, smart ass. Only one person. Monogamist.”
There’s a beat. Shane’s skin feels electric, too many things swirling under it. Hunter. Ilya. Cottage. Monogamy. Something about getting everything you’ve ever wanted.
“Is joke, Shane. Deep breath. When do I come?”
“Yeah, haha. Duh.” But Shane breathes slowly, lets some of the tension ooze out. He sits on the back deck, wincing when it creaks. His parents refuse to let him call anyone to help out with the house, but this deck is deteriorating faster than it has any right to.
“Shane.”
“Yeah, I’m here, sorry. Just looking at my calendar. Um, it’s June. Does July work for you?”
“Yes. I think probably July works for me.” It’s a testament to all their years of knowing each other that Shane can hear the shit-eating grin on his face, how Ilya probably rolled his eyes alone to himself.
“Asshole.”
“No, you. Your asshole I will be thinking about until July. For two more weeks or maybe three. What days?”
“Geez, never knew you were such a planner. Um, we have family up for the first week of July. Last two weeks, maybe? The, uh, 17th through the 31st?”
“First of all, who has been planning our meetings for ten years, hm? I am great planner. Okay, 17 through 31. I will book. You want flight info?”
“Yes.” It leaves Shane’s mouth without his permission, but he really, really does. Wants the flight number and all the details so he can track Ilya from Boston to Ottawa, make sure he’s there at the airport at just the right time.
“Yes, what?”
“Oh, fuck off.” It’s Shane’s turn to smile, face heating in the cool night.
“Yes what, Hollander? If you do not ask nicely I maybe do not come to your cottage at all. Maybe will be too boring.”
“Yes, please, send me your flight information when you have it, Ilya. And I promise it’s not boring, there’s a million things to do-”
“All I will want to do is you. Do svidaniya, Shane. I will see you in July.”
“Bye, Ilya. See you in July.”
Shane doesn’t realize how hard his heart is beating until he’s back in the living room, commentary muted on the TV but still showing Hunter’s kiss from six different angles. He feels like he’s the one who just spent three hours on the ice and came out after, stripped and raw and still kind of vibrating at the thought of Ilya all up in his space in three weeks. His mom turns to him, frown creasing her forehead.
“Where did you go?”
“Uh, just outside. Hayden called, wanted to, uh, talk about that.” He gestures lamely to the TV where a still of Scott Hunter’s most recent Instagram post is pulled up. It’s a photo of him, the Cup in one arm, his boyfriend in the other. The caption, #winning, is appalling, but befitting of his elder status. His mom turns to look, casting an appraising eye over the screen before turning back to him. Shane doesn’t like that look. It’s her mom-ager look, when she starts to analyze cost-benefit payoffs instead of seeing her son.
“It’s a very brave thing, what he did.”
“Yeah, yeah it is. Kind of can’t believe it, to be honest. It’s, uh, it can’t be easy.”
Her gaze sharpens. She’s never really seen him, not completely, but sometimes she gets close, like all that stands between them is a pane of glass.
“I can’t imagine that professional hockey players in a league with no out members are kind about that sort of thing. I’m sure you’ve heard some vile things over the years, Shane.”
Sissy. Faggot. Ew, JJ wants to suck my dick later, what a fuckin’ perv.
“Um, yeah. It’s not great. Some teams are worse than others. I’ve never heard anything bad about the Admirals, though. They seemed to, uh, take it well.”
As if on cue, the next clip shown is their stunned faces breaking into cheers, skating over and grabbing Hunter, shaking him, hugging him. As much as Shane loves playing with the Metros, he can’t imagine that sort of reception. Not that he’s actively planning to come out spontaneously, if at all, but. Hayden doesn’t even know. Nobody except him, Rose Landry, and Ilya fucking Rozanov. Suddenly the day is too much, and his collarbone hurts, and his eyes are starting to swim.
“Hey, uh, I’m gonna go to bed. Long day.”
“Goodnight, honey!”
“Night, Shane.”
His parents both look at him with all this love, and in that moment he wants nothing more than to curl up on the couch and tell them everything. How he’s gay, how he’s gay in a really, really specific direction. How he tried so hard with Rose, tried to have Asian be the only abnormal thing about him. How it just didn’t work. How much he loves Ilya Rozanov, to the point that he’s going to pick him up from the airport in three weeks and drive him to his cottage and just be with him, alone, for the longest stretch in ten years. How it’s only ever been him, since the very beginning.
Shane doesn’t say any of it. Just mumbles goodnight and begins the retreat up to his childhood bedroom. It’s still decked in Centaurs colors, with a few splashes of Montreal and a Detroit poster he got because he liked the player on it. Thankfully his parents replaced the twin bed with a queen, and the Centaurs-branded sheets for plain cotton weave. Shane knows he could go back to his cottage, back to where the thread count is known and faces of long-retired hockey players don’t gaze at him from the corners. But he feels like he’s on the precipice of something, teetering at the razor-edge of a cliff he’s always been very careful to avoid entirely. He doesn’t want to be alone right now.
Teeth get brushed on autopilot, Shane barely registering his own still-bruised face in the mirror. His freckles muddy into the rapidly purpling splotches, nose still sore if he crinkles it the wrong way. The sling gets readjusted as he changes into pajama shorts and shucks off his shirt. He doesn’t technically have to sleep with it, but he thrashes in his sleep and this is just another precaution to soothe his brain. Just as he settles down, glasses on, the newest hockey book - a history of Boston’s best plays spanning the entirety of the league - cracked open, his phone buzzes.
It’s an email, forwarded by [email protected]. Shane grins to himself at the idea of Ilya setting up a Yahoo account, maybe just because it sounded funny. There’s a message at the very top.
Can’t wait. See you soon.
Attached is an Air Canada flight, leaving Boston at 11:53 AM and arriving at 1:27 PM to the Ottawa airport. The return flight is there too, but Shane doesn’t want to look at it. Doesn’t particularly want to know exactly when their time will come to an end, the precise moment the bubble has to pop. Something sparks in his chest. They’re really doing this, like, for real. Ilya is coming to Ottawa, to Shane’s house, for two weeks. They’re going to have two full, uninterrupted weeks of each other.
Fear follows the excitement, as it always does. It curdles in his gut, souring the adrenaline. What the fuck is he going to tell his parents, when they’ll be ten minutes away the whole time? On top of that, what do he and Ilya even have to talk about for two weeks? Their entire relationship-partnership-thing can be boiled down to maybe two weeks total. Over ten years. The last time they tried to talk, to be close and comfortable, Shane freaked the fuck out and ruined it, almost for good.
Okay, so don’t do that this time.
Easier said than done, but he can probably pick one problem to tackle first. Ilya is coming, no matter what, so he should start with what to tell his parents. He can’t fake being sick, because then they’ll want to see him even more. The thought of his mom coming over unannounced when he’s planning to be really, really unclothed makes him want to die. Okay, not sick. Oh. Comeau was mentioning something at practice about a silent retreat. A meditation thing. The boys had all laughed, Comeau taking it in stride. Maybe that would work. Tell his parents he’s on a two-week silent retreat, meditating on his goals for next season. Really important to not be interrupted. His mom would never admit it, but she’s more woo-woo than she lets on. If he says the word manifesting she’ll be on board in two seconds flat. His dad… his dad just wants him to be happy. Shane’s heart squeezes again, the thought of another lie between them almost too much.
Justifying the lie is concerningly easy. He sees his parents weekly in the offseason. He’s never seen Ilya in the summer, ever. Never witnessed the golden tone his skin has in the fall develop slowly, never known what else those endless months in Russia hide from his sight. Shane wants it so much it feels like he’s choking on it, every word he’s never said stopping up just behind his teeth. He sometimes wishes he could do what Rozanov did that one time, unload all his hurt in a foreign language. Confess to every little feeling without fear of Ilya finding out, tipping their fragile balance too quickly.
Ilya. He still hasn’t responded to the flight information he practically begged for, too busy pre-fucking it up in his head. He opens his phone, lockscreen still a photo of the team with their second Cup win. Finds Lily, the name he wishes he could change.
Couldn’t get an earlier flight?
Ilya texts back immediately, little dots bouncing in time with Shane’s heartbeat.
L: Was earliest flight they had on a Monday to Ottawa. Not good enough for you?
Nah, it’s fine. I’ll just spend the whole day waiting around for your slow-ass plane.
L: I would fly there now if I could.
Shane sucks in a breath. They’re dancing around something, getting closer and closer, whirlpool eddying around a drain. Things shifted after he got his bell rung, after Ilya came to see him in the hospital even though it risked everything. It’s only progressed since then, more serious messages bleeding through their usual shit-stirring banter and egregious flirting. Even since tonight, since Hunter, there’s been another shift. Ilya staying for the summer, coming to Ottawa, it’s big. Shane feels the weight of it press on him, and texts Ilya back without thinking.
I wish you could. Three weeks is a long time.
L: Yes. But waiting will make it sweeter. We have waited longer.
L: Goodnight, Shane.
Goodnight. Sweet dreams :)
Ilya thumbs-ups the message. To Shane, it’s as good as a heart. He can almost hear the retort in his head - I do not dream, Hollander, Russians do not dream. The smile on his face is so wide his bruises throb. He hopes they’re gone by the time Ilya gets there; he doesn’t want to be benched for injury off the rink, too.
The weeks do pass, and like Ilya said, they have waited longer. They talk almost every day now, sending nonsensical pictures of breakfasts and trees and birds and people wearing their jerseys out in public. Shane snaps a sneaky picture of someone in a Rozanov jersey at the airport when he’s picking up his cousins. Ilya calls him then and there just to shriek in his ear, laughing ha-ha and telling Shane he should probably just retire now. Shane fires back that Ilya probably wants him to stay in fighting shape, no, and then has to turn completely away from people as Rozanov’s voice drops a whole octave. Reminding him that in two weeks that voice will be in his house, in his ear, on his body. He has to hang up and text, seeing his cousins walk out of the gate.
Sorry. Family here. You’re distracting.
L: Yes. And you like it. Two weeks.
Two weeks!
The time crawls, the week with his family not quite providing the distraction he’d hoped. Even though Shane spends hours tossing little cousins and children of cousins into the lake, taking them out on the waverunners and rowboats, going fishing and eating and playing field hockey or soccer or badminton, he crawls into bed each night like a live wire. His texts with Ilya are more sporadic but no less intense, ramping up to the inevitable something that’s now only ten, nine, eight days away. The extended family leaves, Shane helps his parents to put the house to rights, and begins to drop little hints about his plans.
“So, Comeau was talking about this thing in the locker room the other day. A silent retreat.”
His mom’s ears practically perk up from where she’s folding the clean sheets, his dad toting endless loads of laundry from the basement.
“Oh? What’s that about?”
“He said it was to, like, train your mind. Learn to calm yourself down, get in the right headspace for games and stuff. But you, uh, have to be completely alone.”
Yuna raises one eyebrow.
“And what, you want to try it? You’ve always been very scientifically driven, Shane.”
“Yeah, I know, but science only goes so far. I want to see if it does anything, since I’ve already done all the science stuff.”
“So, when are you doing this? Silent retreat means no dad and I, I’m assuming?”
“Yeah, just me, alone. 17th through the 31st.” Shane wants to kick himself as his mom’s other eyebrow raises, and settles for biting his tongue as hard as he can stand. Too specific. He’d meant to say something more like since training starts in August I was thinking in the next few weeks, maybe. So much for that.
“Wow, you’ve thought this through. Okay, honey. I’ll tell your dad. I hope…” She looks at him a beat too long. Shane always wonders what she sees when she does that, like she’s Superman hitting him with X-Ray vision or something.
“I hope it works for you, Shane. I really do.”
“Thanks, mom. Me too.”
If he didn’t feel like a piece of shit for lying before, he sure fucking does now. His phone buzzes, dit-dit, dit-dit, and he makes a hasty escape outside, muttering something to his parents about packing up badminton.
“What takes so long to pick up?”
“I’m at my parent’s house, sorry. The family just left, I’m helping them clean, it’s been crazy. What’s up?”
Ilya blows out a breath. Shane tenses, bracing himself for the inevitable. I cancelled my flight, it’s not a good idea, I can’t come. All this lying to his parents for nothing.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Oh. Oh, okay. He can work with this.
“Yeah?”
Something in his tone, his pause, must give his swirling brain away. Ilya scoffs.
“Yes, yeah. What, you think I call you to cancel plan with only seven days left?”
Ilya says yeah in his mushy-mouthed Canadian accent that really sounds more like a muppet than Shane. It’s cute.
“I dunno, man! We haven’t been talking as much, and-”
“Shane, I would not cancel even if I was dead. Sveta would ship my body to Canada.”
Shane laughs, rubbing a hand over where his chest spasms.
“Nah, I’m not into necrophilia. I only want you alive.”
“Neck- what? Neck row what?”
“Necrophilia. Sex with dead people.”
“You are true pervert, Shane Hollander. Do not worry. I will be alive on plane in seven days and then you can have sex with my strong, alive, powerful body, yes?”
“Fuck off.”
“No. I will fuck you. Alive, no necrophilia. As you insist.”
“Hey, I think that’s a fair ask!”
“Probably. I have to go. Seven days.”
“Seven days. Bye, Rozanov.”
The phone beeps the familiar hang-up tone. One week. A little less than seven days, even, given that it’s five o’clock, the summer sun still shining through the treetops. He packs up the badminton for real, wondering if Ilya would want to play at all. Probably stupid to bring it, especially since he can’t exactly explain playing one-sided badminton during his solo meditation. They can stick to swimming and backyard soccer and sex.
Unlike the previous two weeks, the final seven days crush together. Between cleaning his house obsessively, brand meetings crammed in before his “silent retreat,” grocery shopping (twice), dinner with his parents, and texting Ilya, Shane barely has time to breathe. Rolex, already apparently enthralled by his “strong and silent” branding, designed a whole campaign around his meditation. Something about Rolex being the only time you need when there’s time on your hands, or something. He sits cross-legged, hands pinched in a probably offensive gesture, eyes closed as if deep in thought as cameras flash and the familiar cacophony of a photoshoot carries on in front of him. The Rolex is heavy on his wrist; he doesn’t wear them if he’s not in public. He doesn’t like that it makes him feel off-balance.
The meetings and photoshoots and other various cattle calls come to a stop on the day before Ilya comes. Shane wakes up on Sunday knowing that he has nothing to do all day, and knowing that it’s going to drive him up the fucking wall. Every surface sparkles, every bed has clean sheets, the fridge and pantry stocked to bursting. Beer, Cokes, what Shane can only assume is good vodka practically spill out of the beverage fridge, and there’s hot dog buns and bags of chips hiding around every corner. He spends the day fussing with blankets and trying not to call Ilya, and watching a documentary and trying not to text Ilya, and going for a run and listening to Man in the Crease, clicking on the episode called Admiral Hunter.
It is, naturally, about Scott Hunter. His boyfriend - Kip Grady, they say - is an art student. They met at a smoothie shop in Manhattan, secretly dated for years. The hosts start dissecting Hunter’s seasons, realizing that he played better when Kip was more likely there. Aww, love, one host says, and Shane’s chest tightens. He wonders if they’d say the same thing about him and Ilya, if they knew. Or if them being rivals puts a wrench in the works, if it would make them question if they’d thrown games to the other. If only, he thinks. If Hunter plays better with Kip there, Shane sure as hell plays better against Ilya, and even better than that with him. The All Stars game in Tampa felt like some missing piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Like they were two halves of the same person, left skate right skate, two taps, he’s there. Pockets opened three, four moves ahead, wing and center, moving hot and fast. The other team never knew they didn’t stand a chance. Ilya kissed him, there, in a way teammates could.
Shane envies Hunter his new freedom, but knows that he’ll never know what it’s like to play like he and Ilya do.
He tunes back into the podcast. They’ve turned serious, discussing what it means to be the first openly gay player in MLH. Nothing good, it seems, rampant homophobia and some negative fan reactions and the ever-present issue of chirping. Shane considers shutting it off as he turns back towards home, the sun finally skirting the horizon. Before he can exit out, the other host speaks up, quietly.
“But think about what he’s done. The current MLH alone is huge; over seven hundred active players, not to mention retired players, coaches, staff. The first openly gay player… It won’t just be him, Dave. Maybe not now, maybe not even in the coming years, but think of all the people who have spent their whole careers thinking they could never be who they truly are. It’s a great day for hockey, at the end of it.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Well, you heard it here, folks. From the mouths of Man in the Crease, something has truly changed within Major League Hockey. See you next week.”
To Shane’s horror, his eyes start to sting. It’s true; Hunter opened a door that Shane would never have considered looking for until he’d retired. He still can’t, not with Ilya’s Russia being what it is. He’s not so selfish that he’ll jeopardize that, not when both Ilya’s parents are buried there. If Shane could never return to Canada just for being openly gay… he’s not sure what choice he’d make, either.
Monday dawns bright and early and bright, Shane having forgotten to close the shades. He squints at his phone, reading a cheery 8:06, and noticing a text below it.
L: Heading to airport.
Your flight isn’t for three and a half hours?
L: I know. Don’t want to miss.
Shane scoffs. Ridiculous, ridiculous man. He knows if their roles were reversed, he’d have been to the airport an hour ago. This is egregiously early for Ilya.
Aw, am I finally rubbing off on you?
It takes a minute for Ilya to respond, dots fluttering steadily. When it comes through, the message makes Shane laugh out loud.
L: Hollander please do not make me think of you rubbing off on me in airport there are so many people here.
I meant more like you getting there early is like me.
Dirty mind.
L: Yes, dirty. Will be filthy by time I land. Mile High Club.
Shane twitches at the idea of getting Ilya Rozanov off in an airplane bathroom. He doesn’t even know that they’d fit. He wants to try.
Who taught you that?
L: My team. They all act like they have done it. They have not.
And how would you know?
L: Because I am sitting next to their snoring asses on every boring flight.
Touche.
Ilya doesn’t text him back until he’s on the plane, and only then to let him know that he’s boarded unrecognized. Shane can’t sit still, can’t stop wanting to make everything truly, finally perfect. His mom texts, wishing him luck on his silent retreat, and he can only heart the message. The real heart in his chest hammers, the road stretching in front of him. It’s a two-hour drive to the airport, so he budgets in some extra, leaving as soon as Ilya boards. Between taxi, takeoff, landing, and baggage claim, he hopefully won’t be too early or too late. His pump-up playlist provides no relief so he just drives, and drives, and drives.
Sitting in the pickup lane is the scariest thing he’s ever done. He’s got sunglasses on, his windows are tinted, and yet he keeps a steady swivel on his surroundings. No stickers mark his car, even, so he doesn’t know why he’s so panicked. The feeling explodes as soon as he sees Ilya, wearing the same sunglasses and a stupid little tank top he wants to shred off him. Instead he sits, patiently, and waits until he settles in the car. Ilya smells like whatever cologne he’s worn since Shane met him, spicy, and a little sweaty. Warm and solid and here and real and Shane kind of can’t believe his eyes so he reaches out as he pulls the car onto the highway, touches Ilya’s shoulder.
“Hi.”
“Hi, how was your flight?”
“Was good. Short. Thankfully.”
“Good, yeah. Hi.”
“Hi again, Hollander, are you having stroke?”
“No, uh, just kind of can’t believe you’re here.”
Ilya shifts in his seat, putting a hand over where Shane’s rests on the gear stick. Shane chances a look over; Ilya’s pushed his sunglasses into his hair, and he’s looking at him like… fuck. Like Shane hung the moon.
“Me too. It has been long time.”
“Yeah.”
Ilya sweeps his thumb over Shane’s knuckles, soothing, soft. Something they can do, in the privacy of this car, and can do more often over the next two weeks. Shane wants that, wants to find all of Ilya’s hidden little soft places and new ways to turn him on and piss him off. He wants all of it, for two weeks, for forever, for however long Ilya will have him for. He hopes, secretly, that it’s for a long, long time.