Chapter Text
Three months ago, Shane was traded to the Boston Raiders, and he was still waiting for something to explode, ripping through one's carefully built world.
Don’t get him wrong; his life was in a good place. Living with Ilya was loud, warm, sweet, and occasionally ridiculous - everything he could have hoped for. And that light, cozy feeling he felt during his first week among the team hadn’t left. His teammates here were certainly different from most of his former ones - in a good way. More friendly, a bit more rowdy, etc.
But there were some things in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away. Things Hollander wasn’t sure about. Trust. Belonging. What comes next.
Today was a perfect example of that uneasy waiting.
Practice had finished. Everyone was in the locker room stowing away gear and putting on regular clothes; talking about everything and nothing.
One such conversation was happening between Cliff Marleau and Rozanov. The former had glanced at the latter for a second before deciding to walk up to him.
“Hey, Rozy, everything okay with Jane?” He asked as he leaned against a locker, crossing his arms. “You don’t seem to text her very often anymore.”
“Jane and I are fine,” Ilya answered, putting on a shirt. “But now she is backpacking through wilderness, so no cell service.”
Finished packing, Shane walked over to them with his bag hanging off his shoulders.
“Who’s Jane?” His tone was casual, but his shoulders had gone stiff.
Ilya sent him a pointed look.
“Oh, just some chick from Montreal our boy here constantly blushes about,” Cliff teased.
“Marleau is liar,” Ilya declared, putting something in a backpack. “I do not blush. I am stoic.”
“Sure, sure,” Shane agreed in a sarcastic tone and nod.
“That’s not what I’ve been seeing,” Marleau added.
“I hate you both,” Rozanov said as he finished packing, zipped up his backpack, and started leaving the room.
“No, you don’t!” Marleau called after him.
Ilya waved him off.
“So,” Hollander continued, shifting his weight. “Montréal, ehh?” He placed his hands on his hips.
“Yep.” Marleau nodded as he turned to face him, switching to Canadian French. “Ils se voyaient toujours quand ton ancienne équipe a joué contre nous. Au Canada, ici aussi. Mais je l’ai jamais vue, elle.”
Shane tilted his head. “Ah ouais? Pourquoi?”
Marleau unfolded his arms and shrugged. His hands fell to his sides.
“On voulait la rencontrer, au moins pour dîner,” the French Canadian said. “You know, us guys, et the WAGs - it just never works out.”
“That’s too bad,” Shane replied. His fingers tightened instinctively on his bag strap, the rough fabric biting into his palm as a quiet anxiety bubbled beneath his calm exterior.
The fluorescent lights above them flickered just enough to pull at his nerves. He tried to focus on the sharp, familiar scent of the room.
“You said it.” Cliff sighed and looked away. Then he straightened out as a thought came to him. “En parlant de… en avez-vois un?? On pourrait l’ajouter au groupe des WAGs.”
Shane blinked, internally scrambling for a response that didn’t seem like he immediately wanted to bolt.
Then his head moved back and forth as though he was considering the option. “Eh, Ouais. Lily.” He shrugged, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But she’s away on work trips a lot, so she’s not local a ton.”
“Ah, okay.” Cliff nodded.
“Funnily enough, though, she used to live in Boston.” As soon as he said it, Hollander wondered if that was oversharing.
Marleau blinked once, then twice. “Vraiment?” He shifted his weight again. “Elle venait à tes matchs?”
“Quelques-uns, ouais. Surtout pour les matchs de rivalité.” Despite telling himself to relax, Shane felt the familiar tightness coil in his chest. The Canadian then glanced around. “Excuse me.” He walked away in the direction that Ilya went.
Thus, Cliff was left to his own devices. He stood there for a moment longer, taking in what just happened.
A small “hmm,” left his lips.
Then he grabbed his bag and went on with his day.
The weight of something unspoken lingered in the air.
Shane had caught up to Ilya, and the two were currently on their way out of the practice facility, walking side by side with their backpacks slung over their shoulders.
“Seriously, Ilya? Backpacking?” He asked as he tried not to pay attention to the knot forming in his stomach.
Rozanov shrugged, answering, “Is believable excuse.”
“No, it’s not.” He denied, trying to bite back a wobbly tone.
“Why, because you do not like dirt?” He nudged him. “What if Jane is adventurous woman?”
“Shut up.” Hollander huffed. And suddenly, he was acutely aware of how annoyed he sounded.
Ilya’s smile faltered. He halted and pulled his partner to a stop. As Shane turned around, a worried expression on his face, Ilya put a reassuring hand on his arm.
“Relax,” he said. “We will be fine. Cliff is idiot. He cannot solve simple math, let alone conspiracy.”
The dark-haired hockey player adjusted a strap. “You’re underestimating him.”
A head of blond curls tilted. “Am I?”
Shane’s lips pursed as he thought about it and decided not to argue any further.
“Sorry,” he sighed. “I’m just… on edge.”
“I know, lyubov moya. I know.” Rozanov said as he wrapped his arms around him. He waited a few seconds before asking, “Would you want to tell the team? Ever?”
The words hung between them longer than they should have, heavy and fragile. Shane finally looked away, his voice barely above a whisper as he removed himself from the hug.
“I- I don’t know.”
“They are not Montreal,” Ilya pointed out gently.
Hollander’s jaw tightened before he asked, “Do they know about you?” Dread found a home again.
“No.” He shook his head. “I have not told yet.”
The Canadian huffed, exhaled, half relieved, half panicking. “Then how could you be sure?”
“Because I know them. They are good people, Shane.”
“Until they’re not.”
Rozanov’s brow scrunched, concern flickering in his eyes. “You think they would treat me like that?”
Shane frowned. He struggled to come up with an answer.
Ilya’s face relaxed into a reassuring one. “I know you are tired.” The tiniest curl could be found on his lips. “It is tiring calculating all the time.”
His mouth opened in shock, and even though he knew Ilya meant it goodnaturedly, Shane didn’t know whether or not he should at least play at being offended.
“I don’t-“ Hollander started to say before being interrupted.
“Yes you do,” the Russian said with a smile. “I can see the gears turning right now.”
Amusement started to show in his eyes, but he deflected. “Fuck off.”
“No, I will not.” Rozanov pulled him back into an embrace. “I will be glued to your side forever and ever.”
Shane chuckled despite himself, and wrapped his own arms around him.
Ilya raised his head, his light blue eyes meeting Shane’s dark brown ones. A soft fondness held in the former contrasted with the harshness Hollander felt inside.
“Is okay, Shane,” he said. “We will only do this when you’re ready. Da?”
His boyfriend nodded.
Ilya glanced down at his lips before leaning forward and giving him a quick, gentle kiss. Then a longer one, slower, more tender and deliberate.
The team’s newest rookie’s voice cut through the moment like a bomb.
“Oh, shit.”
A quick breath hitched in Shane’s throat. He and Rozanov broke apart and turned to find the kid already shrinking into himself and backing away.
Embarrassed, Shane buried his head in his hands, rubbing his temple, saying, “You weren’t supposed to see that.” His pulse thudded in his ears.
“Uhm,” the rookie squeaked. “Sorry, I’ll-“ he pointed behind him. “Forget I saw anything-“
“McKimmie, wait!” Ilya called, squeezing his boyfriend’s hand and wrapping his other arm around him.
Shane feared he would sink to the floor if not for his boyfriend acting as an anchor.
Rozanov made a beckoning motion to the rookie, who reluctantly approached.
“Listen, uh-“ McKimmie hesitated. “I’m not- I don’t care. I’m cool with it. I won’t tell anyone, I swear. My older sister and her wife would kill me if they found out I outed someone without their permission.” His weight shifted. “So, we’re keeping this quiet, right?”
Shane blinked, and his shoulders dropped a fraction.
Ilya’s grip lightly tightened.
“Yes,” Ilya said carefully. “It is secret.”
“Okay. Yeah. Got it.” McKimmie nodded quickly, hands in his pockets. “Lips are sealed.”
“Good. We’re good here.” He turned towards Shane.
“… Yeah,” Hollander eventually agreed, looking only slightly less stiff. “Yeah, we are.”
McKimmie looked between them, awkward but not uncomfortable. He then shifted as a thought came to him.
“You know,” he said. “I think it’s cool that you get to play on the same team after so long. I mean, it must be a relief-“
“McKimmie,” Ilya stated in a serious tone.
“Right. Okay,” he said. “Cool.”
Then, he gave the duo an apologetic little shrug and gestured down the hall.
“Anyway, I’ll, uh, go tape my stick.” He turned and walked away.
Shane only started breathing again once Ilya rubbed small circles on his back, the warmth of Ilya’s touch grounding him.. He blinked, eyes becoming less wide.
“See?” The Russian said simply as McKimmie disappeared from their view.
He swallowed, processing what just happened.
“He didn’t look at us differently,” Hollander noted. “... like anything had changed.”
The rookie hadn’t flinched, stared, laughed, recoiled, or acted disgusted. He just… adjusted and went on with his day. He did what Shane wanted and hoped that the Metros would have done. He filed the reaction away in his mind, wondering if the other Raiders would be similar.
“No, he is good kid,” Ilya remarked. His arm slid down to Hollander’s waist. “Let’s go home now, yes?”
“Yeah.” The ghost of a smile returned to Shane’s lips as he leaned into his partner’s touch.
They stepped out of the building to find that the sun hadn’t quite set yet, cutting through the colorful clouds. The breeze was nice, instead of chilling.
The walk to their car didn’t feel like a march toward disaster and more like a tentative step forward. Nothing exploded today, and though it could have gotten close, Shane was thankful it hadn’t.
He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring, but for the first time in a long time, he was ready to find out.