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It had been impulsive. And stupid. But those were two of the only things Ilya was capable of being at the moment. Shane had left. Ran out the fucking door like he was on fire, as if now, seven years into whatever this was, was the first time he’d conceptualised what was going on. So yeah. Ilya was angry and maybe a bit sad and then Shane’s name popped up in the tabloids right next to Rose Landry’s.
So he got absolutely obliterated, hit about every club he could find, was a total asshole to his teammates and fucked people he had no interest in. But there was a guy. He had dark hair and freckles and smiled at him from across a bar and something twisted deep inside Ilya’s stomach. He was angry. Angry that he couldn’t have Hollander, angry that he ran, angry that he was in a filthy bar that smelt like sweat when he could be in Hollander’s boring apartment that smells like laundry detergent. So he smiled back.
And the next morning the tabloids were done talking about Hollander and Landry. Instead they were plastered with pictures of Ilya making out with a man against a wall in downtown Montreal. Clearly incriminating photos, his face in full view, hands up each other's shirts.
Ilya had never wanted this to happen. Obviously. But some idealistic part of him wished that if it did have to happen that the other man would’ve been Shane. At least then it might’ve been worth it.
-
The locker room was loud. Louder than usual. The second Shane walked in, phones were being thrust into his face with pictures he had seen a million times already. Pictures he had studied like game tape. The drunken glaze in those hazel eyes. The Sweat dripping down a sharp jawline. Those large, sure hands, placed all over someone else’s body. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.
“Hollander man, have you seen this shit!” Drapeau called. “I would never have pegged Rozanov for a queer”
“Ha ‘pegged’” Another voice joked.
“He was always such a ladies man”
“Maybe he was so drunk he thought it was a chic”
“Yeah you know how some gay boys look like girls”
Shane needed to sit down.
He played aggressively at practice. Hit the puck just that little bit harder, gritting his teeth so he didn’t say something stupid or throw up or something else mortifying each time his teammates made a comment.
Not even Hayden was safe. He had shook his head disbelieving at Shane when he came in in the morning. “I can’t believe it man. Did you know at all, you know, being rivals and all that?”
Shane had just shook his head and shrugged, not trusting himself to talk. “It must be scary though, I mean he’s Russian, surely that can’t be good.” Hayden commented.
“Yeah, I mean I don’t know.” That much was true. He didn’t know anything about how Rozanov was feeling. He hadn’t talked to him since the last time they hooked up, about a month ago. In fact he had been trying his hardest to not even think about him. Because it was stupid, and it had always been stupid, but hearing his name, his first name - not just the ‘Hollander’ that always followed a cocky chirp - rolling off Ilya’s tongue in an accented sigh, it cut through everything. Made it seem real, intimate, and it couldn’t be that. It couldn’t be anything more than convenience.
But now he wanted nothing more than to talk to him. He had been debating texting him since the minute the pictures dropped. But what would he even say? It had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t like it was him in the photos. For all Shane knows, that guy could be someone important to him, more than just a fellow hockey player he has weirdly charged hate sex with a few times a year.
Shane picked his phone up from where it was laying in the stall of the now-empty locker room. He looked back at the last thing they’d texted each other.
Shane
Omw, coming now
Lily
Already coming without me?
So inconsiderate.
Shane
That joke is getting really old
Lily
Bet you are blushing though.
Shane
Fuck off
Lily
;)
It seemed so distant now. Shane’s head was buzzing. What would happen to Ilya? Would the NHL kick him out? Would the Bears trade him? Would they take away his Visa? What would happen to him in Russia with his awful family who yelled at him over the phone? He couldn’t just do nothing.
Shane
Are you okay?
It was a stupid question and it probably wouldn’t get an answer. He wouldn’t be surprised if Rozanov had blocked his number by now.
Three dots showed up on the bottom of the screen. Then disappeared. Read 11:27 AM.
“Fuck” Shane muttered, throwing his phone into his bag and heading for the showers.
The game the next day was weird. Ilya wasn’t playing. Ilya wasn’t doing anything apparently. No media statements, no more photos, no news. The Bears were going into the game like he didn’t even exist.
He took the face off against Carmichael. It was civil, quiet, alien.
Montreal won. Everyone celebrated. His teammates threw insults at the other team, something about queers and sticks and being beaten 5-2. Shane was hardly listening. He kept looking at the empty bench expecting to see number 81.
“Hollander. Hit the showers and then media wants you.” Came Theriault’s voice as they walked back to the locker room.
-
The room smelt like cigarettes, beer and Sveta’s fancy dior perfume. It was a terrible cocktail and not helping Ilya’s nausea or impending doom.
“It’ll be okay Ilyusha”
“Will it? Will it Svet? Fuck.”
Svetlana sighed heavily. “Yes. They can’t just ship you away. Even if they tried you have too much credibility, the US would never deny you asylum.”
Ilya winced. “Asylum? Fucking Asylum. Look at this, is insane. Is fucking insane. I make stupid mistake because I am bitter about boring Canadian boy and now what. Jesus fuck.”
He got up from the bed and cracked open another beer, drumming his fingers on the table.
“This is about Jane huh?” Svetlana asked extremely unhelpfully.
Ilya glared. “God, was so stupid. Now my father will-“
“Fuck your father. He has always been scum. He won’t have anything to say that you haven’t already heard.”
“He has probably called me million times.” Ilya said, taking another swig of his drink, tasting acid. “Andrei too”.
“It doesn’t matter Ilya. Let them think whatever they want. Their opinions mean nothing, okay? I know you. You are a fucking brilliant hockey player even if you still favour your right leg-“
“I do not-“
“Shush shushhh, you are funny and confident and incredibly strong and brave”
“And great in bed.” Ilya mumbled half heartedly past the lump in his throat.
“And great in bed,” Svetlana conceded. “And you are a good man and no picture will change that. Okay?”
Ilya just looked at the floor. The tiles were sad and beige. Boring.
He felt hopeless. It reminded him of when his mother had died. Having a good thing, watching it leave. Seeing her limp hand hang off the bed, how cold her fingers were when he went to touch them. The look on his father’s face when he tried to tell him what had happened.
Distantly he could hear sports commentators through the low volume of the TV. Boston had lost the game. Unsurprising. No one knew Shane Hollander’s plays like Ilya. They always needed him for the Montreal matches. Ilya had felt hot shame run through him as he texted his coach he was taking personal leave and promptly turned his phone all the way off. Well, not before seeing Hollander’s text.
What the fuck was he supposed to do with that? No, obviously he was not okay. Boring question. Stupid question. Stupid Canadian boy whose face was currently plastered on the hotel TV as he answered post game media.
Ilya grabbed the remote, turning up the volume. Svetlana gave him a look. Ilya ignored it.
“And what do you have to say about your long-time rival Ilya Rozanov, rumoured to be gay after being caught kissing a man last night? Does it change your relationship as competitors?” Came the gruff voice of a reporter.
Ilya’s breath caught in his throat. He watched as Shane thought for a bit. He made that face where his eyes got a bit distant as he searched for an answer, where his brow creased and his mouth skewed to the right.
It made Ilya sort of irrationally furious.
Then he started to speak.
“I have known what it is like to be treated differently for something you cannot change. Being Asian-Canadian, that is. I think it’s important that people are able to be who they are, and do what they love.” His voice was clear, his words chosen carefully. “No one should have to choose. The atmosphere of professional sports is not always the most progressive for diversity, but who someone loves and who someone is will never change their ability. Rozanov has always been an incredible player and a legend in the sport, that shouldn’t change. I look forward to playing against him again. That’s all.” He looked straight into the camera, eyes determined, face flushed from the game, and walked off, ignoring the follow up questions being shouted his way.
Ilya’s vision was foggy.
-
Shane ignored the protests of his coach, their media director and literally everybody else in the room, and left. He couldn’t fucking stand there in that room and listen to them talk about Ilya like he was nothing but a scandal. Like he wasn’t one of the best hockey players the world had ever seen. Like he hadn’t brought a hockey franchise back from the dead, won the Hart and the Cup. Like he was completely reduced to who he decided to fuck.
Honestly. He was livid. His hands were shaking and he was partly terrified about how easily it could happen to him too, how quickly his life, his career, everything he’d ever worked for could fall apart. But mainly he was angry. Angry that he might not get to play against Ilya again. That they would take that away. Because hockey got monotonous without him. Without the challenge, the competition. It was all boring without him. The past month had been fucking dire. No chirps, no flirty texts, no knowing glances across the ice, just awkward conversation with Rose’s actor friends and terribly mediocre sex that felt like a chore.
He didn’t want to admit it. But he’d missed him, and he couldn’t stomach the thought of not seeing him again. The wicked smirk, the confident glint in his eye, the way his hands felt against his skin and hearing his english get more and more broken as they fucked. The teasing, the way he saw right through him and the way things had been different last time. How he felt as Ilya’s body shifted next to his on the mattress as they slept, the silent gesture of a ginger ale and a sandwich in bright afternoon light. It was different. And he didn’t want to lose that.
So he picked up his phone and called. It rang a few times.
“Hollander?” Ilya’s voice sounded strained.
“Where are you?”
“Hotel. Branston.”
“What room?”
“Hollander you shouldn’t-“
“What fucking room Ilya?.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “604”.
Shane hung up the phone and grabbed his keys.
The drive was gruelling. He wasn’t sure if this was a good idea. He wasn’t sure what ‘this’ was. What he would say or do or what. Maybe Ilya would just yell at him, or fuck him just for old times sake. Which… he wasn’t exactly opposed to but probably wouldn’t be very helpful. They needed to talk. And Shane could spend the whole car ride white knuckling the steering wheel and trying to figure out what to say.
By the time he knocked on room 604 he was no less petrified, but had strengthened his resolve in some way. The door opened to reveal a beautiful tall woman with dark eye makeup that Shane assumed to be Ilya’s Russian ‘friend’.
She shot him a smile, slipped past him into the corridor and gestured for him to enter the room. “Jane.” She said with a knowing nod.
Shane stared at her momentarily before walking into the room, clicking the door shut behind himself. Ilya was leaning against the hotel desk, staring glumly at the switched off TV. He looked like shit. Still infuriatingly beautiful, but his hair was messy and his eyes dark and worn.
“Hello.” Shane said dumbly.
Ilya just looked at him sadly.
Shane walked to the center of the room and sat in the bed. Ilya stayed where he was. Off to the side. Shane took a breath.
“What are you going to do?” He asked softly.
“I don’t fucking know Hollander.” Ilya spat. Still not looking at him. The words hung in the air. Ilya sighed, running a hand across his face.
“I just-“ Shane started. “ I’ve never felt like I do with you with anyone else.” He said, his voice hoarse. Ilya turned to look at him now. His face questioning.
“And it didn’t feel right on the ice today. Not playing against you. I don’t want that to go away.”
“I heard what you said. After the game.” Ilya stated, his voice flat.
Shane nodded. He was looking at the wall, he didn’t think he could look at Ilya without freaking out. “I meant it.” He clenched his hands into fists beside him. “And not just with hockey. It hasn’t been the same. Not seeing you.”
“Yes well you ran away last time.” Ilya muttered.
Shane winced. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. But I've missed you.” He confessed.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I wanted you to know. In case..” He trailed off, the rest of the sentence sitting heavy in the air between them.
Ilya moved from where he was leaning and took a spot by Shane on the bed.
“I think the Bears will keep me for rest of season at least. But I do not know if it will be the same. After.”
Shane nodded at the ground. Ilya took a long breath.
“It was stupid. The kiss. The guy.” Ilya waved a hand non-committedly. “I was…. jealous. Angry”
“Of what?”
Ilya turned to him with an incredulous expression. “You and Rose fucking Landry, asshole.”
“Oh”.
“I missed you too.” Ilya whispered.
“Ilya…” Shane muttered. He turned to look at him. Ilya’s fingers brushed against his arm.
-
Afterwards they lay puffed atop the sheets in comfortable silence.
Shane broke it first. “ The Bears can’t drop you. Not without reason. There’s discrimination lawsuits and the contract-“
“But they can move positions. Put me third line left wing. Fucking embarrassing.”
Shane turned to him. “If not Boston, any other team would take you. I know the locker room is shit, but hockey’s hockey. You know, maybe it’s not so bad.”
“Wow? Shane Hollander the optimist? Am I in a dream?”
“Shut up asshole.” Shane flicked him in the arm. Ilya pushed him back.
The two were locked in a childish wrestling match until Ilya flopped his whole body across Shane’s and licked a stripe across his forehead.
“Ew you’re fucking disgusting!” Shane exclaimed, trying to wipe the spit of his face.
“Yes, well.” Ilya smirked smugly. “You missed me,” he teased.
Shane softened, suddenly shy. “Yeah. Yeah I did.” Ilya smiled down at him.
“Look- I know this is- complicated- whatever. And I’m fucking scared but I don’t want to lose this and I think I like you too much to pretend I want to be with someone else.” Shane rambled. “And I know now more than ever how easily it could fall apart but I saw those photos and I didn’t want to lose you and I didn’t want you to be with someone else and I just-“
“Shane.”
He sucked in a breath. Ilya looked at him, smiling.
“We can try.”
“Yeah?” He asked, hopeful.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” There was a glint in Ilya’s eyes.
“Okay.” Ilya parroted and met his lips in a kiss.