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Ilya Rozanov was abrasive, controlling, and to some even an asshole. To most, actually. But he was not and never had been a cheater. He respected himself, his team, and the game too much to commit that level of dishonor. A chirp here, a shove harder than necessary there. That was fine; that was the game. But he would be damned if he got thrown out of the NHL over something as stupid as drugs.  

Yet that’s exactly the possibility he saw flashing through his mind when he found them in one of his teammates’ bags.  

He was the first one out of the showers after a game at home, and the only one in the locker room as he gathered his stuff up. Seeing them was a mistake, in many ways. Both because he didn’t mean to be in Sebbin’s bag at all and also because he was now involved in something he had no desire to be involved with.  

All he had done was step on the strap of the bag as he walked to his own cubby, accidentally knocking it off and spilling its contents everywhere. “Suka,” he mumbled, noticing the little pouch of white dust that had tumbled out with everything.   

Ilya wasn’t innocent by any means; he had done some cocaine in his youth. It was more of a coping mechanism than anything else, though. And he had left it behind when he left Russia. He didn’t touch the stuff anymore because he knew it would get him a one-way trip back home without any chance of playing in the major leagues again.  

As the clamoring of the rest of his team made its way to Ilya’s ears, he made a split-second decision to grab the drugs off the floor and shove them into his pocket. He gathered the rest of Sebbin’s things, pushing it all back into his bag and placing it back in his cubby before the others came out.  

That happened so quickly that he barely had enough time to reach his own cubby, pretending to be reaching for his phone as they filtered out. Some were in small groups of two or three, others on their own. Sebbin entered with Kane and for a moment Ilya wondered if he knew about this or worse, was also using.  

This wasn’t just some small infraction; it could get their entire team banned from competing. It could ruin any chance they had at making playoffs, let alone winning another cup this year. But Sebbin was just laughing at some jest another player made, not a flicker of concern in his eyes. It made Ilya clench his jaw. Tightly.  

“I’ve got time for one round of drinks, then I need to head home to my wife,” one of them announced, much to the displeasure of the rest of the team.  

“I miss who you were before you got tied down,” another commented, partially kidding as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You used to hang out with us all night.”  

“You only miss it because I was the one paying for your drinks,” came the response. 

Ilya missed most of it, admittedly. He was still staring at Sebbin, wondering what he could have been thinking to do something this fucking stupid when they were only twenty games away playoffs. Things were close, too, between teams this year. Closer than he wanted and now they could lose what small lead they had over this.  

The team started to file out, still clamoring over whether marriage was worth it or not. That was really more of a conversation between the single players arguing it wasn’t and the married ones arguing it was.  

“Sebbin!” Ilya called, reaching to grab his arm before he could follow everyone else out of the locker room. “We need to talk.”  

He looked surprised by it but stuck around anyway. “What’s up, captain?” he questioned with a small, teasing smile. The kind that indicated he had absolutely no idea what was happening.  

He paused, glancing over the man’s shoulder at the others to ensure they were out of earshot. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked the second the doors had shut, his voice low and angry.  

He had wanted to approach this calmly, to give him a chance to explain. But he was so furious it was a bit harder than he expected to control his temper or his tone. Ilya had never been known for his patience, after all, and this idiot was going to mess everything up for them. He had to find out why and wanted to know sooner rather than later.  

Sebbin furrowed his brows, only just started to realize that this was a serious conversation. “Wha- is this about what happened out there?” he wondered. “I know I messed up that pass to Feller, but I made up for it—” 

Ilya was already shaking his head. “I’m not fucking talking about Feller or how you played tonight,” he clarified, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the bag he’d found. “I’m talking about this.”  

His eyes widened a bit. “Where did you get that?” he asked. “Were you snooping through my stuff, Roz?”  

The nickname wasn’t unusual. Pretty much the entire time called him that from time to time and he even signed a few things that way for kids or really big fans to make it seem a bit more personal. Hearing it now, though, felt wrong. Like Sebbin had lost the privilege to use it in the blink of an eye.  

“They fell out,” he retorted sharply. “What the hell have you gotten mixed up in, Sebbin?” He glanced at the bag, disgusted by the sight of it and dropped it on the bench without a sound.  

“It’s just a bit of fun,” he defended, raising his hands like he had been caught replacing someone shampoo with hair dye, not using drugs. “It’s not like I’m using steroids or anything. It doesn’t affect —” 

“It affects everything!” Ilya interjected firmly, hand sweeping through the air in anger. “How long have you been using?”  

He wanted to know how many games they would have invalidated for this, how many teams they would have as permanent enemies now, how big of a public apology they would need to make. There were so many factors, just to be able to keep playing let alone aim for the cup.  

“Like...a few weeks,” Sebbin replied, shrugging. “Five or six, probably. Not that long.”  

“No that long?” Ilya repeated with a sarcastic tone and a harsh huff. “That is nearly twenty games! Do you know how many teams will try to ban us for this?”  

They already hated the Raiders for their behavior, but now they would be actively lobbying to keep them out of the game. And that was just the other players. The actual officials would be even worse, pushing for past games to be examined and to drug test the entire team to ensure they weren’t also cheating.  

“Then don’t tell them!” Sebbin exclaimed. “You still want to win, right? Then let’s just keep playing like we’ve been playing and get the cup this year. It’s not like it does that much to change my performance.”  

He shook his head. “No,” he told him. “It doesn’t matter how much you think it affects you, it’s still cheating. I will not lie for you and risk my reputation and career. Not to mention the future of this entire team that has been playing honorably all season.” He really fucking hoped they were, anyway.  

He recoiled slightly. “They could kick me out, Roz,” he reminded him. “Is that what you want? You’ll throw away any chance we have at winning this season.”  

Deep down, Ilya knew that was true. Their lead all season had already been tentative and losing any player, especially a good one, could ruin them. They were getting so close to playoffs that he could probably keep this quiet until the season ended. He could get Sebbin into a rehab facility on the down low and get him back in time for Spring training to start.  

“No,” Ilya repeated, shaking his head. “We will win honestly or we will not win at all.” There was no glory in a cup they didn’t earn. It wouldn’t be fair to any of them; let alone the other teams they played against. “You have choice, Sebbin. You can either tell coach or I will.”  

He scoffed. “I’m not telling coach. He’ll go ballistic on the whole team,” he replied. “And you’re the captain, you should be supporting your team not throwing away our shot at winning because you don’t like how I self-medicate. You’re a lot of things, Roz, but a rat isn’t one of them.” 

His jaw worked, glancing back at the bag that was lying on the bench like a sick reminder that he couldn’t even be happy about tonight's win because it didn’t feel authentic. Especially not the goal Sebbin had scored. “We play on Friday,” he reminded him. “You better tell coach by then or I will put you on the fucking bench myself.” 

It was a pretty damn simple ultimation, in Ilya’s mind. Tell the truth or have his secret come out in a different way. Any smart, logical man would have taken the path of least resistance. At least if Sebbin came clean on his own, then he could spin his story to seem more empathetic and claim he had some sort of addiction.  

Maybe he actually did. Ilya wasn’t quite sure. All he knew was that when Friday rolled around, Sebbin was still in the locker room. He was still getting ready like he intended to play, glancing at Ilya with partial worry but ultimately a look that made it clear he didn’t think his captain would turn him in.  

That was where he had been wrong.  

Ilya left before the game could even start, walking straight into the back office he knew his coach liked to pace in before games started and threw the bag down on his desk as evidence. And Ilya, as good of a man and a teammate as he was, did not spin a sob story about the drugs. He told the truth.  

His coach was storming into the locker room faster than he could even finish explaining about the ultimatum he gave Sebbin, already hauling the man to his feet and dragging him into the hallway for a talk. That might have been pushing it, honestly. It was more like coach Desjourney yelled at Sebbin in every possible way he knew how to.  

Ilya could hear it all from the locker room, along with the rest of the team. Even without context, he was pretty sure they could tell that it was serious. That Sebbin wouldn’t be playing in the game, or the next one either. If ever again, for that matter.  

An alternate was thrown into the game to take Sebbins place, and he was sent home at Desjourneys discretion. It was better than seeing him sit on the bench, still wearing their logo and representing him.  

The decision quickly rippled through NHL channels, of course. It only took another two games before the entire community knew the truth about why the team was tense. And the moment the news broke, the entire team felt the effects of it. The entire organization, even.  

‘Raiders Penalized For Two Weeks.’  

That’s what the headline read on Hayden’s phone as he and Shane pulled into the rink for an early practice before a game. His mouth dropped, sitting up straighter as he ignored the previous article he had been reading and clicked on the new one instead. Eyes scanning it, he reached for the radio, trying to turn it down so he could read better.  

Shane immediately slapped his hand away, used to him trying to turn on a station he didn’t like. “Knock it off,” he grumbled. “We’re about to park.” 

Hayden reached for it again, anyway, an turned the volume all the way down. “Ho-ly shit,” he exclaimed, thumb scrolling through the article quickly trying to get as many details as he could in the shortest amount of time. “You’re not gonna believe this.”  

He furrowed his eyebrows. “What?” he wondered, pulling into his parking space and putting the car into park. “Don’t tell me Jackie’s pregnant with number five,” he teased.  

“No, dumbass,” Hayden retorted sharply, still scrolling through the article on his phone. “The Raiders just got penalized for cheating.” 

Shane’s eyes widened, instantly trying to look over his friends phone. “What?” he repeated in confusion. “They cheated in a game?”  

His mind went to a dozen different questions, including how they cheated, who it was, and how they got caught. That wasn’t like them, he thought. Sure, they talked a lot of shit and could be pretty brutal in terms of the fights they dished out when things got too intense, but they never cheated.  

“Uhh, looks like in a lot of them,” he retorted, shaking his head in disbelief as he kept skimming. “Says they’re not releasing the names of players involved yet but they’re conducting an in-depth investigation into the incident.”  

Incident. That sounded vague as fuck. It was on purpose, too. Shane knew it was. The media loved to tear this kind of thing apart so any official press statements were made to sound as ambiguous as possible while still acting like they were trying to be honest with the community. It was a bit ridiculous, in his opinion, though. The reporters would still try to speculate and name players even if there was no truth about their involvement.  

“Does it say what kind?” Shane questioned, still trying to look over the phone. He couldn’t see much with how quickly Hayden was scrolling. “Adjusted equipment or peeking at the other team's plans?” There weren’t that many ways they could cheat in hockey. Not compared to other sports, anyway.  

He shook his head, reaching the end of the article and scrolling back to the top of it again to reread the first paragraph. “No, just says they’re reviewing as many as twenty past games to declare if they’ll be allowed to finish the rest of the season,” he muttered, lowering his phone. “They’re not allowed to play for two weeks while the film is being studied.”  

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered in shock, his mind immediately flashing to Ilya. “Could they even make playoffs with that timeline?” If they could, it would have to be close. They’d been knocked down several places in the standings, too. That meant there was pretty much no shot at winning this season.  

Hayden shrugged, honestly not sure. “Doubt it,” he admitted. “This season has been close enough as it is without throwing another wrench into it.” He was pretty proud of it, too. A close season meant they had been playing effectively as a team.  

Shane watched as he unbuckled his seat, turning to grab his bag out of the backseat. Hayden opened the door and started heading inside, glancing back at him with a tilt of his head as if to remind him he needed to follow. His eyes flitted to his phone that rested near the base of the consol.  

He should call Ilya and try to get to the bottom of this. At the very least, he should send a text and make sure he’s alright. Being out of the game for an injury was one thing, but this was the kind of accusation that might not taint but destroy someone’s entire reputation. 

Mutter a soft curse under his breath, he twisted and grabbed his duffle bag before reaching for his phone. He climbed out of his car, sliding his phone into his pocket and following Hayden inside from the back entrance. He couldn’t text Ilya right now, but the second he got a minute he would. Even if it was just to check in.  

As expected, the locker room was bustling as half of them read the same article Hayden did only with more attention to detail. The other half were glancing over their shoulders, expecting the summary in verbal form so they didn’t have to bother with actually reading it. Regardless of how they consumed the information, it was still consumed.  

“It’s gotta be something big for them to put them on the bench for two weeks,” someone muttered, sounding just as shocked as Hayden had. “They wouldn’t do that if they were just setting up slushes by the net or something.”  

“I don’t know, the new rules are being enforced pretty hard,” another noted with a small tilt of his head. “They might be using the Raiders as an example since they’re, you know, a problematic team on a good day.”  

Shane dropped his bag into his cubby with a loud thud that no one seemed to pay attention to. He glanced at the group crowding around a single phone, seemingly studying the entire article word by word. They looked more invested than he saw them when rewatching game footage or going over plays.  

“How much of the team do you think is involved with it?” Wilson questioned, already tugging his shirt off. “Half? More than that?”  

JJ shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’d bet money Rozanov is involved in it,” he replied.  

Shane’s eyes snapped towards his teammate, hearing the words fall from his lips so easily and filled with so much conviction that he assumed everyone else would be inclined to believe him. “You think?” he muttered.  

He nodded. “For sure,” he confirmed. “I bet he probably orchestrated the whole thing.” Never mind that they didn’t actually know what the incident was, yet. It didn’t really matter. Cheating was cheating regardless of whether it was one foul block or long-term spying on a team.  

Shane hummed, glancing back at his stuff and pulling some of his things out in a ritualistic manner. Despite what they thought, there was no way Ilya was involved. He knew that for a fact. He loved this game too much to cheat. He always said half of the fun was how hard it was. He’d never try to earn a leg up against anyone by doing anything other than working harder than them.  

“Maybe the others will get off easy, if it is Rozanov’s fault,” Berkes commented, not quit sounding hopeful for it. It was more of a contemplative tone, like he figured it was better to punish one of them rather than all of them. “The others don't deserve to suffer if they weren’t complicit.”  

“What if Rozanov wasn’t complicit, either, though?” Shane wondered, eyeing them from the side to see their reactions. Like he expected, they were mostly skeptical, like the idea that Ilya wasn’t involved wasn’t possible in their minds.  

“That’s a pretty big if, I think,” Hayden noted, voice filled with a teasing lilt. “But even so, he’s still the captain. He had to know something was going on and chose not to interfere because he didn’t want to lose their lead.”  

Wilson gestured at Shane. “I mean, if one of us was up to some shady shit, you’d notice it,” he stated pretty confidently. “And you’d call us on, immediately. We have integrity, like that.” It’s why they had more cups than the Raiders.  

He nodded slightly. “Yeah, of course I’d call you on it,” he muttered, even though a question wasn’t asked. “There’s no fucking way I’d let anyone in this room get away with cheating.”  

He knew Ilya felt that way too, even if he couldn’t think of a way to prove it to his teammates without it sounding suspiciously kind about the man he was supposed to hate. So, he settled for clearing it up in his mind. Grabbing his phone, he slid open his last conversation with Ilya and typed out ‘You’re really penalized for two weeks? Wtf happened?’ before tossing it back on top of his bag. Not his kindest message, admittedly, but it was all he could manage on short notice with how stunned he still was.  

Ilya received it instantly, able to respond the second he did.  

Unlike Shane, who was getting ready for a game, he wasn’t in any gear. He should have been, but the was that they had decided to keep the entire team off the ice broke a few hours ago and since then he’d been sulking and seething as much as the rest of the players. He let his fingers hover over the board for a moment, unsure what text could possibly convey how this whole situation had gone down in a single message.  

He didn’t think he could, honestly. Instead, he responded with, ‘It’s true. Sebbin fucked up and we’re all on the hook for it.’ before shoving his phone back into his pocket.  

The team wasn’t in a locker room, today. Not their own or another's. They were in a corporate building with walls that made Ilya feel dead inside, and carpet that looked like it crawled out of an arcade. It was apparently where players got sent when they needed to be talked to by management. He wouldn’t know that because he was never stupid enough to get sent there.  

“I’m not pissing in a damn cup,” Marlow grumbled, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall. Shoving them all into the same tiny board room seemed like they were being psychologically broken down before someone came to talk with them. “I shouldn’t have to prove I’m not on drugs. I’ve never touched them.”  

“This is such bullshit,” Carmichael agreed, obviously peeved. “None of us are stupid enough to cheat, let alone get caught, so why are we being punished for Sebbin’s mistake?”  

Ilya shook his head, trying to keep them from getting too agitated or heaven forbid, trying to leave. “We are not being punish—” 

“We’re not allowed to play for two weeks, Roz!” Hammersmith interjected, sounding furious. “We’ll take losses on all six games and automatically fall to fourth place in the rankings and that’s if they let us finish the season!”  

This wasn’t the first cheating scandal in the NHL. It wasn’t even the first one this season. But in the past two years, the rules had been changed and made even stricter in terms of punishment. They weren’t going to let the Raiders play until it was clear that none of them had any involvement in Sebbin’s actions.  

Not to mention, they were going to have their past games meticulously analyzed to know if they won because of the drugs or not. Ilya hoped to every heaven he knew of, that the officials decided in their favor because he wouldn’t know what to do if they didn’t.  

“Listen up! This is for our benefit,” Ilya reminded them sternly, voice slow to make sure they understood him. “We are not going to be taken out of the season without a fight, so we’ll comply, prove our innocence and then get back on top. Is that clear?” He waited for them to nod. “Is it?” he repeated when no one gave him an answer.  

Quietly, the annoyed nods came followed by a rather weak chorus of ‘yeah’ and ‘got it’.  

Ilya blew out a soft breath, glancing out of the clear windows, keeping them trapped in the conference room. They were being treated like war criminals, not athletes who were currently at the top of the rankings. Still, he figured this was nothing compared to what Sebbin was dealing with.  

He wasn’t exactly compassionate, given it was his fault they were in this mess, but he didn’t want him to suffer, either. He was a good player, even before he started testing his limits. It would be a shame if one (incredibly stupid) mistake ruined everything for him.   

The door eventually opened and some woman walked in with their coach. She had the kind of expression that told Ilya she wasn’t about to clear them to play tonight, the way they were all secretly hoping she would. Instead, she forced them to sit down while she explain, in detail, what was going to happen over the next two weeks.  

“Several professionals will review the tapes and establish a baseline of your teams performance, then compare it to your recent wins to see how much of an impact Sebbins drug use had on it,” she informed them. “In the meantime, no one is allowed to make any statements to the press or step on the ice. Any attempt will prolong our process more than necessary.”  

She tacked on the mandatory drug tests at the end, like slipping it in last might make it for them to tolerate. It wasn’t. There were groans and sighs, along with curses that she shut up with a harsh glare Ilya almost envied the strength of. Then, she simply left. Like none of this really had any effect on her.  

Ilya supposed it didn’t. Not really. She could bark orders around all day because it was her job, but she couldn’t care less if they got to play the rest of the season, let alone if they made playoffs. She just wanted to know who was cheating and who wasn’t and how to handle the fallout of it.  

“She might be scarier than you,” Marlow mumbled as the door shut behind her, leaving them alone with their coach.  

Ilya glared at him. “Shut up,” he retorted, his tone lacking any real bite to it.  

“She’s just doing her job,” coach Desjourney commented, gesturing to the group vaguely. “Just like you’ll be doing yours by cooperating.”  

“Do you honestly think we’re involved in this, coach?” Carmichal questioned, almost offended by the notion. “We just want to play. We want to win.” 

“I know you do,” he replied, nodding with complete faith. “And I expect you to do just that the second this mess has been cleared up. So, get tested and then do whatever the fuck you have to do to fix your heads over the next two weeks because the second you’re back in the rink you better be playing like you’ve never played before. I expect to win that cup back even you have to pull off a goddamn miracle to get it, you hear me?”  

There were nods, a few verbal answers and a couple of continued complaints sprinkled in. Overall, though, they seemed like they were on the same page. Get the officials to know this had been Sebbins mistake and his alone, make their press statements as a team, then get back to the game and win it.  

They would be several games behind, playing against teams whose once tentative respect had turned to full-blown hatred, but neither of those things mattered. Ilya was still planning to hold that cup by the end of the season, even if he had to score every fucking goal on his own to do it.  

As Desjourney let them leave, Ilya heard a few of the guys still grumbling about needing to clear their names when they barely even took Advil after getting hit during a game. He also heard a few of them sounding pissed enough that it turned into motivation, though. That was a good sign. 

“When are you going to the lab?” Marlow questioned, already planning to get his bloodwork and urine samples done as soon as humanly possible. It was humiliating enough to need them in the first place, but putting it off would only make things worse and coach had been clear that they needed to focus on the future.  

“Already did it,” he retorted as they left the office, finding their way out of the massive building. “Samples came back clear. Shocker.”  

He had gone on Saturday, the day after coach yanked Sebbin from the game. He figured there was no way he and everyone else would get out of being accused of also using, so he got it out of the way to be able to tell coach that he was clean. There wasn’t so much as a spec of anything concerning, just as he knew it would be. As long as no one else came back with similar results to Sebbin, they might actually have a chance at getting their shit together.  

He raised an eyebrow at him for a moment before huffing and shaking his head. “How? We only got told we’d be pulled from the ice three hours ago,” he reminded him. “I haven’t even had time to get my stuff from my cubby.”  

Ilya shrugged. “One player does drugs, is straightforward enough to assume they test us all,” he replied. “Besides, if they forced me, I wouldn’t want to do it. Had to be of free will before they got to demand it.”  

Marlow nodded slightly, unsurprised. “Now, that sounds more reasonable,” he muttered with a lighter tone than before. “You always hate being told what to do.”  

He wasn’t taking this well, admittedly, but he was trying to stay positive as much as he could. If Ilya, who was arguably the easiest player to rile up, could keep his head on straight then he could follow his example and do the same.  

Ilya shrugged. “Is annoying to be treated like idiot,” he responded. “I know not to cheat, am not fucking five-year-old playing tag and claiming base when not actually touching the pole.” He pressed the button on the elevator, waiting for the doors to open.  

“They play tag in Russia?” Marlow teased as they stepped into the elevator and pressed the ground floor button. “I thought they just put you in an empty classroom and yelled instead of giving you recess.”  

His lip twitched at the joke. “Only the advanced class,” he responded. “Stupid kids got to play.”  

He chuckled, dropping his head to shake it in exasperation. “God, you’re dark,” he muttered. “How are you going to handle not playing for two weeks?” he wondered, knowing damn well that it was an outlet for some of his frustrations. He’s probably rather start mugging people than take a break. 

The doors opened again and they stepped off on their floor. “Guess I’ll have to pick up a book or something,” he complained with an exaggerated shudder. “Maybe get out of Boston for a bit.”  

Cliff pushed the door open, walking into the parking lot. “Didn’t know you could do that, willingly,” he noted, glancing at him with a weird look. “Don’t leave for too long, either. Just because we can’t play doesn’t mean we can’t practice.”  

Ilya nodded slightly, already digging his keys out of his pocket. “Don’t tell me I need practice, Marlow,” he replied sarcastically, pulling the door of his car open. “Keep that mentality for yourself and others,” he added as he got in, closing the door behind him and driving off.  

If anything, he needed a break more than he needed to actually be in the rink every single day. It had been a hard season before Sebbin decided to fuck things up worse for them. Now, he had a reason to step away and get some perspective. Albeit he was forced to step back and was still pissed about it.  

If anyone had asked Ilya where he was going, he might have told them he was heading home to see his niece for the week. Or he would make up some excuse about visiting a friend in New Jersey or New York, somewhere he really hadn’t been unless there for hockey. He would under no circumstances admit to traveling to Canada of all places.  

He wore his sunglasses high and his hat low out of caution, a habit that he developed out of his own paranoia which Shane worsened with his constant anxious thoughts. The entire time he walked out of the airport, his mind kept ringing with thoughts of warning. Like this wasn’t okay, somehow, even though he knew it would be fine. No one would notice him; they wouldn’t even think it was him if they did.  

Ilya had owned a key to Shane’s apartment for over a year, not that he used it very often. When he was over, they were always together, and he never had a reason to come over on his own until now. Especially not this unexpectedly. He was going to text, really. Ask permission or give him a heads up that he was coming into town. But then he just...didn’t.  

Knocking on the door to his apartment, there was no answer, so he slid the spare key into the lock and let himself inside. He dropped his bag in the bedroom, then made himself a snack in the kitchen. Attempted to, at least. It wasn’t like Shane kept very much human food in the apartment. More like rabbit snacks.   

Then, making himself comfortable on the couch, he flipped the television on and found the pregame channel already interviewing a few players from Montreal. “Eh, Pike, why are you always talking?” he mumbled to himself, muting the tv and reaching for his phone to distract himself with it.  

He went back and forth like that for the next two hours, watching the game when it looked interesting and scrolling through speculation about which of his team members caused the penalization. It wasn’t surprising to see his name mentioned frequently. He supposed if he was willing to throw his gloves off mid-game, it was only a small jump to think he might cheat.  

Montreal won 2-1 against the Toronto Guardians.  

If Ilya didn’t know Shane any better, he might have thought he’d go out to celebrate with his team. But that wasn’t something he did very often, especially not for home games when he had his bed a few miles away. It was only forty-five minutes after the game ended that the door opened and he walked into his apartment, bag slung over his shoulder looking exhausted.  

Ilya just waited to be noticed.  

It didn’t take very long for Shane to see him, immediately closing the door behind himself faster. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he questioned, eyes widening as he dropped his bag to the floor instead of putting it down on the overly expensive side table he kept next to the door.  

He stood, shrugging. “You have nicer television than me; wanted to watch game on it,” he muttered jokingly. “It was good, you played well.” Better than well, actually, but he wasn’t going to inflate his ego to that extent.  

Shane let out a soft huff, noticing the small downturn at the edge of his smile. His words were authentic, but they were also laced with sadness. He wanted to play tonight, too. Wanted to check the standings after the game and make sure they were still in the lead after everyone's games concluded. Instead, he got to watch Montreal take their spot. And he still had to force himself to feel at least somewhat happy about it.  

“Thanks,” he murmured, stepping closer to him and pausing for a moment before he wrapped his arms around him, feeling him melt into the hug. “What the hell happened with Sebbin, Ilya?” he wondered resting his chin on his shoulder. “Why aren’t you playing?” 

He had tried to send another text after practice. Multiple, actually. But he never got a response to any of them. At least now he knew it was probably because Ilya was on an airplane, flying over the border to see him. Whatever was going on had to be pretty bad, if he didn’t bother sending a text to let him know he was coming.  

Ilya hummed, letting out a long breath. “Fucking idiot decided to do drugs,” he mumbled, voice sounding deflated. “We’re all getting third degree to make sure we aren’t doing them too.”  

He pulled away from the hug, eyebrows furrowed. “Are you serious? You wouldn’t touch them,” he stated with conviction.  

He nodded like that much was obvious. “Does not matter, they still want us off the ice until they can decide whether our past games are invalid or not,” he responded. “We may not even finish season.” 

Shane watched as Ilya fell back onto the couch with a weary sigh, a pang of frustration and empathy coursing through him at the sight. He scrubbed his face, like part of him still couldn’t believe it. He was still waiting to wake up from this nightmare and realize it was all in his head.  

Sitting beside him, Shane nudged his knee with his own. “Are you alright?” he wondered. “I mean, obviously you’re not, but- you came here.” Of all the things he could do to cope and places he could seek solace; he chose Montreal. Chose this apartment.  

He raised his head, looking tired from his flight. “Am...handling it,” he replied as convincingly as he could. “Couldn’t stand staying in Boston without playing for two weeks. I figured maybe I could come here, instead. You have home games this week, yes? I can be uh- trophy boyfriend and make your snacks before you go.”  

He checked the schedule pretty frequently, to the point he almost had Shane’s memorized as well as he had his own indented in his mind. And while the thought of watching him play as he waited to hear about his own future might have once made him claw his eyes out, it wasn’t the worst thought in the world anymore. He could still stay close to the game, close to the top of the leaderboard, in a way. Even if it was just by sleeping with the captain of the team that was in first place.  

Shane huffed, nodding his head. “Yeah, of course you can stay, Roz,” he assured him, leaning into him a bit. “Anything you need right now.”  

He hummed slightly, reaching for him to pull him even closer. “Just need to get away from the team for a bit,” he confessed. “Maybe I will review season and plan the miracle coach is expecting from us.” And by that, he meant that Desjourney was mostly expecting from him.  

“You could,” he assured him. “Pull off a miracle, I mean. You’ve done it before.” As badly as he wanted to win, he never wanted it to be at the expense of another team having their shot ripped away. “It was just Sebbin, right? No one else?” 

Ilya nodded, his hand tangling in Shane’s hair. “I think, yes,” he replied, sounding uncertain but hopeful. “They better be fucking clean, anyway.” One player was bad enough, but if he found out the others were involved, he might actually be arrested for beating the shit out of his teammates.  

“Then, you’ve still got a chance,” Shane tried to reassure him. “They’ll get through the footage and realize you guys were winning because you’re good, not because of some drugs. You’ll come back in two weeks and start winning again.”  

It sounded a lot easier in theory than he knew it actually would be. Any number of things could cause officials to prolong the review process or decide to do additional interviews with the team. If that worked out as well as possible, they’d still have to be on one hell of a winning streak to make playoffs. It wasn’t impossible, per say. Just shy of it, though.  

“I just can’t believe Sebbin would do this to us,” he mumbled, sounding genuinely devastated. This game was his life, and he couldn’t understand how anyone would taint it by cheating. “To me.”  

Part of him was angrier about it happening behind his back than anything else. After he had done his best to support and encourage his team, to push them to be the best and take care of them when they were struggling. This wasn’t how he deserved to be repaid for his dedication as their captain.  

“You didn’t know,” Shane murmured. “That’s not your fault.” He didn’t even have to question if Ilya had known about the truth and covered it up. Unlike his teammates, he knew there was no way Ilya could have let something like this continue if he even suspected they would risk getting penalized or suspended.  

“I should have, though,” he replied. “Is my job to know everything about my team. I missed something, somehow. Now, we’re all paying for it.”  

He sighed, getting to his feet. “Come on,” he insisted, offering him his hand. “Let’s take a shower and get the plane germs off you, then I’ll help you plan this miracle for Desjourney.”  

Ilya’s lips quirked, standing up. “That sounds a lot like conspiring with the enemy,” he remarked. “You could get in trouble, too.”  

Shane shrugged, tilting his head towards the bedroom. “It’s not conspiracy! It’s just...very intense pillow talk,” He defended half-heartedly. “Besides, I never said you were going to beat my team. I said I’d help you beat the others.”  

Tutting softly, he followed Shane out of the living room.  

They spent most of the night still talking and Shane listened to Ilya explain how he found the drugs, the conversation he had with Sebbin, and the ultimatum he gave him. There was a part of him that still felt like he should have known something was going on and it made him wonder if he couldn’t tell something was happening with Sebbin, then maybe he didn’t know what was going on with the rest of his team, either.  

There was also, admittedly, a very small part of him that almost wished he kept it a secret. They could have kept playing, avoided the bad publicity, and even won the season. But Ilya couldn’t live with himself if he did that and said as much. Even if he was an asshole, he wasn’t a cheater.  

Falling asleep, Ilya slept better than he thought he would, given the news that broke today. He figured it was because of Shane, since it usually was. He wasn’t a restless sleeper by any means, but he always slept better next to someone and slept best next to Shane.  

That said, when morning rolled around, it wasn’t an obnoxious alarm clock waking him up. Shane, thankfully, slept until seven after game nights. It wasn’t wandering hands, either, unfortunately. Give it a few more hours and it would have been. Instead, it was a pretty persistent banging on the front door that jolted him up, bringing a grimace of annoyance to his features.  

Ilya shoved Shane harshly. “Who the fuck is at your door at six in the morning?” he asked, looking at the clock on the nightstand.  

He groaned, lifting his head and squinting. He, admittedly didn’t catch much of that between being half-asleep and hearing Ilya’s raspy voice. He always seemed to sound more Russian in the morning, when his throat was dry and his words were deeper.  

“What?” he grumbled, trying to pull himself upright.  

“The door, Shane,” he repeated, thumb pointing in the direction of it. “Someone is knocking on it.” 

That woke him up.  

Shane bolted up, eyes popping open as he immediately stumbled out of bed. “Shit,” he cursed nearly tripping. “No one is supposed to be here.” He hadn’t made plans with Hayden or anything. Even if he had, they would definitely not take place before ten.  

Ilya watched him get dressed in a hurry, trying to look somewhat presentable. It was kind of cute, honestly. He rushed like he was doing the walk of shame when they hadn’t done anything more than talk and cuddle until past midnight.  

“Breathe,” he reminded him, demonstrating as he stayed in bed, hands flopping on the blankets lazily. “No one knows I’m here. Just have conversation and then come back to bed; maybe we get morning exercise in.”  

Shane huffed softly, but it seemed to calm him down enough to finish pulling his sweatpants on before he left the bedroom to get the door. He let out a small breath, tugging the handle open. He was expecting a solicitor or maybe even someone to finally fix the sound his fridge had been making for a week straight. Instead, he just found his mom standing in the hallway with a slightly confused expression.  

“Mom?” he questioned in surprise, eyebrows furrowing. “What are you doing here?”  

Yuna raised an eyebrow. “Lovely way to greet your mother,” she quipped, walking inside even though he hadn’t moved to let her. “How’s your arm after last night?” 

Shane closed the door behind her and watched her head towards the kitchen with ease. His arm? He looked down at both of them like he was trying to piece together the dots for a moment before he remembered getting hit in the shoulder last night. It hadn’t been a terrible incident; he just got slammed into the wall wrong, and he was in some discomfort for the rest of the game. 

“Uh- it’s fine,” he murmured, rolling his slightly to double check. “Barely even feel it, anymore.” 

She nodded, setting her purse down on the counter. “Good, you need to be extra careful now that we’re nearing playoffs,” she insisted, glancing around to look for the toaster. “You’re always rearranging the kitchen; every time I come over it’s different.” 

He sat down on the barstool by the long counter. “I’m not always- did you come over just to ask about my arm?” he wondered. “That could have been a text.” And he could have passed on having her judge his kitchen setup entirely, frankly.  

Inside the bedroom, Ilya huffed softly to himself. It might have been a slight intrusion, but it was nice that Shane had family that wanted to check on him after a game. Everything he knew about Yuna and David, he teased Shane for. They were boring and stable, always managing his sponsorships and calling to tell him about the neighbor's cat getting into their house.  

But they were also there for most of his games, and he knew Yuna stayed up in different time zones to watch them live rather than record them. It was a type of dedication and love that Ilya never got from his father and lost when his mother died.  

“It wasn’t the only reason, but I did want to make sure you weren’t feeling too sore after the game,” Yuna clarified, finally finding the toaster and plugging it in. “I wanted to talk about this business with the Raiders.”  

Shane barely hid his grimace, glancing over his shoulder at the closed bedroom door where he was sure Ilya was listening. “Oh, yeah, that,” he muttered, tapping his fingers on the counter. “I saw the press release before practice yesterday.”  

She nodded, assuming as much. “It’s being kept very tight lipped,” she noted, reaching for some of his whole-wheat bread and popping a few slices into the top of the toaster. “But according to my sources, there’s some drug use going on inside the team. Sebbin is the only confirmed player, so far, though.” 

He wrinkled his nose, watching her tie the bread back up. “Your sources?” he repeated skeptically. “That’s very ‘CIA’ of you, mom, but I already knew.”  

Yuna whipped her head around as she got a pan out of one of the cabinets. “You did?” she questioned in surprise. “Who are your sources?” 

Shane huffed, contemplating on whether he had a good enough lie that would trick her. He didn’t. “I don’t have any, I just- I know one of the guys on the team,” he replied vaguely. “I reached out to make sure everything was alright and he explained some of the situation.”  

He almost considered reminding her that she could not, under any circumstances, tell anyone that she knew about Sebbin. It would make the entire situation even worse than it already was. But he knew his mom was smart enough to keep it to herself without being told, so he bit back to urge to make her promise this stayed between them.  

Instead, he watched as she glared at him with a mix of confusion and judgement. This was the first she was hearing about him knowing anyone on the Raiders well enough to have their phone number, let alone like them enough to use it. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, frankly.  

“You know a raider?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow. “Like, well enough to talk with him and not fight?” That wasn’t even something she had considered possible.  

He shrugged weakly. “It’s not like we’re friends,” he clarified. “It’s just good to stay amicable with as many players as possible.”  

Yuna hummed, nodding skeptically like she logically understood that but wasn’t very good at emotionally differentiating people from the players they were on the ice. “Don’t let word get out about that,” she suggested, stepping away to crack a few eggs into a pan.  

“I don’t intend to,” he swore earnestly, glancing over his shoulder again at the door to his bedroom.  

He cleared his throat a bit, looking back at his mom as she scrambled some eggs around without him asking. She did that sometimes. Often, actually. It was her way of still trying to take care of him even when he didn’t really need it anymore. She threw in a pinch of salt, occasionally gazing up at him to make sure he hadn’t lied about his arm not hurting.  

“So, did your Raider...acquaintance happen to tell you the extent of the issue?” she wondered after a few moments.  

Shane shook his head. “Just said Sebbin was mixed up in some stuff he shouldn’t be,” he replied. “I don’t think anyone else is involved, really.” He knew it, actually. But telling her that would lead to questions he didn’t know how to answer right now.  

Yuna furrowed her eyebrows in surprise. “Just one player is causing all this trouble? Seems a bit hard to believe,” she muttered. “I would have suspected Rozanov long before Sebbin, too. He always seemed like one of the nicer players on the team.” Not that it was saying very much, admittedly.  

“Yeah, I think half the league suspects Rozanov,” he responded honestly, tracing his thumb along the edge of the counter.  

She let out a small huff of laughter. “Only half?” she retorted, giving him a look. “I honestly don’t know how anyone could believe he isn’t involved. At least to some extent.”  

Maybe he wasn’t pushing drugs on his teammates or anything, but he was probably covering for them before they got caught. Or maybe indulging in them himself. Both made sense in her head, given how abrasive of a player he was.  

Shane glanced down, physically biting his tongue as he nodded slightly to appease her. “Mhm, maybe,” he murmured. “Guess we just have to wait until there’s another press release.”  

“Well, look on the bright side. Now, you’ve got one less team to worry about beating to make it to playoffs,” she told him with a small smile, plating some breakfast for them both. “You’ve practically got the cup back.” 

His stomach lurched again, giving another small nod. “I hope so,” he replied, unable to really say much else about it. He did want it back, obviously. Just couldn’t shake the feeling that Ilya’s team was supposed to win it this year before all of this happened.  

Shane did his best to indulge his mom for just under an hour as she talked his ear off about his dad’s newest puzzle subscription and the mailman delivering their packages to the wrong place. He was only half listening though, constantly glancing back at the bedroom, wondering if Ilya was going crazy in there or not.  

He imagined him pacing back and forth or rolling his eyes at how dull all the little things she brought up seemed to him. He also imagined, for a moment, a look of hurt flickering across Ilya’s eyes when he heard Yuna accuse him of cheating. Shane wasn’t an idiot; he knew that despite the bravado he showed, Ilya wasn’t made of stone. He felt the insults people threw at him, especially when they were aimed at his integrity.  

By the time Yuna actually left, Shane felt more exhausted than he was after playing the Guardians last night. He leaned his back against the door. “She’s gone,” he said loud enough for him to hear it.  

Ilya materialized a moment later, having gotten dressed during his time holding up in the bedroom. “Well, that was fun,” he commented sarcastically. “First time hiding from someone’s parents since I was fifteen.”  

He dropped his head, scrubbing his face. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t get rid of her and she just kept bringing the conversation back to your team even when I tried to get her to talk about the neighbor's cat.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows slightly, stepping closer to him to raise his chin. “Is fine,” he assured him, shrugging. “She’s entitled to opinion on me.” Everyone was.  

Shane tilted his head a bit, looking at him with softening eyes. “Yeah, but I don’t have to like that opinion,” he mumbled defensively.  

He knew hockey was the biggest part of his life, but it seemed like everyone he knew derived pleasure from insulting Ilya every chance they got. His team, his mom, even fans when they asked for autographs and asked him to put the Raiders in their place.  

“You better not like that opinion,” Ilya commented, still sounding playful. “Would make you horrible boyfriend to believe I am liar and cheater and all the other things she says.”  

He didn’t particularly find it very funny, either. But he knew that if he showed any frustration or disappointment in it, Shane would feel even more guilty than he currently did. That wouldn’t help either of them in any sort of way. So, he’d stick to pretending it was fine.  

“Now that she’s gone, want me to make you some breakfast?” Shane asked, nodding towards the kitchen. He saw the slight grimace on his face. “One healthy meal and I swear I’ll go to the grocery store and buy you some stuff you actually want to eat while you stay with me. Deal?” 

He tugged his lips from side to side before eventually nodding. “Fine,” he gave in with a small pout. “I’ll make list.”  

Shane walked into the kitchen, pulling his current list off the fridge where it was pinned up. He slid it to him on the counter, along with a pen, letting him write down his preferences. It was mostly filled with things like sugary cereal, white bread instead of wheat, and soft drinks. In other words, things Shane didn’t really buy that often. Even his sodas were usually the sugar free type.  

Still, he went to the store and bought everything on the list. Down to the very specific fruit snacks, Ilya insisted he wanted.  

It was nice, too. Having him around again. They saw each other periodically during the season and for a few weeks during break, but this had been a surprise to both of them. Even though he knew the circumstances behind it weren’t great, he was still enjoying having him back.  

Shane liked waking up next to him every morning and having him there when he came home from a game, having spent the night watching him win on the television. It was pretty damn good, aside from the part where Ilya was clearly growing antsy to play again, too.  

He had taken to keeping a countdown, marking the days off his calendar. Most of his day was spent planning new plays, reviewing old games they played, and yelling at his team on the phone whenever Marlow told him someone was slacking in practice.  

Shane usually just watched, letting him pace and shout, telling them to get their shit together because he’d rather be eaten alive by a bear than let them embarrass him. He couldn’t stick around this afternoon, though, too busy rushing to find his roll of athletic tape. He could barely even doge the hands Ilya was angrily waving around well enough to kiss his cheek before rushing out of the apartment.  

He could see how it was affecting him, how Ilya’s usual stress had gotten worse than before. His previous shock had melted away and in its place was pure motivation to come back better than when they got pulled. Shane would admit that was also a bit attractive to him. Or a lot attractive. He didn’t need to unpack what that said about him, though. Not right now, anyway. He was busy trying to keep his team in the lead.  

Easier said than done when they were getting overly comfortable in their standing.  

“Come on, guys, stop fucking around and do the drills correctly,” Shane heckled, watching a few of the younger players laugh through practice.  

“Lighten up, it’s been a good week for us,” Hayden insisted, nudging his shoulder. “It’s good for moral that we’re in a decent headspace.”  

“I don’t care about their heads, I care about their feet,” he retorted under his breath, gesturing to Mitty. “His footwork is getting atrocious. It needs to be cleaner.”  

Maybe it was having Ilya around that had him cracking down harder than usual, or maybe it was seeing how badly the Raiders wanted a comeback story that made him grow antsy. Either way, he wanted to hold onto their lead no matter what. Even if that meant more frequent and longer practices with extra drills and harsher critiques.  

Hayden squinted at the blades. “Eh, it’s not great, but it could be worse,” he replied. “Just have him get the cones out and he’ll clean it up.”  

He better. If they lost over something as stupid as sloppy footwork, Shane would lose it.  

The sound of ice being scratched up grew louder as JJ skated closer, skidding to a quick stop beside them. “Tell me I’m not the reason he looks like he wants us here another three hours,” he pleased, only partially joking.  

Yesterday, he’d gotten blamed for making practice run longer after tripping on the ice because he was distracted by something someone said. He didn’t really consider the infraction terrible, but it had them all stayed later than usual and if they were forced to be here longer again, it better not because of him.   

Hayden shook his head, hiding a laugh. “Mitty seems to be today's target,” he replied, hoping to relax him a bit.  

“Wilson is also pissing me off,” Shane added, studying the man as he shot pucks into the net a bit slower than he should be, given the fact that there was nothing in his way of it. “Why the fuck is everyone so slow today?” he wondered, genuinely confused.  

“Are we seeing the same team right now?” Hayden wondered, glancing around the rink. “Everyone is working their asses off, Shane,” he told him. “They’re exhausted.”  

He hummed, contemplating. He knew that was true. They had been here for hours and still had to play another game tomorrow against the Admirals. Still, he couldn’t help but feel like they were getting overly comfortable being ahead of the others. They were giving 80%, maybe 90% at the most. Not their best.  

“Fine,” Shane conceded, shaking his head in annoyance as he waved everyone off the ice. “We’re done for the day but everyone better have their shit together for tomorrow night.” He wasn’t going to lose to Scott Hunter of all people.  

JJ blew out a breath of relief. “Thank God,” he mumbled dramatically. “I might actually be able to walk out of here instead of crawling.”  

Hayden huffed but he didn’t disagree, giving Shane a small look that screamed ‘I told you’ before he skated off, exiting the rink.  

He furrowed his brows, wondering if he was actually going crazy or if they were actually as slow as he thought they were. Maybe he was just looking for faults when they really were in good shape for the rest of the season. There wasn’t really much way for him to know, he supposed.  

Hitting the shower, half of the team had already grabbed their stuff and left by the time he changed clothes. He figured it was probably because they were afraid that he might change his mind and try to keep them late again. He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.  

“Bunch of lazy athletes,” he mumbled, packing up his bag as Hayden stood a few feet away, texting his wife. “You win a few cups and suddenly everyone thinks hard work isn’t necessary anymore.”  

“Or maybe they just want to have a bit of energy left for the actual game,” he replied, not looking up from his phone as he fell in step with his friend. “You’ve gotta admit, you’re letting Rozanov rub off on you.”  

Shane snapped his head towards the side as they walked out of the locker room and towards the parking lot. “What?” he questioned. What the hell did he know about Ilya?  

Hayden finished sending his text and added a heart emoji to one of the pictures Jackie sent of the baby. “Oh c’mon, it’s pretty obvious,” he replied. “They were ahead of us and now that the Raiders have been struggling, you want to stay on top. I get it, man. I don’t want to let up, either, but you can’t let the fear of them coming back turn you into an asshole like Rozanov.”  

Part of what made Shane a good leader was that he was kind to his team, motivational and encouraging instead of always ripping them to shreds and being a huge jerk. That’s why they trusted and respected him. And yes, it was why they worked themselves to the bone even after they were bruised and exhausted.  

Shane unlocked his car, shoving his bag into the backseat. “There are worse people to be, you know?” he muttered.  

“Yeah, but there are also way better people to be, too,” he retorted, climbing in on the other side and chucking his bag into the back alongside Shane’s with far less gentleness. “Besides, you couldn’t be anything like Rozanov. You actually show up to practice.” Even if he did try to run them into the ground.  

He furrowed his eyebrows, backing out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  

Hayden shot him a look of disbelief. “Seriously? Do you even read the stuff we send to the group chat?” he wondered. “Or do you ignore us unless you can yell about footwork?” 

“I don’t always yell!” Shane defended, sparing a glance at him before looking back at the road. “But yeah, I usually keep the group chat muted,” he admitted with a shrug.  

Hayden looked at him in disbelief, like the news was scandalizing. In his defense, they talked a lot. Like...a lot. Memes, banter, even playlists or news articles getting passed back and forth. If he tried to keep up with every single chime on his phone, his screen time would be in double digit hours.  

“Alright, ignoring that comment—” Hayden muttered in mock annoyance. “—some reporter snuck into a private practice in Boston and apparently Rozanov wasn’t there. The pictures make it look like Marlow was in charge for the day, maybe even longer.”  

He swallowed, keeping his eyes on the lane next to him as he merged onto the highway. “Really? Wow,” he muttered, feigning surprise. “Maybe he was sick or something.”  

His friend rolled his eyes, picking his phone back up. “Or maybe he was one of the players who got in trouble,” he assumed, thinking that was far more likely. “I didn’t see many others missing, though in the picture.”  

Hayden clicked on the article sent to the group chat, zooming in on the cover image again and trying to make out the players in it. He could recognize jersey numbers better than faces but guessed that most of them were there. They were probably making an effort to stay sharp in case their penalty got lifted and they were allowed to play again next week.  

“Just because he’s not there doesn’t automatically mean he’s being banned from the NHL,” he defended a bit too quickly, shoulders growing a bit stiff. “I mean- we can’t just make those assumptions. They’re a good team regardless”  

“Yeah, why do you think I’m hoping they’re done for the season?” Hayden joked. Well, partially joked. He wouldn’t really be that upset if they actually were taken out for the rest of the season.  

Shane just breathed in, hoping the sharp inhale wasn’t overly noticeable. He didn’t like to think of his friend as cruel and he knew Hayden had no clue what kind of effect his words were having on him or why. He was just making a comment based on the history he had with Ilya, which, wasn’t a great one frankly.  

Still, it stung.  

His mom and dad thought Ilya was aggressive, his teammates thought he was a cheater, his best friend was actively hoping he would get banned from playing. That grated on Shane, even though he tried not to let it. He couldn’t help it. He’d heard it for years but usually only when he was playing the Raiders or in some sort of direct competition with them. Hearing it for nearly a week straight was really getting on his nerves.  

Dropping Hayden off at home, Shane drove back to his apartment and hiked up the stairs to his door. His shoulders deflated the second he saw Ilya standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something on stove.  

He glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, you’re back, good,” he remarked, pointing to the countertop. “We’re having pasta.”  

Shane dropped his bag by the door and walked over to him. “We are?” he questioned, looking at the bowls he’d set out and the cheese that he’d meant to grate but hadn’t gotten around to yet.  

Ilya nodded. “You need more carbohydrates in your diet; they’re good for and they’re delicious,” he told him, gesturing at the parmesan cheese. “Grate that while I get garlic bread.”  

“You made garlic bread, too?” he wondered, eyes widening a bit as he watched him stop stirring the pot and pick up an oven mitt. “I’m impressed.”  

Ilya shot him a look as he opened the oven to pull the tray out of the oven. “Is not hard,” he retorted, setting the pan on the counter with a soft clatter. “I am good cook, you know this.”  

That was true. Ilya was always better in the kitchen than Shane was. He could eyeball measurements and half recipes by doing the math in his head. Shane would try, but he liked the specific details and without falling them down to the letter, he usually messed up something.  

Shane washed his hands, then grabbed the block of cheese to run it over the grater. “I know, I just didn’t expect dinner tonight. I thought we’d order in again,” he admitted, hiding a smile as he worked on the cheese.  

He shrugged, straining the spaghetti over the sink. “I had time on my hands,” he noted. “Besides, I have to be a good trophy boyfriend while I stay here.”  

That made him break, unable to hide his smirk as he watched Ilya pour the pasta back in the pan and add the sauce to it. “You’re definitely doing a good job,” he teased. “I might have to upgrade to a trophy husband, at this rate.”  

Ilya raised an eyebrow, portioning the pasta into each bowls. “That could be arranged,” he admitted, sounding almost smug about it. Like deep down, he always knew that was where they were heading regardless of how long it took them to get there. “How was practice?”  

He loved having him here. In fact, he liked it so much that from the second he walked in, his mind wiped away the comments Hayden had made in the car. Until Ilya brought it up, that was. Then, he just grimaced, setting the grater into the sink and sprinkling the cheese on top of either bowl.  

“It was uh- slow,” Shane noted, shrugging. “Apparently, someone took picture of Raiders practice and since you weren’t there—” 

“Everyone thinks I am in trouble, yes,” he interjected, nodding. “I saw it published this morning.” The real question was how Shane hadn’t, he thought. It was a big publisher. “Does not matter to me.” 

He just stared at him, watching him pluck the garlic bread off the pan and tuck it into the bowls. “How can you be so okay with the whole world thinking you’re a cheater?” he wondered. “That you would actually betray your fans like this?”  

Sure, they didn’t know, yet, that the incident was drug related. But they were still pushing him to the front of the problem anyway. If anything, that just made it worse because it mean they were blaming him with no clue what they were blaming him for.  

Ilya wiped the grease from his hands onto a dish towel, putting the rest of the dishes into the sink. “Because I didn’t,” he replied pretty straight forwardly. “I don’t take drugs, I don’t cheat. Medical tests prove this.”  

He sighed, grabbing his bowl and following him towards the living room. They sat on the couch and fussed his fork for a moment, the situation still not sitting right with him. “I know it’s killing you,” he mumbled. “You can pretend it’s just an inconvenience, but I know you’re pissed off.” He had every right to be, too.  

Ilya glanced up, waiting to swallow before talking. “Of course I am,” he said, nodding. “But I can’t make them release press or let me back on ice. I have to wait.” Until then, he’d focus on what he could, like game prep and yelling at his team from another country.  

Shane pursed his lips for a moment, biting into the edge of the garlic bread. It was good. Better since Ilya made it, probably. “I really want you back on the ice, Roz,” he admitted. “I love having you here, really, but you deserve to play.” 

“I will play,” he stated confidently. “And then we’ll wipe floor with Montreal and every other team.” They had to. Otherwise, what the fuck was all this for?  

“I hope so,” Shane murmured earnestly. “Some of the stuff they’ve been saying lately almost has me wishing they’d get into a fight so another team would shut them up.”  

Ilya’s eyes widen with a glint. “Ah, Shane Hollander has violent side,” he teased, reaching over to knock his fork against his boyfriends. “I knew your boringness was an act.”  

He huffed, shoving his fork away with his own cutlery. “Shut up,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Eat your pasta.”  

Ilya chuckled, smiling as he kept eating.  

It was two days later when the news broke about the incident. An official statement was released by NHL that Sebbin had been put on suspension for use of illegal stimulants to enhance his performance. The statement specified that he had acted alone, and the rest of the team was subjected to drug tests which came back clean.  

For the time being, tapes were still in review to decide if their games would be invalidated, but regardless, they would be allowed to finish the season. It was now just a question of where they stood in rankings. True to Marlow's guess, they had wound up in fourth place after missing several games and were about to drop to fifth with the next one they missed.  

They still had another four days before they could play, after all. Ilya wished those stupid ‘experts’ would finish reviewing the tapes a bit faster, but knew he couldn’t rush them if he wanted the outcome to be in their favor.  

“You will miss me,” Ilya muttered, tossing his last shirt into his bag and zipping it up as he got ready to head to the airport. “Admit it, you liked having me as stay at home boyfriend.”  

He rolled his eyes but leaned in, kissing his lips quickly. Too fast for him to catch them for a second one or a longer one. “It was nice, yeah,” he admitted, nodding. “I’m glad you’re getting to finish the season, though. You’re gonna dominate after having over a week of rest.”  

And a week of repressed anger, frustration, and annoyance. Ilya was practically bursting at the seams to have a way to work off his energy that didn’t include jogging up and down the stairs of the building or pacing the apartment.  

Ilya nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I intend to,” he replied firmly, softening slightly. “Don’t worry, though, won’t crush you too badly.”  

After all the game shuffling had severely screwed up the NHL schedule, they were finally able to drop right back into it exactly where they should be. Which, as it just so happened, meant they were playing Montreal in four days as their first game back. Until then, Ilya was going to get back to Boston and push his team for a few more days for extra measures.  

Shane glared at him slightly. “Don’t worry about us, we’ll handle you,” he replied, nudging him towards the door. “C’mon, I’ll drop you at the airport before I head to the rink. We play tonight.” 

“I know,” he stated, tapping the side of his head to remind him had their entire schedule memorized. Well, the normal one before the screw up, anyway. “I will not be watching tonight. I’ll be too busy trying to kill my own teammates with drills.”  

He laughed, expecting nothing less. “I’m sure they’re looking forward to having you back,” he replied sarcastically, grabbing his keys off the hook and opening the door for him.  

Dropping him off at the airport, Shane watched Ilya walk into and disappear into a crowd of people before driving off. It was one of those habits he developed when he was around people he cared about. He’d keep them in line of sight for as long as he could before losing track of them when saying goodbye after lunch or at the end of a trip.  

It left him feeing a little empty, admittedly. Like he wasn’t ready to say goodbye, yet. A little over a week was never long enough for him. Even having him for two or three weeks during break wasn’t enough time.  

Shane checked his phone as he pulled into the rink, reading the message Ilya left before boarding his flight letting him know they were about the plane was about to take off. He sent something along the lines of ‘Love you, be safe’, before grabbing his gear and heading inside.  

“No, of course I don’t fucking believe it,” someone said, sounding offended. “Does anyone?”  

There was a chorus of resounding ‘no's’ that followed the question, even though it sounded rhetorical to Shane. He peered into the locker room, recognizing Wilson’s voice as the culprit of the statement. Most of the team was there, thankfully. The ones who weren’t would be soon, he hoped. He didn’t want any last minute rushing the way they had when someone got a flat tire a few weeks back and nearly missed the game trying to catch a lift.  

“Don’t believe what?” Shane wondered, setting his stuff down in his cubby.  

“That Sebbin is only Raider getting in trouble,” Berkes replied casually. “There’s no way he was acting alone. He’s probably just the only one who got sacrificed.”  

He unzipped his bag, pulling out the socks he always wore when playing. “The official press release says otherwise, though,” he reminded them. “Everyone else got drug tested and came back clean.”  

“Oh, that you actually read?” Hayden teased, rolling his eyes as went back to looking at his phone. “What, you unmuted us for an hour or something?” 

It was pretty clear he was only half invested in the locker room chit chat. His mind was mostly on Amber, who had been sniffling all day and might have caught a cold. The last thing he needed to deal with was a sick kid on top of the stress of going to three away games next week.  

Shane shrugged. “Had some time,” he replied, sitting down. “Besides, we play them next week now that the regular schedule is back.” 

In reality, he heard because Ilya had been waiting patiently for the press release since the day the first one came out explaining their penalization. Day after day he checked and refreshed and practically manifested it to show up. When it finally did, he was the third view. The relief that flooded him when they were cleared to play was enough to be seen in how his shoulder deflated, and his smile widened.  

“That’s such bullshit, isn’t it?” JJ muttered in annoyance as he tugged his undershirt on and tucked his necklace into it. “Rozanov gets to fuck up the entire schedule for two weeks then come back like it never happened. Talk about favoritism.”  

“It’s not like he could control it,” Shane reminded them. “He’s innocent like everyone else is.”  

Someone, Mitty, he was pretty sure, laughed bitterly. It was a sound of disbelief that had Shane clenching his teeth in annoyance.  

“That’s what they’ll say, yeah,” Wilson agreed, nodding. “But the NHL will do anything to avoid bad press. It’s better to throw one player to wolves than the entire team.” Or the team captain, either. Especially when it was star player, Rozanov.  

“You seriously think they’d lie about what players were cheating just to keep the rest of the season on track?” Shane questioned in disbelief at their lack of faith.  

Or maybe it wasn’t faith that was the problem but the depth of their disdain for the Raiders that drove them to always assume the worst for all of them, specifically Ilya. Regardless, they really needed to find another way to get their frustration out, because it was getting really fucking old to hear them harp on the Raiders.  

“Duh,” Mitty muttered, shrugging. “They’ve made way too big of a deal of this for it to just be one player. They have to be covering for more. And who do you think is the most likely to do drugs on that team?”  

“Rozanov, obviously,” Hayden murmured, not looking up from his phone as he texted his wife. “He’s too competitive and abrasive to overlook the potential benefit of using drugs to play harder.” Not that he really needed it. He was strong and fast enough as it was. But hey, a boost here and there never hurt anyone as motivated to win as he was.  

Shane bit back a retort, just tucking his normal shoes into his cubby and trying to go to his happy place mentally. The cottage with Ilya or hell, even a few nights ago just eating dinner with him and watching a bad movie he complained about the entire time. Those were the thoughts that helped calm him down when his entire team was actively accusing Ilya doing something worth getting suspended over. 

Everything said otherwise. The press statements did at least. And if anyone knew Ilya well enough to know he was competitive because he loved hockey, then they’d know he wouldn’t ever risk cheating and making things easier for himself. They didn’t care about that, though.  

Montreal locked down another win later that night, despite playing worse than usual in Shane’s opinion. They went out, like they usually did. He didn’t. He went home, this time to an empty apartment instead of one shared with Ilya. Thought made him feel oddly disappointed. It was quiet as he ate alone and climbed into a cold bed.  

But even as he laid down, he still had a small smile on his lips. As sad as he was to have Ilya leave, he knew it was because he was back in Boston, skating until midnight and getting ready for their game next week. Only four days and they’d see each other again. On ice, no less. The way their relationship started. That thought kept him satisfied for the time being.  

A lot happened over the next four days. Ilya kept hassling his team to get a few extra practices in and Shane had done the same. He also started scrolling further back through the group chat he always kept muted and realized exactly why he did within a few minutes. After the Raiders got penalized, nearly every text was an insult against them or against Ilya.  

Some were mostly harmless; the stuff Shane had heard about him since they were rookies. Others were meaner. Maybe even cruel, if he stared too long and let his emotions get the better of him. He quickly muted the chat again and decided it was better to stay away from it.  

Not that his parents or social media was much better. Both said the same thing his team did—that Ilya had to be complicit. He either had to be using or had to know Sebbin was, but either way, he was guilty and needed to be taken out of the season, too.  

The day before they played, the reviews came back.  

The past twenty-two games the Raiders played had been meticulously scanned frame by frame, and it was determined none of them were worth invalidating due to Sebbin’s actions. That didn’t give them much of a boost. Actually, it didn’t give them any.  

But it kept them from having their games marked as L’s. It kept them in the same place they had been in for the past few days, standing firm in fifth place. And it, hopefully, convinced most people that Sebbin had been an outlier in the situation. The rest of the team always had and always would play an honest game.  

Shane knew the news didn’t change everyone’s opinions, though.  

He could see it on his teammates' faces as they laced up their skates, looking particularly annoyed as they got ready to face the Raiders in their first game back. He supposed it wouldn’t matter what team the Raider’s played, though; every team was going to have it out for them for the rest of the season. Maybe even longer, frankly.  

Montreal just got the displeasure of being first in line.  

“If these assholes beat us after two weeks out of the game, I will personally make everyone’s life a living hell,” JJ commented as he reached for his helmet, raking his hand over his hair as ritual before pulling it on.  

“You do that anyway,” Wilson told him, retying his skates for the third time. That was his own ritual, to make sure they were extra tight and brought him luck.  

“No, no, I’m with JJ,” Mitty stated, gesturing to him. “If they get to cheat and still play, then we’re gonna make them regret they’re allowed back.”  

Shane barely resisted gritting his teeth. “No picking fights,” he reminded them. “We’ll win the honest way or not at all, is that clear?”  

There was a chorus of agreement that spoke to their understanding, along with the bobbing of helmets and heads.  

“But if they push us?” Hayden questioned, giving him a pointed look. It was what the Raiders were known for after all. There was a literal study done last season that counted the number of physical altercations every team had in the past five years, and the Raiders took first place by a landslide.  

Shane relented, nodding softly. “If they push, you can push back,” he replied, giving them permission. “In equal measure, though. Don’t pull your gloves off unless it’s necessary.”  

Even as he said it, he could feel something lurch in his stomach. Like he already knew this night wasn’t going to be a simple game. Frankly, with the Raiders, it rarely was. It went way beyond a the boundaries of a sport and turned personal in more ways than one.  

Things started to go downhill before he ever left the locker room, but for a superstitious lot of players, Shane had done something foolish and changed his own pattern. Instead of being the first one out, the way he was supposed to be as captain. He went last.  

He told himself it was because it would give him an extra second or two to breathe and get his head in the game, but that wasn’t true.  

His mind already told him to block out the noise, to preform the way he always did, and keep the lead they’d developed with the Raiders out of the way. But his heart, well, was struggling to cooperate. It loved the game, but God, his team was killing his passion for it.  

Shane’s skates sounded crisp on the ice as he stood across from Ilya, bending slightly as he adjusted his grip on his stick by flexing his fingers a bit. “How’s it feel to be back?” he murmured under his breath, looking at him through the cover of his helmet.  

“Like I can breathe again,” he responded with a small smile, letting out a breath of anticipation. He missed the game, the rinks, the adrenaline. All of it.  

He swallowed, wondering why the hell it felt like he was suffocating, then. “Good,” he whispered, eyes focusing again. “Let’s give the crowd their money's worth.”  

The puck dropped and Ilya got to it first.  

It wasn't long until he disappeared from his sight, forcing Shane to chase after him. He wouldn’t lie; it made him feel a little lighter. He loved playing against Ilya’s team, making subtle chirps and bumping each other into the wall. It wasn’t very long since they last played, but he missed it, anyway.  

He soaked up every second of the first period, enjoying the sound of the ice being skated across and the energy in the stadium. He was sure the fans were all anxious to see them destroy the Raiders, but he didn’t really think about it that way.  

Shane just reveled in the small details he loved, like hearing Ilya curse in Russian when he stole the puck or their goalies' smirk when a shot was blocked.  

It was infuriating in a comforting sort of way.  

He knew they were annoying the Raiders right back, too. Their defense was solid, and the drills he’d insisted on seemed to be working. As the end of the first period neared an end, JJ even scored a goal, giving them a small lead.  

It wasn’t much, but Shane would take what they could get.  

Skating off the ice, he didn’t even bother sitting down just leaning against the wall during a brief intermission. Hayden passed him his water, and he drank so fast he nearly choked but couldn’t be bothered by the inconvenience it caused him.  

“Jeez, slow down or you’ll get water-logged,” Hayden joked, taking a more controlled drink from his own bottle. “You good out there? You seem a bit distracted.”  

He lowered his water, still catching his breath. “Yeah, fine. Why?” he replied with a confused nod. He didn’t feel distracted. If anything, being out there with Ilya again had helped clear his mind immensely and reminded him to enjoy the game.  

His friend just shrugged. “No reason. It must be my own annoyance manifesting,” he muttered, sounding a bit ticked off. “I don’t like how they’re playing out there— like nothing happened the past two weeks.”  

Shane wet his lips, lifting his water to them again for a moment. “Let it go, Hayden,” he told him, shaking his head. “Just play the damn game.”  

“Easy for you to say, Hammersmith isn’t sizing you up like his next victim,” he retorted, setting his bottle down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I swear, they’re going to start picking us off next period.”  

He said it like it was a joke, but Shane didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile, for that matter.  

He just stood there, letting his gaze fall to the wall as he watched it for a while. For a moment or two, the clatter faded, and he could only hear his own thoughts. The ones telling him to suck it up, to get through this game and then vent later when he got to see Ilya after they get out of here.  

Hockey used to be a way to get rid of his frustration, not the source of it.  

“C’mon,” Shane mumbled after a full minute, physically shaking his head to pull himself out of his stupor. “Let’s get back out there.”  

This time, Shane was the first one back on the Ice and he could see the peace on Ilya’s face when he skated back out, too. He was sure he had spent the intermission giving his team a motivational speech or a lecture. Maybe even threats, frankly.  

Regardless of which it was, he looked pleased with the way their break had gone, and it didn’t take long to figure out why.  

Whatever Ilya said to his team, they had them playing differently. More aggressively, sure. But also, just better. Way better. Shane watched as Berkes lost the puck to Marlow, who passed it to Carmichael who shot straight past their goalie.  

The crowd was loud, half with glee and the other half with frustration.  

A few minutes later, something similar happened, and another goal slipped by Drapeau, and there was another wave of joy and disappointment coursing through the stands. Montral was officially losing. Not by much, but enough.  

Any good hockey player knew that half of the game was mental. That once they got freaked out, it was hard to come back from making their own situation worse. That’s what happened the second time they watched that second goal get made.  

Hayden lost the puck, tripping towards JJ who went down with him as Hammersmith skated past them without even glancing behind himself. He went straight for Drapeau and took the shot. 3-1. Now, they were growing antsy.  

Montreal had been on a winning streak, after all. They had a lot to prove and no one wanted to lose to the Raiders of all teams. Especially when they hadn’t even played in two damn weeks.  

Shane bent down, grabbing JJ and hauling him to his feet. “Get up,” he shouted at Hayden, giving him a stern look.  

“I fucking told you Hammersmith was gunning for me,” he retorted, finding his balance and trying to catch up on what was happening and where everyone was.  

“He is not after you, Hayden,” Shane bit back a bit harsher than intended, adrenaline getting to him. “You tripped like an idiot, own up to it.”  

Before he could retort, his captain was gone, trying to get back to the center of the rink for another face off. Shane looked tense.  

Not his usual anxious to win sort of tense, either. He looked like he was bursting as the seams, jaw grinding as much as his mouth guard allowed and breathing heavily without making any attempt to catch it and relax or focus.  

Hayden wasn’t sure why, but he hated it, regardless. Shane wasn’t one to get overwhelmed on the ice. Off it, sure, often. But never during a game. Never to point it was noticeable. 

They kept playing, kept messing up. Kept losing the puck, missing goals, getting frustrated. The crowd wasn’t pleased with them either, to say the least. Some of the crowd, anyway. The half rooting for Boston was fucking elated.  

It was like every small grievance Montreal had against Boston had bubbled to the surface; only it was messing with them instead of the Raiders who were thrilled to be back on the ice.  

Berkes had the puck.  

He had it and he lost it when he was barely a few feet from the net. Ilya had come out of nowhere, skating past so smoothly he practically hadn’t noticed him until it was too late. His stick clicked against Berkes, guiding the puck away from him.  

Their shoulders brushed and, in a moment, he was gone. Ilya was his way to the other side of the rink, aided by Marlow who he was passing the puck back and forth too in such well-organized chaos they must have practiced it a thousand times to have it done so effectively.  

The puck slid by JJ, and Marlow passed it back to Ilya who maneuvered around Wilson and gave it right back. Marlow glided with it as far as he could before hitting it in the direction of Hayden. The puck nearly grazed his skates, barely missing it as Ilya crowded behind him and snatched it.  

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Berkes mumbled to himself, skidding to a stop to stare.  

He watched as Rozanov shot the puck past their goalie, his arm flying into the air in pride. He looked around for Marlow, grinning as he bumped their helmets together in a quick celebration.  

Shane skated up beside him, a small huff of disbelief escaping his lips as well. “Have to give them credit,” he mumbled with a tinge of astonishment. “That was a good goal.”  

Berkes wrinkled his nose, brushing it off. “Not that astounding,” he retorted, tapping his stick on the ground in annoyance. “They’re still cheaters.”  

He paused as Berkes comment, feeling annoyance flair in his chest again. It had been doing that all game. Maybe all week or hell, even longer than that, if he was actually being honest with himself.  

“They’re cleared, Berkes,” he reminded him sternly, not wanting to get into this debate again.  

He scoffed, looking at his captain funny. “Don’t tell me you believe that bullshit about them being innocent,” he retorted bitterly, glancing back at the Raiders. “They’re all fucking scum—”  

Berkes couldn’t finish his sentence before Shane dropped his stick, shoving him hard enough his back hit the wall of the rink. It thudded. Hard. Berkes stick fell out of his hand, too, his helmet slamming against the scratched-up glass.  

Maybe it should have stopped then. But Berkes was a hockey player, which meant his fight or flight was always on, no matter who the aggressor was. 

In a split second, Berkes was shoving him back, gloves hitting his captain who took it and tackled him down to the ice. They landed on the ground, both grunting from the impact of the hard surface. Padded or not, they still felt it.  

The rest of the players on both teams stopped, looking towards the commotion.  

If any of them had been wearing a mic for an interview, they might have heard the commentator's disbelief. ‘It appears a fight has broken out amongst teammates. Now that is unbelievably rare. In fact, have we ever seen one of those before? Definitely not in the past fifty years and I don’t think they’ve ever involved a team captain before.’  

Especially not a captain who was pretty much labeled the golden boy of the game.  

The Voyageurs abandoned their places, some even dropping their stuff as they raced towards the scuffle. Their sticks hit the ice, drowned out by the crowd's confused roars.  

Shane ripped his gloves off, tossing them somewhere out of sight while sinking his hands into the fabric of Berkes' jersey to shake it. He struggled back, gloves hitting the side of Shane’s helmet until he knocked it off. It clattered to the ice with a thud neither of them heard.  

“Get the fuck off me!” Berkes shouted.  

“Get your head out of ass first!” Shane snapped back.  

The Voyageurs tried to interrupt, Hayden grasping at his friends jersey to yank him back but he couldn’t get a firm enough grip with how much they were tussling. JJ reached in, too. His hand was shoved away, ankle grabbed as a way to stabilize one of them. 

An elbow lodged back, slamming into Hayden’s face, and he had no idea who it belonged to, only that it caught him off guard. It hit his jaw, unprotected by his visor helmet, and his entire head moved with the impact as he fell forward and tripped into Mitty.  

JJ felt the leg of his uniform being tugged, getting yanked down into the squabble. Reaching out, he grabbed onto Wilson, accidentally pulling him down to the floor too. He could hear the way Wilson grunted; his balance being thrown off. 

His blade slipped, hitting Drapeau in the foot and tangling as the tip of his skate got tangled in the goalies. Falling, his arm slammed into Mitty who had already hit the floor. With a harsh shove, Mitty pushed him off, yelling over it. 

It turned into a bigger fight from there, gloved and ungloved hands being thrown in a mess of limbs which no one was able to differentiate as they yelled.  

Half of them kept trying to break up the fight, hardly even able to see enough through the blur of blue fabric to tell where Shane and Berkes were. They were all yelling, clamoring to try to get each other to stop.  

The raiders just kind of stood there, exchanging glancing with each other as they slowly skated into a tighter group. A fight between teams was common, especially between them. People actually placed bets over the likelihood of it happening. But a scuffle between the same team was, simply put, fucking insane.  

‘The Raiders look just as confused as the fans, not quite stepping into this mess just yet,’ one of the commentators noted. ‘Those expressions tell you everything you need to know about this fight right here, that whatever has been going on with the Voyageurs tonight doesn’t extend to their rivalry with Boston. The discourse seems to be coming from inside the team.’ 

From inside the tangle of fighting, Hayden shouted, trying to clear things up. It didn’t work though, and he wound up cursing as someone hit him again. That was gonna leave a bruise, he was sure. And he couldn’t even be pissed at anyone because he had no idea who just did it. 

“Fucking idiot,” Shane screamed, still at Berkes throat, elbow pressing into it. “You’re trying to ruin this fucking game for me!” It felt like he was, anyway. They all were. Berkes just happened to be the one to make the comment that sent him over the edge.  

“OW!” another player hissed as Wilson and Drapeau’s attempt to get their blades free resulted in cutting someone's arm.  

The cameras zoomed in on the mess of players struggling to fight and squabble, unable to make out much of what was happening. Things moved too quickly, and everyone was so close on top of each other that there were barely even recognizable jersey numbers flashing here and there. 

Ilya squinted, noticing the tinge of crimson seeping onto the ice. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled, heart dropping as he let go of his stick and tugged off his own gloves.  

Marlow and Hammersmith followed, discarding their own stuff as they finally skated over to the fight to get involved in it. They each surrounded a few players, reaching and trying to pry everyone apart.  

‘Now this has to be a moment for the history books. This is the first time we have ever seen a rival team trying to break up a fight happening between teammates,’ the other commentator noted in astonishment. ‘That just goes to show you how strange this entire game has been. Ilya Rozanov of all people is trying to get Montreal’s captain out of the mess that he started when he went after his own teammate.’  

The Raiders yelling didn’t do much good; voices getting lost in the sea of other shouts, curses, and insults flying left and right.  

Carmichael skated past the scene, banging on the glass and yelling at them to send the medic out to try to help whatever player was bleeding. Well, whichever ones, actually. There was no way, only one was.  

One of the skates slid out of the dogpile nearly sweeping Marlow's foot out from under him. “Watch it!” he shouted, reaching to grab the ankle. “We’re trying to help you!”  

He yanked on the players leg, pulling JJ out of the mess of players with a scolding look before reaching back in and trying to keep separating people. Hammersmith did the same, managing to grab onto someone’s arm, tugging the player up.  

“Get your shit together, Pike!” Hammersmith snapped over all the noise.  

Something shifted inside the pile of fighting, knocking Hayden down. He grabbed the man even harder, holding him up with both arms as he helped him get out of the mess.  

Hayden stumbled, trying not to step on any of his teammates as he nearly fell out of the pile. Into Hammersmith, no less. That was fucking humiliating. He panted, jaw sore as he glanced over his shoulder at the rest of his team still fighting.  

Before Hayden had the chance to dive right back into it to try to pull them apart, Carmichael skated back over with the medic. Immediately, his face was being touched. His jaw was being gripped, turned from side to side to check the bruise on it and he was guided further away from the others.  

Ilya nearly took an elbow to the face, too; his arms tangled in the fight as he tried to push everyone’s fists back in the direction they came from. He grunted, shoving someone away, as he managed to get closer to the center of the fight.  

“Knock it off, Hollander!” Ilya screamed at the pile of players, unable to find any sight of his jersey number or freckles in the mess of his teammates. “Hollander! Do you hear me!? Shane!”  

Something connected. Hearing his voice made him pause, his hand still curled into a fist and his chest still heaving with anger. Berkes stared up at him, his own fist slowly unfurling from his captain's jersey in equal hesitation.  

Lowering his fist, Shane shoved away from Berkes. He got to his feet, the rest of the fight slowly breaking up once the two of them had stopped quarrelling. He glanced at Ilya, who was staring at him with wide, confused eyes.  

There was a hint of fear in them, too, like he was worried he might have gotten hurt. That was a lot more physical than the fight he had with Scott Hunter had been a few seasons ago.  

“I’m fine,” he whispered, catching his breath and he looked around to survey the extent of what just happened. He looked borderline shell-shocked, like he was hallucinating the blood on Hayden’s jaw and the cut on Mitty’s arm.  

Behind them, Berkes got up, rubbing his shoulder where Shane had him hard enough, he would feel it through the padding of his uniform.  

Ilya stayed with him, though. He didn’t fully believe him when he said he was alright. Someone who was alright didn’t attack his own team. Another person’s, sure. But never his own.  

“What the fuck just happened?” he mumbled to him, voice full of confusion and worry.  

Shane just shook his head. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he insisted, swallowing harshly. “He just...Berkes called you a cheater,” he admitted, jaw working. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”  

He’d heard it over and over and over. He’d let most of the comments roll off his back, met a few with sharp retorts. But he had never snapped like that. Never gotten violent over another person in his life.  

Ilya’s lips parted in subtle surprise and he had to resist the urge to get even closer to him, remembering they were still on the ice. Whatever semblance of a game they were playing had been destroyed, leaving confused fans and busted teammates behind.  

Strangely, the Raiders were looking at Shane with kinder eyes than his own team was.  

“We’ll talk about this later, yes?” Ilya murmured softly, giving him a stern look before he skated over to Marlow who was fetching his gloves off the ground.  

Shane watched him leave, looking around for his own stuff. He could see the blood on the ice, probably a mix of Mitty and Hayden’s. Maybe even JJ’s, too. Grimacing, he grabbed his helmet and gloves, balancing them along with his stick. He made no effort to put anything on, though. He figured there was no way he would be allowed to finish the game after starting that fight.  

Skating to their bench, he looked at Hayden, who was holding a bag of ice to his jaw. “Are you alright?” he asked softly, feeling guilty that anyone had gotten hurt by getting involved in the scuffle.  

He nodded slightly. “Just sore,” he replied, trying to move his jaw a bit. It wasn’t broken, thankfully. But it was sure as hell going to bruise. “What the hell was that, Shane?”  

He wet his lips, glancing around. “I- I just lost my head,” he muttered apologetically. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get injured.”  

Hayden let out a huff, eyes finding Mitty who was getting his arm examined. “Really? Because it kind of looked like you were trying to take half the team out of play,” he jeered sarcastically. He was kidding, but there was also at least an ounce of truth in his words, too.  

The referees had no idea how to start resetting as the medics kept evaluating players, including Raiders who got hurt trying to pull them apart. Someone came out to clean the blood off the ice, wiping it up like it was never there in the first place.  

“I think most of them should be fine,” Shane murmured quietly, quickly assessing injuries.  

Of course, he felt guilty; no one was supposed to get hurt. But a small laceration on his nondominant hand wouldn’t take Mitty out of the game, and Hayden was too stubborn to spend the game on the bench even if his face was a bit swollen.  

“That is so not the point,” Hayden replied, shaking his head as he lowered the bag of ice, tongue flicking out to wipe away some of the residual blood on the edge of his lip. “Why would you go after Berkes like that?”  

Shane was the one always telling them never to throw down their gloves, to keep things civil in a game that usually preferred violence. He would get involved if someone attacked his team, sure. But he almost never started fights. Not since his first and last one against Scott Hunter.  

“It’s a long story,” he murmured, meeting Berkes gaze as he talked with one of the referees. He was probably lobbying to get him to sit out for the rest of the game. “You pissed at me?”  

Hayden shrugged. “I’m not happy with you,” he clarified. “But I’m like sixty percent sure you weren’t the one to elbow me in the jaw, so I’m not as furious as I would have been, either.”  

It was more confusing than anything. He was just standing there, realizing the Raiders had scored another goal one moment and hearing his best friend tackling another teammate the next. That was one hell of a one-eighty to make in under ten seconds.  

Shane nodded slowly, swallowing again as things sunk in for him. He attacked his teammate. And worst of all, he didn’t really regret it that much. Berkes had, in his mind, deserved it. Letting out his frustration after holding it in for so long felt good. Really fucking good.  

“Uh oh,” he murmured suddenly.  

Hayden turned. “What?” he wondered, grimacing as he saw his coach pointing to him and beckoning for him to come over.  

“I’m pretty sure I’m about to get my head torn off,” Shane replied with a tight expression that honestly didn’t look the least bit surprised. “This might be the day you get promoted to captain.” 

Making his way over, Hayden watched as Shane approached their coach with a much less skittish look than the one that he was expecting. If anything, he almost looked a bit relieved to walk over to him. Like he didn’t want to finish the game anymore.  

Coach yelled. Or he rather whisper-shouted as best he could when they were still in front of thousands of people and millions more through live television. Either way, Hayden could see the vein popping out of his forehead as Shane just stood there and took it. He nodded over and over, looking almost completely unaffected by the man.  

Usually, anyone getting balled out by coach would at least be rushing to defend themselves and try to stay in his good graces. But Shane didn’t say a word. Nothing aside from one single ‘yes, sir.’ before he left, making his way back into the locker rooms.  

Hayden didn’t know what that was about, fully. He probably got chewed out and rather than being taken out for ten minutes as a misconduct penalty, coach pulled him for the rest of the night. There was only one period left, anyway.  

No one really thought, going back on the ice without Shane, that they had a shot in hell of winning. Not when they were down by three goals and the entire team were shaken, some of them still bruised and banged up.  

They were right.  

The raiders won their first game back after two weeks with a score of 5-1.  

When they got off the ice, Shane wasn’t in the locker room. His stuff was gone, and Hayden barely changed before checking his phone for any texts. There were none. Instead, there were about twenty articles about the ‘golden boy going berserk’ as the media started calling it.  

Pulling on his headphones, Hayden opened the first video he saw, replaying the fight and listening to it with the commentator's perspective. It would have almost looked worse on camera, if he didn’t have a busted jaw. Walking into the parking lot, he spotted Shane’s car, still there.  

He must have been in coaches' office, waiting to talk to him after the game ended. 

Hayden contemplated waiting for him, wondering if maybe he could pry more information out of him. But eventually, he decided against it. He was, after, feeling pretty fucking sore in more ways than one after getting into a scuffle and losing a game in the same night.  

Heading home, Hayden left the replay on. He listened to it over and over, hearing the shift in the commentator's voice when they went from noting how well executed Marlow and Rozanov’s passes had been to realizing a fight was breaking out.  

That’s what most of the team did, honestly. Including Shane.  

Once he got out of Theriault's office, he immediately put the game on and started going back through the footage as he walked to his car. Not to mention the entire drive home. He could hear the commentators noticing his rigid posture and his annoyed expressions that had been building all night long.  

They didn’t connect it to Ilya, though. They speculated some inside drama, maybe even stress about playoffs. He really only started to feel bad when he heard them commenting on the hits his team had taken against each other after he already left the game, calling them dedicated for getting back on the ice with lacerations and bruised jaws.  

By the time he got back to his apartment, Shane wasn’t fuming anymore. He was just exhausted. So much so that not even seeing Ilya waiting for him in the living room could automatically cheer him up the way it usually did.  

“Hey,” he murmured, tossing his bag on the couch with more effort than necessary.  

Ilya’s lips pulled tight, like he wasn’t sure what to say or do. “Hi,” he muttered back, looking him up and down. “Are you alright?”  

He shrugged, gesturing to himself. “In one piece despite Theriault’s attempt,” he replied. “Congrats on your win.”  

He just wished their big return had gone a bit smoother than this. Ilya deserved that, after how patient he had been waiting to get back to the game. Not to mention how hard he worked on managing his team, always planning new passes and yelling at them over the phone.  

His lips quirked up into a small smile. “Was just luck,” he responded, eyes filled with sympathy. They both knew that was bullshit and Shane went as far to scoff in an attempt to refute it. “Okay, not luck. I was just trying to be nice.”  

Shane swallowed, staring at the carpet. “Thanks, but I can handle losing,” he reminded him, grimacing slightly. “Usually, anyway.” Tonight was a bit of an exception.   

Ilya stepped towards him, hand grazing his elbow to try to get him to loosen up a bit. “You said, earlier, that it was me,” he mumbled. “You fought because of me.” 

He scratched the side of his head, nodding slightly. “Just a bit,” he joked weakly, looking back up at him. “They just- they hate you, Ilya. My parents, my team, my fans. And I hear it so much in the locker room or during practice, but on ice I- I couldn't fucking stand it anymore.”  

His smile didn’t quite widen, but the edges of lips continued to tilt just a bit as he leaned in. “Is sweet,” he murmured, threading his hand through Shane’s hair and nudging him to lay his head on his shoulder. “But their words don’t hurt me.” 

Shane sighed, nuzzling against the fabric of his shirt for a moment. “Hurts me, though,” he said softly. “I don’t like hearing anyone accuse you of cheating.” Not when he was hands down one of the most dedicated players in the entire league.  

Ilya hummed, the sound carrying to his ear as he ran his hand up and down Shane’s spine. He knew in terms of chirps and violence, his boyfriend was a little less adept at handling it. It was probably because he grew up in a stable, loving home unlike 85% of hockey players who came from areas where it was acceptable to work their problems out with yelling or throwing fists. Sometimes, it was even encouraged.  

Ilya liked that, though. He liked that Shane rarely retorted to violence first because his first instinct was to calm down and have everyone talk it out. It was healthy. He liked to think that it was rubbing off on him, too, in a way. That’s what Marlow told him, anyway. Well, not that it was Shane’s influence, of course. Just that he seemed a bit more mellow.  

“I know you don’t like it,” Ilya murmured to him, hand still gently grazing his back. “But if they need a villain in this game, I will be him. Is okay. Better than being another face on the bench.”  

Even if the publicity wasn’t always great, even if he couldn’t name a single player outside of his teammates and Shane that actually liked him, even if it meant he got accused of lying and cheating before anyone else did. It was worth it to be important.  

Shane lifted his head a bit. “I can’t do it, anymore,” he confessed. “I’m fucking sick of this game, Roz.”  

He shook his head, like he was telling him he didn’t believe him. “No, you’re not,” he retorted. “You love hockey—” 

“I love you,” Shane interjected firmly. “And my team has...drained my love of the ice.” 

For a second or two tonight, before he tore his gloves off and before his coach ripped into him, there was a moment when it came back. He felt lighter, felt like it was exactly where he was supposed to be again.  

But it only lasted one period. And that wasn’t long enough to make up for every tedious practice, long plane ride, and exhausting team meeting that made him want to thud his head against the wall until they let him leave.  

Ilya sighed, the words making him feel warm and guilty all at once. “Season is almost over,” he told him. “We will spend summer at cottage, and we will swim and play football and you can make me rabbit food for dinner. We can forget about the game.” 

If he could just be someone Shane hated, this wouldn’t be a problem. He knew he could become that person pretty easily, if he needed to. If pushing him away meant he could get him back into the right spirit. But God, Ilya was too selfish to do that.  

“Promise?” he murmured, voice filled with tentative hope.  

He nodded in affirmation. “I promise,” he replied. “And maybe after enough rest, you will come back for training with same determination that made me fall in love with you.”  

Shane hummed, the sound nearly empty as he started backing away from the embrace. He slid his hand down, grasping Ilya’s and pulling him gently towards the bedroom. He wasn’t going to let him slip away tonight, even for a moment.  

“Would you love me if I retired?” he wondered, closing the bedroom door behind them. “My contact is almost up, I could- I could move to Boston and watch you play there.”  

Ilya contemplated, watching him undress with slow, tired motions. “I’ll always love you,” he responded. “But...could you live with it? Seeing the rink and never getting on it, hearing the crowd and knowing they’re not cheering for you, watching someone lift the cup and knowing you won’t have that chance again.”  

He was laying it on a bit thick, he knew. But Shane was tired of his teammates and the scandals that kept wrapping around the NHL, not the game or the adrenaline or competition. He still loved those things. He always would. Half of the reason for his horrible diet was just because he wanted to keep playing for as long as possible. Until he was a dinosaur like Scott was.  

Shane paused, his hands on the blankets as he pulled them back. “I...don’t know,” he admitted weakly. “Probably not.”  

Not while having a boyfriend still playing. If they both retired, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. They could miss it together. But Ilya had no intention of stopping, yet. Not until they forcibly removed him from the rink.  

They crawled into bed, immediately finding each other in the middle of it. “Then maybe you wait until you’re sure,” Ilya suggested, wrapping his arms around him. “In the meantime, we make sure you remember why you love this game.”  

There were so many reasons after all. It brought them adrenaline, made them feel alive. They had stable finances and met amazing people. They got to travel, even if it was exhausting to do so. They found each other, too. Without hockey, neither of them would be cocooned in the other’s arms.  

Those were just the few that Ilya came up with on the spot, whispering them into Shane’s ear as he fussed with his hair and lulled him into a calm state of sleep. And for the most part, he knew Ilya was right.  

He knew that he had been having a bad few weeks on top of a tight season. It was stressing him out and was reaching his limit on the amount of comments he could take until it ended.  

After break, his meter would reset, like it always did.  

He’d go back to letting their comments go in one ear and out the other. For now, though, he was still pissed. Rightly so, in his opinion. He couldn’t just snap out of it in an instant, even if he wanted to. All he could do was grip Ilya a bit tighter, nuzzling against his neck as they slept soundly through the night.  

The next morning was supposed to be lazy. Some sex, breakfast, even a bit of lounging around on the couch before he had to drive Ilya to the airport again. It felt like a repetitive cycle, but one he was accustomed to.  

What Shane wasn’t used to, was having it disturbed.  

When the banging at his door first started, they barely stirred. Not until it grew louder. Ilya reached to pull his pillow out from behind his head and smothered his own face with it. “If that is Yuna, I will scream,” he complained.  

She was a nice woman, really, to everyone but him. Ilya didn’t mind hearing about her from Shane or even listening to their calls sometimes. But he was getting a bit tired of waking up to her constant knocking.  

Shane hauled himself to his feet, looking for his slippers. “I’ll send her away faster, I swear,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes to try to erase the fatigue in them. “She probably just wanted to check in after the fight.”  

Ilya pulled the pillow away from his face, remembering the previous night. It made sense she would come to see how he was. Maybe even rip into him for making an idiot of himself on the ice like that. He sat up reluctantly, stretching his arms above his head and yawning.  

“I’ll change and make bed,” he offered, knowing how much Shane liked it done first thing in the morning or else it would drive him crazy thinking about it for the rest of the day.  

He nodded, slipping out of the bedroom and walking towards the door. He rolled his shoulders back, prepared to face his mom, which included her disappointed glares and worried questions. Unlocking the front door, he pulled it open.  

“Before you say anything, I already—Hayden?” Shane questioned in confusion as he saw his best friend standing there.  

He furrowed his eyebrows. “Were you expecting someone else?” he replied, peering his head inside the apartment.  

“Uh- I thought you’d be my mom,” he admitted, gently pulling the door the rest of the way open so he could come in. “What are you doing here?” 

Hayden stepped inside, eyes scanning the room just so he could avoid looking at his friend. “I just thought I’d stop by and check on you after last night,” he responded, shrugging slightly. “You never told anyone anything after coach pulled you.”  

Shane just ditched. Sure, it was because he needed to wait in the office for a real conversation with their coach, but he still could have sent a text. Before or after. He could have replied to the ones Hayden sent and the ones he was sure others had also made. Instead, he just ghosted them after leaving half of the busted up.  

“Right, I was...having a rough night, sorry,” he mumbled apologetically, shuffling past him to put a pot of coffee on. “How’s your jaw?” 

“Better than my pride,” Hayden replied sarcastically, following him. He leaned against the counter, scrutinizing his captain with a sharp eye. “At least they’re saying we made the history books. First team to ever fight itself mid-game.”  

It wasn’t exactly a title they could be proud of, but at least people would remember it. Hell, this whole season was pretty damn memorable, he would say.  

Shane creased his forehead in frustration, clicking the coffee pot into place. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Shove Berkes into the glass and tell him to pull his head out of his ass?” he interjected, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, he called me after the game when I got home. Said his throat is bruised from your elbow digging into it.”  

He just stared for a moment before slowly looking away. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself, hand curling into a fist to try to keep his emotions in check.  

Hayden just squinted, looking at him even closer. “So?” he questioned, tilting his head. “You said last night that it was a long story.” He gestured to the space around them. “Here I am for that version.”  

He wanted to know what fuck had caused his best friend to flip out, to act so weird afterwards too. Because right now, he didn’t really look like he felt bad about last night. More like he only felt guilty that the whole thing was so public and that others had gotten dragged into it.  

Shane sighed, scrubbing his face and shaking his head. “I- Hayden, it’s not a good time,” he murmured. “We’ll talk later or something, okay?” 

He shook his head right back, even more firmly. “No, not okay,” he retorted. “You attacked Berkes in front of everyone—” 

“He had it fucking coming,” Shane interjected before quickly closing back up, his lips sealing tightly and his posture recoiling. “I mean- he was pissing me off.”  

They all thought they could say whatever they wanted about anything because they were a team and that somehow meant they didn’t have to censor themselves or hide anything. They threw slurs out, murmured about thinking about cheating on their girlfriends, tore apart other players in private.  

Even though it wasn’t all of them, it was enough. He could stick to JJ and Hayden and some of the kinder rookies who didn’t partake, but that stuff still clung to his mind.  

His eyes narrowed, the small outburst seeming out of character. “Well, I didn’t think you beat on him because he was making you laugh,” he joked with a huff. “But seriously, what was that?” He could see the hesitation on his face, like he was actively looking for an excuse. “It’s me, Shane. You can tell me anything.” 

The coffee pot filled up slowly and he stared at it instead of looking at his friend. “Just got fed up, is all,” he replied, shrugging like it happened to everyone. “He had a bad attitude during the game, couldn’t accept that we were losing because the Raiders outplayed us.”  

Hayden huffed softly. “Okay, so he didn’t like insult your mother or say something racist, then,” he replied, still confused. “Who gives a shit if he insults the other team? We do it all the time.”  

Shane didn’t respond, just grabbing two mugs out of the cabinet. He paused, staring at one of them and then reaching for the one behind it instead. Ilya always used the red one when he was here. He pulled out one blue and one purple mug, instead.  

“Yep, we all do it,” Shane murmured in agreement, pouring the coffee into both mugs and passing one to his friend.  

“So, if you agree, why did you lose your shit?” he wondered, opening the fridge to grab the cream out of it. “You know, come to think of it, you've been doing that a lot lately.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows. “I have not,” he retorted defensively.  

“Well, not to this level,” Hayden clarified, pouring a dash of cream into his mug. “But you’ve been snapping more often and being meaner at practice. I know it’s been a tough season but it’s a bit off putting, man. And now, going after Berkes—” 

“Stop saying it like I just decided I wanted a fight,” Shane told him in frustration. “I didn’t want to hit him; I just wanted him to stop talking about the Raiders. I want you all to shuck the fuck about them.”  

He paused, a spoon still in his coffee as he slowly pulled it out. He could maybe understand if Shane was tired about them constantly insulting the team when they were in New York or Toronto or every other state they played in. Even he could admit that the rivalry got tedious. But chirping at and about the player when they were literally sharing the rink with them was pretty much always going to happen.  

“Do you have a friend on the Raiders?” Hayden asked outright, not seeing many other reasons why he would get so defensive. “I’m not going to be mad if you say you do. I just...don’t get why you always get protective over them. You never speak up when we talk shit about the Guardians or Admirals. You even join us.”  

“I- no, I don’t have friends on the team,” he responded defensively. “I don’t care what you guys say about them, it’s just tiresome to hear nothing else.” 

He watched Shane cross his arms, physically retreating from the conversation. “God, you’re a terrible liar,” he muttered, gesturing to his slumped posture. “It’s okay if you like some of them, you know? They’re not all terrible.”  

Sometimes, they honestly didn’t even know why things got as heated as it did between their teams. It was half expected, he supposed. And sometimes, there was a bit of mob mentality, where one person's disdain spiraled until they all started to join in.  

Shane’s shoulders loosened slightly. “No...they’re not,” he murmured in hesitant agreement. 

He nodded slowly, like they were making progress even if he didn’t understand what kind or why. “So, is there like, a specific player you’re amicable with?” he asked slowly. “Did Marlow visit you when you were in the hospital or something and now you guys chat?”  

Hayden tried to say it with an much of an accepting tone as he could, like it was totally fine with him if Shane had Raider friends. It wasn’t entirely, but he wasn’t going to make a huge fuss over it the way most of the team would.  

Hockey was just a game, after all. The players they competed against were also people and behind their jersey numbers they had to have some decent qualities. Even if none showed on the ice.  

Shane hesitated, shrugging. “There’s uh- one I like, yeah,” he admitted cautiously, keeping his response vague on purpose. “I don’t expect anyone to like him or anything, just—” 

“Don’t talk bad about him in front of you,” he interjected, nodding in understanding. “I can make sure the team stays away from him. Who's the player?” It was like his friend immediately clammed up again. “Shane, come on, I told you I’d be fine with it. I can’t keep the team off the guys back if I don’t know which one it is.” 

“I- uh...” Shane sucked the inside of his cheek for a moment, staring at his coffee mug.  

He knew Hayden was making an effort here, but he wasn’t sure how far that would extend if named Ilya as the person he was defensive over. For that matter, he didn’t even know how to say his name. It was lodged in his throat like it had been a secret for so long his tongue had forged a bond with his brain to never reveal it.  

Setting down his mug, Shane walked away.  

Hayden frowned, putting his own cup down and turning to follow him. “Shane, seriously? Don’t walk away from me,” he insisted. “I’m not going to judge you for your choice of friends, even if I hate the Raiders. Just be honest with me.”  

He halted his steps, lifting his gaze back up to his best friend. He was right. They had known each other since Shane first joined Montreal's team. They’d won cups together; they were each other's emergency contacts while traveling. He should be able to tell Hayden everything. Even the scary stuff or the shit that made him lose his temper.  

Shane reached for his bedroom door, pushing it open.  

Inside, Ilya was in the middle of pulling his shirt on, the fabric tugged halfway over his head. He heard the sound of the hinges and yanked it the rest of the way down, actually looking stunned for the first time Hayden had ever seen it.  

He blinked, glancing between them before slowly raising his hand to wave. “Morning, Pike,”  he mumbled weakly, clearing his throat and glancing around the bedroom.  

Hayden stared back in equal disbelief. No, actually. Much more.  

“Ho-ly shit,” he whispered under his breath, jaw open like he intended to catch flies with it. “I thought, but when you—” he turned to Shane, realization flashing across his face as he finally put the pieces together.   

Shane looked away from him. Instead, he watched as Ilya huffed and smoothed the edge of the recently made bed like it was the more important thing to do.  

“I was gonna tell you, Hayden, I swear,” he assured him earnestly. “I didn’t like lying to you. Anyone, actually. But especially you.” He was his best friend, after all.  

Ilya nodded, content in how well he’d made the bed. “Is true, he gets panic attacks over it,” he muttered, looking for his phone and snatching it off the dresser before walking out of the bedroom. “Never a good liar.”  

Shane would argue if it wasn’t true. He didn’t like lying and never considered himself great at it. He was better now, than he was as a kid or a teenager, though. He had to be, in order to keep things like this private.  

Hayden took a physical step back, like standing this close to Rozanov wasn’t a situation he wanted to be in. Especially not when they were all in t-shirts and not hockey gear. "You were going to tell me what?” he asked Shane directly, practically ignoring Ilya’s presence. “That you- are you sleeping with him?”  

Shane grimaced, looking down for a moment before he gave some sort of weak half-nod. “No, I mean- yes,” he confessed. “But it’s more than that, too. It’s...a relationship.”  

He blinked once then twice. “Like...like a Jackie and I relationship or a JJ and any female bartender he sees relationship?” he wondered, needing clarification.  

He huffed softly. “The first one,” he replied, watching as his best friend took a second and third step back.  

For a moment, Shane worried. He thought Haden might try to run out of the front door, or maybe grab his phone to call someone. But instead, he just leaned against the side of the couch to catch his balance, still blinking as he tried to catch up.  

“Okay...okay,” he muttered, nodding. “I said I would be okay with you being friends with a Raider, I don’t see why dating one would be any different,” he muttered. “Granted it’s the most hated hockey player in the entire league but...that’s not important, I guess.”  

Shane’s comfort was. His happiness was. Those things, Hayden cared about a lot more than Rozanov. Although now he was staring at Ilya and wondering exactly what about him, his best friend saw that it would make him fall into bed with him.  

Shane blew out a soft breath of relief, shoving his hands into his pocket to keep from wringing his hands anxiously. “Really?” he wondered. “You’re cool with this?” 

He scoffed harshly, shaking his head. “No, but I- I'm going to be, just give me a minute to wrap my head around it,” he insisted, looking at the two of them. “You’re...dating. Dating...each other. You’re dating each other.”  

Hayden said it as firmly as he could, like saying it as a fact instead of a question would help his brain process it. It didn’t, really. But he repeated it a few more times and slowly, his eyes returned to their normal size and his shock wore off, replaced by confusion and concern.  

“How long is going to repeat that?” Ilya murmured softly. Shane jabbed his ribs gently and he threw up his hands. “Fine, let him cope. I’m grabbing coffee.” 

Hayden watched Ilya’s hand graze Shane’s back, the touch nearly subconscious as he went into the kitchen and opened the right cabinet for the coffee mugs. He pulled out the red one, then opened the fridge. It was practiced ease, the kind that came as a result of spending time here.  

“Jesus,” he muttered to himself. “I just- I thought you were going to tell me Berkes was racist or something. This so much worse.”  

He scrubbed his face for a moment, trying to get thoughts of Ilya sitting on the same couch he crashed on when he was drunk out of his mind. They stuck, though. Like the idea of Shane knowing how Ilya took his coffee or Ilya knowing what shampoo Shane used stuck.  

Those were things he and Jackie knew about each other, anyway. He figured they probably knew that stuff, too. It didn’t look casual, the way Ilya was walking around comfortably like the place was bought in his name.  

Shane swallowed harshly, chest clenching. “It’s worse than I’m in a healthy relationship?” he bit out.  

“What? No, no, not worse like that,” Hayden clarified quickly, shaking his head. “Worse like I’m fucking confused and my head hurts a bit.” He pursed his lips, staring at his friend. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  

He could see, just from looking at him, that Shane was expecting backlash. He was expecting something homophobic to come out of his mouth, something crude about Rozanov, something invalidating about the two of them being together.  

And yeah, it crossed his mind. But he wasn’t enough of a dick to say any of those thoughts out loud. Not when his best friend just told him something incredibly personal.  

Shane shrugged slightly. “It’s just- there was never really a good time, and I didn’t know how to do it,” he admitted, glancing at Ilya as he sipped from the red mug.  

“How about saying something like, ‘Hayden, I’m attracted to men and dating Ilya Rozanov’ to start with?” he suggested, the words rolling off his tongue. “I mean, I get keeping your personal life personal but...it’s me. Did you really think I’d be upset about this?”  

He’d be stunned sure. Of all the secrets his friend could have been keeping, this wasn’t anywhere near the top of it. It wasn’t even on the list, actually. Hayden would have thought he’d confessed to hiding a heavy metal addiction before he ever said Rozanov’s name with fondness in his voice. 

He wet his bottom lip, shrugging. “I-I don’t know what I thought,” he confessed. “Maybe the gay thing would be fine, but Ilya is a different matter. And if it got out—” 

“It won’t,” Hayden interjected firmly, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna out you, Shane. Even if you have questionable taste in men.” That wasn’t his business.  

Ilya frowned, supping his coffee. “He can insult me and yet I can say nothing about your questionable taste in friends?” he wondered. “How is that fair?”  

Shane huffed, hiding his face in his hands for a moment. “Can neither of you insult the other, please? I just need one day without it,” he pleaded softly, raising his head with tired eyes.  

His apartment had always been a safe place for him. He kept it meticulously organized and clean, always had his favorite of everything stashed around, and could decompress in peace. When he was upset, coming home calmed him down. But now, his one safe space felt tense, and he couldn’t help but let it manifest in a sharper tone and stiffer shoulders.  

Hayden nodded immediately. “Okay,” he assured him. “No insulting Rozanov, I swear. I just...I want to understand. Seriously.”  

Rozanov stared at him for a moment. “Ilya,” he stated monosyllabically, giving him permission to use his first name.  

The gesture caught him off guard, but he just absorbed the information and made a note to call him that instead.  

He walked back into the kitchen, pulling out of the stools and taking a seat across from Ilya who was still sipping his coffee. Hayden reached for the blue mug he had been drinking from a moment ago, grip on it firm as he lifted it to his lips. 

Shane let out a small breath. “Thank you,” he said so quietly that it was more mouthed than spoken.   

Hayden shrugged, like it was the least he could do. “So, I guess this is the long story, then,” he murmured, slowing piecing it together. “Berkes said something about Ilya, and you lost it?”  

That made sense, he supposed. If anyone commented about his wife or his kids on the ice, he’d sure as hell throw off his gloves too. He couldn’t blame Shane for doing the same thing.  

Shane nodded slightly. “More or less, I guess,” he admitted, lifting his own mug like it was steadying him. “I can usually let it go, but something just snapped last night.” He stared at both of them for a moment. “Thanks for trying to break it up.”  

Hayden rubbed his bruised jaw slightly, thinking back to how out of hand the fight got. Ilya had practically shoved his way into the center, trying to pull him out. “No wonder calling him Shane got him to stop,” he mused, having not given it a second thought last night.  

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Ilya confessed, shrugging. “I was afraid you might actually hurt Berkes out there.”  

Hayden stared at the man, not used to hearing him show concern for anyone. Let alone someone on the opposing team. Did he actually care about Berkes wellbeing, or did he just want to protect Shane’s reputation and keep him from feeling guilty over a fight? 

“I would have,” Shane muttered honestly. “I told him to knock it off, he insisted you were cheating. I- come on, Ilya, you would have done the same if someone called me scum to your face.”  

He nodded. “Worse, probably,” he replied easily. “But no point in dwelling on idiots' opinion. When you play the day after tomorrow, you need your head in the game. And heart, too.” 

It wasn't enough just to not have another fight amongst themselves. They also needed to get back to trusting and relying on each other if they even wanted a shot at playoffs, let alone the cup. Ilya was after a win, sure. But he wasn’t going to let Shane give up when they were still technically in the lead, either.  

He blew out a breath, humming. “I’m working on it, really,” he assured him. “If everyone could go five minutes without calling you a cheater, I’d be the peppiest guy out there.”  

“I’ll make them curb it,” Hayden stated, like it was just a fact. He wouldn’t attempt to do it, he just would.  

There was no reason anyone should hear so many negative comments about the person they cared about, especially not from people that they were supposed to consider their friends. He had no idea how to make them stop, yet. Not without some explanation for why. But he would.  

Ilya tilted his head at the man, tipping it with slight appreciation. “Thank you, Pike.”  

He inhaled a sharp breath, the appreciation feeling weird to him even if it seemed sincere. “Hayden,” he muttered, figuring if Ilya would let him use his first name then he could at least try to extend the same courtesy for Shane’s sake.  

He hummed slightly. “Hayden,” he repeated, testing it out.  

It sounded different, coming from someone with a Russian accent. But it didn’t make either of them want to gouge their ears off the way they both thought it would. That was something, at least. Progress, even if it was just a small amount.  

“I’m not, like, accusing you of anything Ilya,” he prefaced gently, hesitantly working up the nerve to ask him something. “But the whole thing with Sebbin...you really weren’t involved at all?”  

Ilya clenched his jaw slightly, not upset at Hayden per say, just the memory of his teammate's betrayal. “I’m the one who turned him into coach,” he replied, sounding almost disappointed that it had come to it. “Am many things, but I am not cheater.”  

“Oh,” was all Hayden could manage to say, nodding softly.  

The press release said that too, technically. It was all the blogs and articles that speculated otherwise. He supposed he probably should have believed the statements before the public opinion, but it was hard for him to wrap his head around Ilya not being involved.  

Last night, if anyone told him he wasn’t, Hayden would scoff. Shane might have gone after him the way he went after Berkes for it, too. But now, seeing the sincerity in his eyes and hearing the earnest tone of his voice, he believed Ilya. More importantly, he trusted Shane. He would never date someone who tried to cheat in the game he loved so much.  

“He barely takes Advil after a hard game,” Shane noted, shaking his head. “He’d never betray the NHL by cheating.”  

“What pain could tiny pill take away that good Vodka couldn’t?” he replied, shrugging in confusion. “Nothing, is what. It’s a useless medicine.”  

Hayden huffed, hearing Ilya’s phone chimed in his pocket. He watched him pull it out, checking the text he got before mumbling something that sounded like an insult under his breath and typing back immediately. He set his phone back down on the counter, sighing.  

“What did Marlow want?” Shane wondered, figuring there were only so many people it could be.  

“To remind me of plane time,” he retorted, eyes softening. “I have to leave soon or else I’ll miss takeoff. Would be horrible way to start our first week back.”  

“I’ll change,” he insisted, straightening up and leaving his mug on the counter.  

Ilya reached out before he could leave, wrapping his hand around his wrist. “You don’t have to,” he assured him. “I can get a lift, you can stay and talk this out.” He glanced at Hayden briefly, making it clear exactly what he meant by that.  

Shane just glared. “I always take you to the airport,” he reminded him. “If you’re worried about last night then that’s even more reason for me to drive you. I need a bit of normalcy back, Roz.”  

He tutted, dropping his wrist to let him go. “Alright,” he conceded. “Put on khakis, then. Nothing more normal for you than ugly pants.”  

He huffed, rolling his eyes but a smile tugged at his lips as he disappeared into the bedroom. Hayden could see the residual of a smirk on Ilya’s lips, too, before he quickly schooled it. Probably a reflex he worked on for years to keep anyone from thinking he actually had any feelings.  

Taking another sip from his red mug, Ilya looked at him over the rim and the gaze felt more scrutinizing than the one coach gave after they lost a big game. The feeling of apprehension was mutual, though. The two of them had never been alone in the same room before. Let alone together outside of their gear.  

“You’re not a cheater, right?” Hayden muttered curiously, double checking the door Shane went through was fully closed.  

He squinted a bit. “I told you I was the one to rat on Sebbin,” he retorted. “Makes me bad teammate, I know but I had to—” 

“Not cheating hockey, I meant in general,” Hayden clarified. “You’re not...gonna break his heart or anything?”  

He didn’t outright call him a womanizer, but that’s what was implied. After all, those rumors didn’t just pop up out of nowhere. There had to be some truth in it.  

Ilya shook his head. “No, am not a cheater,” he replied firmly. “Have protected his heart thus far, yes? Will not give that up.” 

When they decided to become exclusive, they were excusive. That meant no more looking at another person, let alone doing more. Not that he even wanted to. He hadn’t wanted to even when they weren’t exclusive.  

Hayden nodded slowly, tapping his fingertips on the counter. “How long, then?” he wondered, the question sounding more genuine than interrogative. “This uh- thing you guys have. How long have you loved him?”  

Shane said he always took Ilya to the airport, even called it something that would give him some normalcy back. That implied that it was routine. Routine implied longevity, at least to an extent. He wondered how long they had been sneaking around for.  

Ilya hesitated, which was a rarity in itself. “I cannot say, really,” he admitted. “Not for him, at least. This thing, as you put it, has been...long. Nine years, almost ten.” He shrugged for a moment. “I loved him for all of them. I don’t when it became mutual.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whispered, lowering his head as he felt dizzy all of a sudden.  

Hayden practically felt the wind get knocked out of him. Ten years of hiding and sneaking around. Ten years of thinking his friends might judge him for his sexuality or even hate him for it. Ten years of hearing his entire team call Ilya some very insulting things he would never dare repeat out loud now. No wonder Shane went for Berkes' throat last night. It was actually shocking he hadn’t snapped sooner. 

Shane walked back out in a cleaner shirt and pants instead of sweats. “I don't know what you have against my khaki’s because they’re the most comfortable pants ever,” he stated, gesturing to them for a second before he noticed Hayden’s expression. “What happened? Why does he look like that?” he asked, voice immediately changing to sound more freaked out.  

Ilya raised his hands like he didn’t do or say anything. “I only answer his questions,” he defended. “Not my problem he cannot handle responses.”  

Hayden huffed, raising his head in a look of astonishment. “You just told me you’ve been in love with my best friend for a decade, you can’t expect me to just- God, I have said so many awful things about you.”  

He nodded. “Yes, I know,” he replied casually, finishing his coffee and setting the mug in the sink. “I have heard most of them.”  

Between the calls he received from Shane when he was venting about the team or the times, they were together, and he heard Hayden on the other end complaining about the Raiders, he had heard a lot of insults. But he was used to it. If anything, he only wished they would come up with a few more creative ones. Having his accent mocked or saying they wished he would go back to Russia was so boring; it was like they put no effort in.  

Hayden grimaced, looking back at Shane. “You have every right to hate me,” he told him. “Seriously, if you ever made a single comment about Jackie, I’d never let you in my house again and I’ve been tearing him apart for a decade I—” 

“It’s alright,” he interjected, shaking his head and squeezing his shoulder to calm him down. “You didn’t know. Just...maybe try to keep it to a minimum now that you do? I hear it from my parents and the team enough, I really don’t want it from you, too.”  

God, his parents didn’t know, either. That only made Hayden feel worse. He nodded instantly. “Yeah, of course,” he assured him. “I’m just still trying to get this figure out, you know?” 

It might take him a minute, admittedly, to get used to not bashing Ilya. But he would get there. He’d just have to keep reminding himself of that look in his eyes and sincerity in his tone when confessed to being in love with Shane. That would help him compartmentalize.  

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Ilya told him, watching Shane frown. “What is that look for? I meant it genuinely, not sarcastically. Thinking about situation makes my brain hurt, too,” he clarified. “Always best to just appreciate current moment.”  

“You’re sappy today, Roz,” he muttered with a crooked smile. “Admitting you’ve been in love for a decade and saying you appreciate our time together...are you terminally ill or something?” 

He rolled his eyes. “Is Canadian air infesting my brain with mushiness,” he defended. “I will be better when I get to New York.” And once he was away from the one person he felt allowed to be sappy and soft with.  

Shane hummed skeptically, reaching for his car keys. They jingled slightly, the sound signaling they could leave. Ilya made quick work of grabbing his stuff. He didn’t have much, after all. He was always traveling with the same duffle and didn’t even unpack last night, just pulled out his pajamas and toothbrush.  

“Woah, wait-” Hayden protested, making them pause. “I’m not staying here while you take him to the airport. I have more questions I need answered.”  

Shane frowned in confusion. “You...want to go with me to drop him off?” he questioned in surprise.  

He hesitated, realizing that was pretty much exactly what he was suggesting. He would normally never, under any circumstances, get in a car with Ilya Rozanov. But now, well, he didn’t want to wait in the apartment until Shane came back. He didn’t want to go home and lie to his wife, either, about how he spent the last half hour.  

Hayden nodded. “Apparently,” he retorted, sounding just as shocked by it.  

Shane glanced at Ilya, like checking with him that it was fine. Ilya just shrugged. “Fine, but we are not listening to your ‘Honey’s favorites’ playlist in the car,” he replied, absolutely forbidding it.  

“It’s not a bad- how do you know the name of my playlist?” he asked, staring at him. His gaze shifted to his best friend. “Shane? How does Ilya know what my playlist is called?” he repeated.  

Shane pulled his lips into a tight smile, laughing slightly. “I- uh...we’re gonna be late for your flight, Roz,” he noted, switching the subject as he opened the front door.  

Hayden just blinked, chasing after them. He dropped the playlist, mostly. But he still made a mental note to bring it back up at another time. Preferably when Ilya wasn’t three feet away.  

They went down the back staircase, which he figured was how Ilya always left, considering neither of them mentioned it and just walked that way naturally. He supposed there was the occasional risk of being seen if they went out of the front lobby. There was a doorman, after all.  

Ilya climbed into the passenger seat without so much as calling it, and Hayden reluctantly climbed into the back, feeling a bit like one of his kids as he leaned forward to try to keep up with the conversation.  

They didn’t talk much at first, mostly fighting over the radio before Ilya won by claiming Shane needed to watch the road. Shane never let anyone touch his radio, so he took that as something pretty significant, even if he made no big deal out of it.  

Conversation then drifted to mundane things like Shane’s need for more coffee creamer and Ilya’s concern about his hair growing too long. Apparently, he meant to get it cut a few weeks back but missed the appointment because of well, Sebbin's incident.  

“I like it at this length,” Shane muttered, reaching over at a red light to fuss with it. “Your curls are more defined.”  

Ilya hummed, scrolling through his phone. “Still need at least few inches off,” he insisted, reading an article about last night's game. “Curls get in my eyes when I play.”  

Hayden read it over his shoulder for a while before looking away. “Oh, then please keep growing it out,” he suggested, eyeing the length.  

It was a bit longer than he realized, now that he actually looked at it. Usually, it was hidden under a helmet or slicked back from the shower he took before giving interviews. He would bet money that Shane was the only reason the curls were even formed in the slightest bit. He probably bullied Ilya into a hair routine that was as extensive as his own skincare routine.  

His lips quirked. “You need my vision impaired to beat me, hm?” he joked with an annoying bravado. “I’d like to help you out, but I don’t plan to make it an easy cup for anyone.”  

“Wouldn’t be fun if it was easy,” Shane murmured, pulling his hand away from Ilya’s hair as the light turned green. “But if you want to tire yourselves out before playoffs, that’d be great.”  

“No chance,” he retorted, shaking his head. “Miracles, remember? Coach is counting on it.”  

They were still in fifth place after last night, but he was hoping with the next few games they would be able to pull themselves out of that spot. He was also banking on a few other teams hitting losing streaks, the way they often did when the end of the season started stressing everyone out. It got in their heads, understandably. 

Shane hummed softly. “You’ll pull it off,” he assured him, offering him his palm. “Just gotta take it one game at a time. Focus on the Admirals, then play hard in San Francisco. You can let up for a night in Florida because they’re playing too cautiously at this point but really focus on your defense when you’re back in Boston against the Guardians.” 

Ilya gave him his hand, linking their fingers over the middle of the console. “I knew you had my schedule memorized,” he mused arrogantly. “You can’t make fun of me for knowing yours when you are as meticulous.”  

Hayden furrowed his eyebrows, not realizing they knew each other's schedules that well. It made sense, he supposed. They probably counted down the days to get to play each other because it meant they could spend some time together afterwards. Time he was, frankly, intruding on right now. Not that they seemed too upset about the third wheeling.  

“I- alright, maybe I know a few of the next ones,” he conceded, shrugging. “I saw you planning your next games at my coffee table enough nights that I memorized some of the teams.”  

“Liar, you knew before then,” Ilya accused, squeezing his hand harder for a second. “You need to focus on California; they’re on good offensive right now. And your trip to Chicago next week, too, yes? Make sure Mitty fixes his footwork before then or they’ll slaughter you out there; number twenty-two is faster than half the league.”  

Shane nodded slightly, like they’ve had this conversation a dozen times. Humming, he slowed down the car, looking over the steering wheel as he started pulling into the airport. The drop off lane was busy, as usual. International airports with direct flights were always worse to navigate than the smaller ones.  

He finally found a spot and put the car into park, turning to him. “I’ll take Chicago and California seriously, I swear. You just focus on the Admirals, for now,” he replied. “Text me when your plane takes off and when you land, okay?”  

Ilya nodded, finally breaking their hands apart to unbuckle his seat. “Always,” he murmured, pulling his bag off the floor. “And don’t resent Berkes for hating me; you need him. Am always willing to be the leagues punching bag.”  

Hayden watched his shrug, the casual way he admitted to being fine with the insults and the cruel comments everyone made about him. Because those comments bonded Montreal together. They made the team work more effectively at the expense of Shane’s sanity. It kind of put into perspective just how much Ilya was willing to put up with in order to be with Shane.  

“I’ll accept the comments, but I won’t apologize for last night,” was his response.  

Ilya huffed, pulling his hat and sunglasses out. Even when the entire team was in Canada, he still wore them getting out of the car. He wouldn’t risk someone taking a picture and wondering whose car he was in. “Fair enough.”  

He leaned in a Hayden glanced down at the floorboards of the car while they kissed goodbye briefly. He was pretty sure this was how his eldest felt when seeing him kiss Jackie in the kitchen. God, he was torn between finding them cute and utterly disgusting.  

Pulling away, Shane let out a small breath of what seemed like...peace. “Be happy about the win you guys got,” he told him. “You earned it, even if I made it all about me last night.”  

“Whole life is you and hockey, anyway,” he replied with a shrug, glancing at the time. “Have to go, now. I’ll see you when you come to Boston in a few weeks.”  

He nodded, watching as Ilya put on his sunglasses and buried his curls under the baseball cap he always brought with him. “Keep some Ginger Ale in the fridge for me,” he muttered.  

“Of course,” Ilya responded, like it would obviously be there. “YA tebya lyublyu.”  

Shane repeated it before Ilya got out, shutting the door with a harsh slam. He dipped his head, walking into the airport and glancing either way to check which line was the shortest to check in for his flight. The back of his hat disappeared into the sea of people and only then did Shane tear his gaze away.  

Hayden unbuckled, climbing up front without bothering to get out of the car. “So...that’s how it always goes?” he wondered gently, watching as his best friend snapped out of his little love-struck expression and pulled away from the airport.  

He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess,” he muttered casually. “Do you...I mean you’re not upset about it, right? Ilya and I?”  

He shook his head, trying to reassure him. “No, I mean- look, did I freak out a bit when I saw Ilya in your bedroom, yeah. But am I upset that you’re with him? Not really,” he explained. “I was confused about it, how someone as nice as you could like someone so...arrogant.”  

He used one of the nicer words that came to mind, and Shane definitely noticed the hesitation in it. It would take a while to retrain his brain after viewing Rozanov as an enemy for so long. But  

“He does it on purpose,” Shane muttered, giving a half shrug with one of his shoulders.  

Hayden nodded. “I figured that part out,” he noted, tugging his lips back and forth. “It makes more sense than I thought. Seeing you with him, I mean. He doesn’t put you down or anything; he’s actually giving you advice and encouragement.”  

It was kind of adorable. And it reminded him that Ilya had been doing what their team was also supposed to be doing and had very clearly been failing at, which was making sure their captain felt respected and comfortable.  

He sighed softly, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “He’s good for me, you know? I don’t fully understand how it works, I just- he keeps me grounded,” he murmured. “I feel...like myself when I’m with him.”  

Hayden’s lips quirked. He could see how easy it was for him to talk or not talk with Ilya, how simple it was for him to show physical affection that he usually stayed away from. He looked more loose, like was content in his presence. Hayden hadn’t really realized how stiff Shane actually always looked until he had the comparison.  

“I’m happy for you,” Hayden told him honestly. “It might take me a minute to respect Rozanov, but Ilya seems like a pretty good guy. He did jump into a fight because he thought you might be hurt, so that earned him some points.”  

Shane huffed a laugh, smiling. “Yeah, he’s also the reason I started it,” he reminded him.  

“You had a right to, though,” he assured him. “No one can hear that much shit about the person they love and be expected not to snap.” Sure, the ice wasn’t the best place for it, but he couldn’t blame it. “I'll find a way to keep them from making those comments, again. I promise.”  

Shane had no idea he was going to do that, but the conviction in his best friends’ voice convinced him that he meant it. “Thanks,” he muttered, not thinking there were many words strong enough to express his appreciation for being accepted. 

Hayden hummed. “That’s what brother’s do,” he reminded him, tilting his head to stare at him while he drove. “Now, about the fact that Ilya knows what my playlist is called...” 

He bit back a laugh, glancing in the rear-view mirror at the airport as it grew further and further away from them. Ilya’s plane would be taking off soon and he’d be heading to New York. Their own plane took off tomorrow to San Jose.  

Their schedules would go back to being hectic, and they’d get one call per day along with a string of texts whenever there was time for it until the season ended. And they weren’t sure which one of them, yet, but they both knew one of their teams would be holding that cup by the end of it.