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International Prospects Cup - 2008
“Et que pensez-vous de l’équipe russe?” The reporter is asking him. “C’était imprévisible, non, la manière dont elle vous a battu.”
Shane shrugs. She’s right, after all. Both teams are full of young players, which is the whole point of the prospect cup. But there was something about the Russians this year that shook Shane to his core while he was playing. If he’s being honest with himself, someone in particular. Specifically—
“Il y a…” Shane starts, then hesitates. For the first time in a long time, French feels heavy on his tongue. He tries again. Goes for something safe. “Chuis fier de ma proper équipe, en fait. On a fait un effort, mais cette fois-ci, les Russes avaient quelque chose qui nous manquait. Canada reviendrait l’année prochaine mieux que jamais. Merci.”
The reporter thanks him, and moves on to the next player. Someone from the U.S., he thinks.
He tries to ignore the tightness in his chest when he looks up to find Ilya Rozanov looking at him, a curious expression on his face.
Montreal - 2010
A stunning 4-1 victory for the Voyageurs against the Bears has Shane riding on a high. It’s only his second season, but he’s having the time of his life. He loves his team, and, of course, he loves beating—
“Il y a…” Shane laughs and shakes his head. The reporter has just asked him how this win over Montreal’s biggest rival makes him feel. “Il y a des émotions qui sont difficle à décrire. Cet émotion ne fait pas parti de ça. Je suis très très content qu’on ait pu gagner ce soir—j’ai l’impression qu’on donne quelque chose à Montréal avec cette victoire.”
It’s a perfectly clean answer, the type that he’s been working on perfecting over the last year and a half. The perfect Golden Boy Shane Hollander answer that people have started to expect out of him. The exact opposite of Ilya Rozanov. He wonders what Rozanov would say if he took the time to translate what Shane had just said. Laugh, probably. Call him boring.
But Rozanov’s not laughing now, not with the way Shane is dropping to his knees and swallowing him down and bordel il y a…il y a…
Boston - 2014
Shane is barely through the door to Rozanov’s apartment when his phone rings. He swears, and pulls it out of his pocket. Rozanov looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
“JJ, dis-moi que c’est urgent.” Shane says. He likes the complicated series of emotions that cross Rozanov’s face.
“T’as pas de temps pour moi?” JJ laughs. “Man, fuck you. Pourquoi t’es pas ici avec nous, Capitaine?”
Shane licks his lips. Looks right at Rozanov as he says, “Fuck off. Il y a des choses que je fais pour fêter qui ne sont pas boire jusqu’à ce que j’ai un trou noir.”
JJ’s laugh gets drowned out by Rozanov’s sharp inhale. Shane grins at him.
“Calme-toi, on se verra demain.” Shane says, already starting to pull his phone away from his ear. “Bye.”
It’s interesting, how Rozanov lets Shane use him that night. Lets him pull his hair and tell him where to go and what to do. And the whole time, Shane thinks he knows why. He played dirty, looking at him and almost saying his name. He thinks Rozanov might want it as bad as he does.
Montreal - 2016
“Dernière question, Shane.” The reporter is saying. And thank fucking god for that, because Shane is over it. “Que feriez-vous pour vous préparer pour la prochaine fois que vous joueriez contre Boston?
Oh mais tu te fous de ma gueule…
“Chuis déjà en train de formuler des nouvelles stratégies et des nouveaux coups. Il y a…” Shane stops. His breath catches. Pulls himself back from Il…from Roz…fuck. From Rozanov’s couch. From where he breathed out the word he’d always hid behind the guise of speaking French, like it was a fun secret that only he was in on. Ilya. Il y a.
He lets out a self deprecating laugh. Forces himself to say it in a way that he hasn’t in years. “Y’a beaucoup de travail à faire, mais je sais qu’on en est capable. Merci.”
His chest is tight the whole way back to the locker room. He feels like he can’t breathe. What the actual fucking fuck has he gotten himself into with this? It hurts more than it should, to know that he fucked it up so bad between them, and the way he had too. Rozanov’s face is burned into his mind, the fear, the hesitation, the regret.
The regret is what hits Shane the hardest, purely because he wants to scream that Rozanov shouldn’t regret it. That he wants it more than he can even put words to, the right to say Ilya in all the ways he possibly can. With his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed and a fuck, yes, Ilya right there. Exasperated, because no, Ilya, that’s now how that works. And tu me manquais, Ilya, si fort qu’il y a un trou dans mon cœur dans la forme de ton nom dans les deux langues que je parle et—
The locker room hits him, loud and bright. He shakes his shoulders and puts his captain mask back into place.
Lanaudière - 2017
“Say it again.”
“Il y a.”
“Now say my name in French.”
Shane laughs. “Ilya.”
Ilya’s brows are furrowed like he’s trying to catalogue each subtle difference in pronunciation. Shane resists the urge to reach out and smooth his thumb along the lines between Ilya’s eyebrows. He’s unfairly adorable when he’s like this. It’s something that Shane loves about him, his natural curiosity about the world around him.
“Speak to me in French.” Ilya looks up at him, eyes soft and expression serene. “Anything. I just want to hear it.”
Shane reaches out and smoothes his thumb along Ilya’s cheekbone. He traces his eyebrow and pushes away a stray curl from his forehead. “J’ai toujours aimé dire ‘il y a’ dans des interviews.” He starts. “Comme si c’était mon secret à moi. Une manière de te réclamer comme le mien avant que tu ne l’étais pour de vrai. Maintenant c’est notre secret à nous. Quand tu m’entends parler français et t’entends ‘il y a,’ tu peux être sûr que je parle de toi aussi. Toi, ma vie. Mon cœur. Je t’aime.”
Ilya smiles softly, like he somehow knows what Shane has said, even though he doesn’t. Shane leans down for a kiss, soft and slow. A loon calls in the distance, and they both laugh at the way that Ilya starts at the sound.
And when Ilya pulls him down again, he lets himself get swept away.