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Being a closeted gay man in sports gave you a sixth sense. Like gaydar on steroids. Being constantly guarded and on edge developed into intense pattern recognition, and Scott had been in the closet for the better part of thirty years.
All that to say, he noticed things. He noticed the way Rozanov’s eyes would glaze over when he was being yelled at, almost like he was retreating into his own mind. He noticed how Hollander took every point scored against his team personally, even if he was not on the ice. He noticed how they disappeared at the same times during awards, and how Shane always came back with a slightly dazed look.
The night of the rookie awards, he had the misfortune of getting concrete answers to a question he was not even asking. Hollander was loud. Scott wondered how they were expecting to keep it a secret if they were going at each other like this every time they were together. The new generation was soft and undisciplined.
He also wondered what the hell a good, respectful boy like Hollander saw in someone as brash, violent, and dickish as Rozanov. He could admit they were both attractive, way too young for him, but he had eyes and common sense.
After that night, after doing his damn best to sleep through Hollander’s whimpers and Rozanov’s moans, he started noticing more things. He noticed how their personalities began to mesh. He saw pieces of each in the other. He wondered how others did not see it too. He still didn’t get it, but it was not for him to understand anyway.
Another season done, another stupid award show he was expected to attend. These things always dragged, and the suit left him itchy under the collar. He would have a few drinks, make his rounds, stay long enough for the higher-ups to see him, then slip out into the night to his bed and his man. The thought buoyed him.
He was coming back from the bathroom, having chosen the ones farthest from the ballroom so he could take his time coming back, when he heard it. Low whispering. It sounded like cooing, like someone offering comfort. He rounded the corner slowly, wanting to see but not intrude.
He saw Hollander with his back pressed to the wall, head resting on Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov ran a hand through his hair, speaking in low, lilting Russian. Shane lifted his head. The light was too dim to make out much, but Scott caught a small smile and a nod. He watched Rozanov kiss his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, and finally place a gentle peck on his lips.
God damn. They were domestic. Sickeningly sweet.
Maybe he did understand a little of what Shane saw in that asshole.
Yuna was not a fan of one Ilya Rozanov. The man seemed to have it out for her son. He was two hundred and some change pounds of angry, cocky Russian whose sole mission in life appeared to be making Shane’s life harder than it already was.
She knew her boy was special and different. Shane took comfort in predictability and control, spinning out when he lost either. She was familiar with the aftermath. Shane’s meltdowns were brutal. He would shut down for hours. He would cry first, then burrow under his weighted blanket and stare at the wall until his voice came back and the world made sense again.
Yuna always knew there was someone out there for Shane. Someone who would understand and accommodate him. Someone who would see her son not as a burden, but as a treasure. She just never expected that person to be Ilya Rozanov, known hedonistic hothead.
It had been a few days since Shane came out to them, Ilya at his side. Yuna hated having to stop by the cottage unannounced, but she had left important documents for Shane to sign and needed them back urgently. As long as she didn’t enter announced, she figured she wouldn’t see anything she shouldn’t.
She knocked a few times with no answer. As she turned to leave, defeated, her phone pinged with a text from Ilya.
Come in, we’re on the couch but I can’t move.
Weird, but okay. Using her key, she let herself in quietly, not wanting to wake Shane if he was asleep. The sight that greeted her stole her breath. Shane was wrapped in a blanket, sitting chest to chest on Ilya’s lap. Ilya held him firmly, unmistakably using deep pressure therapy.
Yuna used to hold Shane the same way when he was younger, until he grew averse to touch during meltdowns. Yet here he was, not only accepting it, but clearly seeking it. Ilya crooned a soft melody, swaying them gently. Shane’s eyes were hazy, but not in the deeply anguished way Yuna was used to seeing when he retreated into his head.
She nodded at Ilya and went to the office to retrieve what she needed. On her way back to say goodbye, she noticed the coffee table. An unopened ginger ale. Sour candy. The two things Shane preferred when he was coming back to himself.
It was clear this was not Ilya’s first time taking care of her boy. The thought that Shane hadn’t been doing this alone for years brought her peace. She left smiling.
Montreal was playing Ottawa, and Hayden was excited to see his best friend again. Shane had not left the Metros on good terms. Awful terms, if he was honest. But their friendship had survived, and now they were playing each other.
Shane had insisted Hayden stay with them. Said it was silly to get a hotel when he could have a comfortable bed and a nicer shower at their place. So here Hayden was, after a devastating loss, staring at his best friend and his best friend’s asshole of a partner.
The relationship had taken time to get used to. Hayden was fine with Shane liking men. That was not the issue. The issue was why it had to be this man.
Dinner passed in stilted conversation punctuated by uncomfortable silence. A bottle of wine disappeared between Hayden and Ilya, since Shane didn’t drink during the season. Eventually, Hayden was shown to a guest bedroom across the hall. Thank God. He would die if he had to hear Shane moan Rozanov’s name.
Morning light woke him. He stretched lazily in no hurry to start his day, his flight wasn’t until that afternoon anyway, and headed to the kitchen to see if his hosts were up. He didn't expect what he saw.
Shane sat perched on Ilya’s lap, feet dangling, head tucked against a broad shoulder. His hands clutched Ilya’s hoodie so tightly it looked like it might tear.
A single plate sat in front of them, piled with eggs, sausage, and toast. None of it was Shane-approved food Hayden noticed. Ilya whispered softly as he speared a piece of egg. Tears gathered on Shane’s lashes. Hayden froze, torn between stepping in and watching.
Ilya lifted the fork to Shane’s mouth, never stopping his praise. Shane shook his head, lips pressed tight, skin blanching.
“No, no, sweetheart,” Ilya murmured in thickly accented English. “You’ll hurt yourself. Please try for me. I feed you, my baby bird.”
Shane relaxed slightly and let the fork in. Ilya praised him louder, calling him brave and good.
Hayden knew he should leave, but he could not look away. Eventually, the plate was cleared. Ilya hugged Shane close as he cried, swaying him, whispering reassurance.
When it ended, Hayden retreated, then re-entered noisily. Rozanov shot him a look of pure gratitude, from what little he knew about the Russian, he had probably know they were being watched the entire time. Shane fixed on a smiled and offered him breakfast.
Yeah. Hayden got it now.
David knew Shane. He knew the softer parts of him, the ones often buried under avalanche Yuna. Point was, he thought he knew every facet of the boy from his silliest quirks to his most challenging habits. Yet, he had never seen this. His son loved Ilya and Ilya loved him back that much was clear. What he couldn’t wrap his head round is how his gentle, sensitive son built a relationship out of a rivalry.
They were having dinner at the cottage. Yuna made an offhand joke about Shane loosening up and having a drink. It landed wrong. Shane’s smile fell. His shoulders tensed. His eyes dropped.
David saw the spiral start. So did Ilya.
Ilya turned, cupped Shane’s chin forcing Shane to keep eye contact.He muttered a few phrases in Russian, his eyes gentle, so much fondness held there it was like staring at the sun. Shane’s shoulders dropped, his hands stilled and his eyes softened. It was such a refreshing sight to see his son have someone who had him like this.
The hockey world was cruel. They made up their mind about you and you were pigeonholed for your entire career. Shane was the golden boy, and Ilya was the big bad wolf. It didn’t matter that Ilya hadn’t gotten in a fight in about five games, or that Shane had spend a good number of minutes in the penalty box recently. Shane could do no wrong and Ilya could not help his aggression. They were doing a post match interview after a hard fought loss. A game in which an asshole from Toronto had called Shane a slur and Ilya had not hesitated to throw hands. The interviewer made a comment. He felt bad for Shane having to go home with such a volatile man. Shane saw red. How dare this asshole imply something like that about his man. His gentle, loving, kind, deeply romantic man. For the first time in his career his media reaction slipped, there was no way in hell he’d stay quiet now.
“ hey asshole. How dare you imply something like that about my partner. You know nothing about him. You, and the rest of the world made up your mind about Ilya at 18, when he was alone and scared and trained to win at all cost. But just like all of us, he’s grown and changed. He is kind and compassionate. He treats me with nothing but adoration, he would cut his hand off than hurt someone he loved with it. Don’t speak about shit you know nothing about”
When his mind cleared he registered the complete silence around him. He saw jaws hit the floor. He saw Ilya stalk towards him, a determined look in his eye “ I love you Shane Hollander” he said as he grabbed his face and kissed him breathless for the world to see.