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January 2017 — Somewhere over New York
Ilya wished he was hungover.
That would’ve made the flight back to Boston easier, if he could blame his terrible mood on the lingering effects of too much alcohol rather than the image currently seared into his mind of Shane Hollander wrapped around Rose Landry at a Montreal nightclub. Every time Ilya closed his eyes he saw it—Rose Landry’s joy, the way her hand ran down Hollander’s chest, and the strength in which Shane pulled her in closer by her waist, his eyes focused on her and her alone.
The worst part was Ilya knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that stare. Hollander didn’t say what he was thinking or feeling, but it hardly mattered because his eyes gave it all away. It was a powerful look, one that Ilya could still feel the effects of if he closed his eyes and focused.
But he hadn’t felt the weight of Hollander’s stare since November, since he’d said too much on his couch in Boston. Since Shane ran away.
There was a time when these games against Montreal were fun. Ilya would look forward to them, would count down on the calendar to the day that he would undoubtedly be able to face-off against Hollander, because the MLH loved their rivalry too much to never pit them against each other directly.
Now, now they just fucking hurt.
Ilya hadn’t even been able to mourn the loss of the game properly, not when he knew Shane Hollander and Rose Landry left the nightclub together. Not when he knew Rose Landry has probably seen Hollander’s actual apartment, the one he’d never brought Ilya to. He’d been hesitant to even describe the place to Ilya, as though Shane knew without a doubt that Ilya was something other, something to be kept in the dark and never truly brought into his life. Ilya would have accepted that, too, he’d been doing a good job of never trying to push it too far. Until he had to go and call him Shane and fuck up the fragile thing they’d built.
Fuck, Ilya wished he stayed at the nightclub long enough to be hungover now.
A large bang halted Ilya’s spiraling.
Spending his entire life flying between cities multiple times per week, Ilya had grown used to hearing and feeling turbulence. This, however, was definitely not normal turbulence. It sounded as though something large and major had broken, like the loud metal crunching that comes with a devastating car accident.
The front of the plane tipped down, and suddenly they were falling from the sky.
Distantly, Ilya was aware that he was screaming. The noise sounded foreign to him, muted and dull in his ears. There were others screaming too, some praying and others trying to figure out what had gone wrong. He thought someone yelled something about a fire on the other side of the plane, but Ilya couldn’t bring himself to look. He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to confirm that their plane had suffered a critical failure.
Ilya half-expected the nose of the plane to right itself and for the pilot to come on overhead and admit this was a cruel prank. That, maybe, the pilot was a Montreal fan, and he thought he’d take the piss out of the Boston team before they landed safe and sound back home.
None of that happened.
The plane still rocketed toward the ground. People were still screaming for their lives. Ilya still sat in shock, his mind working too quickly to know how to respond.
He was going to die on this plane.
Without warning, an image of Shane flooded his mind. Where would Hollander be when the news broke? Would he hear it from Rose, or maybe from his mother who seemed to know everything about hockey before even Shane did? Maybe he wouldn’t hear until tomorrow, when the Boston Raiders social teams would have to make a statement, a few short sentences to wrap up the dozens of lives that would be lost on this plane.
Would Shane mourn?
There was a time when Ilya knew he would. When Shane tripped up on his words in the middle of a night together, when the start of an ‘l’ landed on his lips before the Canadian thought better of himself and stopped speaking. He knew from the look that Hollander would give him, when they’d both come and there was nothing left to do but go their separate ways for the night.
But then Ilya had called him Shane, and he ran away. He ran away to Rose Landry, and suddenly two months had gone by and he hadn’t heard from the other man. He hadn’t known what to say either, not without saying everything he’d felt that day in Boston.
What did it matter now?
Sometimes, when Ilya was particularly intent on causing himself pain, he imagined a future where he and Hollander talked it over. Ilya would apologize for ruining the moment, and Shane would tell him that he was done running away. Each time, he imagined a different one of them would confess first. He could imagine himself being brave, shutting away the terror of chasing Hollander out of his life forever and saying exactly how he felt about him. Instead of running, Shane would laugh and nod, he’d kiss him and say he felt it too.
They’d hide their relationship for awhile, but it wouldn’t matter because they had each other for real. Secret hookups in hotel rooms would turn into weekends at each others’ apartments, their real apartments where they allowed each other to see all of themselves. And eventually, the two of them would decide they were done hiding. It would have to be years down the line, when both of them had retired from hockey and Ilya had figured out all of the painful and complicated feelings he had surrounding home and what coming out would mean for him. They would do it though—they would come out on their own terms, and they’d have a life together. They could get a dog, or maybe have a kid. Maybe they could have both. Ilya could see it all in his mind clear enough as though it had actually happened.
None of it fucking mattered, though, because Ilya would never have the chance to find out if he could have any of it. Because the plane was going to crash, and Ilya was going to die, and he’d never know if Shane ran away because he was scared or because he didn’t feel as strongly as Ilya did.
All of it, the decade worth of sneaking and holding back and being fucking terrified, all of it would end with this plane.
Ilya’s hands shook as he pulled his phone from his pocket. There was no cell service, but he had WiFi.
When he pulled up Instagram, Shane Hollander’s profile was still loaded on the screen. The man hadn’t posted since the MLH awards last summer. There was no guarantee Shane would see anything that Ilya wrote, not until long after he was gone. Still, he couldn’t imagine never saying any of this. He couldn’t imagine Hollander finding out he died from a press conference, and never knowing that Ilya loved him with everything he had.
Shane, Ilya hit the backspace until the word disappeared.
Hollander,
Fuck, he was going to die soon. What did it matter what he called the man?
Shane, you are the best thing in my life. I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
Ilya didn’t remember what Shane had said, when he’d approached him in the parking lot of the ice rink in Saskatchewan. He remembered thinking he was naive, but that the earnest look in his dark eyes was endearing. He remembered the splash of freckles on Shane’s face, and the way his cheeks grew rosy red in the chill of the outside air. He remembered the stunned smile Shane had given him, when Ilya promised that the Russian team would beat the Canadian one.
Yes, there was no doubt that Ilya fell for Shane Hollander in that parking lot.
I only regret not saying it before. I am thinking of only you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.
The pilot started speaking on the overhead speaker. He said something about an emergency landing, but Ilya could hardly hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. It was difficult enough to translate his thoughts well enough to write his goodbye to Shane, there was no way he could also focus on whatever explanation the pilot had for what was happening. All Ilya knew was that something had gone terribly wrong, and it would cost him everything.
At least, maybe he would get to see his mother again, if she was right about the way the afterlife was set up.
Ya lyublyu tebya.
January 2017 — Montreal
The practice was a rough one—Shane was sure it was intended more to punish them all for their poor performance against Boston than to train good skills. They’d won the game, sure, but it had been messy. It had been one of his worst games of the season, maybe ever, and it burned deep in his chest to know the reason why.
Was he really letting Ilya Rozanov mess with his hockey career?
Apparently, he was.
It didn’t matter that it had been two months since he’d last spoken to the other man. It didn’t even matter that he had a girlfriend, one who was kind and funny, and absolutely gorgeous. None of it mattered, because Shane couldn’t focus on the ice when this was the closest he’d been to Ilya since that day in Boston.
When he’d planned on spending the night at Ilya’s house. When he’d cuddled with him on the couch, and ate tuna melts, and talked about Ilya’s family, who Shane’s sure he’d never heard anything about previously.
When Ilya called him Shane, and his body was sent straight into sheer panic over the thought that this was becoming something more. It had been awhile that he’d felt different, that he began to suspect that Ilya Rozanov meant something to him apart from a casual hookup. If he truly thought about it, he’d wonder if they ever were casual in the first place.
But not being casual came with expectations. A relationship. Commitment. Coming out. All of it, all of it could come crashing down around Shane all because they both decided to feel something different for one another.
So Shane left. And he dated Rose. And he forced his way through practice, trying not to think of the sight of Ilya in that nightclub, or the disappointed look on Rose’s face earlier that morning.
“Oh, fuck, the Raiders’ plane crashed!” J.J. yelled out from across the locker room.
Raiders. Plane. Crashed.
Time slowed to a crawl as the words knocked around in Shane’s head, bouncing around until he could connect them together.
“What?” Shane asked, dropping his shirt from where he’d picked it up to change out of his athletic undershirt. “What?”
Ilya’s plane crashed. Did people survive plane crashes? They did, right? He heard all the time about survivors, about people who got lucky for some reason or another. That could be Ilya. He’d surely be hurt, yes, but he’d be alive.
“The wing caught fire, look,” J.J. continued, thrusting his phone out for Shane and the others to see. They all crowded around the screen, Shane pushing his teammates out of the way so he could get a clear look.
He thought he was going to be sick. Shane could feel the bile rising in his throat, one wrong move from spilling out on the ground in front of him. The black smoke erupting from the plane’s left side haunted Shane’s mind. Did Ilya burn, in the end? Did he suffer? The thought ached, like the deepest betrayal of his own psyche, but Shane hoped that Ilya had been far from the fire, that he’d been killed instantly on impact. That he did not have to know suffering or pain before it was over.
God, what kind of a person was he to wish that?
“—didn’t crash, fuckwad! It made an emergency landing in Albany, they’re all okay.”
That was Hayden. It sounded like a dream, slow and faraway.
Slowly, Shane pulled his gaze from that burning plane to Hayden, eyes wide and vision blurry with tears. He couldn’t think, but also his mind was moving quick, too quick. It flipped between images of that plane burning, of it crashing into the ground, of Ilya bruised and bloody and broken and—
They’re all okay.
“Th-they’re okay?” If Shane were of the right mind, he’d be embarrassed by the way his voice shook, by how weak it sounded.
“Yeah, J.J. fell for the online storytelling, the gullible fuck,” Drapeau called out, shoving the other man’s shoulder and laughing.
Almost immediately the tense mood in the locker room dissolved into laughter and playful shouts as Drapeau and J.J. began to play fight. The moment of care was gone once everyone knew that the other team was okay, but still Shane was stuck to the floor where he currently stood. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, and—
Oh, God, he couldn’t even breathe.
Shane’s chest constricted more each time he tried, sinking in but never refilling with the vital oxygen he needed. His vision began to darken around the edges, and his hands began to quiver at his sides. He knew this feeling, had unfortunately felt it far too many times. It had never been quite so bad though, had never quite felt like he would die from it.
“Hey, hey, Shane, c’mon.” Hayden again. He hadn’t left Shane’s side, even as the rest of the locker room began to empty.
Hayden moved to stand in front of Shane, hands on each of his shoulders and face pressed in close. He’d seen these episodes before over the years, and had learned how to help Shane out of them.
“C’mon, Hollzy, you gotta breathe. Get one good one in, the rest will come after, right?”
They should. That’s how breathing always worked. Most people were so good at it they didn’t even need to think about it. Why was Shane so bad at something as simple as breathing?
Because he thought Ilya Rozanov died.
Because if Ilya Rozanov died tonight, then he’d never know how sorry Shane was for leaving his house in November. He’d never know that Shane was pretty sure he was gay, and that he felt different when he was with Ilya.
If Ilya Rozanov had died tonight, he would have never known how much Shane loved him, and that would’ve been entirely Shane’s fault.
“They’re okay,” Shane breathed, once his lungs jumpstarted themselves again. “He’s okay, he’s okay.”
“Yeah, man, they’re all okay,” Hayden confirmed, then paused as he considered Shane’s words. “He? Who’s he?”
Once, Shane would have panicked at those words. Now he couldn’t imagine anything more gut-wrenchingly terrifying than Ilya Rozanov being dead and gone from this world. So, instead he nodded. He stepped back from his friend’s hold on him to grab his phone.
“Ilya, Ilya’s okay,” Shane mindlessly answered, focused entirely on the notifications on his phone.
Instagram: 3 new messages from Ilya Rozanov (3 hr ago)
It took three tries to unlock his phone. Shane’s fingers stumbled as he opened Instagram, trying to remember where to find his DMs after the latest update. He hadn’t actually opened the app in weeks, not since he stopped having a reason to check on Ilya’s page.
Shane, you are the best thing in my life. I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
I only regret not saying it before. I wish we had more time. I am thinking of only you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.
Ya lyublyu tebya.
The words were a punch to the gut. His chest still heaved from his recent panic, still hadn’t recovered well enough to fight off the breathlessness those words gave him.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Ilya Rozanov almost died tonight, and his first thought had been to say goodbye to Shane. He intended for his final words to be a love letter to Shane and that—
“The fucking asshole,” Shane hissed, words wet around the tears that were now steadily streaming down his face.
“Dude, Shane, I’m not following you,” Hayden spoke up, not trying to look at his phone but certainly looking concerned enough, like he desperately wanted to see whatever had Shane so panicked. “I know you hate the guy, but we should be glad Rozanov is okay, right?”
“I am, I am glad,” Shane breathed out, never once looking up from those messages. “I’m so fucking glad he’s okay.”
“Right, yeah, so uh,...then what’s with this?” Hayden asked, gesturing at Shane.
Right.
Hayden had witnessed the breakdown of a lifetime, there was no way he was going to let this one down.
Shane wanted to explain, he really truly did, if only to put his friend at ease. He started to, his lips parted as he fought to find any words that could make sense of his absolute devastation at the thought of Ilya being hurt, being worse than hurt.
But then his phone rang.
‘Lily’ his phone reported.
“Lily? As in Boston Lily? I thought you dumped her for Ro-”
“You goddamned asshole, are you kidding me?” Shane snapped into the phone as soon as he accepted the call. “You tried to get into an actual plane crash?”
“I did not light the plane on fire, Hollander.” Ilya sounded tired, more tired than Shane had ever heard him. “I thought you would be happier than this.”
“Fuck you,” Shane returned instinctively, feeling an overwhelming swell of emotions build up in his chest. “Fuck you for almost dying. And you know what, fuck you for, for saying all of those things and then getting into a plane crash.”
“Hey, hey, Hollander, there was no crash. I think pilot would be offended by that.”
“I don’t care about the pilot! I care that you almost died! I thought, I thought you died. I thought you died and the last time I saw you would’ve been-”
Would’ve been sucking on some random woman’s ear in a Montreal nightclub.
“I am not dead, Hollander. I am here, in…wherever here is.” Ilya may have been joking, but his voice was soft, tired. He was scared.
“But I thought you died.”
“I thought I was going to be,” Ilya admitted then, words somehow even more quiet than before, as if this was some great secret he was letting Shane in on. “You can forget the messages.”
Forget the messages. As if he could ever forget that Ilya loved him, honest God loved him. There was no way to move past this, to go back to how they were before, not when Shane knew that Ilya intended for his final words to be for him alone.
“No, I’m not forgetting those messages,” Shane denied.
“I was not in right mind when I sent them,” Ilya said back, defending himself against something that wasn’t there. Shane wished he was there with him in Albany. He wished he could see Ilya’s face, wish he could hold onto him and know with 100% certainty that he was unharmed and safe.
“But you meant it, right? All of it?”
“Hollander.”
“Ilya, tell me you meant it,” Shane pressed, not willing to let this go. Not when he’d almost lost the other man. Not when all he would’ve had left were his memories of stolen moments over the years. They never took pictures together for fear of someone else finding them. There was no physical proof of everything they were to each other. No one else knew that Shane even cared about Ilya, much less felt this strongly for him.
If Ilya would have died, no one would have known Shane was mourning. He would have died that night too, and no one would have known.
“Of course I did,” Ilya answered with a sigh. “You think I would lie on deathbed?”
“I love you too. Fuck, Ilya, I love you so much.”
For a short moment, Shane thought the call had ended. The silence lasted for so long that he even pulled the phone from his ear only long enough to check that it was still going.
Then, finally, a laugh. It was short and strained, like Ilya had to choke it out of himself.
“I should get in plane crash more often.”
“That’s not funny, don’t joke about that.”
“I am sorry. I am sorry I scared you.”
“Just…don’t do that again, okay?” Finally, for the first time since J.J.’s announcement of the accident, Shane felt like he could breathe. His chest loosened and the overwhelming pit in his stomach ebbed away.
“Okay. Next time I tell plane not to crash because Shane Hollander said not to.”
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane laughed.
“An asshole that you love.”
“Are you staying in Albany tonight?”
“Yes, in a hotel by airport. Why?”
“I can be there in four hours,” Shane announced, already moving into action. He tucked his phone between his ear and shoulder so he could start shoving his belongings into his bag. “I’ll be there, I promise.”
“No, everything is okay now. You don’t need to drive all this way,” Ilya tried to brush off, but there was no way that Shane could listen to him.
“You almost died tonight, Ilya,” Shane countered. “You must’ve been so scared. I’ll be there, for you, just give me four hours.”
“Okay, okay,” Ilya relented finally. “Be safe, Hollander.”
The call clicked off, but Shane didn’t move his phone from where it sat pressed against his ear and shoulder. He was too busy packing up his bag, trying to hastily finish changing back into his street clothes. It was maybe the messiest he’d ever left his locker, but Ilya had almost died and that was all he could think about now.
Ilya Rozanov loved him, and he almost died.
But he hadn’t. Ilya was safe and waiting for him in Albany.
Shane didn’t know what would happen when he got there. They’d never spoken about these feelings between them, had never even come close to putting a name to what they felt for one another. This was new territory, one that Shane had no idea how to navigate.
But for once, Shane didn’t feel overwhelming fear and hopelessness when he thought about a future with Ilya in it. They loved each other, and that alone could get them through a lot. Sure, they’d have to stay a secret for a while longer, but that would be okay, right? They could figure this out, because if they survived through a fucking almost-plane-crash then they could survive through this, too.
And maybe, maybe they could have a life together after all.
It was a terrifying thought, one that sent both anxiety and joy through Shane’s body. He’d never let himself want this. Now, though, now it was all so obvious in his mind. They could be together. They could have breakfast together and not plan how to both get to the rink without raising suspicion. They could settle down somewhere together—he didn’t even care if it was Boston anymore, not as long as they had the chance—and growing old together. They could have a life out of the spotlight, once they retired and the fans moved on to newer and more exciting rivalries.
They could live. And love. And continue to learn with each other.
Because Ilya Rozanov survived a damn malfunctioning plane, and Shane couldn’t imagine wasting one more second without letting himself love Ilya.
So he grabbed his keys, intent on driving to Albany and showing Ilya he meant exactly that.
“Shane, what the fuck was that? Ilya Rozanov?”
After he explained everything to Hayden.