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The bar is loud, full of music and voices, but the space between them feels quiet. Shane sits on a bar stool, shoulders relaxed only from habit. Ilya sits next to him, close enough that Shane can feel the warmth, far enough that it still feels like distance. Their drinks arrive, glasses touching the counter with a dull sound.
Ilya stares at his glass for a moment, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. Shane watches him from the corner of his eye. He clears his throat, unsure why this feels harder than it should. “You play really well today,” he says. “Big win.”
Ilya looks up, surprised, like he forgets Shane is there. He smiles, but it’s quick and stiff, gone almost before it appears. “Thanks,” he says. Then he turns back to his drink, quiet again.
The silence stretches. Shane shifts on his stool, fingers tapping lightly against the glass. He doesn’t usually push, but tonight something feels wrong. “Did I do something wrong?” he asks, careful, almost too calm.
Ilya looks at him fully now. “What? No. Why would you think that?” His voice comes out sharper than Shane expects.
“You’re different,” Shane says. “Lately. You don’t talk. You don’t sit next to me on the bus. You kind of… avoid me.” He shrugs. “If I did something, I want to know.”
Ilya exhales through his nose, a short, frustrated sound. “You’re imagining things,” he says. “Everything is normal.”
Shane studies his face, the tension there. He hesitates, then the question slips out before he can stop it. “Is it because I’m gay?”
Ilya freezes. His eyes widen just a little. “What?” he says, voice firm now. “No. Never.” He straightens. “There is nothing wrong with that. I would never stay away from you because of that. I’m not like those idiots on the team.”
The anger in his voice makes Shane blink. “Okay,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, then tries again. “Then why are you so distant? If I hurt you, I want to fix it.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens. He looks away. “Not everything is about you, Hollander,” he says.
The words land heavier than Shane expects. He doesn’t answer. He just turns back to the bar, lifts his glass, and takes a long drink. The music feels louder now.
A laugh catches his attention from the other side of the room. Shane looks up and spots Rose Landry at a high table, smiling like always. She’s with a guy Shane doesn’t recognize. When she sees him, she lights up and waves.
Shane smiles without thinking and lifts his hand in return. He turns back to Ilya. “I’m going to say hi,” he says. “I’ll be back.”
•••
Ilya watches Shane walk away. He tells himself not to look, but his eyes follow him anyway. Shane stops near Rose Landry. She laughs, warm and easy, and then Shane shakes hands with the man next to her.
Something tightens in Ilya’s chest. It feels like someone is holding his heart in their hand and squeezing slowly. Rose Landry, he thinks. Ex-girlfriend. And now… what? A matchmaker?
He keeps watching. Shane smiles, talks, nods. The man says something and puts a hand on Shane’s back, just for a second. Ilya’s fingers curl around his glass.
His mind drifts, unwanted. He remembers the day everything leaks online. The emails. The headlines. Shane’s name everywhere.
“Hockey Star Shane Hollander Outed in Leaked Emails”
“Scandal Rocks the Ice: Shane Hollander’s Emails Go Public”
“Leaked Emails Reveal Personal Life of NHL Player Shane Hollander”
Ilya remembers sitting in his apartment, phone in his hand, feeling something close to panic. Not for the team. For Shane.
After that day, everything becomes clearer. Too clear. The feelings he tries to ignore stop hiding. He tells himself it is respect, loyalty, habit. But it grows, slowly and painfully, into something he can finally name. Love. The word scares him more than anything else.
Another memory pushes forward. His father’s face. Hard eyes. A police uniform in Russia. His brother’s voice, sharp and cruel when the topic comes up. The things they say about people like Shane. The things they say about weakness. About shame. Ilya swallows.
He looks back at Shane. The man’s hand is gone now, but the image stays. Ilya turns away sharply and signals the bartender.
“Give me a bottle,” he says.
The bartender frowns. “You mean another glass?”
“No,” Ilya snaps. “I say bottle. The whole thing. Give it to me.”
The bartender hesitates, then places a strong bottle on the counter. Ilya opens it fast and takes a long drink, burning and rough, not stopping until his throat hurts.
Later, this is the last clear thing he remembers from the night.
•••
About forty minutes later, Shane comes back to the bar stools.
Ilya is not there.
At first he thinks he just misses him. Then he looks again. The glass is gone. The seat is empty. Shane turns slowly, scanning the room. He asks two teammates. They shrug. No one sees him.
A bad feeling settles in his stomach.
He walks to the bar. “Hey,” he says to the bartender. “Did you see my friend? Tall, Russian.”
The bartender laughs. “Oh, him?” He wipes a glass. “Last time I see him, he chugs almost a whole bottle of vodka. Honestly? He’s probably throwing up in the bathroom.”
Shane stares. “A whole bottle?” he repeats.
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He moves fast, pushing through the crowd toward the bathroom.
Inside, the noise of the bar drops away. It’s quieter, echoing. Shane steps in. “Ilya?” he calls.
No answer.
He turns to leave, heart racing, when he hears it.
“Shaaane.”
The sound is thick, drunk, the words barely holding together. Shane spins back around.
He opens the first stall. Empty. The second—
“Oh— shit, sorry!” Shane blurts, slamming it shut as he catches a couple very busy inside. “Jesus Christ.”
He rubs his face and opens the next one.
Ilya is sitting on the floor. One hand grips a vodka bottle. The other rests weakly on the toilet seat. His face is bright red, eyes glassy, clearly just sick.
“Oh my god,” Shane breathes. He crouches down immediately. “Hey. Hey— are you okay?” He cups Ilya’s face gently, checking him.
Ilya can barely lift his head, but when he does, he looks at Shane and suddenly giggles.
“Ty takoy krasivyy,” he mumbles. You’re so beautiful.
Shane frowns. “What?” he asks softly.
Ilya sighs, eyes half-closed. “Pochemu eto tak?” Why does it have to be like this?
It clicks. Shane blinks. “Oh. You’re speaking Russian.” He exhales. “Ilya, I don’t understand anything. Do you need something?”
Ilya groans, annoyed. “Bozhe…” God…
“Yeah,” Shane mutters, grabbing some paper towels. He gently wipes Ilya’s mouth. “You’re really drunk.”
Ilya keeps talking, words spilling out. “Problema v tom… Ya hochu tol’ko tebya. Vsegda tebya.” The problem is… I only want you. It’s always been you.
Shane stops wiping and just looks at him, confused and concerned. “Wrong time and definitely the wrong language for your life story, Rozanov,” he says quietly.
Ilya’s voice cracks. “Ya ne mogu skazat’, kak ya tebya lyublyu…” I can’t say how much I love you…
Suddenly, he starts crying.
Shane panics. “Hey— hey, what? What happened?” He grips Ilya’s shoulders. “Hey, hey, look at me. God— Rozanov? Are you okay?”
Ilya shakes his head, tears spilling freely. “Net. Ya ne v poryadke.” No. I’m not okay. “Ya tebya lyublyu.” I love you.
His voice breaks again.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he repeats. Again. And again.
He leans forward, his head dropping slowly against Shane’s chest.
Shane stiffens for half a second, then relaxes. He wraps an arm around Ilya’s back and starts rubbing slow circles, steady and careful.
“You’re not going to throw up on me, right?” he murmurs.
Ilya doesn’t answer. He just keeps crying softly, whispering, “Ya tebya lyublyu,” over and over.
Shane keeps holding him. He has no idea what the words mean, but he knows this much, Ilya needs someone to stay.
So he does.
•••
Ilya wakes up with pain.
It starts in his head, loud and heavy, like something is hitting from the inside. His stomach twists. He keeps his eyes closed, breathing slowly, hoping the feeling goes away. It doesn’t.
He tries to remember last night. Nothing comes.
When he finally opens his eyes, just a little, he freezes. There is someone watching him.
Ilya bolts upright. “Blyat!” he shouts, hand flying to his chest. His heart races. He looks scared, then angry. “Fuck, Hollander!”
Shane jumps back a step, then starts laughing. “Sorry,” he says. “I was just checking on you.”
“You could do that without standing over me like a damn monster,” Ilya snaps. He rubs his face. “Jesus.”
Shane bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “You were sleeping like a corpse.”
Ilya groans and presses his fingers into his temples. “I don’t remember anything,” he mutters.
He looks around. The room is unfamiliar. The bed. The walls. The smell. The memory clicks in slowly, painfully. The bar. Rose. The drinks.
His eyes widen. “Wait.” He looks at Shane. “Is this your place?”
Shane nods. “Yeah. You were really drunk. I didn’t have another option.”
Ilya swings his legs over the side of the bed. His shoulders tense. “If I said stupid things,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Shane thinks for a moment. “Honestly? I don’t know. You only spoke Russian.”
Ilya exhales in relief. “Slava bogu.” Thank God.
Then Shane speaks again.
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Ilya freezes. His eyes stare at the carpet, then slowly lift to Shane’s face. “What did you say?” he asks, voice flat.
“You kept saying it,” Shane answers. “All night.”
Ilya stands up too fast. “You memorized it?” he says, trying to sound annoyed instead of terrified.
Shane shrugs. “You said it a lot. It stuck.”
Ilya swallows and walks into the hallway. His steps are quick, sharp. “Forget it,” he says. “Forget it, Shane.”
Shane follows, confused. “Why?”
“It’s a bad thing,” Ilya snaps, turning right down the hall. “Forget it.”
Shane stops. “So what, did you insult me all night?”
Ilya turns another corner. “Something like that.”
“Asshole,” Shane mutters.
Ily suddenly spins back, stopping right in front of him. “Where the fuck is the toilet?” he shouts.
Shane shouts back, “It’s literally in the bedroom!”
“Fuck!” Ilya yells, storming back inside and slamming the door behind him.
•••
Rose stares at Shane for half a second, then bursts out laughing. “Wait,” she says, eyes wide. “So he cries all night and insults you at the same time?”
Shane rubs his face, already smiling despite himself. “I’m not joking when I say asshole,” he replies.
Victor snorts into his coffee. “That… actually sounds very Russian.”
Shane looks at him. Victor has a strong accent, thick vowels, clipped consonants. For a second, it hits him in the chest, sharp and unexpected. Ilya sounds like that when he’s tired.
“I wouldn’t expect Rozanov to support your… orientation,” Victor continues, stirring his drink. “He doesn’t look like the type.”
Rose raises an eyebrow. “And what type is that?”
Victor shrugs. “I always think he’s just a bar guy. No thinking. Just skating, drinking, flirting. You know. Kazanova.”
Shane laughs. “You’re wrong,” he says easily. “He’s better than he looks. Trust me.”
Rose leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Better how?”
“He stayed,” Shane says. “He didn’t leave me alone when things were bad. He didn’t say anything stupid. He just… stayed.” He shrugs. “That counts.”
Victor hums, unconvinced but listening. “Still,” he says. “The image is funny. Big scary Russian crying in bathroom.”
Shane groans. “Don’t,” he says. “He already hates me enough.”
Rose grins. “Oh, he doesn’t hate you,” she says. “If he did, he wouldn’t yell that much.”
They laugh again. Shane takes a sip of his coffee, shoulders finally relaxing.
Victor tilts his head. “By the way,” he says casually. “Do you remember what he says? I mean… exactly?”
Shane hesitates. “Kind of,” he admits. “It was all Russian, though.”
“I can translate,” Victor offers. “If you want.”
Shane thinks for a moment. His brow furrows. “He kept saying something like…” He pauses, trying to shape the sounds. “Ya… tebya… lubya?”
Victor freezes.
Rose’s smile drops instantly. “What?”
Victor stares at Shane, eyes wide, coffee halfway to his mouth. “You’re joking,” he says slowly.
Shane frowns. “What?”
•••
The arena is loud. Too loud.
Shane skates, passes, reacts, but part of his mind stays somewhere else. His eyes keep finding Ilya without meaning to. The way he moves. The way his shoulders set before a turn. Shane tries to focus, but thoughts loop in his head, repeating without order.
Then the crowd explodes.
Shane blinks. He looks forward and realizes they score. His teammates celebrate. He claps, calm and automatic, but the noise feels distant. His heart doesn’t race the way it usually does after a goal. His attention drifts back again.
To Ilya.
•••
The locker room is quiet now. Too quiet. Most of the guys are already gone. Shane sits on the bench, half-dressed, staring at the floor. His face feels stiff, like it forgets how to move. He replays words in his head, sounds without context, trying to make them fit into something logical.
Water turns off.
Ilya steps out of the shower with a towel around his waist. His hair is wet, darker. He walks to his locker, then pauses when he notices Shane.
“You still here?” Ilya asks.
Shane nods. He pretends to focus on his shoes, hands busy with the laces.
Ilya opens his locker. Clothes rustle. The air sits heavy between them. The silence stretches longer than Shane expects, longer than is comfortable.
“Ilya,” Shane says finally.
“Yeah?”
Shane swallows. His voice stays even, but his chest feels tight. “Do you love me?”
Ilya stills. He doesn’t turn around, but Shane notices the smallest change. A pause that doesn’t belong. A breath held too long.
“Of course,” Ilya says after a second. “You’re my teammate.” He clears his throat.
Shane stands up. The movement feels sudden even to him. He steps closer. Ilya’s back stays turned.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane says.
Ilya freezes. He doesn’t look at Shane. He doesn’t move at all.
Shane tilts his head slightly. “That’s what it means,” he adds. “Right?”
Ilya’s breathing speeds up. He reaches into the locker, grabbing clothes too fast, hands unsteady. “I’m tired, Hollander,” he says.
He walks away toward the back lockers, leaving Shane standing there.
Shane doesn’t follow.
•••
The days start to blur together after that.
Games turn into practices, practices into early mornings and late nights. Shane and Ilya share the ice, the bench, the same narrow spaces, but something between them stays carefully untouched. They speak when they have to, about positioning, timing, passes. Their voices stay neutral, professional, like lines drawn very clearly on ice.
Sometimes Shane feels Ilya looking at him. He doesn’t turn right away. When he does, Ilya is already focused somewhere else, jaw tight, eyes fixed forward. Other times, Shane catches himself watching Ilya without meaning to, tracking his movement out of habit, out of something deeper he refuses to name.
They don’t talk outside of hockey.
In practice, Shane gives instructions. Ilya listens, nods, follows. It should feel normal. It almost does. But every word feels heavier than before, like it carries something neither of them is willing to say.
Once, during a drill, Ilya snaps at him. “That pass is late,” he says sharply. “You’re slowing the play.”
Shane answers just as fast. “Because you cut early.”
The tension is sharp enough that a teammate skates between them, hands raised. “Hey,” he says, trying to laugh. “Relax. It’s just practice.”
They both step back. Nothing more is said. The drill continues.
Weeks pass like this.
On the bench, their shoulders sometimes brush. Neither reacts. In the locker room, they change on opposite sides. If Shane enters, Ilya leaves. If Ilya stays, Shane finds a reason to move. The avoidance becomes quiet and careful, almost polite.
During games, they are flawless.
They read each other without words, anticipate moves, cover gaps. The chemistry is still there, undeniable. The crowd cheers their names together, like nothing has changed. Shane claps, skates, breathes, but his thoughts keep circling the same unanswered question.
At night, he replays moments. The way Ilya’s breathing speeds up. The way he walks away. The word he refuses to hear.
At practice one afternoon, Shane calls a play. Ilya hesitates, just a second too long.
“What are you doing?” Shane asks, frustration slipping into his voice.
Ilya looks at him. “I’m doing exactly what you said.”
Their eyes lock. The air tightens. Someone coughs loudly nearby.
“Enough,” the coach calls. “Both of you. Focus.”
They do. They always do.
Still, the space between them feels crowded with things unsaid. Shane doesn’t push. He doesn’t chase. He waits, because pushing never helps when someone is already running.
And Ilya keeps running, even while skating perfectly in line beside him.
By the time weeks pass, Shane realizes something quietly, painfully clear. Avoidance can be louder than rejection. And silence, when it stretches this long, starts to feel like an answer he doesn’t yet understand.
•••
The hotel is quiet in a way that feels temporary, like the silence knows it won’t last. Shane leaves his room and walks toward the terrace, phone pressed to his ear. His body is tired from the game, but his mind keeps moving.
“How do you mean, you don’t talk at all?” Rose asks.
Shane exhales slowly. “We talk,” he says. “But only when it’s about hockey.”
There is a pause on the line. “That sounds healthy,” Rose says, dry.
“It works,” Shane replies. “Mostly.”
“Do you fight?”
“Not really,” he says. “We argue. Short. Then someone usually steps in.”
Rose hums. “That sounds worse.”
Shane leans one shoulder against the wall as he walks. “It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t care anymore.”
Rose laughs softly. “You know you can’t lie, even on the phone, right? Especially not to me.”
Shane presses his lips together. “Okay,” he admits. “I care.”
There’s a brief silence.
“I know,” Rose says finally. “I know you like him.”
Shane swallows. His steps slow as he reaches the glass door to the terrace. He looks up without really meaning to.
Outside, Ilya stands with his back turned, leaning against the railing. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the small orange light bright against the dark. He looks still, distant, like he’s somewhere far from the hotel.
Something clicks into place inside Shane.
“I’ll call you back,” he says quietly.
Rose doesn’t argue. “Yeah,” she answers. “Do that.”
Shane ends the call and lowers the phone. He stays where he is for a second, watching Ilya through the glass, heart steady but heavy. Then he reaches for the door handle.
The door slides shut softly behind Shane.
The sound makes Ilya turn his head for a brief second. When he sees who it is, he looks away almost immediately, facing the city again. Without noticing, he straightens his shoulders and adjusts his grip on the cigarette, like his body reacts before his mind does.
Shane pauses. Just for a moment. Then he walks closer, not too close, leaving space between them that feels intentional. He rests his hands on the railing and looks out at the lights, though his thoughts are clearly somewhere else.
The silence stretches.
“You were right,” Shane says. “About the tactic. Yours works better.”
Ilya shrugs, still not turning around. “We win anyway.”
His tone is distant, careless on purpose. The quiet returns, heavier this time.
Shane clears his throat. “Did you hear what Miller says in the locker room?” he asks. “He really thinks that move is illegal.”
It’s not meant to be funny. Shane doesn’t even smile when he says it.
But Ilya does. Just a little. A corner of his mouth lifts before he can stop it. He exhales through his nose, amused despite himself. “He says that every time we win.”
Shane glances at him, surprised. “Yeah,” he says. “Because he hates being wrong.”
They both laugh, soft and brief, like they’re afraid the sound might break something. The tension loosens, just enough to let warmth slip through.
Shane turns toward him fully. He goes quiet again, swallowing as awareness settles in. “I miss talking to you,” he says. “Just… talking.”
The words land harder than he expects. Ilya’s smile fades. He nods once, eyes still on the city, offering nothing else.
Shane watches him for a second. “Is this something you don’t want to accept?” he asks carefully.
Ilya frowns. “What is?”
Shane shrugs, unsure, honest. “Do I embarrass you?”
Ilya turns halfway, clearly confused now. “Why would you embarrass me?”
“Then why won’t you say you love me?”
The air changes.
Ilya closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, tired and sharp all at once. Shane keeps talking, words spilling out now, frustration finally showing. He talks about the distance, about being tired of guessing, about how this silence feels worse than anger.
“You don’t even know me, Hollander,” Ilya cuts in.
“Don’t call me Hollander,” Shane says immediately. “You do that when you want to push me away.”
“I don’t even notice,” Ilya snaps, trying to sound angry instead of shaken.
Shane shakes his head. “And I do know you. We’ve been on the same team for years.”
Ilya lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“Then tell me,” Shane says. “Tell me.”
Ilya turns to face him now, eyes sharp. “What would change?”
“A lot,” Shane answers without hesitation.
The silence that follows is heavy, unstable.
Shane’s voice tightens. “What are you so scared of?”
Ilya’s jaw clenches. For a second, it looks like he might say nothing at all. Then his anger breaks, not loud, but raw.
“I don’t know what will happen to me,” he says.
Both of them go still.
Shane looks at him, truly startled now. “What do you mean?”
Ilya laughs again, bitter this time. “In Russia, I don’t know what will happen to me,” he says. “My father is a cop. My brother is a cop. They’re both homophobic bastards.” His voice lowers, steadier, more dangerous. “I like staying alive, Shane. Sorry if that disappoints you.”
Shane doesn’t speak. He can’t find the right shape for words. His chest feels tight, like the air has thinned.
Ilya takes one last drag from his cigarette, then presses it hard into the ashtray, crushing it out with unnecessary force. He straightens, the walls already sliding back into place.
“Good night,” he says.
And then he walks past Shane and leaves the terrace, the door closing softly behind him, leaving the city lights and the silence hanging between them.
•••
It’s three in the morning.
Shane checks the time again, even though he already knows it won’t change. He exhales, long and tired, staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come. Every time he closes his eyes, the terrace comes back with it. Ilya’s voice. The way he crushes the cigarette into the ashtray. The look on his face when he says he doesn’t know what will happen to him.
Shane turns onto his side and reaches for his phone.
He opens their messages.
I’m sorry, he types.
He stares at the words for a moment, then deletes them.
Are you asleep?
He doesn’t send that either.
Shane groans softly and locks the screen, dropping the phone beside him like it’s heavier than it should be. He pushes himself upright and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. After a moment, he stands and pulls the curtains open.
The city stretches out in front of him, quiet but alive. Lights in windows. Cars moving slowly far below. People living their lives while his thoughts stay stuck in the same place.
He thinks about Ilya.
About how carefully he holds himself. About how fear doesn’t always look like panic, sometimes it looks like distance. Shane imagines what it must be like to grow up knowing the people who are supposed to protect you might be the ones you need protection from.
His mind drifts to his own past without permission. The messages that leak. The headlines. The comments. The friends who stop calling, who don’t know what to say anymore. He thinks about his parents, steady and loud in their support, and feels a tight twist of gratitude in his chest. Without them, he isn’t sure how he would’ve survived it.
He closes the curtains and sits back down, heavier now.
To distract himself, he grabs his phone again and opens Instagram. The screen lights up, bright and careless.
The first thing he sees is Victor. Victor smiling, arm around his boyfriend, both of them relaxed and open in the photo. Shane stares at it longer than he means to, something aching quietly behind his ribs.
He locks the phone without liking the post.
Then, suddenly, he stands up.
He throws on his sweater, movements quick and restless, and heads for the door. The room feels too small, too quiet, like the walls are pressing in. Shane leaves without looking back, the door closing behind him as he steps into the hallway, heart pounding with a decision he doesn’t fully understand yet.
•••
Ilya hears the knock like it comes from very far away.
He’s stuck somewhere between sleep and waking, his body heavy, his mind slow. He blinks at the ceiling, confused, then turns his head to check the time. Three in the morning. He groans quietly and drags himself out of bed, hair a mess, eyes barely open.
He shuffles to the door, rubbing his face, and opens it.
Shane stands there, tense and restless, like he’s been holding his breath the entire walk down the hallway.
“Shane,” Ilya says, voice thick with sleep. “It’s three.”
“Were you sleeping?” Shane asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.
Ilya nods slowly. “Like a normal human being,” he mutters, then leans his shoulder against the wall, eyes closing again as he rubs them.
Shane steps inside and closes the door behind him. Ilya doesn’t even question it. He’s too tired for that.
“You don’t have to go back to Russia,” Shane says suddenly.
Ilya’s hands drop from his face. He looks up, squinting, clearly trying to understand what he just hears. “What?”
“If you have a place here,” Shane continues, words careful but urgent, “you don’t have to go back.”
Ilya stares at him for a long second, brain lagging behind. “Are you selling houses now?” he asks dryly.
Despite everything, Shane smiles. Just for a moment. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Ilya replies. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Would you want to stay here with me?”
“At the hotel?” Ilya asks, eyebrow lifting.
“In Canada,” Shane says. “Idiot.”
Ilya lets out a tired, crooked smile. “You want me as a roommate? Did they forget to pay you or something?”
“You know what I mean,” Shane says quietly.
“No,” Ilya answers. “I don’t.”
Shane looks at him for a long moment. Ilya’s head rests against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep but soft, open. His face is relaxed in a way it never is during the day. Shane’s gaze drifts without permission, to Ilya’s full lips, to his cheeks still puffy from sleep.
“You really don’t?” Shane asks.
Ilya shakes his head slowly.
Shane steps closer, closing the space between them, and before either of them can think better of it, he leans in and kisses him.
It’s brief, gentle, just a few seconds where nothing else exists. When Shane pulls back, Ilya’s shock is clear, but so is something fragile and bright, like he’s about to cry.
Shane lowers his voice to a whisper. “Don’t go to Russia,” he says. “Stay with me.”
Ilya keeps staring at him, silent, breathing uneven. Shane almost expects nothing, almost prepares himself to step back.
Then Ilya exhales shakily. “Fuck, Hollander,” he says, voice breaking, and kisses him again.
This time it’s different. Closer and more certain. They hold each other’s faces, fingers warm against skin, like something that’s been waiting far too long finally finds its place.
And for a moment, everything feels exactly where it’s supposed to be.
•••
Practice drags on at a slow, heavy pace, the kind that settles into everyone’s bones. Shane stands near the boards, helmet off, gloves tucked under his arm, and lets out a long yawn he doesn’t even try to hide. His eyes sting, his body still caught somewhere between last night and this morning.
The coach notices immediately.
He looks over, grinning, and shakes his head. “We’re looking real lively today,” he says loudly. “Did the whole team decide to stay up all night or what?”
A few players laugh. The coach claps his hands once and points toward the ice. “Alright, wake up. Let’s play some hockey, not whatever this is.” He waves at the players skating drills. “Come on, boys. Eyes open.”
Someone from the ice calls back, laughing, “Tell that to Rozanov. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all.”
More chuckles ripple through the rink.
Ilya glides to a stop and turns his head just enough to look at Shane. There’s a knowing grin on his face, subtle but impossible to miss. Shane catches it and smiles back before he can stop himself.
Ilya raises his eyebrows, amused, then gives him a quick wink.
Shane ducks his head instantly, heat rushing to his face. His smile only grows, betraying him completely. He pretends to focus on adjusting his gloves, then the tape on his stick, then absolutely anything that isn’t Ilya.
When he finally looks up again, his gaze collides with Scott from the opposing side of the rink. Scott is already watching him, expression unreadable.
Shane’s stomach tightens.
He looks away immediately, heart thudding, suddenly aware of his own stupid grin still lingering on his face. He forces his expression into something neutral, bites down on the inside of his cheek, and stares at the ice like it holds the secrets of the universe.
The coach blows the whistle again. “Line up,” he calls. “Let’s see if moving helps you guys wake up.”
Shane skates out, legs a little heavy, body tired but buzzing underneath it all. He can still feel Ilya’s eyes on him even when he doesn’t look back.
And despite the exhaustion, despite the fear of being seen, he can’t stop smiling.