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It was time for a faceoff. Ilya had been chosen, to his pride, to go up against Shane Hollander, like so many times before. Ilya skated over to the middle and took his position across from Hollander. The press was obviously going to milk this moment, with screens replaying the scene and articles being written about their wild tension. He loved it.
Hollander’s eyes flicked up briefly, meeting Ilya’s before they refocused on the task at hand.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya drawled, trying to get a reaction out of Hollander. “Will you disappoint them?”
He’s messing with him, like always. This faceoff is so different from their last one, when they were shooting that commercial. They had been laughing then, smiling uncontrollably. Here, under the lights, Hollander didn’t smile at him. Like in the commercial though, Ilya is distracted by Hollander’s freckles. There seemed to be more of them here, like they managed to multiply since the last time they’d seen each other. He’d have to try to count them later.
Hollander doesn’t respond with a quick quip like he usually does. He’s chewing his mouth guard, thinking either too much or not at all.
“No,” he flatly says, and the puck drops.
Ilya loses the faceoff.
~~~~~
Ilya snatched the puck away from another player on the opposing team and sped away. The exhilaration fed him, filled his lungs and gave him life. Hollander had to work to keep up with him and out of the corner of his eye, Ilya knew that he felt the same way. If there was something that they both couldn’t get enough of, it was the rush that hockey gave them.
Hollander pulled a sneaky move on Ilya to steal the puck and while Ilya would ordinarily get aggressive over it, he let him have it.
Hollander shot Ilya a glance, sparing a cheeky smile that embodied everything that Ilya was feeling. It was just such a good game that it was infectious. Ilya couldn’t wait to message Hollander after the game. He was so sure that the feelings would carry over to their later activities if you caught the drift. He found himself grinning back and for a moment it felt like they had the whole world in their hands.
They were a dynamic duo on and off the ice. They could go anywhere they wanted, do anything they wanted to do. They could have it all.
But, really they couldn’t. They both knew that.
Ilya’s smile didn’t even have time to fully reach his eyes before Shane was slammed against the walls of the rink. He collapsed on the ice hard, like a sack of rocks. His hockey stick clattered loudly and the puck came to a soft stop on its own. A deafening silence came over the arena as they registered what happened. One of the best players was lying on the ground, taken out with a single hit. Ilya didn’t know what to do. He wanted to rush over and hold Shane and make sure that he was alright. He knew that he couldn’t do that, at least not in front of the crowd. If Shane wasn’t dead already, he’d kill Ilya for being so reckless.
If he wasn’t dead already, pfft, what kind of thinking was that? But, Ilya noticed with increasing anxiety, Shane wasn’t moving and that realization washed over Ilya, chilling him like ice water.
Shane wasn’t moving. Ilya knew it only took one hit to take someone out of the season. It only took one hit for a career to end. It only took one hit for–
No. It wouldn’t– couldn’t happen.
Ilya skated closer to Shane, dimly registering the brawl that had broken out behind him. Shane’s teammate, probably trying to make up for the damage in the only way he really knew how.
“Shane?” The name slipped from his lips, whispered and unbidded. It was quiet, there was no way that Shane could have actually heard it, but Ilya was still devastated when there wasn’t a smart quip to answer back.
The whole situation, the positioning, the lack of response, the possibility of the loss– it brought him back to finding his mom at 12 years old. He had opened the door and crept inside the bedroom. He wasn’t supposed to be there. His father said that she needed time to be alone and that he wasn’t to bother her, but Ilya just wanted to sit with her. He could be quiet.
She was lying on the bed and the air was still and cold, stale for some reason. He called for his mom, just to let her know he was there, but she didn’t answer.
He had gone up to her; maybe she was sleeping? Ilya shook her gently but she was stiff and unmoving. It had taken him a moment to realize what had happened after he saw the pill bottle in her hand and the spilled medication on the bed sheets around her.
Ilya blinked and he was back in the arena, with medics rushing around him. Shane was still on the ice and they were moving him onto a spinal board. Wasn’t that bad? Didn’t that usually mean that the injury was really bad?
“Is he alright?” the question sounded pathetic, his voice coming out smaller and more scared than he expected it to. No one answered him so he tried again, the panic rising in his chest.
“Is he alright?”
He saw Shane’s lips moving, trying to say something to the people moving him.
“I’m sorry, Rozanov, but you have to move back,” one of the medics said, waving him away.
He couldn’t. He physically couldn’t tear himself away from Shane and a referee had to gently push him out of their way. Ilya felt like he was floating an inch above himself and every fiber of his body screamed at him as the distance increased between himself and Shane’s body, but he forced himself to comply anyway. He could only watch helplessly as his rival– would they only be rivals to the outside world? – was assessed carefully.
He thought he heard his name being whispered softly, but no, it must’ve been the sick part of his imagination that liked to mess with him. Ilya stood there, alone on the ice, as Shane was carried off to the hospital. An overhead announcer cleared his voice and, with a booming voice that didn’t carry enough weight or grief for the situation at hand (in Ilya’s opinion), notified everyone that the game would still continue as normal. But it wasn’t normal. Nothing could ever be normal with Shane in such a critical condition.
There was a roar from the fans that couldn’t possibly know, or care, about how Ilya felt and he squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could. A moment later, the game was going again and Ilya was in control of the puck.
He thought the movement would soothe his fraying nerves the same way it did for all those past years, but all it did was aggravate him. He shoved other players out of the way, shooting them comments that were ruder than his usual material. He made goal after goal without Shane there to compete against him, and he was almost dizzy with anger once the final buzzer sounded, ending the game.
Ilya stepped off the ice and made his way to the locker room, not even waiting to get there before he began shucking off his gear. Somebody clapped him on the shoulder and Ilya barely noticed the snarl that he responded with. His teammates gave him a wide berth, not wanting to be the next victim to Ilya.
He leaned his forehead against the cubbies in the locker room. They had won the game, but it really didn’t seem like they had won. The urge to message Shane itched at him, but he knew that he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t answer anyways. God, he needed a cigarette. He yearned for the nicotine that might do the trick and grant him some relief, but he knew that he couldn’t. Not here, at least.
Ilya tried to pack up his gear as quickly as he could so the team could get on the bus and back to the hotel faster, but his teammates didn’t seem to hold the same sense of urgency as he did. They gossiped and joked about the game and Ilya was sure that he caught Shane’s name being passed around in whispers.
Somebody had the gall to congratulate Ilya on finally winning the rivalry that had been the focus of his career, but Ilya’s blood boiled at the praise.
You don’t understand! He wanted to scream. I love him!
Miraculously, they made it on their bus without Ilya biting anyone’s head off. He shoved his earbuds into his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get the image of Shane lying on the ice out of his head. Now that he had time to think, he just couldn’t stop seeing it. Every time he closed his eyes, there he was.
Ilya began searching for any news on his rival, checking and refreshing any news sources that might have gotten in on the drama yet. This could be explained easily if someone felt the need to glance over his shoulder and snoop on his phone. There was nothing interesting though, which had potential to either be good or very, very bad. Ilya gnawed at his lip, anxious.
~~~~~
Back in his hotel room, Ilya paced. He had showered and tried to go to sleep, but it evaded him. The worry consumed him and all he could think about was Shane.
He paused his treading for a moment and ran a stressed hand through his hair. Now since when did he think of Hollander as Shane? They hadn’t ever used each other's first names in all the years they had known each other; it was just too personal, too intimate for rivals who got naked together on the regular.
God, all those years and Ilya hadn’t called Shane by his first name. And now he wasn’t sure if he’d get the opportunity to ever do it. The whole situation was feeling like a big hopeless what-if type of scenario.
What if Hollander came back, but the shock of the injury made him realize that Ilya wasn’t a priority? What if it was too close of a call and he wanted to settle down with some girl who could love him publicly? What if he wanted their whole dynamic to only be rivals?
Was that all they’d ever be? Just rivals?
Ilya felt sick at the thought.
He pulled out his phone for the umpteenth time that night and found the contact labeled “Jane”. There wasn’t even any finding to do, actually, since it was at the top of the list like it had been since they started talking. Ilya’s fingers hovered over his screen as he hesitated with his words. What was he even supposed to say?
Hey, I’m sorry that my teammate knocked you out and put you in the hospital. That really sucks. Oh, by the way, I love you more than I have ever expressed to you in person and I couldn’t stand it if you weren’t okay. Please be okay. Please.
No. Obviously that wasn’t something that you just sprung on someone, especially if they were in a fragile state. It’d be better if he tried something more neutral, for sure.
Just checking; you ok?
Too insufficient, but Ilya’s fingers hit the send button before he could overthink it. He breathed out air that he didn’t even realize he was holding in.
There was a knock on the door. The sharp sound cut through the silence that permeated the hotel room. Ilya rubbed his brow, but still went to the door and opened it. Some of his teammates were standing in front of him, each bearing a shit-eating grin that looked the exact opposite of how Ilya felt.
“You wanna go out tonight?” one of them asked, making a suggestive body rolling motion. “We could pick up some fine babes here!”
“No.”
And Ilya shut the door. No more tonight. If they knew what was best, they’d chalk it up to his recklessness on the ice and would leave him alone to stew. Everything felt like he was wading through waist high water and it was only getting deeper. He found his bags and began rummaging through them.
Finally he found what he was looking for: his cigarettes. He hadn’t had one in what felt like forever since his team wanted him to quit. He hadn’t quit for them, but they didn’t need to know that. He had quit for real after Hollander made an offhand comment about the smell, something about how he didn’t like how it clouded up a room and stuck to everything it touched.
Ilya hated that he was going back to them, but this was a big moment and he deserved a little comfort before he decided to turn in for bed. He slid open the screen door and stepped outside. The night air was cool on his skin and there was a light breeze sweeping through the trees. There was a small plastic chair on the balcony and Ilya sat down more heavily than he probably should’ve, because it creaked alarmingly.
He lit his cigarette and brought it to his lips, breathing in a deep sigh. The smoke escaped from his mouth in a great swirling cloud, dark and ominous. A bird took off in the sky, wings flapping with the wind and Ilya watched it. He stayed in the chair until his cigarette was done and then a little after. The night sky was full of twinkling stars that winked at him menacingly and Ilya wanted to scratch them all out until he was in total darkness.
Their relationship was only supposed to be a casual fling. That’s what it had been in the beginning at least. So when did Ilya start feeling so protective of Hollander, so eager to be his? In his gut he knew, though he didn’t want to admit it. It was that first night they’d slept together all those years ago, when Ilya saw Shane’s– Hollander’s eyes looking up at him so nervously, so vulnerably. It was when Hollander had removed his clothes with barely trembling hands, when Ilya assured him that what they were doing was normal. It was when they’d lied together in the bed and he got to see Hollander’s freckles up close. The hotel lights had been so gentle on his face, making him seem softer than the arena’s brightness did.
The idea of a domestic life hadn’t appealed to him much then, but Ilya recently found himself wanting to do more with Hollander, not just have sex with him. He wanted to hold his hand, in private or in public, either would work for him. He wanted to kiss simply. He wanted to make meals for the both of them and to wake up in the middle of the night with Hollander in his arms. To wake up in the morning side by side and to not act like they were a part of some super secret scandal like they did now, scrambling away to search for discarded clothes.
And because of recent events, that might not be a possibility. Ilya didn’t want Hollander to leave him behind because of the injury. He didn’t want him to find a girlfriend, to jump at the chance of marrying some woman because he thought he should. Ilya felt the tension that they had, and he was sure that Hollander felt it too. It wasn’t something that could easily be dismissed with a short text or by ignoring each other.
They’d always come back together. They always managed to in the past with the public and the press pushing them into the other's space, egging them on and encouraging their rivalry. But Ilya didn’t want it to just be a rivalry. He wanted more. He had to have more.
Ilya sighed and stood up heavily. Maybe this was just another unhealthy habit of his, one that he couldn’t quit. Maybe he cared about Hollander in a way that wasn’t reciprocated, though the thought sounded a little unrealistic when it entered his head. He should try to quit, to distance himself from Hollander. It would bring grief to both of them for a while, but it would all work out in the end when they could live without each other and lead… regular lives.
He’d try after he visited Hollander at the hospital he was brought to. One final glimpse of what he couldn’t have.
Ilya dragged himself back inside and fell into the hotel's bed. The room was so impersonal, a blank slate. Ilya closed his eyes and waited for sleep to take him. It took a while.
~~~~~
Ilya had stumbled through the next day like a sort of zombie reincarnated. The bags under his eyes were deep with worry and he couldn’t keep his stupid mind off of Hollander. A handful of articles had been published by the time he checked his phone for news. A broken collarbone and a concussion. Serious injuries, but he was thankful that it wasn’t anything more severe than that.
Finally he could slip away to the hospital. He told his teammates that he was going out of respect, to make sure that his rival wasn’t really dead and he wished that was the whole truth.
He stepped in the waiting room and saw a couple talking to some nurses, looking nervous. The guy looked a little bit like Hollander, but the woman had more of his features. They turned around when Ilya stepped through the door and their eyes widened with… shock? They must’ve recognized Ilya, but he didn’t understand why their faces hardened like he personally committed a crime against them.
Whatever.
He walked up to the front desk where a woman sat at a computer. She looked up at him and smiled sweetly. “How can I help you?”
Ilya fumbled with his words. “Uh, could I see Shane Hollander?”
She flipped through a stack of paper on her desk. “Usually it is only family that can see patients, but I think I’ll let you have a couple minutes.”
She stood up and led him to a door, which she opened smoothly.
“Try not to kill him, Mr. Rosanov,” she joked. She let them be, closing the door behind her.
It was just Ilya and Hollander in the room together. Hollander looked worse than Ilya had been expecting, with dried blood on his lip and a sling for his arm. His skin was a little flushed and his eyes were unfocused. Ilya’s stomach clenched at the sight and another wave of irritation rolled through him, directed at his teammate.
“Ilyaaa,” Hollander called, perking up. He was clearly high as a kite on pain medication.
“I um… I just wanted to…” Ilya tried again. He should’ve prepared something. “Are you okay?”
Hollander glanced down at his sling. “Concussion and a fractured collar bone.”
He looked up at Ilya, a smirk forming on his face. “Help for the playoffs.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Ilya said. At least Hollander still had his sense of humor. That gave Ilya some sense of relief.
Hollander repeated his words, agreeing. “Could have been worse.”
He was still standing by the door. He felt awkward here. He didn’t know what to say. “Marlo feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.”
That part was true. His teammate had met up with him in the morning to make sure that Ilya was alright, like he was the one who had gotten hurt. He wasn’t sure if he should come with Ilya to the hospital, but Ilya waved him off and said he’d relay the message.
“Hey,” Hollander still smiled at him, maybe too brightly considering everything. “Heeyyy.”
Ilya crossed the room, suddenly overwhelmed by the need to be beside Hollander. Screw his earlier plan of saying goodbye to their relationship. He cared too much. He took a hold of Hollander’s outstretched hand.
“Better,” the other man sighed. He closed his eyes.
“You scared me,” Ilya confessed, because Hollander had to know. He stroked Hollander’s cheek with his free hand and Hollander leaned into the gentle touch like a man starved. Ilya hoped the simple sentence conveyed enough of the emotion he felt because he didn’t have all the words to explain the fear he had felt.
Hollander seemed to get the meaning. “I was excited about last night.” His eyebrows furrowed and he opened his eyes to look up at Ilya. “You know, I had a whole plan to ask you something.”
Ilya immediately knew it was something that they couldn’t have, as much as they both wanted to have it. Against his better judgement he tried to shut it down. “Maybe it’s better if you just rest now.”
Hollander didn’t take the bait. “I was gonna ask you–”
“Hollander.” Ilya had to interrupt him before he said something he couldn’t take back.
He barreled ahead. “Will you come to my cottage this summer?”
His eyes were still focused on Ilya’s, drawing him in with their pleading expression like a begging dog. “Don’t go to Russia. Come to my house. We’ll have so much fun. It’s so private. No one will know.”
Ilya shook his head, feeling pathetic. “You know I can’t do that.”
He had to go to Russia. He had to, not because he wanted to, but because his family would somehow manage to hate him even more if he didn’t. It was part of his duty to provide them with money and he had to check on his father’s wishes, even if his dad hadn’t remembered him and hated him when he did.
“We could have a week or even two. Be completely alone. Together.”
Ilya couldn’t. He couldn’t do it, and even if he could, having all that and then going back to the way they were before would tear him apart. He wanted to accept the offer so bad. It was literally what he had been hoping for all this time, and now that he had the chance in front of him, he couldn’t take it.
“Maybe,” he lied, just to see the smile on Shane’s face. “Maybe.”
Shane nodded, like he expected Ilya to agree to the plan. The sunlight coming in through the windows bathed his face.
The handle of the door turned and Shane whispered, “Oh no.”
Ilya snatched his hand away and the loss felt devastating. He let his empty fist hang by his side as a nurse entered the room.
“Uh-oh,” she said. “You’re not going to smother him with a pillow, are you?”
“Ah, no no no,” Ilya returned. Why were they so obsessed with their rivalry? He knew the answer, but still hated that all the outsiders saw was what the media spread. If only they knew the truth. “But good thinking. I was just leaving.”
He wanted to stay for longer, but their bubble had burst.
“Bye-bye,” Shane said.
“Goodbye.” Ilya was lingering now and he knew it. He should get out of here.
“See you next season.”
“Get well soon, Hollander.” And with that he left, walking out the door as coolly as he could. Shane had looked disappointed to see him go, but what was he supposed to do there?
Comfort him, his mind supplied. Say ‘yes, I would love to go to your cottage.’ Don’t be fake with him.
Ilya shook those silly thoughts out of his head as he made his way through the hospital. It was so sterile and white, but the feeling of sickness managed to make it feel gross. He was glad to get out of there and into fresh air.
He found the car that he borrowed and got into it. Ilya dropped his head into his hands. What was he going to do about all these feelings? There were just so many of them. Shane wanted him at his cottage, alone. He wanted them to be together a little longer, and maybe he also thought about a life beyond their stolen moments.
It was clear that their relationship wasn’t something that Ilya would be able to get out of anytime soon, and the relief that came with that realization hit him like a freight train. It made sense, in a way, now that he could think clearly. Like obviously Shane wouldn’t keep him around for all these years if he didn’t like them together.
Ilya started the car and it purred to life around him. He backed out of the parking space and began his way back to the hotel he was staying at.
Possibilities began to swirl around his mind. How needed was he really needed in Russia? When he went there he was mostly a wallet for his family. Surely he could spare a couple weeks to be with Shane. At least there he knew he would be loved unconditionally and appreciated. At least there would be someone happy to see him when he entered a room and there would be someone who would take the time to take care of him.
He could go to the cottage. He really could.
Ilya made up his mind right then. Next time he could talk to Shane, whenever the next best chance was, he would tell him.
He was coming to the cottage.