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The knock came, and Shane’s brain went blank. In a devastating rush, everything came flooding back: the casual “come by whenever” he’d tossed out to discuss systems and matchups. Apparently, “whenever” had been translated by the universe to mean “right this second, while your life is at its most complicated.” Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Because Ilya was still right there.
His mouth was distracting, and his hands were worse. Shane’s back was pressed against the kitchen counter, his thoughts scattered somewhere between the solid line of Ilya’s shoulder and the realization that he had made a series of catastrophic scheduling errors.
The knock came again.
Ilya just leaned in, clearly operating under the blissful assumption that the outside world had ceased to exist. Shane made a sound that was a mix of a gasp and a whine and shoved ineffectually at his chest.
“Hayden,” Shane blurted.
“Don’t say his name when I kiss you,” Ilya murmured. “Only my name.”
“No,” Shane hissed, the word tripping over itself in its rush. “No, no, no, we do not - ”
The knocking escalated.
“Shane?” Hayden’s voice filtered through the wood. “You alive in there?”
Shane grabbed Ilya by the wrist. “We have to hide you.”
Ilya laughed. “Hide me? Where?”
Shane’s eyes darted around his apartment. The kitchen was wide open, the bedroom door was offering a damning line of sight from the front door. The bathroom was laughably small and already full of towels.
That left… the closet.
“No,” Ilya said, reading Shane’s desperate gaze. “I am athlete. Have standards.”
“There’s no time for standards!”
“I am not winter coat, Hollander.”
Shane was already steering him toward the narrow door. Ilya’s protest was cut off as he stumbled backward into a dark jungle of coats and abandoned boots. A rogue hanger caught awkwardly at his side. He barely had time to level a glare before Shane was forcing his knees to his chest.
“Unfair,” Ilya whisper-hissed from the darkness. “You invited me!”
“I did not ask you to stay over,” Shane whispered back. “This is on you.”
“On me?”
Shane shut the door.
Immediately, something inside the closet banged against the door.
Shane slapped a hand against the wood in a futile attempt at damage control, and then sprinted for the front door. He wrenched it open to find Hayden already halfway into an expectant smile.
“Hey, man, sorry to just drop by - ”
From directly behind Shane, the closet produced a heavy crash, followed by the clatter of something hitting the floor. A ski pole, perhaps. Or a forgotten set of dumbbells.
“Uh - sorry,” Shane stammered. “Cat.”
Shane had never, in his entire life, owned a cat. He was, in fact, mildly allergic to cats. He once broke out in hives at a teammate’s house and had to blame it on pre-game stress.
Hayden’s eyes flicked past him. “Your cat okay in there?”
Shane shuffled sideways just enough to block the line of sight.
Another bang sounded from the closet.
“Huh,” Hayde squinted. “Didn’t know you were a cat guy.”
Shane forced a smile. “I’m full of surprises.”
From the closet, something scraped slowly along the inside of the door. Almost tauntingly.
Hayden’s head tilted, the way a goalie might study a tricky rebound. "What kind of cat?"
Shane didn't even hesitate. "He's a rescue."
This was a bold move, historically speaking, considering Shane had rescued exactly zero things in this scenario - unless you counted Ilya from a life of good decisions, which Shane currently did not.
The closet, acting as a furious fact-checker, answered for him.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
Hayden narrowed his eyes. "Does it swear?"
"Sometimes," Shane said.
Hayden just nodded slowly. "Can I see him?"
For a second, Shane considered faking his own death. It seemed simpler. Instead, he forced the words out. "He's shy."
From the closet came an offended sound, followed by a hissed, " - OW."
Hayden's head snapped up. "Did your cat just say 'ow'?"
Shane swallowed. "He's bilingual." He barreled on before Hayden could fully process that linguistic leap. "And he doesn't like men."
Hayden blinked, processing. "I'm married."
"He's selective," Shane amended weakly.
Undeterred, Hayden reached into his jacket pocket. "I've got some beef jerky."
There was a very interested thump from inside the closet. It was the sound of carnivorous attention.
Shane whirled toward the door. "NO - he's - uh - he's on a special diet! High-protein kibble only. Vet's orders."
Inside the closet, something gave way with a soft rip.
Hayden watched, fascinated. "Is he rearranging furniture in there?"
Inside the closet, bored of passive aggression, Ilya began to knock. Then came the grating sound of fingernails deliberately scratching against the wooden door. Ilya had decided that if Shane was going to insist on this fiction, he would at least provide convincing sound effects.
Hayden's face lit up with delight. "Aww, he scratches! He wants out."
"Please," Shane begged, "stop bonding with him."
Hayden finally looked away from the door, his expression turning thoughtful. "So, what's his name?"
"Cat," Shane blurted.
Hayden stared at him. "You named your cat... Cat?"
The closet exploded with a reverberating BANG, as if a body had thrown itself against the door.
"I HAVE NAME!" a voice snarled from within, muffled by wool and fury.
Intrigued, Hayden leaned in closer. He crouched down, bringing his face level with the door crack. In a coaxing voice, he tried, "Pspspspsps - "
The closet responded immediately. A dramatic sneeze. A guttural curse in Russian. Something metal clattered to the floor.
Hayden straightened up slowly, a new look of contemplation on his face. "...your cat," he said slowly, "sounds like he pays taxes."
Before Shane could lunge to stop him, Hayden bent down again, this time to peer intently under the gap at the bottom of the closet door.
For half a second, there was nothing but shadow.
Then, a single, very human eye, complete with a distinctly annoyed eyebrow, peered back.
"...why," Hayden asked, his voice quiet with wonder, "does your cat have eyebrows?"
"He's expressive," Shane shot back. This was no longer about redirecting the conversation. This was survival.
"You might be allergic," Shane added quickly.
"Nah, I'm good with animals," Hayden said, still staring at the spot under the door.
As if on cue, the closet emitted a wet sniffle.
Hayden tilted his head, concern finally overtaking his confusion. "Is he allergic to me?"
"Mutual," Shane said, the word clipped.
Hayden stood up, his expression shifting to one of genuine concern. "Look, if he's this stressed, Jackie loves cats. We could take him for a bit. Give you both a break."
From inside the closet came a sound that was neither thud nor sneeze, but a growl of refusal. It communicated, quite clearly, that Ilya Rozanov would rather chew his own skates off than be "taken for a bit" by Hayden and Jackie for a feline-themed playdate.
The closet slammed, the wood rattling in its frame.
"I AM NOT GOING," Ilya’s voice boomed from within.
The last of the friendly confusion drained from Hayden’s face, replaced by a sober realization. He turned his head toward Shane.
The apartment itself seemed to be holding its breath.
Shane exhaled. His shoulders slumped like a man finally surrendering to the failure of his own plan. “Okay,” he said, the word heavy with defeat. “So, funny story - ”
He didn’t get to finish. The closet door swung open.
Ilya unfolded from the darkness like a piece of furniture that had been stored incorrectly. He emerged cramped and unimpressed. His hair stuck up in aggressive angles. A pathetic wire hanger was hooked uselessly around his bicep.
He didn't step out so much as manifest, planting his feet and fixing Hayden with a stare that suggested this was now a duel, and Ilya had already chosen the weapon.
“Hello,” Ilya said calmly.
Hayden stared. His eyes traveled from the wild hair, down the rumpled shirt, to the defiant posture. Then his jaw actually dropped.
“…I knew it.”
“What,” Shane said, the word barely a whisper of protest.
“I knew something was wrong,” Hayden said, his voice rising as he pointed an accusing finger at Ilya, as if he might need to be identified in a lineup. “I knew it wasn’t a cat. I did not think it was… him.”
Ilya squinted back. “You are loud.”
Hayden moved without thinking, stepping subtly in front of Shane, a protective instinct kicking in. “Why,” he asked, “is Ilya Rozanov in your closet?”
“I can explain,” Shane said quickly, stepping sideways to be seen again.
Ilya folded his arms, the hanger jangling. “He attacked me first.”
“I did not attack you!” Hayden snapped, incredulous. “You’re in his apartment!”
“Against my will,” Ilya declared, drawing himself up. “Was jailed.”
“You were hidden,” Shane corrected.
Hayden whirled on him. “Why were you hiding him? From me?”
Shane brought a hand up and rubbed it hard over his face, as if trying to scrub off the last five minutes. “…We’ve been,” he said, “hooking up.”
Hayden blinked. “What.”
“On and off,” Shane added, as if the temporal ambiguity made it better. “Since a decade.”
Hayden’s head swiveled between them. He looked at Shane. He looked at Ilya, who was now examining a piece of lint from his shoulder with undue focus. He looked back at Shane again, his expression blank like a computer screen buffering a file that was too big to load.
Hayden’s voice cracked slightly. “You were children.”
“Was very attractive child,” Ilya offered, helpfully.
“Do not help,” Shane said, shooting him a look.
Hayden pressed the heels of his palms hard into his eyes. “You’re telling me you’ve been secretly - with him - for years?”
“Yes,” Shane said.
“No,” Hayden said in denial.
“Yes,” Shane said again, softer.
Hayden pointed a shaky finger at Ilya, who merely raised an eyebrow in response. “He is a menace.”
Ilya shrugged, the movement elegant. “Is known fact.”
“He’s loud.”
“Also known.”
“He lives on poor decisions!”
“I thrive,” Ilya corrected, a smirk touching his lips.
Hayden turned back to Shane, his expression one of horror. “And you just let him into your life?”
Shane hesitated. He looked at Ilya - and something in his own tense posture softened. Quietly, he said, “Yeah. I did.”
Hayden exhaled. “Okay. Okay. I need a minute.” He dragged a hand down his face. Then his eyes sharpened, locking onto Ilya with renewed intensity. “If you hurt him - ”
Ilya raised a hand, cutting him off. “I do not.”
“You antagonize him constantly!”
“With love,” Ilya insisted.
“You shoved him in a closet!”
“I was shoved,” Ilya retorted, indignant.
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. “Can everyone please just stop talking?”
Hayden didn’t seem to hear him. He was staring, dazed, at the dark maw of the closet, then at the disheveled man in front of it. The sheer absurdity of the last ten minutes seemed to finally settle over him. A hysterical laugh escaped him.
“I really thought it was a cat,” he mumbled, almost to himself.
Ilya looked at him, his expression deadpan. He leaned forward slightly.
“Pspspspsps,” he said, the cat-call flat and devoid of all inflection.
Shane let out a despairing groan, sinking against the kitchen counter. This was definitively not how game planning was supposed to go.