Archive of Our Own ^beta

Truth be told, Ilya had been a mess the entire game, missing shots he should've been making in his sleep and taking hits he'd normally see coming with his eyes closed. Shane had the game playing on their hotel TV last night and even Hayden could spot something was wrong. Neither of them were surprised when it ended with a 2-4 win for Washington

"What the fuck's wrong with Rozanov, his Valentines dump him or something," Hayden quipped, the casual cruelty killing him inside a little. Despite listening to it for nearing a decade, hearing his teammates insult and degrade Ilya was wearing increasingly thin. He hated the way it rolled so easily off their tongues, and it made his skin crawl knowing that, deep down, they thought they were doing it for his benefit. To choose a side in their oh so famous rivalry.

"His dad died last year," Shane mumbled—only half expecting Hayden to hear.

Hayden turned to look at him from the other bed, "What'd you say?"

"His dad died, about this time last year," he repeated. Tomorrow. Ilya's dad died a year ago tomorrow.

Hayden slumped against the headboard, "Shit," he winced, his brief grimace betraying his guilt. Good, Shane couldn't help but think.

"Yeah."

Hayden side-eyed him from across the room,"How'd you even remember that?" he said with a squint.

Shane had shrugged, resisting the urge to look towards his best friend out of fear of what it might confirm. Sometimes he wondered what Hayden might have—or at least be starting to—put together. He'd certainly long clocked 'Boston Lilly', so had most of the team, and maybe the other guys could put his secrecy down to an exaggerated sense of privacy, but Hayden was his best friend. His kids called him Uncle Shane for Christ sake! Surely, he'd eventually start to wonder if there was something bigger to be discovered.

But he didn't have time to think about that now. All he could think about was the fact it had been nearly three hours and Ilya still hadn't replied. They'd seen each other for the All Star game a couple of weeks ago and Shane had avoided bringing up the anniversary. Mostly because, as Ilya had pointed out, the All Star game was more or less their anniversary too. Or one of them anyway. Ilya had spent the whole weekend with a smile on his face and Shane couldn't bring himself to crush that by bringing up his dead dad.

He knew Boston weren't playing today. A fact he'd been glad for last night. Only now, he'd give anything to know he could to turn on his crappy hotel TV in a few hours and see Ilya play some of the worst hockey of his career. At least then he'd know he wasn't rotting away at home, that someone would notice if he wasn't where he was supposed to be.

Before he could overthink it, he stepped out of his and Hayden's hotel room and slipped into a quiet corner of the all but abandoned stairwell.

When Shane had called, Yuna hadn't expected to be landing in Boston five or so hours later. When it came to Ilya, Shane could still be painfully shy at times. As if his brain hadn't caught up with the fact he was allowed to talk about him. For him to call her in a panic, it must've been bad. If helping meant digging her passport out then so be it. 

The air outside the terminal was frigid despite the mid-afternoon sun and she was happy to get into her rental car and plug in the address Shane had sent over. Was it bad that she hadn't had it saved anywhere before this? Should she have been less cautious about building up a relationship with him? It wasn't as though she didn't like him, quite the opposite. The love he had for her son poured out of him like a wellspring, and at first, she was hopeful they'd be able to get to know each other after the initial awkwardness had worn off.

However, finding out exactly how Ilya had lost his own mother made her pause. Particularly since it was Shane, rather than Ilya, who had let it slip in a moment of stress over Christmas. So, not only did it feel like she'd already accidentally intruded but Yuna was self aware enough to know she could be overbearing; and the last thing she wanted was for Ilya to think she was trying to walk in his dead mother's shoes.

Of course, there was a chance her initial instinct was correct and she was about to massively overstep, but Shane had sounded legitimately scared on the phone. Like he was still a little boy begging her to let him keep the night light on.

There was a car in the driveway when she knocked, an all over too flashy dark red sports model from a make she didn't recognise. European, she assumed. However, she understood Ilya had quite the collection, so the car didn't mean he was home. Peering inside, she could see the lights were on which, if it were Shane, would be a dead giveaway; but she knew her son wasn't representative of your average twenty-seven year old guy in that regard. So, she decided to ring Ilya first, and as soon as she saw the phone light up through the floor to ceiling windows only for it to go unanswered her mind was made up. She punched in the security code Shane had given her—even if she secretly still thought a code was an insane way to secure your multi-million dollar home—and let herself in.

"Ilya," she called, "It's Yuna," she passed the kitchen and noticed a few things had been pulled out of the fridge and then abandoned, but before she could call out again and confirm if he was home she turned the corner into the living room. She panicked, briefly, at the sorry state in front of her. But she could see the soft rise and fall of Ilya's chest and he'd had the good sense to pass out on his side, rather than face down on the couch. Around him lay an assortment of scattered bottles.

Her best guess was he'd dragged himself out of bed long enough to try and make something to eat, only to give up and collapse back down on the couch not long after. She sighed and pulled out her phone.

Okay was, of course, relative. Alive and breathing would've been more accurate, but she didn't want to tell Shane anything else until Ilya was awake and they had the chance to talk.

She focused on the kitchen, wanting to let Ilya rest for a while longer, she had no idea what a hungover Ilya had been planning to do with half a Gatorade, butter, celery and a can of tuna but she got to work cleaning and seeing if she could put something together to take the edge off. So much for not overstepping. All things considered, her and Ilya were little more than strangers. Besides those few dinners at the cottage last summer and the couple of days they'd spent in Ottawa for Christmas, neither her nor David had spent much time with their son's boyfriend. Yet there she was, rummaging through his pantry.

When she emerged from the kitchen, she half expected Ilya to have already been woken up by the sound of the dishwasher, but his eyes were still clenched shut. She was tempted to let him sleep, but he'd only get more dehydrated the longer he went without fluids.

"Ilya," she said softly as she shook his shoulder—silently grateful he'd passed out wearing a shirt, "Sweetie, it's time to wake up."

It was comical, the way his eyes slowly blinked open and then shot wide with panic. He patted himself down frantically, almost like he was checking this wasn't the second time he'd embarrassingly exposed himself in front of one of Shane's parents. Then the panic wore away and the shame set in. He hunched into himself, his chin dropped to his chest, letting tangled curls fall over his blushing face, and suddenly it wasn't funny at all.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," he replied with a huff. There was no point lying and he knew it.

Yuna slid over the concoction she'd thrown together in the kitchen, "Here, drink this."

Ilya shook his head, "I tried drinking earlier… Gatorade, and water," he clarified, gesturing at the mess of discarded bottles still strewn across his living room floor, "Not…you know. But just made me feel sick."

"Please," Yuna tried, a little unsettled by how much she was reminded of coaxing little Shane into taking anything when he was sick. "You need to stay hydrated, and this should help settle your stomach."

He spent a few minutes taking short, cautious sips. Looking down at his stomach in between each one.

"Thank you," he said, once he was finally satisfied his stomach wouldn't fight back, "What is in this?"

Yuna smiled, "It's just ginger tea, with a little honey and lemon."

"Is very good," he took another, slightly larger sip, "But, um, why are you here?"

"Shane called, said he'd been trying to reach you all morning, they're in—"

"Nashville, I know," Ilya spat before he could think better of it. "Fuck, sorry," he apologized quickly. 

"I know," Yuna accepted, rubbing a soothing hand into his back instinctively, "Think you're up for something to eat? I could—"

Ilya shook his head, "No—I mean, yes, but I will order something, you've done more than enough."

"I don't mind—"

Ilya leaped up from the couch "But you should!" he yelled, the sudden strained volume of his voice enough to make Yuna flinch. "You had to come all this way because Shane was worried about me because I fucked up and you should be calling Shane and telling him to dump me because I'm a mess who yells whenever someone tries to help and—" A painful sob erupted from his chest. Yuna gave him a moment to feel it before standing.

She cradled his face in her hands, wiping away a stray tear, "Your dad died Ilya, you're allowed to fuck up, okay. It's okay." Yuna wasn't sure what she would've done if, a year ago, someone had told her she'd be stood in Boston holding the Raiders star center Ilya Rozanov as he cried over the death of his father. Only that right now she knew there was nowhere else she should've been.

Ilya hadn't meant to worry Shane. He really had meant to reply to those messages. But when the first couple had come through he'd still been painfully drunk as he'd stumbled to the bathroom. Any reply he'd come up with in that state would've made it deeply obvious how out of it he was. Unfortunately, by the time he woke up again he'd been slammed in the chest by the worst hangover he'd had since he was a teenager. Every time he so much as stood up he was overcome by wave after wave of nausea.

Never in a million years did he expect to be startled awake by Yuna Hollander.

He was glad though. If nothing else her magical hangover cure had made him feel halfway human. She'd also coaxed him into taking a shower whilst she made them what would turn out to be a very late lunch.

It was nearly four by the time he stepped out of the shower and looked at his phone. Shit. 

That was the last message Ilya had seen before he'd completely passed out again. Seeing it had formed a deep pit at the bottom of his stomach, which hadn't helped. Shane almost never used his name over text. He was too paranoid. Too scared it might give them away.

Everyone who ever joked Ilya was an asshole was right. How the fuck could he have done this? He hadn't even gone out. Just sat in his sad, empty house, drinking through his best booze over a man who'd spent his entire life treating him like the dirt on the bottom of his shoes. All he'd wanted was Shane, and if he kept even a modicum of self control maybe he could've had him. Or at least a little piece of him. A voice on the phone, a pixilated face time. Something. Anything to fill the constant Shane shaped hole in his chest. Now, Shane was probably already practising for his game tonight. Still, he typed out a shaky reply.

To Ilya's shock a reply came back almost as soon as he'd pressed send on his last message.

The phone rang a few moments later.

"Ilya!" Shane's breath was ragged from the other side of the line, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Ilya sniffled, "Just sad, and stupid, and very hungover," There was no use hiding the ugliness, Yuna would only catch him in a lie if he tried.

"You scared me."

Ilya hummed, "Yes, I got that when your mom showed up."

"Look, I get it was a lot, but with it being today and everything with your dad I just—"

"Shane, Shane, no—I didn't me—I am not mad, okay. Not a little bit."

"So she's been okay?"

"Yes, of course, she's been helpful, I'm—" he stumbled, "Thank you." In the background Ilya thought he heard someone shout for Hollander.

"Shit," Shane cursed before turning his head away from the phone and yelling something he couldn't quite make out back, "Look, I've got to go, I'm really sorry. We'll talk soon though? Maybe figure out a time we can squeeze in a visit?"

"Of course." As much as Ilya was dreading telling his team he was transferring, he knew more than ever it needed to happen. He couldn't make do with infrequent scraps anymore, his body had gotten too sweet a taste of what it wanted. There was no way he'd survive another gruelling season of counting down the days the the next visit.

Someone shouted for Hollander again.

"Fuck, I hate this," Shan said with a weary sigh, "You'll be watching tonight though? With my mom?"

"Yes, that sounds like it would be fun. Ya tebya lyublyu."

"I love you too."

The room felt empty again without Shane's voice to fill it. All he wanted was to touch him, to feel him, see him, fuck him. Be fucked by him even. Anything that wasn't just a bleak feeling of emptiness.

Despite the shower and the fresh change of clothes, Ilya didn't look much better when he came back downstairs. His eyes were still just as red and puffy from a fresh set of tears.

However, he'd clearly sobered up enough to put some of his usual act back on, "How does Yuna Hollander know so much about hangovers?" he joked, pointing to the spread of bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches Yuna had laid out in his kitchen.

She scoffed, "I dated a college athlete, parties don't just start in the NHL you know?"

Ilya shrugged as took a seat and started to devour what was on his plate, "It's not like Shane parties, I figured David was the same."

"What makes you think David was the only hockey player I dated?"

Her sly grin gave everything away, she almost felt bad watching Ilya choke on a ill-timed bite of his sandwich, but ignoring the fact he was dating her son, there was a strange satisfaction knowing she'd just made the Ilya Rozanov blush.

Then his eyes narrowed, "So you were the troublemaker?" he almost looked impressed.

She held her hands up in mock surrender, "We met second week of class, and well, lets say going from the shy, awkward Asian kid to the star center's girlfriend went to my head a little."

"Wow."

"Shane knows none of this, by the way," she warned and Ilya mimed zipping his lips shut.

"What happened?"

"My Dad died, our second year," she revealed bluntly, "Turns out spending your summer driving between your internship and the oncology ward changes your priorities, makes you grow up. And well, lets just say David was there for me, my ex wasn't."

There was a solemn look on Ilya's face, "I'm sorry." Yuna had heard those words more times than she cared to remember over the years. So often they'd felt empty, coming from the lips of people who didn't even understand what they were offering condolences for. Not because they didn't care to, but because how could they? But Ilya knew. Not just the loss itself but what it meant to look at your dying father when you were barely an adult with no fucking idea what you were doing, and to know it all fell on you anyway.

"I'm sorry too," Yuna said, only to wonder if her words rang hollow in Ilya's ear. Because how could she know?

"Sounds like you handled things better than me," he chided self-deprecatingly.

"I thought I had," she couldn't help but laugh, "I acted like it, for years. Then my mom died when Shane was little and…I mean wow," she laughed again, "You think this is embarrassing? Try puking your guts up at your mother's wake whilst your toddler cries outside because he doesn't understand why Mommy doesn't want to see him."

Obviously, it wasn't her proudest day. She'd never forget the twist of confusion in Shane's little face as she stumbled past him on the way to the bathroom. Her best friend quickly calling for David before following her in to hold back her hair.

"I'm sure Shane doesn't remember this," Ilya offered.

"That's not the point." Shane had been such a sensitive boy, but he'd had a hard time making sense of other people's emotions. He couldn't understand, and when he didn't understand he assumed he was to blame. And that day she'd only made things worse. "I still fucked up."

Ilya whispered, half to himself, "But your Mom had died,"

"I was allowed to," she finished. 

Ilya nodded, and Yuna could only hope what she was seeing was something akin to understanding.

"I don't even know why I'm upset," he confessed, "That's the worst part."

"You and your father weren't close?"

"No. I think the only thing he never forgot was that I am weak and lazy."

Yuna's brow furrowed. She thought back to when she'd hated Rozanov, back when Rozanov was all he had been, and weak and lazy were never two words she'd use to describe him. It was completely incongruous with even the most uncharitable image of him. Of course, at times he could be reckless or frantic on the ice, but weak? Lazy You just didn't reach his level by being either of those things.

"Oh, honey, you know that's not true?"

The corners of his mouth turned upwards as he took another bite, "You sound like Shane."

"Good," replied Yuna, "Because I know how I raised him, and he would be in a whole world of trouble if I found out he was telling you anything different."

They lapsed into comfortable silence as they finished the rest of the food. However, Ilya Rozanov had always been a kind of enigma to the hockey world. Simultaneously brash, but also deeply private, people knew what he wanted them to know, nothing more nothing less. Except there she was, sat across his kitchen island, a new layer of vulnerability peeled back and, unsure if she'd get an opportunity like this again, her curiosity got the better of her.

"Did your father know, I mean about you…" she gestured awkwardly across the table, slightly embarrassed by the way her voice reminded her of all the people who'd ever pointedly asked so, like, where are you from? But not enough to stop.

"What, that I like men?" Ilya exclaimed, looking at her like she was crazy.

Yuna sighed, "God, I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that."

Ilya rose from his seat, moving quietly across the kitchen to what looked like a junk drawer. He rummaged around for something at the very back, it took a moment for Yuna to work out what it was.

"What are you—"

"Come on," Ilya declared, and now Yuna could clearly see the half empty packet of cigarettes he was waving her over with, "If we are having this conversation I need a cigarette, and Shane doesn't like it when I smoke in the house. He can always tell, says smoke gets into the furniture." He grumbled as he walked towards the back door, possibly adding something in Russian, and Yuna should've told him to stop. That he was under no obligation to tell her any of this. Instead, she followed.

Bisexual. Ilya rolled the word back and forward in his mind, imagining the way it felt on his tongue as he waited for the warmth of the patio heater to spread. He'd only said the word out loud a handful of times, and each time it hadn't felt quite right. Not that he was in denial, academically he knew it was an accurate label, but the word itself just felt heavy and distinctly foreign when he tried to say it. It was the way most new English words felt at first, until he'd said it enough he no longer had to reach for it, like grabbing an unfamiliar ingredient off a high shelf.

Perhaps it didn't help there was no real Russian word for him to reach either.

бисексуал (biseksual)

He'd heard Svetlana say it, to talk about a friend of hers from college. From her mouth it had sounded right, not like she was borrowing something from a foreign dictionary, the meaning flowing as easily as the syllables. In hindsight, Ilya could see the hint she'd been trying to drop, years before she'd kissed him goodbye at his father's wake.

So had his dad known he was bisexual? No, not when Ilya's own grasp of the word felt so precarious. However, did he know he snuck Sasha out of his room the same way he did Svetlana? Probably.

Or, as he told Yuna, "I wasn't exactly discreet as a teenager."

"Was that not dangerous?"

Ilya contemplated the question, "Yes and no. If it had gotten out, sure, it would be dangerous, but there is—what's the phrase?" he searched for the words, "For a very bad loose-loose situation?"

"Mutually assured destruction," Yuna supplied helpfully.

"Exactly! Only thing my dad would have won by outing me is his own embarrassment," he explained, "Plus, in a lot of ways things are worse now than when I was growing up."

Sometimes he wondered how things would've played out if they'd been a little younger; if he'd stayed in Russia for a few more years; or if they'd first met at the Olympics, when the headline news had been about criminalising so-called propaganda. Would he have been brave enough to invite Shane up to his hotel room?

"Still, it sounds pretty lonely."

"It was always lonely," he took a long drag from his cigarette and then, "I'm not sure being straight would've changed that."

His sexuality sat amongst a long list of horrible things about how he'd grown up. So what if he was a little bit gay? His mother was still dead. He'd never get the image of her cold, limp body out of his head. How much had it really mattered that he liked to kiss boys too?

"I thought about telling him," the confession slipped quietly from Ilya's lips, "My last summer there, when he was mostly already gone."

"He had dementia, right?"

Ilya nodded, "He still knew who I was, mostly, but he never knew when we were. Would get confused about how old I was, if my mother was still alive."

Why that day had struck such a nerve he had no idea. Grigori was the same cruel, hollow man he'd always been. He'd taken a phone call with the doctors office, or the bank, or the pharmacist that left him wanting to tear his hair out. Alexei had stormed in and they'd had the same fight they'd had a hundred times, no care for the vacant expression on their father's face. His brother screamed about how Ilya wasn't doing enough, that it wasn't fair all he had to do was waltz in once a year with a fat check and then leave. Ilya made a jab about him snorting away his own money and Alexei ended things by calling him a rich, entitled fag.

But a new darkness had burned at the bottom of his stomach. He turned from the open window, the perfect vantage point to see Alexei speed away in a car bought with his money, and all he'd wanted to do was turn to his father and scream he's right!

Scream about all the times he'd snuck Sasha into his room in the dead of night. How they'd hidden their mouths behind their hands because they'd been sixteen and loosing their minds and every single sound had been terrifying. He wanted to laugh and spit in his face about the stupid fucking party before the prospect cup. Because once he'd gotten tired of being passed around like a prize Grigori had won at a fair, he'd dragged Sasha to the bathroom and given his first blowjob. His son, Russia's shining hockey star, had gotten on his knees in a grimy bathroom stall and not only had he liked it, it had been a revelation.

Then he'd gone to Canada and met the most beautiful boy with adorable freckles and he'd only understood about half of what he was saying, but for some reason he was smiling at him like he hung the moon and the stars and all Ilya had wanted was to map those freckles by hand and so that's exactly what he'd done. At the first possible opportunity, he'd grabbed Shane Hollander by the hips and never quite let go; and now the first thing he did when they got their schedules was figure out when they'd next see each other. Because as much as he liked women, he liked men too. Liked touching them, kissing them, figuring out how to make the mewl and buck under him, and he was pretty certain he was falling in love with one man in particular.

Of course, he told his father none of that. Maybe he could've done if he'd had a nice, neat, clean word they both understood. It wasn't like he was eager to discuss his sexuality with Yuna in any way that conjured images of her son writhing beneath him. Ilya wondered if that was the point of the words, so you could tell people who you were without cutting yourself open entirely.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Yuna asked outright, "Were you worried he'd remember?"

Ilya shook his head, "No," by then, Ilya could've danced naked in their living room, and it would've faded from his father's mind before his next meal, "But I think I would have remembered."

"How do you mean?"

"I knew if I told him, if I knew what he really thought of me, I wouldn't be able to do it anymore. The money, the doctors, the carers. Fuck, paying for his funeral," he shuddered at the thought of Alexei tossing their father away like garbage, "I think the guilt from that would've killed me."

He took a final shaky drag of his cigarette, letting the bud drop to floor.

"It's not fair," he wailed, "It's not fair. He was a horrible, selfish, awful man and I still couldn't leave him."

The feeling of Yuna wrapping her arms around him was almost uncanny. The way she brushed the curls from his face in the same long, sweeping motions, and it struck Ilya this must be where Shane learned to offer comfort.

"It's okay," Yuna murmured softly, until his sobs had received back to a whimper. Then to Ilya's surprise, she stood up, quickly wiping away her own stray tears.

"Okay, I think we've given that man more than enough tears for today, don't you?" she asked.

Ilya nodded cautiously.

"Good, so, here's what we're going to do," she declared, "We're going to go back inside, make some dinner, open that nice bottle of wine I saw earlier. Then we're going to sit down and watch our boy destroy Florida."

"Why?"

"Because when you've spent all day picking at a wound, you need to give it time to heal."

Ilya smiled. He wasn't sure how highly Shane would rate Yuna's approach of wine and hockey, but it sounded nice, normal. Like the kind of thing you'd expect someone to do with their mother-in-law.

Shane was grateful for the victory, it was their last game before heading back to Montreal, and this meant they'd won every away game this road trip. Which, when paired with Shane's iron clad reputation as a notorious bore, meant it was very easy to slip back to an empty hotel room whilst the rest of the Metros celebrated.

When Ilya answered the FaceTime, he was sliding one of the giant glass garden doors closed and Shane noticed the soft, warm glow from the patio heater. Normally, he'd chastise him for smoking, play along sceptically with his bullshit excuse as to why else he'd be outside in Boston, in February. Except today wasn't the day to deny Ilya his vices, and at least it looked like he was sticking to his promise to stop smoking inside.

"Hey, you," Shane cooed softly, overjoyed to finally see Ilya's face after everything.

"Hey." Ilya's smile filled the screen. His hair was ruffled and he was in an old worn out Raiders hoodie. He looked comfortable, like he was being taken care of.

"How are you?" Shane asked.

"Better now," Ilya replied honestly, "And even better seeing you win."

Shane blushed under the praise, "Yeah," he bit his lip, glancing around his empty hotel room, "You know, everyone else is still out celebrating…"

"I'm afraid I have to stop you there," Ilya interrupted, "You may be alone, but I am not."

Shane groaned, was he really being cock-blocked by his mom?

"I did not think you would be so upset moy solnyshko," Ilya teased, "I can congratulate you tomorrow, I promise."

"Promise?" Shane asked.

"Yes, and I will call you tomorrow morning before your flight, so you know I am okay."

A part of Shane objected to the way Ilya was acting like he had anything to make up for. However, he'd be lying if he said it wouldn't help calm his nerves. "Okay, yeah, that sounds nice," Shane paused for a beat, wanting to take in as many details of Ilya's face before they hung up, "My mom's still there then?" he asked, mostly as an excuse to stay on the phone.

"Yes, she is still outside."

Shane was about to ask why his mom was also freezing her ass off on a cold New England evening, but then he spotted the long, dark haired figure on the other side of the glass doors, "Is that my mom?" he asked perplexed, as the figure raised her fingers to her mouth and the unmistakable tip of a cigarette grew brighter, "Is she smoking? Ilya did you give my mom cigarettes?"

Ilya swiftly pivoted 180 degrees, a large guilty smile plastered all over his face, "Bye, moy lyubov, we will speak to you tomorrow!"

Right before Ilya disconnected the call, Shane aught a glimpse of his boyish grin as he looked out into his back yard. And Shane couldn't bring himself to care what trouble they were getting up to.

It was a strange feeling, slipping through the crowds of black and yellow to her seat, a blank baseball cap pulled down over her face. After she'd decided to stick around for Ilya's next game, she'd thought about buying a scarf or hat to blend in. However, there were some lines she wasn't willing to cross and Boston Raiders merch was one of them. If Ilya really did go and play for Ottawa, maybe she'd be able to stomach that. Besides, could that have been more suspicious? It was one thing for her to go to a game, but deliberately sneaking around in disguise screamed that she had something to hide. It was also by far the worst seat she'd had to any hockey game in years. Despite the shitty view however, it didn't take long to see how Ilya had built up the following he had. Watching him play live when she wasn't thinking of him as an opponent was something else. He was fast, agile, yet aggressive when it counted. Every single move seemed to crash one after another in a mad rush, but somehow always landed where it needed to. He constantly had the arena on the edge of their seats, no wonder the crowd went insane when he scored.

Yuna wished she could join in.

The whole thing broke her heart a little bit. The fact she had to keep her cheers small and discrete, in case what? Some insane fan combed over crowd footage and caught a glimpse of her. She was exhausted from the paranoia before the end of the first period. How the hell had Shane and Ilya been carrying on the way they had for close to a decade?

Then Ilya looked up at her as his team cheered around him. From the size of his smile you'd expect him to be lifting the Stanley Cup. When was the last time he'd had anyone in the crowd just for him?

Yuna decided she'd sit in the nosebleeds for the rest of her life if that's what Ilya and Shane needed from her.