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Ilya is not in a great mood.
In fact, he's in a shit mood and he wants to break something.
Outside, the noise has finally died down. That's probably because it's 3 in the morning but he's grateful.
He wants to sulk in peace.
The game against Sweden had gone horribly. The team had taken the time to understand each other. His team had not bothered - putting all their faith in Ilya. But there was only so much he could do.
It would be fine on other days but not on days they play at home! And especially not in the semis.
His dad had called - he wished he had ignored it.
“You embarrass this family, you embarrass me every time you step onto the ice thinking talent is enough.”
“Russia does not tolerate weakness, and yet you seem determined to display it.”
“If you were truly committed, you would not need reminding of your duty.”
Ilya is very happy the Olympics are seven hours away from his father. He doesn't think he would have made it through with his father in attendance.
His brother had called twice. He had ignored those.
Svetlana had messaged. He can't remember what she said but it was nice. She is probably the only good thing in his life right now.
Her, and maybe Shane.
But thinking of Shane in Russia feels like a crime. So he stops.
He hasn't texted him in forever too. The guilt is … overwhelming at times.
He really, really hates what his country has become for him - a cage of festering fear and anger.
“Fuck,” he mutters, just to hear a voice that isn’t his father’s.
He paces the room, back and forth, hands clenching and unclenching, wishing for something to break. The lamp. The cheap desk. The stupid laminated welcome booklet on the nightstand that promises unity and sportsmanship in too many languages.
He doesn’t touch any of it.
That’s the problem. He never does.
Breaking things would be easier than swallowing all of this - than letting it sit inside his chest, heavy and sour, turning everything it touches into something sharp.
But he cannot give in. If he does, he will never be able to stop.
He scrubs a hand down his face and exhales hard through his nose. The air feels thin and unsatisfying.
Ilya picks up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Shane’s name is there - untouched, quiet, accusing. He could call him, just to talk. Shane is so close, probably just the next building.
They've never done that, just talk, but nothing about Shane suggests he wouldn't be up for a conversation - he's too nice.
No.
He locks the phone again.
Coward.
The word lands easily. His father trained him well.
Just then, a knock sounds at the door.
Ilya freezes.
No one comes looking for him at three in the morning. Not teammates. Not coaches. Not family. His pulse jumps anyway, irritation flaring hot and fast - whoever it is, they’ve picked the worst possible moment.
The knock comes again.
Careful this time. Like the person on the other side isn’t sure they’re welcome.
He crosses the room and opens the door.
And his world tilts.
Shane stands there, framed by the hallway light, looking like he’s walked straight out of a bad dream. His face is bruised, there's a gash on his cheek that's bleeding, his lip is split and eyes too dull. One arm is tucked in close to his side, and Ilya knows, knows, it's because his ribs are hurt.
Shane’s expression is raw and vulnerable in the way prey is when it knows it can’t run anymore.
Ilya panics so absolutely that he forgets he can move.
Holy shit.
“Hollander, what the fuck?” He says and is surprised to find it's actually calm.
His mind is screaming so loud that he doesn't even register that Shane is leaning forward. Too far and too fast.
Ilya doesn't think, doesn't register his body unlocking itself, and he grabs Shane because he's going to topple over without support.
And Shane fucking whimpers.
Ilya's mind goes blank.
“Give me a second.” Shane begs and leans his forehead on Ilya's shoulder. He sags into Ilya's arms, breath coming out short and quick. The hand clutching Ilya's tshirt is shaking. Hard.
Ilya’s hands tighten instinctively, one arm coming solid around Shane’s back, the other bracing his side with desperate care, like he can somehow put him together if he just gets the angle right.
“Hey,” Ilya says, voice going thin despite his effort to keep it steady. “I got you. I got you.”
Shane’s weight settles against him further, lighter somehow than it should be, and another whimper rings through Ilya’s skull like a siren. Panic floods him so fast it’s almost blinding. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
Shane is not supposed to sound like that.
Ilya freezes for half a heartbeat longer, terrified of hurting him more, then adjusts, shifting them carefully, slowly, back into the room. He kicks the door shut with his heel, barely hearing the click of the lock.
He would pick Shane up and move him to the bed but he's scared of hurting him more and by the looks of it, he definitely would.
Shane seems a little more coherent when he lifts his head again. He smiles a very bloody smile at Ilya - it doesn't reach his eyes.
“Sorry, didn't know where else to go.”
Ilya shushes him - he should not have to worry about that - and Shane's head drops to his shoulder again. They stand there for a moment and Ilya gives himself that moment to restart his heart.
“Come on, get on the bed. Need to check you.” He presses and Shane moves too. Every step looks like it hurts and every breath is probably rattling his ribs and Ilya is dying but he cannot do much else.
Getting Shane horizontal on the bed is a task in itself and it involves too many pained gasps.
Ilya really, really wants to break something.
When Shane is somewhat comfortable, slightly propped up by the pillow, Ilya gets his icepacks from the mini fridge and his own first aid kit. There's more cotton in the room's first aid kit so he brings that over too. He lays it all out on the bedside table and pulls the chair to the side of the bed and sits down.
Shane's got his breathing under check and looks relieved to be off his feet. His eyes are closed and Ilya wants to let him fall asleep but not yet.
“You should drink some water.” He says and Shane nods. He takes the bottle Ilya gives him and takes three very long sips.
Ilya takes the bottle when he's done and then levels Shane with a look.
“Who did this to you?”
Direct.
There must be something in Ilya's expression that makes Shane realise that there was no getting out of it. Ilya needed to know.
He is sure it was someone from the USA hockey team - they lost horribly to Canada not even six hours ago - but he needs to know who exactly.
“Cole and Ryan.” Shane whispers, like he's afraid to say the names in case it conjures them in Ilya's room.
His shoulders are tense, his jaw tight and for a split second he looks… smaller. Not physically - Shane is still Shane - but like something inside him has folded in on itself.
Ilya sees it and something vicious curls in his chest.
How dare they.
Shane keeps his eyes on the ceiling, blinking a little too fast. “It was stupid,” he adds quickly, like he needs to explain himself, like he’s already expecting to be told this is somehow his fault. “I shouldn’t have been at the gym so late but I had all this adrenaline left over and kept going until too late. My fault for walking by the US building that late.”
“Not your fault,” Ilya cuts in, sharper than he means to. He exhales hard and forces himself to soften his tone. “Shane. Look at me.”
Shane hesitates, then turns his head. His eyes are glassy - not crying - but shaken in a way that makes Ilya’s stomach drop. This isn’t someone coming off a bad hit. This is someone who still can’t quite believe what happened.
“They surprised you,” Ilya says, slow and careful, like naming it will make it real. “Yes?”
Shane swallows. “It wasn’t - I mean, I don't think they had planned to jump me but they did.” He huffs out a weak, breathless laugh that dies immediately. “They were just pissed we won but I don’t get into this stuff.”
Ilya knows. God, he knows.
Shane Hollander doesn’t fight. He doesn’t chirp. He barely even looks at other players wrong. He apologizes when other people trip him. The only time he ever runs his mouth is with Ilya, half-smiling, eyes bright, safe in the knowledge that Ilya will give it right back.
This is not his world.
Cole Mercer. Ryan Kincaid.
Ilya pictures their faces too clearly. He pictures his skates meeting ribs. He pictures blood.
He forces himself back into the room.
Shane’s throat works, and for the first time since he stumbled in, his composure cracks properly. His eyes drop, shoulders caving just a little. “I’ve never - ” He stops, breath hitching. “I’ve never been hit like that before. With that much … anger.”
The admission is quiet. Honest. Terrifying.
I'm going to kill them.
The thought is… freeing.
Ilya reaches out without thinking, resting his hand carefully over Shane’s forearm, grounding, warm. Shane flinches at first, then relaxes, leaning into the contact like he’s tired of holding himself together.
They won't touch you again.
I swear to you.
Ilya doesn't say it aloud, afraid of the feelings that may result with his words. Afraid of what they might mean to Shane.
“You’re safe now.” Ilya says instead, like a promise, like a vow.
Shane huffs out a breath that might almost be a laugh if it didn’t catch halfway and turn into a wince.
“Okay,” he says faintly, smiling lightly.
“If you’re going to swear vengeance or murder them in their sleep or whatever Russians do,” He pauses, squinting up at Ilya. “Can you do it after you put the ice on my face? Because I think my eye is actively falling off.”
Despite everything, something in Ilya loosens.
The tension unravels.
Ilya snorts despite himself and presses the icepack gently to Shane’s, now completely purple, eye. Shane makes a small noise- more surprised than pained - and then relaxes, other eye fluttering shut. He eventually moves to hold the icepack there on his own so Ilya can tend to the other broken bits of him.
He carefully dabs at the dried blood on his bottom lip with a piece of cotton, slow and precise. His hands are steady, even if everything inside him is still vibrating fury.
He’s good at this - at tending, at fixing small visible things. It’s easier than dealing with the invisible damage.
He moves to check Shane's knuckles which have turned angry and inflamed. It's not too worrisome an injury, thankfully. Ilya is grateful that Shane, apparently, did get a few good punches in.
“Tell me if it hurts,” he says, going back to cleaning the cut on Shane's left cheek. The ice pack gets in the way so he puts it on the table for a bit.
“It hurts,” Shane says immediately.
Ilya stops. “Hollander.”
“I’m kidding,” Shane rushes, opening one eye. “Sorry. Had to. You’re doing great. Very gentle. Ten out of ten bedside manner.”
Ilya exhales through his nose and resumes cleaning his hand. “You are horrible.”
“You love it.” Shane murmurs, then freezes like he’s said too much.
Ilya pretends not to notice but his thumb lingers a second longer against Shane’s cheek before he pulls away.
He applies an antiseptic to all the scratches and cuts on Shane's cheek and stupidly, bravely, bends to land a kiss to Shane's forehead.
Shane's smiling with his eyes closed, looking too serene for someone who’s so hurt.
It does funny things to his heart.
I'm so fucked.
“Ribs,” Ilya says, businesslike now. “I need to check.”
Shane’s expression shifts, humor dimming but not disappearing. “If you poke me and I scream, I’m sorry in advance.”
“I have heard you scream,” Ilya says dryly. “This will be nothing.”
Shane turns a very pretty shade of red and Ilya wants to make fun of him but he doesn't.
The ice pack is left on the table as Ilya carefully helps him shift, hands firm but cautious as they get him out of his dirty hoodie and track pants. Ilya again wants to break something but now the vague things in his head look a lot like Cole and Ryan and he pictures snapping them in half.
Shane's left side is a mottled purple already and steadily getting worse. Ilya is grateful that Shane's next game is a week away, he will need the time to heal.
Shane sucks in a sharp breath when Ilya presses lightly just below his ribs where the purple is the deepest. Nothing feels broken but he cannot be the judge of that.
“Okay,” Shane pants. “Okay - yep - that’s the spot. Congratulations, you found it.”
Ilya pulls back instantly, jaw tight. “You will need an xray.”
Shane grimaces but nods. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that. I'll probably go to the team medic tomorrow.
“No probably, you go,” Ilya replies flatly, already reaching for fresh ice. “Do not argue.”
“I wasn’t going to argue,” Shane says quickly. “I was going to whine.”
Shane will see the doctor in the morning, Ilya knows he will not risk anything affecting the way he plays hockey - Shane's not stupid.
Shane does, sometimes, like to whine.
“Worse.” Ilya says as he takes another icepack and holds it against Shane's ribs. Shane lets out a small sigh of relief.
Shane watches him for a moment and then says, “You’re really scary when you’re in doctor mode.”
Ilya glances up. “Scary how?”
“Like… very focused. Very intense. Like if I move wrong you’ll arrest me.”
“I might,” Ilya says. “For being stupid.”
Shane hums. “Worth it. It's sexy.”
Ilya sends him a look. Shane is only smiling at him. Big and innocent.
So fucking cute.
Something pinches in his heart and he wills himself to focus on the task at hand.
“How did you know my room number?” He had not told Shane about it.
“I know Russia is in this wing and someone has put up a list of the room split-up on the reception counter.” Shane explains.
Ilya nods. Fair enough.
He could have also called Ilya to ask but Ilya probably wouldn't have picked up. That observation hurts too.
Ilya finishes securing the wrap and sits back, meeting his gaze.
The tension settles again - soft, heavy, unresolved - but Shane reaches out and hooks a finger loosely into the sleeve of Ilya’s shirt, grounding himself.
“Hey,” he adds, after a beat. “If you do end up murdering Cole and Ryan… can you make it look like an accident? I don't want to have to visit you in jail.” Shane grins.
Ilya just grunts.
“Stop worrying,” Shane whines finally, voice soft and tired, words slurring just a little around the split lip and all the tiredness that looks like it's catching up to him.
Ilya looks at him. Really looks at him - at the bruising already blooming yellow and blue under his eyes, the careful way he breathes, the way he’s pretending this is nothing.
Something ugly and molten settles deep in Ilya’s chest.
It's not nothing. It's a big deal. The Olympics have no tolerance for violence, especially when it is off the court. It would immediately result in an Olympic ban and a suspension from their own teams for a while.
No one fucks with that.
Until now.
He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out and smoothes his thumb once, gentle, over Shane’s uninjured cheek, over the freckles he can't seem to get out of his head …
I will end them, he thinks calmly.
Not now. Not stupidly. But he will make sure Cole Mercer and Ryan Kincaid never forget what they did. He will do it on the ice, under lights, with rules that somehow never seem to apply to men like them.
Justice, the only way he’s ever been allowed to deliver it.
“Sleep,” Ilya says instead, voice low. “You are done talking.”
“Yes, sir,” Shane murmurs, already compliant, but he has a hold of Ilya’s shirt and is yanking lightly.
What other choice does he have but to go willingly.
He leans in - slow, giving Shane time to pull away, to protest, to joke.
Shane does none of those things. He tilts his head up, trusting.
Their mouths meet carefully at first, all restraint and hesitation. Shane’s lip is tender, so Ilya kisses him like he’s something fragile, like he might break if handled wrong. Shane sighs softly into it anyway, fingers curling into Ilya’s sleeve.
The second kiss is deeper. Warmer. A little desperate. They only part when Shane gasps in pain trying to pull Ilya closer.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” Shane asks and Ilya wonders how Shane thought he would be kicked out after this.
“Only if you promise not to fall off.” He says and Shane grins like he won something.
“You should probably sleep beside me. So I don't roll off.”
Ilya rolls his eyes but doesn't say no.
The bed is too small. They both know it. Olympic village furniture is designed for function, not two grown men, one of whom is sporting bruised ribs.
Ilya doesn't care. Neither does Shane.
They make it work. Shane shifts carefully, wincing, and Ilya swears under his breath, helping him settle.
Eventually they're settled, Shane flat on his back, using Ilya's arm as a pillow. Ilya is basically holding the ice pack stable over Shane's ribs with his other hand but their limbs are hopelessly tangled in seconds.
It's not entirely comfortable but it's nice. He'll stay this way until Shane falls asleep and then take the chair.
He doesn’t have to be up early. Russia doesn’t play again until the day after tomorrow, and when they do, it’s against USA for the bronze. A game everyone has already decided will be violent, ugly, and personal.
Ilya feels a little excitement.
“You’re still mad,” Shane says quietly looking at him from the corner of his eye.
“I am always mad,” Ilya replies.
Shane huffs. “Yeah, but this is the scary, quiet kind.”
Ilya doesn’t deny it.
“It is my speciality.”
Shane huffs but doesn't say anything even if he knows Ilya is bullshitting.
Ilya doesn't know what reasons Shane comes up with but he himself knows this anger is more intense because he cares too fucking much.
He's so, so, fucked.
He's already realised that this whole thing with Shane could be a little more than casual. Casual doesn’t feel like the right word anymore. It hasn’t, for a while. Ilya had just been very good at pretending otherwise.
Russia makes everything heavier. Louder. More complicated. Feelings become liabilities here. Attachments become leverage. He had told himself he would think about Shane properly once he was somewhere safer, somewhere quieter.
But Shane is here now. Hurt and trusting and curled into him like this is the most natural thing in the world.
Ilya scooches as close as he can until he's breathing in the faint scent of soap and something unmistakably Shane.
He presses his lips briefly to Shane’s shoulder. Shane hums softly, mostly asleep now, a sound so small and content it nearly cracks something open in Ilya’s chest.
For tonight, this is enough.
Tomorrow he will worry about everything else.
Shane’s breathing evens out, sleep taking him fast, exhaustion finally winning.
They're going to pay for this, he promises himself, not with rage, but with certainty.
And then, finally, with Shane warm and alive against his chest, Ilya lets himself sleep too.
—
Two days later
Shane's in the stands with the rest of the Canadian team and he's very close to puking up his lunch.
It could be all the painkillers but he's sure it's the fact that he's watching the most brutal game of hockey he has ever seen in real life.
Russia is usually known for their less-than-gentle approach to hockey… but this is horrible even by their standards. Ilya seems to be spearheading the violence but there's a bunch of other players who are leaning into the bit. They're broadly targeting the whole team but Ilya was going for two very specific Americans.
Shane had spotted them immediately.
Number 21. Cole Mercer.
Number 44. Ryan Kincaid.
It had taken less than ten minutes of game time for Ilya to make his presence (and anger) known.
Ilya had driven Number 21 into the boards. Twice.
Hard.
Then it just got worse as the minutes ticked by.
Number 44 hadn't even seen him coming.
Ilya had angled in when the other center was trying to win the faceoff, shoulder through chest, skates driving, and pinned him into the glass with a crack that echoed through the arena.
Clean hit.
Shane knows this because he’s spent his whole career learning the difference.
Play had moved on but Number 44 hadn't gotten up right away. Ilya hadn't even bothered to check on him.
Now, midway through the second period, Number 44 lines up for a faceoff against Ilya. Tries to chirp. Mouth running, eyes mean. Shane can see it.
Ilya, very clearly, does not engage.
The puck drops.
Ilya wins it clean, muscles through, then finishes the check a heartbeat late - but still legal. Number 44 goes down hard again, helmet knocking against the ice.
No whistle.
The crowd roars.
By the end of the second period, USA is rattled.
Every time they touch the puck, Ilya is there. Not reckless. Not wild.
Precise.
He drives Number 44 into the boards again - different angle, same result. He lifts Number 21’s stick and sends him sprawling with a hip check that makes the bench suck in a collective breath.
The commentators are talking now.
“Ilya Rozanov is imposing himself physically tonight.”
They have no idea.
By the third period, the score is 8-0.
Four of those goals came from Ilya.
It's humiliating. For USA.
Desperation creeps in. Sloppy passes. Panicked feet.
Then Number 21 cuts in front of Ilya.
And Ilya simply doesn't stop.
And Shane knows he can stop, there is a lot of time and Ilya is fast, Shane knows this without a shred of doubt.
The hit is perfect - shoulder through center mass, skates planted, position immaculate.
Number 21 folds and hits the ice hard.
The arena erupts.
Cole does not get up.
“That’s a hard, clean check. You hate to see the injury, but there’s nothing illegal there.” The commentators say over the collective gasp of the crowd.
Shane laughs. He cannot stop it. But it's not because the situation is funny, it because he cannot believe what he's looking at. His teammates do not pay attention to him because they're busy watching medics scurry onto the rink.
Shane's watching Ilya.
From the rink, Ilya is watching him.
Shane didn't even realise Ilya knew where he was sitting.
Ilya doesn’t smile. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t give anything away.
The medics kneel around Cole Mercer, hands careful, voices urgent. One of them signals to the bench. Another steadies Cole’s head. The crowd has gone from roaring to buzzing, that unsettled hum Shane knows too well - the sound of people realizing they’ve crossed from entertainment into consequence.
Ryan loses his mind.
And Shane knows who he's going to blame.
Ilya knows too and watches him.
It’s subtle at first. A shove. Words Shane can’t hear but knows aren't polite. Ryan skates up close, too close, saying something ugly with his mouth curled like he thinks he’s untouchable.
Ilya doesn’t say anything back.
That’s when Shane knows.
Ilya's waiting.
Ryan loses his gloves and throws the first punch.
It’s wild. Desperate. It glances off Ilya’s shoulder instead of his jaw, all heat and no control.
Ilya doesn’t waste time.
He drops his gloves and answers with precision.
One fucking punch.
One.
Clean. Devastating.
Ryan goes down like someone pulled the ice out from under him, skates tangling, head bouncing once against the rink before he stops moving entirely.
The sound is sickening. The kind that silences an arena in half a second.
Shane’s breath leaves him in a rush.
Officials are there immediately.
Whistles screaming. Players piling in to continue the fight, but no one touches Ilya — not really. He’s already stepping back, chest heaving, eyes still locked on the spot where Ryan fell.
More medics swoop in.
Ryan doesn’t get up.
Shane’s hands are shaking.
He presses them into his knees, heart pounding so hard it hurts his ribs. This is terrifying. This is awful.
This is also - horrifyingly - for him.
The ref grabs Ilya by the arms and steers him toward the penalty box. Ilya goes without resistance, jaw tight, blood smeared on his knuckles.
Then he looks up, straight at Shane.
There’s no smile. No apology. Just something raw and unfiltered in his eyes.
Shit.
“Hey.”
He startles when someone nudges his shoulder. It’s one of his teammates - Mark, maybe, or Lucas. Shane can’t quite focus. The guy’s holding his phone out, screen already glowing.
“You seen this yet?”
It's an article with a video attached. Shane shakes his head, slow.
A video starts playing.
It’s grainy, shot from a distance - like a security camera two streets away. Two figures cornering a third. A shove. Then another. Sickening punches landing one after another. The third goes down hard, shielding their ribs instinctively.
Shane swallows, throat tight.
He's watching himself get ambushed.
No one around him says the obvious. No one asks if it’s him. No one needs to. The silence is louder than any question. Mark moves his hand away when Shane looks up the article on his own phone.
It was posted not ten minutes ago.
The commentators haven't been notified yet, by the looks of it. And it doesn't seem like it will be brought up here anyway.
The game continues and there's barely two minutes left.
Shane spends those minutes freaking out.
He had not thought about the security cameras - he wasn't even thinking of reporting them. His mom had called after his coach and team doctor had outed him. She had told him it would be stupid to let them continue playing professionally but ultimately had let Shane decide.
He’s sure she's going to fly to Russia and personally see that Ryan and Cole get what they deserve after the video.
Because it looks bad. Like really bad.
They even left in a bit at the end where Shane's just spread out on the side of the road before coming to a stop.
Fuck.
He locks the screen before someone notices his hands shaking.
The horn sounds.
Two minutes gone just like that. The game ends in a wash of noise - cheers, groans, the scrape of skates - but it all feels distant, muffled, like he’s underwater.
Shane stands with the rest of the team out of habit more than awareness, clapping when everyone else does, not trusting himself to look anywhere near the Russian bench as the players leave the rink.
Because if he does, he knows exactly who he’ll see.
His phone buzzes with a text.
Mom:
I’m booking a flight.
Shane exhales a shaky laugh and types back. There is absolutely no point in trying to stop her.
Shane:
Please don’t commit a felony in my honor.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Mom:
No promises.
He pockets the phone before the familiar tightness in his throat can turn into something worse.
Someone claps him gently on the shoulder. “Hey,” Mark says, softer this time. “You okay?”
Shane nods because it’s easier than explaining that he doesn’t know.
What he does know - what settles heavy and certain in his chest - is that Cole and Ryan are finished. Suspended at best. Kicked off the roster at worst. Careers cracked open by a few minutes of footage and a story that will never let go.
And Ilya knew. ‘An anonymous source’ was credited for the video. He knew it had to be Ilya.
Shane slows, breath hitching.
On the ice, Ilya had looked at him like he was already counting the cost and finding it acceptable.
For me.
The realization leaves him unsteady, heart racing, ribs aching, the world tilting just a little.
He jumps when another text comes in. He knows who it will be even before he takes out his phone again
Ilya:
Hey.
It seems so innocent. So… normal.
Shane:
Did you send the video?
Ilya:
Da.
Are you upset?
Shane has to think.
Is he?
Shane:
No. Just shocked.
Ilya:
Sorry.
Shane swallows.
Shane:
How did you even get it?
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Ilya:
There are cameras everywhere in the village.
Shane:
You just… asked?
Ilya:
Yes. The man in charge is a friend. He sent it to the news station.
Okay.
Shane:
You didn't have to do this.
Ilya:
I know. I wanted to.
And I had a lot of fun :)
Shane stares at the screen, heart pounding.
Shane:
Worth it?
The reply comes immediately this time.
Ilya:
For you, always.
..
..
..