Chapter Text
He should've deleted them. Or never saved them. Celebrities get hacked all the time, their private photos leaked. Shane knows this, has always known this could happen.
The very thorough - and incredibly awkward - sex talk his mother gave him before he started juniors had included an entire section on the dangers of nude photos and sexting. He'd repeated it all himself to the rookies on his team more than once after becoming captain.
And yet, its his photos currently going viral on twitter, and instagram, and everywhere else on the internet probably. Even fucking Facebook. His dad is on Facebook!
"Holy shit!" one of the rookies is now staring at him with wide eyes from across the locker room, phone in hand and mouth hanging open. He's not the only one either.
"They're obviously fake!" Hayden scoffs beside him, "Right?" A hand drops onto his shoulder and Shane nearly crumbles to the floor. The hand squeezes, "Shane?"
Every eye in the locker room is on him now. The confusion more than evident, and the anger.
His voice fills the too quiet room when someone clicks on one of the videos. Shane squeezes his eyes shut and scrubs his hands up through his hair.
"Rozanov!" The begging is accompanied by several moans and even louder repetitive slaps as their bodies meet, again and again, fast and rough. Desperate.
Shane knows exactly which night it is, just from that, but then Ilya's voice joins his. Rough, hoarse. His Russian thick and mumbled. His English no better, but its clear as a bell in the silent room.
"Gonna come for me, Hollander? Gonna come from this? Just this?"
A shiver runs him his spine and Shane's breath hitches, just as he starts begging for it, for Ilya. The video cuts off quickly, before the climax, but his face stays red. His lungs burning in his chest.
Fuck! He can't breathe. His chest heaving with his next inhale. Shane nearly doubles over, stumbling back into his cubby.
He's in Montreal. Centre Bell. His feet still taped. He'd barely gotten his gear off after the game before he turned on his phone to find more notifications than ever.
There is not a grounding technique in the world that can help him right now.
"Shane? Buddy?" Hayden buzzes around him, his voice getting higher with every word. Shane can barely hear them over his own heartbeat, his gasping breaths.
Crouching on the floor, Shane ducks his head between his knees and focuses on breathing. Eight counts. In and out.
Another video plays. Ilya's voice low as he whispers in Russian. Shane squeezes his eyes shut and fists his hands in his hair. He'd gone slow that night. His lips trailing up and down Shane's spine.
"Turn it off, Comeau!" Hayden hisses and the room goes silent, just for a minute. Shane's gasping echoing off the wall as his team waits for an answer. An explanation.
They want it to be fake. A hoax. A lie. A prank. Anything but what it is.
"Is this why Rozanov was fucking smiling during the handshakes?!" J.J. breaks the silence, choking out, "Did he let you win?"
Shane's head snaps up and he glares right at his friend. The words spill out before he can even think about what to say, what they mean. His voice sharp, hard.
"If he ever let me win, I'd never let him touch me again and he knows it."
The quiet is worse this time. Heavier. J.J. is staring at him with wide eyes, just like the rookies, but his brows slowly furrow.
"How long have you been fucking the enemy?" J.J. growls, his accent thicker than usual.
Ilya's does that too, when he's angry.
He doesn't have to answer. One of the rookies found the original leak. A file with all of the videos they made, the photos they took.
The photos Shane saved.
"This... I recognize this," Mitty whispers, his gaze rising from the phone, eyes narrowed on Shane's face, "Have you and Rozanov been fucking this whole fucking time?"
Shane swallows. His bottom lip trembling before he bites it.
The CCM shoot. Their first time... the first time they did anything. They hadn't traded numbers then, or taken any photos, that would come later, but...
But Shane had saved some of the photos they took that day. Even Ilya hadn't known about those, before now. His mom had asked the photographer for some of the shots they hadn't used in the campaign and they'd sent her the whole damn file, so... Shane saved tthem.
Their eyes meeting at center ice smiling and laughing, unable to maintain the 'intensity' the director kept asking for.
It's Shane's favorite photo in the world. Far from incriminating, on its own, but Shane had still locked it in a secret folder on his phone. Not on the cloud, manually transfered over and over, for years.
Hidden, right alongside all the dick pics Ilya sent him and the videos they'd started making as a joke.
Now its on the internet. Every one of them. All the private moments they'd shared laid out in chronological order, with time stamps. Dates. Undeniable evidence of their undefined relationship, of Shane's biggest secret.
At least three of the videos are just Shane sucking on Ilya's cock, staring up at his rival while the Russian films him. Eyes glassy as he fucking savors it, clinging to Rozanov's body, touching only him, not himself.
It'd been hot, at the time. After too, when Ilya would bring it up, would send the videos to him.
Months later, because Ilya watches them, again and again, watches Shane get off on sucking his dick while he sits alone in some random hotel room on the other side of the country.
Eyes squeezing shut, Shane manages a tiny nod, finally answering the goalie's question. Admitting it. Confirming.
Several sharp inhales and more than a few curses are thrown around then. Shane drops his head back between his knees. He claws both hands through his hair, over his arms, fingers digging in.
He still can't breathe. His chest aches with every inhale, shallow gasps that give him nothing as his head starts to spine.
"Shane?" Hayden says his name again. A hand squeezes at his shoulder and Shane shrugs it off, whining softly. He bites hard at his bottom lip again.
The room is spinning, or his head is, whichever. Even with his eyes closed, little white dots start bursting in his vision, behind his eyelids.
Hayden curses, loudly, and he says... something. The words are muffled.
Other people start talking too then. A loud and aggressive haze growing louder all around him, but Shane can't make out a single word.
He can't even tell who it is, what they're saying. They're angry though. Pissed. Just like he'd thought they would be.
Just like everyone will be. Is.
Fingers clawing at his chest, catching in his shirt, Shane keeps gasping. His heart pounding in his ears. All the scenarios swirling around, flooding his mind with every horrible possibility.
The locker room door slams open then. Shane startles, his head snapping up.
Ilya. His eyes widen when he sees him standing there. A proper scowl on his face. Jaw clenched, hazel eyes bright with anger. He sends a withering glare J.J.'s way when the defenseman takes a step as if to block his path.
It's insane, him being here. The Voyageurs literally just beat Boston and Rozanov is half naked. The cross hanging around his neck catching the light as Shane just stares at him.
Three long strides and Ilya's crouching beside him. A hand rises to cup his face, another settling on the back of his neck.
For one second, it all stops. Everything.
The maelstrom swirling around in his head slows, just for a moment, before the panic spikes anew.
Shane chokes on a sob, "I'm sorry." He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut, "This is my fault, I'm an idiot, I-"
"Oh? You upload them?" Ilya cuts him off, words sharp, sarcastic. His grip tightens on the back of Shane's neck. A thumb brushes away the tears Shane is suddenly acutely aware are streaming down his face.
"No," he croaks out. Ilya hums, eyebrow arching. Shane inhales, long and slow, a deep breath before his head drops again.
This time, to Ilya's shoulder. His forehead pressed to sweat slick skin as Ilya whispers in his ear, "You did nothing wrong." He says it over and over, repeating himself softly. Comforting him. "We are fine. Will be fine. Hiding was getting old anyway, boring," Ilya chuckles, "I cannot be boring, is your thing."
A laugh bubbles up from his chest, halfway between another sob and a giggle, "I'm not boring." Ilya snorts. "Shut up," Shane huffs, sniffling, "You're such an asshole."
"Yes, but you like it," Ilya teases him, grinning when Shane manages to pull his head up. "And now, you cannot deny. Too much proof."
"Yeah," Shane nods, leaning in to Ilya's hand when he cups the back of his head, fingers lacing through his hair.
He halfs expects Ilya to kiss him, right there, in front of his team. The locker room eerily quiet as their heads fall forward.
Shane takes another deep breath with their foreheads pressed together. His hands on Ilya's shoulders, clinging to him. Grip tight. Bruising.
His gaze drops to Ilya's necklace. The golden cross resting against his clavical.
It's the Russian Orthodox Cross. He'd looked it up, years ago. Curious about the extra bars, the slanted line.
All the little facts from his wikipedia rabbit hole flit across his mind as he inhales again. He matches his breathing to Ilya's without thinking. A familiar reflex. In and out.
"Oh fuck," Shane's head snaps up, eyes wide as his brain latches on to one very important fact. One very, very important fact. "You can't go back to Russia now, can you?" Ilya stills.
Cursing, Shane springs to his feet, snatching up his phone. He ignores the notifications - the texts, the voicemails, everything. The maelstrom giving way to one singular fear. One consequence. One he can actually do something about.
"The court house opens at 8," Shane doesn't look up from his phone as his thumbs flicks across the screen to open his calendar, "Your next game is in Boston in two days. If we go first thing in the morning, we should have enough time for you to get back before warm ups."
"Enough time for what?" Ilya squints at him, leaning one shoulder against Shane's cubby. He ducks his head and nudges at Shane's chin.
"For us to get married," Shane tells him, holding up his phone to show him the webpage with all the requirements. "We have to wait one full working day between applying and signing, but we can start the citizenship application at the same time."
Ilya blinks, eyebrows shooting up as Shane keeps going, rambling about the process, the steps. His thumbs flying across the screen as he types up everything they need to do, making a list of all the documents they'll need.
It takes a few minutes for him to process that the locker room has gone silent again. His brain grinds to a halt when he realizes Ilya hasn't said anything yet either.
Face flushing, Shane snaps his mouth shut, pursing his lips. He slowly looks back up to find Ilya smiling at him. His gaze soft, amused.
"Dude, that was the worst proposal ever," Hayden says and Shane glances over to see his team standing in various stages of shock. Hayden drags a hand down his face and shakes his head, smile tight as he forces a laugh, "You didn't even ask!"
"Yes, is true, very unromantic," Ilya chuckles. His chin rises, lips twitching into a smirk, "Very disappointing, Hollander, what will we tell the children?" Shane groans. Ilya has already launched into his dramatics though, a hand clutching at his chest as he bemoans the lack of candles or roses. "You have ruined our fairytale romance with your boring proposal!
With a snort, Shane shoves his shoulder, "Our 'fairytale' started with you chirping while smoking next to a no smoking sign. No one is writing that romance novel, asshole."
"Lies!" Ilya shoves him back, "I did nothing. You started it, being all proper and naggy, interrupting my smoke break with your long sentences."
Shane rolls his eyes. A hand cups his face again and then Ilya does kiss him, claiming his mouth swiftly. All heat and desperation, like always.
It should be embarrassing, how quickly Shane responds, his arms wrapping around Rozanov's neck. He can hear his teammates - choking, cursing, even shouting - but all Shane can think about is the tongue stroking the roof of his mouth.
They've all seen him on his knees now anyway, seen him sucking on his rival's dick.
He sucks on Ilya's tongue now instead and moans. Ilya grins when he pulls back, licking his lips when Shane stumbles into his cubby.
"Send me list," Ilya tells him, walking backwards towards the door. He inclines his head towards Shane's phone when Shane furrows his brow. "Papers. What I need to bring," Ilya clarifies and Shane nods, a smile splitting his face.
Whispers buzz all around him, hissed curses and grumbled insults. They bounce right off him though. Shane sinks to the bench. He can't stop smiling.
Ilya pauses in the doorway, head quirked to the side, "Oh, and Marly will help me with bodies, if anyone hurt you. Send that list too, hmm? We finish before wedding."
"No one's going to hurt me," Shane assures him. A quiet hum precedes Ilya's quick scan of his teammates. He clicks his tongue and disappears into the hallway. Obviously unconvinced.
"What the fuck?!" one of the rookies broke the silence a beat later. Shane blushes and ducks his head. He's quick to change, not bothering to shower, or wait for their coach to appear.
The reprimands and the lectures can wait. A day or two, at least, probably. Hopefully. Hayden grabs his arm just as Shane tugs on a shirt, dragging him out of his thoughts. He turns his head to look at him.
"So...." Hayden exhales, voice low, "Boston Lily... she's.... him?" Shane nods. Another exhale, a slow blink, and then, "Text me when and where, I'll be your best man."
Shane startles. His voice cracks, "Really?"
With a huff, Hayden rolls his eyes, "Fuck yeah man. I'm not letting fucking Marlow upstage me."
A hand slaps at his back and Hayden shadows him all the way to his car, helping him sneak past the throngs of reporters swarming the arena. J.J. too, though he's grumbling in French the whole time.
"Can't believe it," J.J. mumbles, head shaking when they arrive at the car to find Ilya leaning against the driver side door, cigarette in hand.
A few of the Bears are there too, not so subtly guarding their captain. Marlow squints at Shane, giving him a once over before Ilya smacks him.
"Oi! Stop that! I have dibs!" Ilya jokes before he puts out his cigarette, pretending to flick the bud at his friend before pocketing it, "You know I do not like to share." Marlow rolls his eyes and the other Bears snicker.
"You want this?" J.J. says in rapid French, gesturing increduously at the Russian, "I could have introduce you to a nice man if you'd told me!"
Shane ducks his head again, rubbing at his neck when he laughs, "No, I want him." His cheeks flush with color as he looks up at Ilya. He sticks to French and turns to meet J.J.'s eyes, "I love him, actually."
The groan from his defenseman echoes around them. He curses more in French before pointing a finger at Rozanov. "You better not be fucking with my captain, Rozanov, or I'll fuck you up, got it?"
"I have, very clearly, been fucking him for longer than you've even known him," Ilya drawls, arms gesturing wide, "Did you not see the news?"
"You have horrible taste in men," J.J. deadpans, turning his glare from Ilya to Shane, "You better not take his last name, Hollander, I'll never fucking forgive you." He doesn't bother saying it in French and Ilya just grins.
Cheeks burning, Shane clamors into his car, throwing his keys to Ilya. His hands are shaking still and he knows better than to drive right now.
One well timed distraction from their teammates later and they're gone, speeding out of the arena before anyone can catch them.
Now all he has to do is tell his parents. Shane swallows thickly, staring down at his phone even before the screen comes to life. His mom's picture filling the space as it rings.
Ilya takes a hand off the steering wheel to squeeze his thigh and Shane clears his throat, clicking on the little green button.
"Hey, mom," he manages, a hollow laugh slipping out, "What's up?" Ilya snorts and, on the other side of the line, so does his mom. Shane pushes forward. "Did you happen to pack something you could wear to a wedding by chance?"