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It began as a sort of ‘keeping tabs’ effort.
Ilya didn’t care about the Montreal Metro’s, he barely cared for them when Shane was still playing for them, but now that Shane had been freed from their homophobic bureaucracy he truly had no reason to still follow them on social media. He’d made a point of it, actually, unfollowing them. He did it all at once with Shane. He’d seen the ‘follow trackers’ on Twitter and knew they would have a field day. Both Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, newly outed, top of their game, unfollowing the team that had shoved Shane aside like he was Hayden Pike.
Unfortunately, Ilya is a deeply curious man.
He, like many other NHL players, had a burner account. One that was followed by almost nobody aside from Shane, who had insisted when he saw it, Svetlana, and Jackie. All of whom were similarly disguised though Shane’s account name was about as subtle as a roaring bear.
After Shane left the Metro’s, there had been sly digs at Shane, his character, Ilya’s character, and Yuna Hollander had been sure to see to those digs with cease and desists, immediately. The videos disappeared almost as quickly as they were published.
Vigilance is what Ilya was claiming, covert surveillance, to ensure adherence to the rules and to inform Yuna the second the Metro’s stepped out of line.
Unfortunately, due to his vigilance, his burner account was often flooded with content by and for the Montreal Metro’s and their fans. Ilya, dutifully, watched it.
At first it was boring, dull, corporate approved videos of the team practicing, a rundown on their latest game, clips of the team leaping over the boards, or going through the tunnel to bland, royalty-free techno.
The Centaur’s social media team was far superior, which Ilya learned quickly, something he was already aware of (thank you Harris).
But, as bigots are wont to do, they began to pilfer ideas from other teams (their team, Harris had grumbled, Ilya looked into a cease and desist but found ‘trends’ did not count), and Ilya was suddenly paying attention to Drapeau's favourite films, or Comeau’s special socks.
“The fucking stink.” Shane said one night as Ilya watched the video through, lying together on the couch, ankles intertwined, a muted tennis match playing and being largely ignored on the television.
“The Metro’s? Yes. I know.” Ilya agreed. Shane snorted.
“Yes. But his socks, too. They’re awful. He doesn’t wash them all year.”
Ilya’s lips curled in disgust. “That is why they are terrible. They are all being poisoned by Comeau’s feet.”
Hayden’s superstition is sickeningly sweet.
“I have to kiss my wife, Jackie, and all my kids three times before I leave.” Hayden had said, a pink flush on his cheeks either from the words or the ice he was standing on. His hair was mussed from his helmet, clearly pulled aside mid-practice (another reason they are terrible, Ilya thinks, social media over practice). The helmet tucked under Hayden’s arm dropped as he tried to skate away ruining whatever shot the social media team were attempting. Hayden scrambled to pick it up, fumbling several times, before the camera cut to the next player.
“Buffoon.” Ilya muttered, frowning to suppress a grin, twitching at the corners of his mouth. Shane hid his own grin behind the book he was trying, and failing, to get through.
Whoever was working their social media had latched onto the idea that ‘thirst traps’ were a decent way of changing the comment section from screaming about missing shots to lusting after definitionally average men.
Ilya typically scrolled away quickly when they appeared, not interested in seeing Schnieder’s half-defined abs, or Boiziau’s obnoxious smoulder lifting weights. It was purely accidental that Ilya had failed to scroll when Hayden’s first thirst trap appeared, entirely accidental as well that Ilya tapped on the comments section, letting the video play out again as he flicked through them.
The consensus was, Ilya gathered after several minutes of scrolling, that Hayden had never been subjected to this particular humiliation before by the Metro’s social media team, and that it was working quite well as a distraction. Mostly, Ilya noticed that Hayden was thinner.
Hayden’s videos became more frequent. Not always thirst traps, often-times he was pulled aside by the social media team to talk through what went wrong, what went right, what they could improve on. Boring things. PR things. Questions for a captain that was not Hayden but Hayden answered them with the confidence, demeanour, of a captain. Ilya had not failed to notice that Hayden’s A title had also been stripped of him when Shane left.
pikechamp12: can he be my dad?
hoedenpike: can he be my daddy :P
pikechamp12: HE HAS A WIFE
hoedenpike: I CAN SHARE
“You don’t have to keep following them, you know?” Shane mentioned as they sat, side by side, at the counter eating their respective breakfasts. Ilya put his phone down, frowned at Shane, and picked up his coffee.
“What if they post lies again?” Ilya said, though he knew, deep-down, Yuna Hollander had some convoluted alert system established that meant legal threats would be signed, sent, and delivered before Ilya had the chance to see the offending video.
“I think you just like keeping tabs on Hayden.” Shane said, teasing. Ilya shoved a palm against Shane’s shoulder, not roughly, but enough to push the man slightly across his seat. Shane only grinned.
“I am not.” Ilya insisted, pouted. “I do not care about Pike.”
“Sure.” Shane said, still grinning, and Ilya huffed, shoved him harder until Shane laughed loudly, falling from his seat.
Ilya won’t admit it, outwardly, to Shane or anybody who asks but he is, quietly, keeping tabs on Hayden.
There are rumours because professional hockey players are nothing more than professional gossips at the end of the day, and the rumours aren’t positive, aren’t heartening, around the Metro’s.
It’s generally advised amongst rookies to avoid the team unless absolutely necessary, even for those that are openly bigoted, as their coaching staff have appeared to take a dive into despotry.
Hayden has become thinner, leaner, over the past year and it’s a disconcerting look on him. Pike was never a particularly buff player, his height and position making it necessary for him to be lighter, quicker than his opponents, but over the last three months Ilya feared he was watching Hayden disappear.
“It’s not that bad.” Shane had said, when Ilya had hesitantly brought up the idea that perhaps Shane should talk to Hayden about dieting and more specifically, dieting less. “Hayden mentioned they’ve just upped their cardio requirements.”
“He is withering away.” Ilya said, frowning. Shane rolled his eyes but caught him, as Ilya drove home from dinner with the Pike’s, texting Hayden about his current diet plan.
“They’re copying my old one.” Shane said, a terse frown on his face. “The macrobiotic one.”
“Ah, so it’s your fault.” Ilya said.
“Ilya!”
“Joking.” Ilya said, grinned at Shane and when he noticed the man seemed to have taken the words to heart, rested one hand on Shane’s knee, squeezing it firmly. “I am joking.”
“I know.” Shane said, grumbled, though a frown continued to tug at the corner of Shane’s mouth. “Should I tell them it’s terrible?”
“I think they already know.” Ilya said. “Hayden does at least.”
The thirst traps feel a little less funny when Ilya decides to compare ones from the beginning of the year, to the end of the year, and discover that yes, all of the Metro’s players were significantly thinner, leaner.
What is also less funny are the ‘edits’ that keep appearing.
Ilya had found them quite ridiculous at first, particularly clips of Shane and Hayden, knocking heads, kissing each other’s cheeks, bumping shoulders, set to cheesy music that Ilya refused to admit he privately added to a playlist later. Shane had seen many of them already, Jackie apparently an avid fan of ‘edits’ that featured her husband and Ilya couldn’t really blame her. There were some very talented young women editing Shane in very appealing ways and Ilya was simply appreciating their skills. That’s all.
However, they were taking a turn as the year wore on, and The Centaur’s climbed valiantly up the league ladder, whilst The Metro’s sunk, like a stone, down the ranks.
A video titled, “i think hayden misses shayden too”, left Ilya embarrassingly close to tears, as the person had edited clips of Shane and Hayden playing together, skating together, walking side by side, where both were laughing, smiling, screaming with joy, to clips of Hayden alone and miserable looking. Almost as though Shane had died rather than moved teams. He wanted to tell these people they were being dramatic, Shane and Hayden saw each other monthly, often more. And they were doing things far more fun and friendly than playing hockey.
It didn’t help that the song they had chosen was mournful, the lyrics painfully poignant, almost as though they’d written the track for Shane and Hayden’s absurdly co-dependent relationship dynamic personally.
“Do you think Pike is lonely?” Ilya asked, the video weighing on his mind like a metaphorical dumbbell. Stupid Pike.
“What?” Shane asked, jerked his head back like Ilya had slapped him. He put his book down on his lap, a bookmark slipped between the pages neatly, and turned his head to look at Ilya, confused. “Did he say something to you?”
“No.” Ilya said, shaking his head. “Forget it. Stupid question.”
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
Shane frowned, his brow pinching in the middle of his forehead cutely, adorable. Shane is adorable. What was Ilya thinking, stressing him out like this before bed, Pike was obviously fine. He has children, a wife, he does not need his Shane too.
“What brought that on?” Shane asked, tilting his head and Ilya flushed, sunk beneath the covers and avoided his gaze, landing instead on his phone sitting on the bedside table. Shane hummed, suddenly, in amused understanding.
“Did you see a sad TikTok?” Shane asked, teasing slightly, his book forgotten. Shane crawled across the bed, looming over Ilya, forcing the other man to turn back, look into Shane’s eyes that were glittering with mirth.
“It had a very sad song.” Ilya muttered, frowning, and Shane giggled.
“I’m sure it did.” Shane agreed, nodding, teasing. He leaned closer, his lips almost touching Ilya’s, brushing against them as he spoke but not quite meeting them. “Can I kiss it better?”
Ilya pouted his lips comically, smacking them together to create an obnoxious kissing noise, and barely managed to get a good kiss in before Shane was laughing again against his mouth.
The sad edits continued, unfortunately, and Ilya tried his hardest to scroll past them but found sometimes he was swooped up in it before he had time to scroll away and he was stuck looking at Hayden’s serious, sad face. He knew, because he watched their games and had seen this very expression on Hayden’s face before many times, that Hayden was neither serious nor sad but likely thinking about what he was having for dinner later. Yet, in the context of the clips, the sad black and white filter, the truly depressing song choice, Ilya couldn’t help but feel for the man.
It was one such edit that had Ilya packing he and Shane a bag and seconds away from flying to New York one evening before Shane had gotten home.
“Jesus, what? What happened?” Shane asked, looking between Ilya’s tear-streaked face, Ilya’s packed bag, and Ilya’s phone. “What have they convinced you of this time?”
“Pike got hurt in the game.” Ilya said. “We should go visit.”
“He’s in New York, Ilya.” Shane said, stepped forward and rubbed a hand up and down Ilya’s arm. “And he’s fine. I talked to him before. They’re only keeping him overnight as a precaution because there’s no one there to watch him otherwise.”
Ilya’s bottom lip wobbled. That was precisely the problem.
Instead of explaining, Ilya slid his phone across to Shane, turning back to the T.V that was playing the highlights of the game just gone between the Admirals and the Metro’s. Hayden’s hit hadn’t been particularly hard in the moment, smacked against the boards, but instead of stumbling back to his feet Hayden had crumpled to the ground. He was only out for a moment, already up and skating with assistance across the ice before a minute was up, not even needing a stretcher.
Ilya had been only minorly concerned. It was hockey. Hit’s happened. Concussion’s happened. Hayden was tough and had suffered far worse injuries throughout his career, a small knock like that is hardly anything worth fussing over. He finished watching the game, finished the dishes, hung out a load of laundry Shane had thrown on before his run. There was nothing to be concerned about.
Of course, all that was before he had made the mistake of opening his phone.
Three swipes deep a video had appeared, clearly older, that slightly fuzzy quality that cameras had in the early 2010’s where everything had felt newer, brighter, in the moment but in hindsight was uglier than ever. It was an old interview with Shane and Hayden, both of them looking fresh-faced, bright-eyed, giggly. Ilya remembers them back then, Hayden only two kids in and appropriately sleep-deprived, Shane scrabbling towards the peak of his career, their meetings few and far between.
“I would’ve been fucked without him.” Hayden said, his eyes widened momentarily, glancing at a person behind the camera. “Shit, can I swear? Fuck. I mean. Shoot. Sorry.”
Shane cackled beside him, leaning into Hayden’s shoulder, ducking his face to hide the flush that was rising. Ilya smiled faintly. It was cute. Ilya wished he could’ve appreciated it more.
“I would’ve been screwed without him.” Hayden rephrases, hits Shane’s shoulder and shoves him upright again, a faint pout on his lips though the humour was evident in Hayden’s eyes. “Shut up, dude. I’m trying to be serious.”
“Right, right, sorry.” Shane grinned, took a breath, and let his face fall back into a neutral, sympathetic, expression.
“I thought I was gonna die, honestly.” Hayden said, shrugged, suddenly avoiding making eye-contact with the camera. “There was so much blood and I didn’t know what to do. Jackie was at home, my parents were too far away, I didn’t have anyone and I thought, shit I mean, shoot. I’m really gonna die out here, I’m gonna die alone, I don’t want to die alone.”
Shane’s face twisted in sympathy. Hayden slapped a heavy hand on Shane’s shoulder.
“Lucky I had you though.” Hayden grinned. “The last thing I saw when I passed out was your dumb face. I thought, that’s okay, at least Shane’s here. I can die if Shane’s here. Then I woke up to you ugly crying over me in hospital.” Hayden laughed, though it was obvious the memory wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t Hayden’s way to linger in bad memories.
“It did look like you were gonna die.” Shane said, defensively. Hayden hummed in agreement, nudged Shane softly, and smiled.
“I knew you wouldn’t let that happen, Captain.”
The video clip faded out, a song, sad, always so fucking miserable, playing out underneath as they clipped together moments of both Shane and Hayden falling on the ice, the other picking them back up again, or a fan favourite of Hayden throwing down his gloves and clocking Marleau seconds after Shane fell in Boston. The final clip was the moment Hayden and Shane had been discussing, that fateful clip of Hayden, the camera’s shying away as Shane flew in, hands outstretched and ready to press against what later would be revealed to be a gaping, bleeding, wound. It cut from that moment to a clip of Hayden falling that night, alone, and lying crumpled, the moment extended, slowed, making it appear as though Hayden had been lying there alone for hours rather than seconds.
Hayden’s voice appeared again as the video began to fade out on Hayden, lying on the ice, echoing and dramatic, repeating the words he’d said earlier. Suddenly desperately sad without Hayen’s goofy smile.
“At least Shane’s here. I can die if Shane’s here.”
“Fucking Christ.” Shane muttered, dropping Ilya’s phone against the counter top and running a shaky hand through his hair. “You have got to stop watching these.”
“Pike needs you.” Ilya says, fresh tears gathering in his eyes. “We can catch flight in half an hour.”
“Ilya.” Shane grabbed Ilya’s shoulders. “Hayden’s fine. Barely even has a concussion. They’re keeping him overnight because Jackie and the kids are at home, okay? And we know not to trust J.J to wake Hayd up every couple hours, he can barely remember to wake himself up in the morning. It’s just easier. He’s fine.”
“He’s alone.” Ilya said, as though none of what Shane had said had made it past Ilya’s ears. “What if something suddenly goes wrong and he is still alone.”
Shane sighed, rubbed a hand down his face, before pulling out his own phone from his pocket.
“What are you doing?” Ilya asked.
“Calling him.” Shane said. “Telling Hayden he’s got Ilya Rozanov in fucking tears over a bump to the head. He’s going to have a field day.”
“No. No. You will not.” Ilya said, desperately grabbing for Shane’s phone but Shane was already moving, twisting, ducking and avoiding as he switched his phone to speaker and they both listened to the ringing.
“Shane?” Hayden’s voice, sluggish, miserable, sounded over the phone. “Everything okay?”
“Tell Ilya you’re alright.” Shane said, a giddy smile spreading across his face as he took in Ilya’s embarrassment. “He’s very concerned.”
“What?” Hayden’s incredulity was clear over the phone. “Am I fucking hallucinating?”
“Are you?” Ilya asked, suddenly nervous. “It is bad sign if you are Pike. Are you seeing flying birds? Stars?”
“He saw a TikTok.” Shane said, moving away from Ilya so he could avoid Ilya’s grabbing hands, laughing. “Someone edited that news thing we did after you got sliced to you falling tonight. It was quite good to be fair, it does look like you died. He got worried.”
Hayden laughed, loud, bright, and decidedly fine. Ilya could feel his cheeks heating with an embarrassed flush that he would never, ever, admit to.
“You are clearly okay. Good night Pike.”
“Rozy.” Hayden sung down the line, lilting and clearly a little high on pain-killers, but likely also a little high on the power Shane had bestowed on him. “You worry about me?”
“No.” Ilya said.
“All the time, dude.” Shane said, laughing as Ilya shouted, finally grabbing the phone and snatching it from Shane’s hand.
“No, no. I hate you. Do not forget that, Pike. I hate you.”
“Love you too, Rozy.” Hayden crowed, laughing, practically gasping for breath between giggles as Ilya hung up the phone, cutting them short.
“See? He’s fine.” Shane said, beaming and Ilya huffed, threw Shane’s phone roughly onto the couch and marched back into their bedroom.
“Ilya.” Shane called, still laughing, after him. “Ilya, don’t be mad. I think it’s sweet.”
“I am not sweet!”
“You are. Just a little.”
Ilya decides, from that point forward, he will not be watching any TikTok that has to do with the Montreal Metro’s or Hayden Pike, irregardless of any concern he has surrounding his return to the ice after such a short break, or their continued frankly criminal diet and workout regime, or even how hot Shane looked in the first moments of the edits.
“I saw that one too.” Jackie says as she and Ilya are tidying up the dishes following their routine dinner. Both Shane and Hayden are rounding up the children so they can go to bed and leave the adults more time to drink, be merry, and discuss why Jackie’s parents were terrible this week.
“What?” Ilya asked. “Saw what?”
“The TikTok.” Jackie said, grinned and Ilya groaned loudly, letting his head fall forward onto the bench top as Jackie giggled.
“No. I’m not being mean, I swear. I just. I saw it too and I called him because, well, for starters they did a really good job of making him look dead.”
“They did.” Ilya admits, grumpily, and Jackie smirks.
“I also called him because ever since then he has been terrified of hospitals, of being alone, dying alone.” Jackie says, spends an inordinate amount of time rinsing out the bowl before placing it in the dishwasher and turning to face Ilya. “He’s usually pretty miserable when I call. Panicking. It’s the first time Shane wouldn’t have been there, too. I was expecting him to be beside himself, honestly. Shane had already texted me, said he didn’t sound happy, sounded miserable, anxious. I was making plans to fly to New York. ”
“Me too.” Ilya muttered, watched Jackie’s serious, pinched expression broaden into an amused smile.
“I called and he picked up laughing.” Jackie said, looking at Ilya fondly now, like he had anything to do with it. “Giggling like a school boy because ‘Rozy likes me’.”
Ilya spluttered. “I do not like him.”
Jackie grinned, shrugged. “Sure.”
“I don’t.” Ilya said, insisting.
“Sure.” Jackie repeated. “But whatever you said distracted him enough, so much, he was giggling in his hospital bed when usually I’d be talking him down from a panic attack.”
Ilya swallowed down a litany of insults, rejections, misdirections, and nodded. “Well, good. I am glad.”
Jackie closed the dishwasher draw with a loud rattle, firm, final. “Me too. Thank you.”
Ilya grimaced, rubbed an awkward hand on the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “It is nothing.”
Jackie shrugged, smiled again, picked up her empty wine glass and began to walk back to the lounge where Shane and Hayden were waiting for them. “Sure.”
He does not look at Hayden when they return, at the scar on his neck, vicious, raised, pink. It will slowly fade, shrink, overtime but Hayden has said they don’t think it will ever disappear entirely, or even enough to be disguised. Hayden will always have to wear it on his skin.
Ilya decides he can watch some TikTok’s with Hayden in them, not the sad ones, he’s seen far too many of those, or the horny ones (those are clearly only for Jackie). He does watch the run downs, the video’s a captain should do but Hayden does instead, because Ilya, the fans, and The Metro’s social media team realise Hayden should have that C on his chest but instead, he is just barely a starting player.
He watches the compilations of Hayden’s fights, the smaller man unafraid of and highly capable at taking down much larger players, players Ilya is secretly delighted to see being skated off with a bloody nose and Hayden with barely a scratch.
Ilya watches press clips of Hayden shutting down questions about Shane, clips of Hayden arguing back against his teammates on the ice, of him beating other players for calling someone a slur. He watches one clip of Hayden telling a reporter that Ilya Rozanov is a lovely guy, ‘great with my kids’, five times over before Shane starts making fun of him.
He watches clips of Shane and Hayden playing together throughout the years, these ones are sadder, but also hopeful. The comments are often full of fans pleading to no one that Hayden move teams, joins Shane and Ilya in Ottawa, and rebuilds the dream team.
Ilya, privately, thinks it would be a terrible idea.
Hayden needs a team of his own, a team to lead, a team to shape into weirdly optimistic, bubbly, puppy-dog-like idiots that can beat down bigots and crow suspiciously bisexual leaning pro-LGBTQ+ statements every opportunity he gets.
Ilya needs Hayden to help start rebuilding the league. He needs Hayden to keep relying on Shane too much, he needs Hayden to keep appearing at the worst possible moments in his life and somehow piecing it back together through sheer dumb strength, he needs Hayden to keep calling him names to his face and defending him behind his back.
In return, Ilya will ensure that he never feels a moments peace, that Pike’s children love Ilya more than Hayden (but not really), that Hayden learns unique, foreign terms for ‘fucking idiot’, and that Hayden always gets three calls when he’s stuck in a hospital, alone, sick or hurt and undoubtably miserable.
A third person to remind Hayden Pike he’s an idiot, a loved idiot, and that he is not allowed to die alone, not yet, not on Ilya’s watch.