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Shane was done. He was so tired of lying. Lying to himself, to his parents, to his team, to Ilya.
God, Ilya. Prickly, devastating Ilya. Shane had to tell him first. Otherwise telling everyone else wouldn’t matter. Maybe.
Yes, still lying to himself probably. No, he was definitely lying to himself.
He’d been doing it for so long, and hadn't thought of doing anything different until Rose.
She was so great, a dream girlfriend, really. Smart, funny, beautiful. A hockey fan but not a puck bunny. Busy and successful in her own right, but she still made time for Shane.
On paper, they were perfect.
Except for one detail. The one Shane tried desperately to ignore.
But Rose, being perceptive, had figured it out. She’d approached him with so much sweetness and honesty. She slipped past his decades-built defenses and flayed him open in that restaurant. And, like always, all he could think about was Ilya.
Rose seamlessly transitioned from “girlfriend” to “best friend” and the internet was none the wiser. They went shopping and out to dinner, texted constantly, and talked on the phone almost daily.
For the first time in maybe…well, ever, Shane could be honest with someone. Rose listened and encouraged him. She challenged him to find other ways to be more himself, while protecting his secret as if it was a treasure and she a greedy dragon.
When he got into his head about everything, she talked him down, defusing his meltdowns with gentle teasing or ridiculous jokes. She calmly listened when he couldn’t stop talking about his spiraling thoughts. She reminded him that no matter what he decided to do or say, she supported him. That she loved him. That she would do so as loudly or as quietly as he needed.
Shane hadn’t told her about Ilya, at least not by name. Just that sometimes he wondered what it would be like to come out, to be in a relationship. Rose was too observant. She knew when he spoke in hypotheticals, there was someone specific on his mind.
At first, she thought it might be Miles. He’d confessed at one drunken afterparty that he was half in love with her boyfriend. She tried to nudge Shane in his direction and had hoped her clumsy matchmaking attempts were successful. But when Miles started bringing Maxime around (that gorgeous bartender from the night she met Shane), Rose had to admit she was wrong. But there was definitely someone.
And that someone was currently sitting alone at a hotel bar in Tampa, wearing a, frankly, ridiculous shirt. At least it should have looked ridiculous. But Shane stared at him like he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Ilya.
Ilya was here. Shane could do this.
He swallowed his nerves and approached the bar, snagging the seat right next to Ilya.
***
Shane was having fun. He hadn’t told Ilya his whole truth yet (he was working up to that), but this All-Star Weekend was probably his best one yet. He felt relaxed and free for the first time in a very long time. Like when he was a kid, flying along the Skateway in Ottawa. On the ice in Tampa, with Ilya as his wing, he was unstoppable, burying puck after puck in the net.
After one particularly stunning goal, off an equally gorgeous pass from Ilya, Shane thought his heart might explode from glee. It must have shown on his face, because, the next thing he knew, Ilya was there, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek.
For a fleeting second, Shane let himself dream about what it would be like to play on the same line. Not just for an exhibition game, but for a whole season. Many seasons. Playing together, practicing together, traveling together. Building a life together off the ice, too. Game nights with his parents, shopping trips with Rose, babysitting Hayden’s kids. Quiet nights at home, making dinner, folding laundry, watching movies on the couch. All of it, together.
Shane blinked.
Tonight. I have to tell him tonight.
***
“Tonight” didn’t go as planned. There was too much chaos right after the game. Carter Vaughn loosely organized a pub crawl he called “East Boys Out”. Shane was certain Vaughny called it that so he could bellow it across whatever bar they were in to announce it was time to move on. By the third stop, Shane was nearly at his limit. The drinks were getting stronger, the crowds were getting larger, and the clubs were getting louder.
He wandered out to the surprisingly quiet beach and settled on the sand. He sat for several minutes, recalibrating his breathing and practicing the grounding techniques he co-opted from yoga. Once his nervous system settled, his brain started to slow, no longer running a million miles an hour. Out here, watching the waves lap at the shore, he felt calm. He also felt like maybe he wasn’t alone.
“Found you.”
***
It was time. He’d procrastinated long enough. As he walked towards Ilya’s room, he gave himself a pep talk.
You are going to be honest with more than just Rose for once. You’re going to go in there and apologize for The Last Time.
God, The Last Time. Shane’s heart squeezed like it had been wrapped in a fist. They met at Ilya’s house in Boston. So much of that day had been amazing. The sex being good was a given. It had been for years. But that day had been more.
That day had opened Shane’s eyes to the simple pleasures of domesticity. Of sharing space with someone he knew, paradoxically, so well and hardly at all. Ilya had asked him to stay and then he’d taken care of Shane. Ilya had always done that in bed. Save for that one ill-fated night in Vegas, he was a generous lover. God, Shane was even starting to think like a character in a cheap romance novel. Ew.
But that day, Ilya took care of him in other ways. There was ginger ale, which Shane had never seen Ilya drink. He usually scrunched his nose adorably in disgust when he heard Shane order it. So that had to be for him, right?
And then the tuna melts. Ilya played it off like it was no big deal, but they could’ve ordered in. Boston was hardly a food desert. Instead Ilya had cooked. For Shane. In hindsight, that was likely when the meltdown started brewing.
They’d chatted, watched TV, and eaten together. Ilya even took a phone call, something he’d never done in all their time together. The call was in Russian, which Shane did not speak, but he thought he heard Ilya say “Papa”. Ilya sounded harsh but worried, and Shane got yet another clue to the kind of man he was sleeping with. Great, even more fuel for his freakout.
What brought it all to a head…Jesus Christ, what are you doing, man?
What pushed Shane over the edge…no, that’s not any better.
What finally made Shane lose it...I give up.
It was the couch.
The couch, where Ilya snuggled Shane to his chest, combed his fingers through Shane’s hair, kissed the top of Shane’s head. For a minute, Shane revelled in it. The calm, the quiet, the safety of being held by the man he lo—
What the fuck was that?
Shane fell back on the familiar scorching passion that threatened to immolate him every time. But this time was different. Ilya wasn’t looking at him like he was ravenous. Okay, he was but that wasn’t all of it. He was looking at Shane like he was precious, a masterpiece, like he couldn’t believe Shane let him touch him.
And when he brokenly whispered “Shane”, Ilya’s eyes glowed with a desperation he’d never seen before. A desire to keep Shane, to do anything and everything to make him stay. It was heady and overwhelming, and Shane was swept away, whimpering “Ilya” for the first time in response.
Hearing himself say “Ilya” and not “Rosanov” snapped him out of his trance. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stay. The fact that he wanted to terrified him even more.
So he ran. Ran away from Ilya and his beautiful, imploring eyes. Ran away from Ilya and the quiet care he’d wrapped Shane in. Ran away from Ilya and that godforsaken couch. Ran right into Rose.
Shane snapped back to the hotel hallway, slowed his breathing, and kept walking.
Rose had texted him after the game. She congratulated him on the win and commented on how happy he looked on the ice. Shane had been hinting that he was thinking about maybe coming out to someone else. Rose’s response? “Go get ‘em, tiger!”
So here he was, psyching himself up for (or out of?) talking to Ilya.
You can do this. You can go in there and apologize and tell him the truth. Your truth. Don’t let him be an asshole. Don’t let him deflect. He stripped himself bare in more ways than one The Last Time. So you can go in there and be vulnerable right back.
You are Shane Motherfucking Hollander, and you play to win. Now go get your man.
Before he can talk himself out of it, he texts Ilya.
“Here.”