Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ilya packed as if he was trying to prove something. Shirts folded into clean rectangles, seams aligned, fabric smoothed. He kept doing it even after the suitcase was basically full, adjusting and re-adjusting like the right arrangement could click his brain back into place.

The hotel room was too warm, the heat blowing like it had personal beef with winter. Outside, Ottawa looked tired: gray sky, slush, snow piled in corners like it had been shoved there and forgotten. From up here, everything felt distant and small, like the city was a photograph instead of a place he’d built his life around.

His phone sat on the bedside table, face-up, screen dark. He didn’t need to see it lit to know what was waiting.

Can we talk?

Three words that were reasonable. Three words that could also ruin him if he answered wrong.

He clicked the suitcase closed and stood there with his hand resting on it, palm flat, steadying himself. The latch sounded loud in the quiet. It felt final in a way he didn’t like.

It had started in the therapist’s office, which was almost offensively calm. Beige walls. A small dish of candy that made everything feel like a trap dressed up as comfort. His therapist had said it gently, like she was setting something fragile down on the table between them: Shane seems supported. Happy. Comfortable. And you seem alone. Ilya had laughed, short and sharp, because that was what he did when he was cornered. “It’s not like that,” he’d said too quickly, because he couldn’t stand the idea of anyone thinking badly of Shane. He’d tried to explain it away, tried to make it smaller, but the words had stuck to his tongue like glue.

She’d told him to talk to someone. Not even Shane first—just someone. A friend. A teammate. A person who could hold part of him so Shane didn’t have to be the entire structure keeping him upright. She’d suggested he do something he liked again, something that wasn’t just sex or performance or winning.

So he’d done it. In his own way. In his own time.

He’d told Troy he was bi.

Troy had blinked once and nodded like Ilya had just mentioned his favorite protein bar. No fanfare. No shift in how he looked at him. It should have felt like relief. Instead it had felt like stepping out into the open and realizing you still didn’t know where home was.

When Ilya told Shane, he’d expected warmth. He’d expected pride, maybe, or at least Shane’s steady voice saying, I’m glad you told someone. I’m glad you told me. Instead Shane had gone quiet in that careful way he got when he was processing.

“You told Troy?” Shane had asked.

Ilya could still hear it. Not angry. Not accusing. But something in it tightened Ilya’s chest anyway.

“I didn’t know you were friends,” Shane added, and it shouldn’t have mattered. It should have been nothing. But Ilya heard the question underneath it like a blade.

Did you tell him about us?

That was when Ilya snapped.

“Only you can tell your friends about us, right?”

Shane had gone silent, and Ilya had hated himself for the way the silence felt like proof. Not because Shane was doing anything wrong—because he wasn’t. But because Ilya was raw enough to interpret everything like it was a verdict. He’d ended the call before it could turn into a real fight, and then Christmas had come and trapped them in the same air.

They’d been tense and snippy, like they were both trying to touch a bruise and pretend it didn’t hurt. Shane knew Ilya was hiding something—he’d been able to see it in Shane’s eyes, the way he watched him like he was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. Ilya had refused to give him the pieces.

Then Ilya had asked him to go to a party.

It wasn’t even dramatic in Ilya’s head. Shane was home. Everyone knew they were friends. It would be normal. It would be easy. It would be a night where Ilya could exist in public with Shane without it being a lie.

Shane didn’t want to go.

The refusal wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It still landed like being pushed back behind a door that was always half-closed.

Ilya got angry because anger was easier than saying the thing that felt pathetic. I want to be seen with you. I want you in my world. I want it to not feel like I’m the only one stepping forward.

“You have people,” Ilya had said. The words came out jagged. “You have support. You have your life. I have—” He’d stopped because the next part felt like begging.

Shane tried to say it wasn’t easy for him either, that hiding was hard, that sacrifices were being made on both sides. And that—God—that was what broke it open, because Shane did not understand the difference between hardship and loneliness.

Ilya had thought about Boston.

The cups he could’ve been chasing. The records. The legacy. The easy path where no one questioned his choices. He’d given that up, not because Shane asked, but because Ilya chose love like it was the only thing that ever made him feel real. Two hours away from Shane had felt like building something permanent.

And Shane still wouldn’t come to a party.

That was when Ilya asked the question that had been living in his throat for months.

“You wouldn’t even choose me, would you?” he’d said, “if it’s between me and hockey.”

Shane’s face had changed, startled and hurt, and then Shane—beautiful, infuriating Shane—had asked it back.

“Would you choose me?”

The audacity had made Ilya see red.

“I already chose you, Hollander,” Ilya had said, voice shaking. “Go home. Please.”

He’d meant it. He’d meant it like survival.

Now, in this overheated room with a suitcase and a flight time looming, Ilya stared at his phone and felt the echo of those words like a bruise under his ribs.

He checked the time. The team bus would be downstairs soon. He should move.

His phone buzzed again.

He didn’t pick it up right away. He stood there and let it buzz, like ignoring it could turn it into something else. When it stopped, the silence felt worse.

He grabbed his bag and left before he could change his mind.

The lobby smelled like cleaner and coffee that had been burned hours ago. Teammates clustered around luggage carts, loud and half-awake, acting like travel was annoying instead of unsettling. Someone complained about Florida humidity like it was personally offensive; someone else joked about airport food being a hate crime.

Ilya smiled when he was supposed to.

It worked. It always did.

The bus ride to the airport was gray and quiet in that way winter mornings insisted on. Ilya took a seat by the window and let the city slide past, streets edged with snowbanks and dull light. He kept thinking about Shane’s text, the simple open door of it, and the way he’d left it standing there unanswered.

He didn’t take his phone out.

Not yet.

Airports were their own kind of purgatory. Bright lights, no clocks you could trust, constant movement that made it impossible to sit still with your thoughts. He moved with the team through security on autopilot—belt off, shoes off, bag through—like his body knew this drill better than it knew how to talk to the person he loved.

At the gate, he sat down hard and finally pulled his phone out.

Shane hadn’t texted again. The last message still sat there like a held breath.

Can we talk?

Ilya opened Instagram instead, like the app could act as a buffer between them. Shane’s profile loaded—pictures of hockey, pictures of family, pictures of places Ilya had been in without ever being visible. It hit him again, that quiet imbalance: Shane had a whole world that existed publicly, and Ilya lived in the shadows of it.

Boarding started.

He stood with the team when they were called and walked down the jet bridge with his phone still in his hand, thumb hovering over nothing.

He didn’t message Shane.

He couldn’t risk saying the wrong thing.

Once the doors closed, the plane felt smaller. Not physically—just psychologically, like the air itself got heavier and more final. Ilya took the window seat because he liked seeing the ground. He liked remembering there was something solid beneath them.

The plane taxied. The engines built into a low roar. Ottawa disappeared under cloud.

He tried to do what he always did: breathe steady, loosen his jaw, let the routine carry him. His teammates were already settling—headphones on, eyes closed, jokes traded across the aisle. Normal.

Then the turbulence hit.

At first it was just a vibration, a shiver running through the cabin. The seatbelt sign chimed. A few heads lifted. Someone sighed like they were irritated.

The plane dipped.

Hard enough to steal his breath.

Another jolt rattled the overhead bins. A cup skidded on a tray table. Someone behind him swore, loud and sharp.

Ilya’s fingers tightened around the armrest. His pulse leapt so fast it made his ears ring.

He hated this. He hated being helpless inside a machine, surrounded by people who expected him to be calm. He hated how quickly his body remembered fear.

The plane dropped again, sudden and violent, and for one brutal second his mind went blank except for one thought:

This is how it ends.

No apology. No repair. No softness. Just the last thing he’d said to Shane—Go home. Please.—hanging between them forever like unfinished music.

Ilya yanked his phone out with shaking hands and opened Instagram.

Ilya opened Instagram and started typing a new private message to ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer.
Shane, he wrote, then stopped. He had no idea what to say. There was no possible way to put everything he needed to tell Shane into words. But the plane was on fire, and Ilya didn’t have time to think. He wrote what was in his terrified heart:
You are the best thing in my life.
His eyes were blurry, making it hard to type. He quickly swiped at his eyes and kept writing.
I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.
He let his mind take him away from the nightmare happening around him and back to a rink parking lot in Saskatchewan. Ilya couldn’t remember what Shane had said, exactly, that first time they’d met. He only remembered freckles splashed over rosy red cheeks. He remembered Shane’s hand being unfairly warm when he shook it. He remembered being studied by dark, earnest eyes.
It was entirely possible that Ilya had lost his heart in that moment. It took his brain a long time to catch up, but his heart had known right away.
He wished Shane could respond. He hated thinking about Shane seeing these messages...after. He’d keep them forever. Ilya knew he would. Fuck. He had to say something really good.
I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

He hit send.

The message showed as delivered.

Not seen.

The plane jolted again—one last harsh drop that sent a ripple of gasps through the cabin. Ilya’s stomach flipped and his vision tunneled, but he kept staring at the thread like if he stared hard enough Shane would appear and answer.

Then, slowly, the turbulence softened. The violent dips turned into bumps. The cabin noise shifted from panic-adjacent to exhausted relief. Someone made a joke too loudly. Someone laughed too hard.

Ilya didn’t laugh.

He sat there with his phone in his lap and his heartbeat still trying to climb out of his throat.

For a brief moment—so quick he wasn’t sure it was real—warmth pressed against him. Not a touch, not exactly. More like a presence leaning close. Like someone standing just behind his shoulder, steady and calm, as if to say: Not yet. Breathe.

He swallowed hard and kept his eyes on the window.

The warmth faded.

The plane kept flying.

They landed in Florida under bright sunlight that felt wrong. The air that hit them when they stepped off the jet bridge was humid and heavy, like the city was breathing directly into their faces. Guys complained immediately, because hockey players needed something to be mad at if they weren’t going to be mad at their own fear.

A couple of players had taken knocks in the turbulence—nothing major, just a shoulder slammed into an armrest, a twisted wrist from grabbing too hard. Team staff didn’t take chances. Not with the schedule, not with bodies that were worth millions, not with the kind of accident that became a headline.

So instead of going straight to the hotel, they went to the hospital for precautionary checks.

The waiting area was fluorescent and too bright, the smell of antiseptic sharp enough to sit on the back of the tongue. Players sprawled in chairs that were too small for them, filling out forms with the same expression they wore during media days: polite irritation. A nurse called names with a voice that had clearly seen everything and was unimpressed.

Ilya sat with his arms folded loosely, phone in his pocket like it was radioactive. He didn’t check Instagram. He couldn’t. If Shane had seen it, it would crack him open in public. If Shane hadn’t, it would crack him open in a different way.

Across the room, through a glass divider, another group of hockey players stood near a vending machine.

Blue and green.

Vancouver.

One of them was easy to pick out even in street clothes, posture steady like captaincy was a physical trait.

Quinn Hughes looked over.

At first, Ilya assumed it was the usual pre-game assessment—opponent recognition, the quiet measuring that happened before bodies hit ice. But Quinn’s gaze wasn’t fixed on Ilya’s face.

It was fixed slightly behind him.

Quinn’s expression changed, subtle but unmistakable. Not fear. Not surprise.

Recognition.

He straightened, shoulders pulling back like he’d just remembered something important. His eyes tracked something that wasn’t there. Then, very slowly, Quinn gave a small nod.

Not to Ilya.

To the empty space just behind Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya’s skin prickled.

He turned his head sharply, scanning the hallway behind him. There was nothing there but a stretch of tile and a nurse pushing a cart, wheels squeaking faintly.

When Ilya looked back, Quinn was staring directly at him now. His face was unreadable, but something about the way he held Ilya’s gaze made Ilya’s stomach drop.

Like Quinn knew something.

Like someone had been waiting for Ilya to show up.

And had finally been found.

Quinn Hughes had learned, early, that the quickest way to make people uneasy was to tell them the truth.

So he didn’t.

He zoned out instead. He stared through people in grocery store lines and let his face go blank during anthems and pretended he was thinking about systems or faceoff matchups or literally anything that sounded normal. It was easier to be “quiet” or “spacey” than to be the guy who said, Hey, your dead grandma is standing behind you and she’s pissed you didn’t call her.

Most of the time, it was manageable.

Ghosts weren’t constant. They came and went like bad reception—flickering, inconsistent, sometimes gone for months, sometimes clustering in places that felt heavy with memory. Arenas were the worst for it. Hospitals were a close second.

Quinn stood by the vending machines with two teammates, pretending to listen to an argument about which chip brand was superior, while his attention stayed locked on the Centaurs’ waiting area across the glass divider. On the surface, it looked like nothing: a rival star slouched in a plastic chair, arms folded, face set in that blank, controlled expression hockey players perfected young.

But Quinn wasn’t looking Rozanov.

He was looking at the woman just behind him.

She stood close, not quite touching, her posture calm and familiar like she belonged there. Dark hair pulled back simply. A soft scarf looped around her neck even indoors, like she never fully trusted warmth. Her eyes were fixed on Ilya with a focus that made Quinn’s throat tighten.

She noticed Quinn watching.

Of course she did.

Her gaze shifted to him, and it was strangely steady for someone who wasn’t alive.

Quinn swallowed, then gave the smallest nod—an old habit, an acknowledgment he didn’t think about anymore.

The woman’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a message in it anyway.

Finally.

Quinn exhaled slowly through his nose and forced his face to stay neutral. Around him, his teammate laughed at something and slapped the vending machine like it was personally responsible for their bad luck. Quinn kept his hands in his jacket pockets so they wouldn’t betray him by trembling.

He’d seen her before.

More than once.

The first time had been months ago at Rogers Arena, on a night when Vancouver was playing a team Quinn didn’t even remember now. He’d been on the bench, zoning out in the usual way between shifts, when he’d noticed a woman standing in the aisle behind the glass. She hadn’t worn Canucks colors. She hadn’t reacted to the play. She’d just watched the ice with quiet intensity, eyes tracking one player in particular like a compass needle.

At intermission, she’d been closer.

Close enough that Quinn could hear her, faintly, like a voice in the edge of his hearing.

He skates like he has the world on shoulders, she’d said in Russian-accented English, and Quinn had turned his head before he could stop himself.

There was no one there.

Except her.

She’d looked pleased he’d noticed. Not happy. Just… satisfied.

Quinn hadn’t answered out loud. He’d learned you didn’t do that unless you wanted to get escorted out of buildings by concerned adults.

But he’d thought, Who?

Her eyes had drifted toward the far end of the rink where a player in an opposing jersey had been looping through warmups.

My son, she’d replied like it was obvious.

That was when Quinn had looked down at the ice and spotted the name on the back: ROZANOV.

It hadn’t made sense, not at first. People died and… left. That was the entire point of dying. But she’d stayed in the arena long after the game ended, lingering in the stands as fans filed out, watching that one player until he disappeared down the tunnel.

Quinn had tried to ignore her the next time.

She’d shown up anyway.

Sometimes she stood behind the bench. Sometimes she appeared near the glass by the corner where players took warmups. Once, she’d been in the hallway outside the locker rooms, waiting like a parent who refused to miss a school play. Every time, her eyes followed Rozanov.

And every time, when Quinn’s attention drifted to her, she looked right back like she’d been expecting him.

He’d learned her name the third time she spoke.

Irina, she’d said, and then, with a faint edge of irritation, tell him he must eat more. He is too thin again.

Quinn had nearly choked.

He’d managed not to laugh on the bench, which deserved some kind of medal.

He never delivered that message, obviously. Quinn did have survival instincts. But Irina kept talking to him in small pieces, scattered across games like breadcrumbs: a complaint about Ilya’s stubbornness, a sharp comment about his temper, a soft note about how proud she was that he’d made it.

Then, one night, she’d said something that changed the shape of everything.

He loves the Canadian boy, Irina had murmured, eyes fixed on the ice as Rozanov chased down a puck. The one with serious eyes. The one who tries to be good even when he is afraid.

They are together, she’d added. Not for cameras. For real.

Quinn hadn’t known what to do with that information. He still didn’t. But once you saw something, you couldn’t unsee it. After that, every time Quinn watched Rozanov, he noticed the small things: the way he lit up around one Shane Hollander when their teams crossed paths, the way he went steel-hard when reporters got too close, the way his eyes searched crowds like he was always looking for him.

So Quinn kept it to himself.

That’s what you did with ghosts.

That’s what you did with secrets that weren’t yours.

Now, in a hospital waiting room with fluorescent lights and bored nurses, Irina stood behind her son like she’d been summoned by the turbulence itself. Quinn didn’t know if she’d followed the plane or if she’d been there already, waiting, but her presence felt heavier than usual—more urgent.

Irina’s gaze flicked toward Quinn again.

This time, she actually spoke.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet, clipped instruction that slid into the corner of his mind.

Tonight.

Quinn’s mouth went dry.

Across the divider, Rozanov shifted in his chair as if he’d sensed something, then stilled again. He looked exhausted—eyes a fraction too bright, posture held too tight. His arms were folded like armor.

Quinn watched him for another beat, then forced his attention away. He couldn’t stare like a creep. He couldn’t walk over there. Not here, not in this room full of people and cameras and staff.

Not yet.

His teammate asked, “You good?”

Quinn nodded. “Yeah.”

He said it like he meant it.

Ilya got cleared fast.

A nurse checked his vitals, asked about dizziness and pain, watched him roll his shoulders and flex his wrist. Minor soreness. Nothing they couldn’t ice and ignore. The team doctor looked relieved.

They filed out in groups, still jittery, still making jokes that weren’t very funny.

Ilya kept his phone in his pocket.

He could feel it there like a weight.

He didn’t want to check Instagram in a hallway full of people. He didn’t want to see “Seen” and lose his composure in public. He didn’t want to see nothing and feel the drop in his stomach all over again.

So he didn’t.

He rode the bus to the hotel with his teammates, staring out at palm trees and bright sunlight that felt incorrect after Ottawa’s gray. Florida always looked like a place pretending nothing bad could happen. The air was warm, the sky too blue, the roads clean and flat.

It didn’t change what was sitting in his chest.

At the hotel, people scattered—some to showers, some to naps, some to the team meal room. Ilya got into the elevator alone, which should have been a relief.

It wasn’t.

The quiet made everything louder.

When he reached his floor, he walked down the hallway with his bag slung over his shoulder and his jaw clenched so tight it ached. The carpet muffled his footsteps. Somewhere behind a door, someone’s TV played too loud. A laugh burst out, then cut off.

He stopped in front of his room.

His keycard shook slightly when he slid it through.

He hated that.

The room was cool, mercifully. He dropped his bag by the door and stood there for a moment, staring at the bed like it was an obstacle. Everything looked neat and anonymous—the standard hotel artwork, the perfectly arranged pillows, the curtains that never quite blocked the sun.

He pulled his phone out.

Instagram loaded slowly, as if it was taking its time on purpose.

He opened the message thread.

His last message sat there, huge and exposed on the screen. The words looked more intense in daylight, safer air, stable ground.

Delivered.

Not seen.

Ilya stared at it until his vision blurred again, then swiped his thumb hard across his eyes like he could erase what he felt. He tossed the phone onto the bed like it offended him and went into the bathroom.

The shower was too hot at first. Then too cold when he tried to adjust it. He stood under the water anyway, eyes shut, letting it hit his face until his breathing evened out. The turbulence kept replaying in his head in sharp flashes: the drop, the rattling bins, the collective gasp of a cabin full of people realizing they were powerless.

And underneath it, the other fear.

Dying mid-fight.

Dying with Shane’s last words stuck in his mouth like unfinished business.

Ilya braced his hands on the tile and let his forehead rest against the wall. For a moment, he stayed like that, water running down his neck, his shoulders, his back.

He didn’t cry.

He wanted to.

He didn’t.

When he turned the shower off, the room felt too quiet again.

He dried off, dressed in sweats, and paced once across the room before forcing himself to stop. He couldn’t burn himself out before the game. He couldn’t show up with red eyes and shaking hands. He couldn’t be the guy who fell apart when things got hard.

He’d built an entire life around not being that guy.

His phone buzzed.

Ilya froze.

He grabbed it off the bed too fast.

Instagram notification.

His throat tightened.

He opened the thread.

Seen.

The timestamp sat there like a pin.

Ilya’s hand went numb around the phone.

For a second, nothing happened. No reply. No typing bubble. Just the quiet confirmation that Shane had read it. That Shane had seen Ilya terrified and honest and unguarded.

Ilya swallowed hard.

He waited.

Nothing.

The absence hit him like another drop of turbulence. This time there was no cabin around him, no teammates, no distraction. Just the room and the sound of his own breathing.

He threw himself down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, phone clenched in both hands like a prayer he didn’t believe in. He stared at the screen until it felt like it might change out of pity.

It didn’t.

Then, finally, a typing bubble appeared.

One.

Two.

Three dots.

His heart stuttered.

The bubble vanished.

His stomach dropped.

It came back.

Then—

A message.

Shane: Ilya.
Shane: I’m sorry.
Shane: I’m so sorry.
Shane: Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.

The words came in a flood. No punctuation. Panic spilling through the screen.

Ilya stared.

He could have answered cold. He could have punished him. He could have said It’s too late, even if it wasn’t true. He could have done a lot of things that would’ve protected his pride.

Instead his fingers hovered and he realized he didn’t know how to reply to this without cracking open completely.

He typed:

Ilya: I’m fine.

He deleted it.

He typed:

Ilya: Plane scary. I am alive.

Deleted.

He dropped the phone onto the bed again and covered his face with his hands. The air in the room felt suddenly too thin.

He didn’t want to fight anymore.

He also didn’t want to be the one who always made the first move toward peace.

His phone buzzed again.

Then again.

Then a call—missed, because he hadn’t had it in his hands.

Shane didn’t stop.

Ilya stared at the ceiling and tried to decide if he was angry or relieved.

He was both.

Shane landed in Florida like he’d been thrown there.

He’d started the day in Montreal with a sick feeling he couldn’t name, the fight still sitting between them like a bruise. He’d tried to be stubborn about it. He’d tried to be principled. He’d tried to tell himself Ilya was overreacting, that they’d both said things, that it would settle if they just… cooled off.

Then he’d opened Instagram and seen the message thread.

The words were too much. Too honest. Too final.

Shane had read them with his breath caught and his hands shaking, and for a horrifying minute his brain had filled in the worst possible gaps: the turbulence, the drop, the possibility that Ilya had thought he was going to die and chose that as his last act.

He’d tried to type back.

He’d typed and deleted and typed again until his fingers went numb. He’d wanted to say everything—I love you, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’m an idiot, please don’t leave me like this—but none of it fit in a message bubble.

So he called.

Ilya didn’t answer.

That was when Shane called his mom.

Yuna’s voice had been sharp with concern, then sharper with impatience once she understood. She’d listened while Shane stumbled through it—therapy, Troy, the party, the question, the way Ilya had said I already chose you like it hurt him to breathe.

Then Yuna sighed in that way that meant Shane was about to get verbally slapped.

“You are panicking,” she said. “Breathe.”

Shane had tried.

He didn’t do it very well.

“He— he thinks he’s alone,” Shane managed. “And I— I didn’t even see it.”

Yuna went quiet for a beat, then softened just enough to make it worse. “You love him,” she said. “So go. Stop thinking. Go.”

Shane booked the next flight he could. He didn’t pack properly. He didn’t eat. He barely remembered getting through the airport. His whole body felt like it was moving on instinct, like if he paused he might collapse.

By the time he reached Ilya’s hotel, his hands were shaking so badly he had to try his keycard twice at the elevator.

When he got to Ilya’s floor, he didn’t bother with subtlety.

He found the room number and knocked hard.

Again.

Again.

He could hear movement inside and it made his throat close.

The door opened.

Ilya stood there in sweats, hair still damp from the shower, face blank in that way that meant he was holding himself together by force. His eyes were bright, but his posture was rigid, like he was bracing for impact.

Shane’s chest caved in with relief so sharp it hurt.

He didn’t say hello.

He didn’t say anything clever.

He just started talking, words falling out too fast.

“I’m sorry,” Shane blurted. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— I shouldn’t have asked you that. I shouldn’t have— I didn’t understand. I didn’t see it, I didn’t—”

Ilya stared at him like he couldn’t quite believe Shane was real.

Shane’s eyes burned. He wiped at them with the heel of his hand and made it worse.

“I saw your messages,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought— I thought you were going to— and I couldn’t— I couldn’t just sit there. I couldn’t not come.”

Ilya’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on something sharp.

“You… flew,” Ilya said, the words quiet and incredulous.

Shane nodded hard. “Yes.”

Ilya’s eyes flicked away for half a second, then back. “For what?”

Shane swallowed. “For you.”

The silence that followed was brutal.

Shane could hear the hum of the hallway lights. The distant elevator ding. His own heartbeat trying to climb out of his throat. Ilya didn’t move, didn’t step back, didn’t invite him in.

Shane stayed exactly where he was, because he’d learned the hard way that pushing Ilya when he was raw only made him sharper.

“I was wrong,” Shane said finally, slower now, forcing himself to breathe. “I was scared and I got defensive and I made it about me. And I didn’t listen to what you were actually saying.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What was I saying?”

Shane’s chest tightened. “That you feel alone.”

Ilya flinched, just barely.

It wasn’t big. It was a tiny crack in the armor.

Shane saw it anyway.

“I hate that I made you feel like that,” Shane said. His voice came out rougher than he wanted. “I hate that I didn’t notice. And I hate that you thought you couldn’t tell me.”

Ilya’s mouth twisted like he was about to say something sharp. Then he didn’t.

He stepped back a fraction, not quite an invitation, but not a refusal either.

Shane took it.

He moved into the room carefully, like he was entering a space that might collapse if he stomped too hard. The door clicked shut behind him and suddenly there was nowhere to retreat to, which was either a relief or a problem.

Shane’s eyes flicked over Ilya’s face. “Are you okay?” he asked again, quieter. “The plane—”

“I am alive,” Ilya said, flat.

Shane’s breath hitched. “Jesus.”

Ilya looked away, then back, and the control in his expression wavered. “I thought maybe I will die,” he said, like it was an inconvenience. Like it hadn’t been the most terrifying thing he’d felt in years.

Shane’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He didn’t touch Ilya. Not yet.

“I’m here,” Shane said.

Ilya laughed once, humorless. “Yes. You are here now.”

“I should have been here before,” Shane said, and his voice cracked on the last word. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, breathing hard like he’d been sprinting. “I didn’t know about therapy. I didn’t know you were talking to someone. I didn’t know you felt—”

“Stop,” Ilya said, sudden and sharp, and Shane froze.

Ilya’s eyes were glossy. His throat worked like he was swallowing something that hurt. “Do not make list,” he said, quieter now. “I already know.”

Shane swallowed hard. “Okay.”

Ilya stared at him for a long beat, like he was measuring whether this was safe. Whether Shane would flinch away if Ilya actually said what he felt.

“I was angry,” Ilya said finally. “I am still angry.”

Shane nodded. “I know.”

“I did not want to tell you about Troy,” Ilya continued, voice low. “I wanted to. But I did not want—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I did not want you to look at me like problem.”

Shane’s chest tightened. “I didn’t—”

“I know,” Ilya cut in, and the quickness of it startled them both. “But you did anyway. A little.”

Shane shut his mouth.

He deserved that.

“I was proud,” Ilya said, and the admission was quiet enough to almost disappear. “I told someone. It felt… good. For two minutes.”

Shane’s eyes burned again. He blinked hard. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya’s gaze snapped back to him. “For what?”

“For making it smaller,” Shane said. “For making you feel like you had to ask permission to exist outside of me.”

Ilya went still.

Shane took a breath, forcing himself not to rush. “I was scared,” he said. “When you said you told Troy, my first thought was… what if it gets back to someone. What if it gets back to the wrong person. What if it blows up and hurts you and I can’t stop it.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “You think you can stop everything?”

“No,” Shane admitted. “But I try. And I know it’s not fair to put that on you.”

Ilya stared for another long beat.

Then he looked down, like he couldn’t stand seeing Shane’s face while he said the next part.

“I do not like feeling alone,” Ilya said, voice flat but shaking underneath. “I do not like that you have everyone and I have… you. Only you.”

Shane’s throat closed.

“I love you,” Shane said, simple, because he couldn’t find a better sentence. “And I don’t want you to have only me. That’s not love. That’s… pressure.”

Ilya’s eyes lifted sharply. “You do not want to be my everything?”

“I want to be your partner,” Shane said. His voice was steady now, despite the tears threatening. “I want you to have people. I want you to feel safe. I want you to have a life that doesn’t fall apart if I have a bad day.”

Ilya’s breathing hitched.

Shane took one careful step closer. He didn’t reach out yet. He waited.

Ilya didn’t step back.

That was the permission Shane needed.

He lifted his hands slowly, like he was approaching an animal that had been hurt, and cupped Ilya’s face gently. Ilya flinched at the touch for half a second, then leaned into it like he’d been starving.

Shane pressed his forehead to Ilya’s.

“I’m sorry,” Shane whispered. “I’m sorry I asked you if you’d choose me. I’m sorry I couldn’t hear what you were actually saying. You already chose me. I know you did.”

Ilya’s breath shuddered. “You did not know,” he said, and it sounded like grief.

Shane swallowed hard. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

Ilya’s hands came up and grabbed Shane’s wrists—not pushing him away, just holding on, anchoring. His eyes squeezed shut for a second like he was fighting something inside himself.

“I do not want to fight with you,” Ilya said, voice rough. “I hate it.”

“I hate it too,” Shane whispered. “I don’t want it to be like that. I don’t want us to be… sharp all the time.”

Ilya let out a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so broken. “We are very sharp.”

Shane’s mouth trembled. “Yeah.”

They stood like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing syncing without either of them meaning to. The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but it shifted. It stopped feeling like a weapon and started feeling like something they could hold carefully without bleeding.

Shane’s voice came out softer. “I looked at your Instagram,” he admitted.

Ilya’s eyes opened. “You never look.”

“I know,” Shane said, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and something like guilt. “I didn’t realize you… I didn’t realize how much of it was about me. Until I actually looked.”

Ilya’s expression tightened, like he didn’t want to be seen that clearly.

Shane’s thumbs stroked once at Ilya’s cheekbones, grounding. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you were the only one choosing,” he said. “I choose you too. I just— I got scared. And I got stuck.”

Ilya stared at him, eyes wet now. “Say it again.”

Shane’s breath caught. “I choose you.”

Ilya’s throat worked. His hands tightened around Shane’s wrists like he was afraid Shane might vanish.

Then, from somewhere deep in the hallway—

A knock.

Three sharp raps on the door.

Shane froze first, startled, as if the sound broke a spell.

Ilya didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on Shane for a beat longer, like he was refusing to let go of the moment even as the world tried to interrupt.

The knock came again.

Ilya exhaled, slow and controlled.

He released Shane’s wrists reluctantly and turned toward the door.

Shane stepped back half a pace, wiping at his face quickly, trying to look like a person who wasn’t actively falling apart in a rival hotel room. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Ilya opened the door.

Quinn Hughes stood there.

He looked calm in the way people looked right before they said something insane. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were focused—sharp, like he’d made a decision and was committed to it.

Quinn’s gaze flicked briefly past Ilya’s shoulder.

Not at Shane.

At empty space.

Then he looked back at Ilya and said, very quietly, “I need to tell you something.”

Ilya’s stomach dropped.

Shane’s breath hitched behind him.

And in the sudden stillness of the room, it felt—just for a second—like the air warmed.

Like someone had stepped closer.

Quinn Hughes looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.

Not in the obvious way—he wasn’t fidgeting or glancing down the hall like he was worried about being seen. It was subtler than that. His posture was steady, shoulders squared like he’d committed to this, but his eyes kept flicking past Ilya’s shoulder again and again, like he was tracking something the rest of them couldn’t see.

Ilya didn’t move aside immediately.

He should have. It was a hotel hallway. It was a rival captain at his door. It was suspicious on principle.

But Shane was behind him, close enough that Ilya could feel the heat of him, and the air in the room still felt changed—warm in a way that didn’t match the AC. Ilya had learned to trust small shifts in the world when his body reacted before his brain could explain it.

“What,” Ilya said, flat. “Are you doing here Quinn.”

Quinn’s gaze finally landed on him fully. “I know this sounds insane.”

“Then don’t say it,” Ilya replied automatically.

Behind him, Shane let out a small, shaky breath. Ilya could hear it, could feel the tension in the space between them tighten again, like a muscle anticipating pain.

Quinn hesitated. Then he stepped forward just enough that his voice could drop without being swallowed by the hallway.

“I can see ghosts.”

Ilya stared.

The words hit him wrong. Like a mistranslation. Like Quinn had meant something else and the sentence had been garbled on the way out.

Ilya blinked once. “No.”

Quinn didn’t flinch. He looked painfully earnest, which was almost worse. “Yes.”

Ilya felt Shane shift behind him, the weight of his attention sharpening. Shane’s hand hovered near Ilya’s elbow like he wanted to touch but wasn’t sure if he should.

Ilya’s throat tightened. “You are messing with me.”

“I’m not,” Quinn said. “I’m not trying to—” He stopped and swallowed, as if the next part tasted bad. “She’s here.”

Ilya’s stomach dropped. “Who.”

Quinn’s eyes flicked past Ilya’s shoulder again, more deliberate this time, like he was looking at a person standing in the room. Then he looked back at Ilya, and his voice went quieter.

“Your mom.”

Shane made a small sound behind Ilya—half inhale, half choke. Ilya didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to see nothing and feel stupid. He didn’t want to see something and feel worse.

The muscles in Ilya’s jaw locked hard enough to ache.

“My mother is dead,” Ilya said.

Quinn nodded once. “Yeah.”

Ilya’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “So she can’t be here.”

Quinn didn’t argue. He just stood there, steady, like he’d already accepted that this would be hard. “I’ve seen her at games,” he said. “More than once.”

Ilya stared at him with narrowed eyes. “At games.”

Quinn’s mouth pressed into a line. “She shows up when Vancouver plays you. She watches you. She—” His eyes flicked away like he didn’t enjoy saying this out loud. “She talks to me sometimes.”

The room felt too small again. Not like the plane, but like the air had thickened in a different way—heavy with attention.

Ilya let out a short laugh that didn’t sound like humor. “This is… bullshit.”

Quinn’s gaze held. “I get that.”

Ilya shook his head once, sharp. “No. I don’t— I don’t believe you. This is not—” He stopped because his voice had pitched wrong on the last word. Thin. Uneven.

Shane stepped closer behind him. “Ilya.”

Ilya didn’t look back. “Not now.”

Quinn stayed still. He didn’t push forward. He didn’t try to force belief like it was a penalty kill assignment. He just stood there, eyes steady, waiting.

Then Quinn’s gaze shifted again, past Ilya’s shoulder, and his expression changed slightly. The smallest tightening around his eyes, like he was listening.

He swallowed. “She’s… mad at you.”

Ilya’s breath caught. “Of course she is.”

Shane made a broken little laugh behind him. It wasn’t funny. It was shock, disbelief, the kind of sound you made when the world got unreal too fast.

Quinn’s eyes flicked again. “She says… you always make everything harder than it needs to be.”

Ilya’s throat tightened so sharply it hurt.

That wasn’t proof.

But it sounded like her.

He hated that it sounded like her.

He swallowed hard. “Stop.”

Quinn hesitated. “She asked me to come. Tonight. After the hospital. She—” He paused, then tried again like he was choosing words carefully. “She’s been waiting for you to… listen. And you weren’t.”

Ilya’s chest went tight. Anger rose like a shield. “My mother is not haunting hockey games,” he snapped. “This is crazy.”

Quinn’s face didn’t change. “I know how it sounds.”

“Then why would you do it,” Ilya demanded, voice sharp. “Why come here.”

Quinn’s gaze flicked past Ilya’s shoulder again and his mouth tightened like he’d been told something he didn’t want to repeat.

“Because she said if I didn’t, she’d find someone else,” Quinn said. “And she said they’d probably do a worse job.”

Shane let out a soft, stunned sound. “Oh my God.”

Ilya’s pulse hammered. “You’re serious.”

Quinn’s expression was flat with sincerity. “Yeah.”

Ilya stared at him. He wanted to slam the door. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to throw something. Mostly, he wanted to rewind his life back to ten minutes ago when Shane was in his room and they were trying to fix this like normal people.

He didn’t have that option.

Ilya stepped back from the doorway, not fully inviting Quinn in, but not blocking him either. His body moved on instinct, like part of him had already decided this mattered. Quinn took the opening and stepped inside with careful restraint, as if he understood he was entering a fragile space.

The door clicked shut.

For a second, the three of them stood in a triangle of silence.

Quinn looked at Shane then, really looked, and something in his expression softened a fraction. Not warmth, exactly. More like understanding.

Then Quinn’s gaze flicked to the empty space near the dresser, and he went still again.

Ilya followed the movement without thinking. His eyes tracked to the exact spot.

There was nothing.

He felt stupid for even looking.

Shane’s hand touched Ilya’s forearm—light, tentative, grounding him. Ilya didn’t pull away.

Quinn’s eyes flicked past Ilya’s shoulder again, then settled, like he’d found the right frequency. He swallowed once, slow, and when he spoke his voice had a careful steadiness to it, like he was reading something fragile that couldn’t be handled roughly.

“She says you won’t believe me unless she gives you something real,” Quinn said. “Something only you would know.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. He didn’t nod, but he didn’t tell Quinn to leave either.

Quinn listened again and then said, “She says you cried over your first hockey stick because it was too big and you didn’t want anyone to cut it down.”

Ilya went very still.

The room didn’t change, not visibly, but something in him did. He could feel the shift like a muscle unclenching and snapping tight again. Shame rose first—hot and immediate—because that memory wasn’t supposed to belong to anyone else. It was small and childish and tender in a way he didn’t let people see.

Quinn didn’t rush. “She says you sat on the kitchen floor with it,” he continued, gaze still fixed on the empty space beside the dresser, “and you refused to let your father touch it. You wanted to be big enough for it already.”

Ilya’s breath caught. His hands started to shake. He curled his fingers into fists, like he could physically hold the memory inside his palms.

Shane’s hand found his forearm again, gentle and grounding. He didn’t speak. He just stayed.

Quinn’s voice dropped lower. “She says you hid it under your bed after they cut it anyway,” he said. “And you used it until the tape fell off, and you wouldn’t let anyone replace it.”

Ilya swallowed hard, throat working painfully. He stared at Quinn like he could force this to be a joke by refusing to react.

It wasn’t a joke.

Quinn’s eyes flicked once more, listening. His expression shifted—subtly, but enough that Shane noticed. The set of Quinn’s mouth tightened like what he’d been given next hurt to say out loud.

“She says,” Quinn began, then paused like he was choosing the least damaging version of the truth. “She says you were twelve.”

Ilya’s chest constricted so sharply it felt like he couldn’t expand his lungs.

Shane’s grip tightened, just slightly.

Quinn kept his eyes on that empty space, like he couldn’t look at Ilya while he delivered it. “That you found her,” he said quietly.

The room went silent in a way that made the air feel thin.

Ilya didn’t move. Not a flinch. Not a blink. Like his body had learned, a long time ago, how to freeze completely when something unbearable entered the room.

Quinn swallowed again. “She says she’s sorry.”

Ilya’s breath shuddered out of him, ugly and involuntary.

“She says,” Quinn continued, voice careful, “she’s sorry you were the one who walked in. She’s sorry you saw what you saw. She’s sorry you had to be older than you were.”

Ilya made a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been full of pain. He covered his mouth with his hand like he could keep the sound inside.

Shane stepped closer, shoulder to shoulder now, the heat of him solid and real. He didn’t try to pull Ilya into an embrace yet. He just made sure Ilya could feel him there.

Quinn listened, then said, “She says you have been carrying it like it was your job.”

Ilya’s eyes burned. He blinked hard, but it didn’t stop the tears.

“She says it wasn’t,” Quinn added, and his voice broke just slightly on the last word before he recovered. “You were a child. Her child.”

Ilya’s knees went weak. He didn’t fall because Shane’s hand slid to the back of his neck and held him upright like a promise.

Quinn’s gaze lifted—still not to Ilya, but to the place where Irina stood—and he nodded once like he was confirming he’d heard right. Then he spoke again, slower, like he was trying to keep the words intact.

“She says: I am sorry I left you with that,” Quinn said. “She says: I am sorry you thought it meant you weren’t enough.”

Ilya shook his head once, small and frantic, like the denial was instinct.

Quinn didn’t stop. “She knows you think if you’d been better—quieter—easier—she wouldn’t have done it,” he said. “That isn’t true.”

Ilya’s breath hitched. His hands fisted in the fabric of his own sweatshirt, knuckles white.

Shane finally pulled him in, slow and careful, arms wrapping around him like he was holding something breakable. Ilya resisted for half a second out of pure reflex—then collapsed into Shane’s chest like he’d been waiting years to do it.

Quinn looked away, giving them a sliver of privacy without leaving. He stayed because there was still more to carry across.

“She says,” Quinn went on quietly, “that she was sick. But not because of you.”

Ilya let out a sound into Shane’s shoulder, muffled and wrecked. Shane’s hands tightened on him, one at the back of his neck, one at his waist, holding him steady through the worst part.

Quinn’s voice softened. “She hates that your life became a sentence,” he said. “Like you had to pay for it forever.”

Ilya pulled back just enough to look at Quinn, eyes red, face wet, expression devastated and furious all at once. “Why,” he rasped. “Why now.”

Quinn listened again, then answered simply. “She says you’re finally letting someone close enough to see it,” he said.

Ilya froze.

Shane’s face went tight with emotion. He didn’t look away.

Quinn’s gaze flicked toward Shane for a brief second, then back to Irina’s position. “She says she’s sorry she can’t tell you this herself,” he said. “But she wants you to hear it anyway.”

Ilya swallowed. His voice came out barely audible. “Tell her… tell her I—”

The sentence broke.

Quinn’s eyes flicked again, and he nodded like he understood without needing the words.

“She says,” Quinn continued, “that she loves you. She loved you when you were twelve and standing in a doorway you never should’ve had to stand in.” He paused, then added, “And she loves you now.”

Ilya squeezed his eyes shut. Tears slid down his face and he didn’t wipe them. He couldn’t spare the effort for pride.

Quinn took one more breath, like he was bracing himself for the final line. “She says: you do not have to punish yourself by being alone,” he said. “Let him stay.”

Shane’s arms tightened around Ilya as if the words had been addressed to him too.

Ilya’s voice came out small, wrecked. “I don’t know how.”

Quinn’s gaze flicked, and for the first time his expression softened into something almost kind. “She says you learn,” he said. “One day at a time.”

The air in the room felt warm again for a brief moment—present, close—like someone had stepped forward and then stepped back.

Quinn nodded once at the empty space, then looked at Ilya. “That’s all,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya swallowed hard, chest heaving, still held by Shane. After a beat, he managed, “Thank you.”

Quinn nodded, turned, and left without making it a bigger thing than it already was. The door clicked shut gently behind him.

Shane didn’t let go.

Ilya didn’t try to pretend he was fine.

For once, he just stood there, shaking in Shane’s arms, and let the apology land where it needed to.

Shane didn’t let go.

Ilya didn’t try to pretend he was fine.

For once, he just stood there, shaking in Shane’s arms, and let the apology land where it needed to.

For a minute, neither of them moved. The room felt too quiet after Quinn’s voice, like the air was still waiting for something else to happen. Ilya’s breathing hitched and caught, like his body didn’t know how to settle back into normal after being dragged into the past.

Shane’s hand stayed at the back of his neck, steady. The other arm was wrapped tight around his waist, anchoring him in place. Ilya could feel Shane’s heartbeat through the hoodie, fast and uneven.

“Ilya,” Shane said softly.

Ilya made a sound that wasn’t a word. His throat closed up again.

Shane didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to steer him into anything. He just held him and waited, like he’d finally understood that some things couldn’t be fixed by talking faster.

Ilya pulled back half an inch, just enough to breathe. His face was wet. He wiped at it once with the heel of his hand and immediately hated the way his fingers shook.

“I hate this,” he said.

Shane nodded once. “I know.”

Ilya swallowed hard. “I hate that he heard.”

“Quinn?” Shane’s voice was careful.

Ilya shook his head, sharp. “No. Him.” His eyes squeezed shut for a second. “Me. I hate that I—” He stopped because the next part wouldn’t come out clean.

Shane’s grip tightened. “You don’t have to say it perfectly.”

Ilya let out a broken laugh that turned into a sob before he could catch it. It startled him, the sound of it, like it came from somewhere he didn’t have access to most days. His whole body betrayed him at once, shoulders shaking, breath punching out in uneven bursts.

Shane pulled him in again immediately, tighter, face pressed into the side of Ilya’s head. His hand slid up and down Ilya’s back in slow, steady strokes. He didn’t hush him. He didn’t tell him to breathe. He just stayed.

Ilya clutched at Shane’s hoodie like he needed proof Shane was real.

“I was twelve,” he managed, voice wrecked. The words didn’t feel new, but saying them out loud in this room, with Shane’s arms around him, made them sharper.

Shane’s breath caught. “I know,” he whispered.

Ilya shook his head against Shane’s shoulder. “No. You don’t.” His hands tightened. “You didn’t— you weren’t—” He choked on it, on the image that rose up anyway, on the memory that never asked permission.

Shane didn’t flinch.

He just held on like he could keep Ilya from slipping back into that doorway.

Ilya tried to inhale and it came out wrong, too fast. He squeezed his eyes shut harder, furious at the tears. They kept coming anyway.

“I thought it was my fault,” he said, the sentence dragging itself out of him like it had teeth. “For long time.” He swallowed. “I still— sometimes.”

Shane’s hand moved to the back of his neck again, thumb pressing there once like a grounding point. “It wasn’t,” Shane said, voice low and firm. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.”

Ilya made a small sound, like disagreement and relief fighting in the same space.

Shane pulled back just enough to look at him. His own eyes were glossy. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Ilya stared at him like he didn’t know what to do with that. Like the idea was too big to hold without dropping it.

“I don’t know how,” Ilya whispered.

“I know,” Shane said. “We’ll figure it out.” He brushed his thumb under Ilya’s eye, wiping a tear away with a gentleness that made Ilya’s chest ache. “You don’t have to be good at it tonight. You just have to let me stay.”

Ilya nodded once.

It didn’t feel like agreement. It felt like surrender.

Shane’s forehead pressed to Ilya’s for a second, a quiet pause in the middle of everything. “I’m sorry,” Shane said again, voice rough.

Ilya shook his head. “Not that,” he said, and the words came out sharper than he meant. He tried again, softer. “Not… now. Not about her.” He swallowed hard. “Just— stay.”

Shane nodded. “Okay.”

He guided Ilya backward a step at a time, slow, careful, like he was moving someone who’d been hit. Ilya let himself be moved. His legs felt heavy, like the crying had drained something essential out of him.

They ended up on the edge of the bed without either of them consciously deciding. Shane sat first and pulled Ilya down with him, arm around his waist. Ilya leaned into Shane immediately, face tucked into his shoulder like he couldn’t handle looking at the room.

Shane’s hand stayed on his back, tracing the same small path over and over.

Minutes passed like that. The room stayed quiet except for Ilya’s uneven breathing and the soft rustle of fabric. Every so often, Ilya shuddered, another wave hitting him, and Shane just tightened his hold and waited it out with him.

Eventually, Ilya’s breathing slowed.

He lifted his head a little, eyes swollen and red. He looked exhausted, like he’d played another full game after the game.

Shane’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you want the lights off?”

Ilya nodded once.

Shane leaned over and flicked them off, then settled back in without letting Ilya drift away. The dark softened the edges of everything. It made it easier to exist.

Ilya stared into the dim for a long beat. “She said… she’s sorry,” he whispered.

Shane’s arm tightened around him. “Yeah.”

Ilya’s throat worked. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it tonight,” Shane said. “Just let it be true.”

Ilya blinked hard. Fresh tears slid down, quieter this time. He didn’t wipe them away.

Shane kissed his temple, once, and stayed there. “I’m here,” he murmured.

Ilya’s voice came out small. “Don’t leave.”

Shane’s breath hitched. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Ilya nodded like he was trying to make himself believe it.

They shifted under the covers without much coordination, Shane still holding him, Ilya still clinging like he didn’t trust the ground to stay under him. When they finally settled, Ilya’s head rested against Shane’s chest, and Shane’s hand stayed splayed over his back like a promise with weight.

Ilya’s eyes fluttered closed.

His last words were barely audible. “Stay.”

Shane’s reply was immediate, certain. “Always.”

Morning comes too bright.

Florida sunlight doesn’t creep in politely the way winter light in Ottawa does. It barges through the curtains like it owns the room, turning everything sharp and exposed. Ilya wakes up already tense, like his body spent the night bracing for impact instead of resting.

Shane is still there.

That’s the first thing Ilya registers—warmth at his side, a steady presence, an arm draped across his waist like it belongs. Shane’s face is turned toward him, eyes closed, mouth relaxed in a way Ilya rarely gets to see. For a moment, Ilya just watches him breathe and lets the quiet settle.

He doesn’t think about the game yet.

He doesn’t think about cameras or headlines or consequences. He thinks about the word Shane said last night and the way it felt like a promise instead of a plea.

Stay.

Ilya shifts carefully, trying not to wake him, and fails immediately because Shane has always been annoyingly sensitive to movement. Shane’s eyes blink open, unfocused for a second, then lock onto Ilya like he’s checking he’s real.

“You okay?” Shane asks.

Ilya nods once. His throat is tight, but it’s not panic-tight. It’s the aftershock of honesty.

Shane’s hand slides up to Ilya’s cheek, gentle. “I’m not leaving,” Shane says quietly, like he has to say it out loud or the universe might misunderstand.

Ilya huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I know.”

They don’t talk about last night in detail. Not yet. They don’t reopen every wound and pick at it until it bleeds again. They lie there for a few minutes, letting their bodies remember what it feels like to be close without fighting.

Then reality shows up anyway.

A text from team staff. A schedule reminder. A knock in the hallway from someone’s room. The day doesn’t care that they had a moment; it keeps moving.

Ilya sits up and rubs a hand over his face. “I have game.”

“I know,” Shane says. He sits up too, hair sticking up in the back, eyes still soft. “I’ll be there.”

Ilya looks at him sharply. “You don’t have to.”

Shane doesn’t flinch. “I want to.”

That’s new.

Not the wanting—the saying it without apology.

Ilya stares for a beat longer than necessary, then nods once like he can make it casual if he moves fast enough. He stands and starts gathering his things, partly because he needs to do something with his hands.

Shane watches him for a minute, then says, “I have an idea.”

Ilya pauses. “This is dangerous sentence.”

Shane’s mouth twitches. “Just… trust me.”

Ilya makes a skeptical sound, but he doesn’t say no.

Shane makes the sign in the hotel room like he’s defusing a bomb.

He doesn’t have poster board, not really, so he uses what he can scavenge: thick paper from a hotel notepad, a cardboard backing from something in a gift shop, tape that’s definitely not meant for arts and crafts. The marker bleeds slightly. The heart comes out a little lopsided because his hand won’t stop shaking.

He stares at the words when he’s done.

I ❤️ ILYA ROZANOV

It looks ridiculous.

It looks obvious.

It looks like the opposite of every rule Shane has lived by for years.

He sits back on his heels and swallows hard, because this is the point. This is the choice. This is him refusing to keep loving Ilya in a way that makes Ilya feel alone.

When Ilya comes out of the bathroom in team gear, hair damp, face composed, Shane holds the sign up without saying anything.

Ilya stops mid-step.

He just stares.

His expression does something small and dangerous—softens. Exposes. He looks like he wants to argue and can’t find the words.

“You can’t—” Ilya starts.

Shane cuts him off gently. “I can.”

Ilya’s jaw tightens. “It will be… problem.”

Shane nods once, calm in a way he didn’t feel yesterday. “Maybe. But I’m tired of you thinking I’m the only one allowed to be brave.”

Ilya’s eyes flicker. He looks away for a second, then back.

“Okay,” he says, very quiet.

Shane’s chest aches at how much is packed into one word.

The arena is loud in that particular pregame way, the noise that builds before anything even happens. Warmups blur into a familiar rhythm: the snap of passes, skates cutting ice, the sting of cold air. Ilya locks into his routine because routine is how he survives.

Tape. Stretch. Helmet. Breath.

He doesn’t look for Shane at first.

He tells himself it’s because he needs focus. That’s true. It’s also fear. The kind that doesn’t have logic, just history.

When he finally does glance up during a pause, he doesn’t see him right away. Too many people. Too much movement. Bright boards and flashing screens and a crowd dressed in blue and green.

Then he catches it—a familiar posture near the tunnel, shoulders square, chin lifted like he’s forcing himself not to shrink.

Shane.

And in his hands, held high without flinching:

I ❤️ ILYA ROZANOV

Ilya’s breath catches hard.

His skates stutter for half a second. He recovers fast enough that no one would clock it unless they were watching him closely, but his heart doesn’t recover at all. It slams once against his ribs, heavy and stunned.

He looks away because he has to.

He looks back because he can’t help it.

Shane doesn’t lower the sign. He doesn’t hide behind it. He just holds it like a statement.

Ilya feels something inside him loosen.

Not everything. Not all the fear. But enough.

The game is a grind.

Vancouver doesn’t make it easy. They never do. It’s tight through the first, tighter through the second, bodies colliding with the boards and tempers snapping at the edges. Ilya plays with a kind of controlled intensity that feels different than anger. He isn’t trying to prove anything. He isn’t trying to punish himself.

He’s just playing.

When the puck finally goes in late in the third—when the Centaurs pull ahead for good—the bench explodes. Gloves fly, sticks clatter, guys crashing into each other in relief and adrenaline. Ilya gets hauled into a hug hard enough to make his helmet tilt.

The horn sounds.

The building erupts.

Ilya laughs, breathless, and it feels real.

He peels out of the pile almost immediately, eyes lifting toward the stands like his body already knows where to look. He finds Shane at once this time.

The sign is still there.

Shane is crying openly now, not even pretending otherwise. His mouth is open like he’s laughing and sobbing at the same time. He looks wrecked and fearless.

Ilya skates straight to the boards beneath him and stops hard, ice spraying. He points his stick toward the opening where arena staff are already waving families down.

“Come here,” Ilya says.

Shane hesitates for half a second, then hands the sign to someone nearby without looking away. He climbs down awkwardly—shoes on, no skates, absolute chaos waiting to happen—and nearly slips the moment he steps onto the ice.

Ilya catches his wrist automatically and steadies him.

Shane exhales shakily. “Hi.”

Ilya doesn’t answer with words.

He grabs Shane by the front of his hoodie and kisses him.

It’s not careful. It’s not hidden. It’s a kiss that doesn’t leave room for interpretation. Shane makes a small sound against Ilya’s mouth, hands flying up to grip his shoulders like he needs something solid to hold onto.

The crowd roars louder, a delayed wave of realization. Phones tilt. People point. Someone whistles like they’re at a concert.

Ilya pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead hovering close.

Shane’s eyes are wet and bright. “You’re insane,” he says, breathless.

“I know,” Ilya says.

He turns his head slightly, smirking toward the nearest cluster of teammates, and says loud enough for them to hear, “Scott cannot have all the fun.”

There’s a beat—then the bench loses its mind.

Someone yells, “ROZANOV!” like it’s both a cheer and a scolding. Someone else whoops so loudly it echoes. A teammate skates past and smacks Ilya’s shoulder as if to say finally without saying it.

Shane laughs, wet and disbelieving, and it’s the best sound Ilya has heard in weeks.

Ilya feels Quinn before he sees him.

Not supernatural. Not dramatic. Just that odd hush that happens when your attention gets pulled by something you don’t expect. He lifts his head from Shane’s shoulder and looks to his left.

Quinn Hughes is skating toward them through the chaos, helmet still on. He doesn’t look smug. He doesn’t look curious. He looks like someone who promised to do something and is doing it.

Quinn stops a few feet away, not crowding. His gaze flicks past Ilya’s shoulder briefly—deliberate—then returns to Ilya’s face.

Ilya’s stomach flips.

Shane’s hand tightens around his fingers.

Quinn’s voice is quiet, meant for Ilya more than anyone else. “She’s here.”

Ilya swallows hard. He doesn’t ask who.

Quinn’s mouth tightens like he’s listening, then he nods once, small and final.

“She says she’s proud of you,” Quinn says.

Ilya’s throat tightens. He keeps his face steady with effort.

Quinn continues without lingering, keeping it clean, like he knows this isn’t the moment for a long speech. “Seeing you happy is all she ever wanted,” he adds. His eyes flick once more, then soften just a fraction.

“She says she’ll miss you,” Quinn says, voice steady, “but it’s time.”

Ilya’s breath catches.

Quinn nods again, like he’s confirming the last line, then delivers it simply.

“She says: go and live.”

The words land like permission.

Not to forget. Not to erase. Just… to stop holding his breath.

Ilya blinks hard. His eyes burn. He lets out a wet laugh that breaks into something warm.

“That… sounds like her,” he manages.

Quinn’s mouth twitches—almost a smile, then gone. He gives a small nod, like job done, and skates away into the postgame chaos without making it bigger than it needs to be.

Ilya watches him go for a second, then looks down at Shane.

Shane’s eyes are glossy, his face open in a way that would’ve terrified him a week ago. “Are you okay?” Shane whispers.

Ilya nods once. His voice comes out thick. “I am… better.”

Shane presses his forehead to Ilya’s, careful, like he’s holding something sacred. “I’m here,” he says.

“I know,” Ilya says, and this time he doesn’t say it like a challenge. He says it like relief.

He kisses Shane again—slower, softer—while the arena noise swallows them whole.

The cameras can have it.

The world can talk.

And Ilya—still shaking, still wrecked, still not fully believing he’s allowed—keeps his hand in Shane’s as the noise rises again and the night moves forward, because for once he isn’t bracing for what comes next.

He’s choosing it.

He’s living.

Right here. On the ice. Where everyone can see.