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Shane doesn't have company over often. He prefers meeting out for coffee, catching up with his teammates at the rink, really anywhere that doesn’t require letting people into his personal space.
Even Hayden, his best friend and most frequent visitor, only went over when circumstances were dire. Today was one of those times.
One by one over the last week, each of the Pike children had begun sniffling and quickly succumbed to a nasty case of the flu. His house was a cesspool of germs eager to infect the next victim. Hayden felt bad, but the Metros were deep in their playoff run and couldn't afford to lose one of their forwards. Jackie had stepped up big time, staying home to run the shit show, giving Hayden the go-ahead to seek refuge in Shane's sterile apartment.
Hayden trailed Shane through the entryway, toeing off his sneakers and lining them up carefully alongside Shane's Reeboks. He was appreciative of his friend's hospitality and was ready to be on his absolute best behavior until his kids were no longer contagious.
Moving into the kitchen, Shane begins his post-practice routine with slight modifications to include Hayden. He pulls two glasses down from the cabinet, ingredients, and a blender, starting to make smoothies.
Hayden watches the variety of fruits and the meticulous measurement of protein powder being added. As the blender whirred to life, Hayden pulled his phone out, firing off a text to check in on his wife, looking up to see that Shane had added additional ingredients to the blender, causing the contents to now be putrid green in color.
Shane poured the drinks into the glasses, taking a big gulp as he slid Hayden's in front of him.
Hayden stared at the thick liquid, trying to understand what Shane possibly put in to result in such a deep swampy color. Peas? Kale? Baby puke? he thought to himself, trying not to inhale as he raised the glass up and took the smallest sip possible.
"Yum", he choked out.
Shane shot a satisfied smile over his shoulder, "You're going to notice how much easier the recovery is tomorrow. I can send you the recipe so you can make it once you're back home too".
Hayden let himself silently gag once he was looking at Shane's retreating back moving into the living room. "That would be great", he lied.
Checking that Shane was engrossed in clicking through the channels on the TV, he tipped the glass over the sink to pour half the drink down the drain.
Fuck. The smoothie was too thick to drain easily, pooling over the stopper instead. He turned the faucet on, sending up a quick thanks to the heavens as the green sludge was thinned out enough to slip into the pipes and out of sight.
He grabbed the half-empty cup, walking to join Shane on the couch. He waited until Shane glanced up, then wiped the back of his hand dramatically across his upper lip to build up the illusion that he had downed the majority of his drink and not dumped it. He didn't want to appear ungrateful. He just also didn't want to throw up on Shane's beige rug, the inevitable outcome if he actually tried to drink the gross concoction.
They’ve barely settled when Shane's phone vibrates against the cushions, causing him to pause mid-sentence, attention snagged by his screen. Something shifts in his expression. Not alarm, exactly, but focus as his eyes darted back and forth, reading whatever message had been sent.
“I need a minute,” he says. “Feel free to change the channel if you want.”
Shane tosses the remote next to Hayden's thigh, already raising the phone to his ear as he stands.
“No rush,” Hayden replies, breezily, because that’s what you say when someone is clearly choosing privacy.
Shane disappears down the hall, footsteps muffled by carpet. A door closes. Water runs faintly. The apartment goes quiet in a way that feels intentional and curated, like everything else about the place.
Hayden exhales and lets his gaze wander.
Shane’s apartment hasn't changed since rookie year. Neutral tones. Clean lines. Furniture that had clearly been bought as an entire matching set from a catalogue. Everything matches without trying too hard. It’s tasteful in a way that suggests someone else made the choices and Shane approved them with an uninterested nod and a contract.
The only exception hangs on the wall. A corkboard is mounted, densely covered with Polaroids.
Team dinners. Road trips. Celebrations with plastic cups and sweat-damp hair. Teammates grinning, arms slung around shoulders. Shane himself appears in most of them, always slightly off-center, like he was pulled into the frame at the last second.
Unlike the meticulous organization of the rest of the room with its perfectly fluffed pillows and folded blankets hanging evenly over the chair, the photos are pinned casually and uneven, overlapping at the corners, some curling slightly with age.
Shane had gotten the Polaroid camera in a yankee swap during his first season with the Metros. A photo from that night still hung in the center of the board, partially covered by newer pictures. In it, Shane had a baby face and looked unsure of his place on the team even as his new teammates crowded around him, arms slung over his shoulders with wide smiles.
Hayden rose, moving closer and letting his gaze trace Shane’s career with Montreal.
He fought back a smile, seeing a print from his own wedding, Shane standing nervously alongside Hayden as his best man.
If he squinted, he could almost see a droplet of sweat running along Shane's face from the attention of the guests. It hadn't mattered that Hayden (and more importantly, Jackie) had been the focus of the event, the act of standing at the front was enough to put Shane deep into unease until the ceremony had ended and he could move away from everyone's staring gaze.
"I can't even imagine how nervous he's going to be at his own wedding", Jackie had whispered with pity once they had been seated and gained a moment alone at the sweetheart table in the reception area.
At the time, Hayden had shared her concern. Now, ten years later, Shane was no closer to standing at an altar. At this point, Hayden mused, if Shane ever did get married, it would be to a woman who preferred eloping or a courthouse. Anything that avoided a crowd.
His gaze shifted to each edge of the board, appreciating all the moments that had been captured over the years. It wasn't uncommon for teammates to be forced apart with trades sending players across the country to other teams each season. He and Shane had been lucky to stay with the Metros for the entirety of their careers so far. All of the most important people, his wife, his kids, and Shane, able to stay close and grow together.
Hayden feels his eyes mist over, the photos blurring as tears pool without falling. Damn. One day without Jackie and I'm already a mess. He lets out a small laugh at his emotional state, rubbing his eyes and stepping back from the photos and ending his trip down memory lane.
Shane hadn't returned yet. Hayden could hear the murmured tone of a phone conversation continuing on, words indistinguishable under the whir of the bathroom fans and through the doors and walls separating them.
Hayden's eyes moved around the room, looking for something else to kill his time. The TV continued to play the nature documentary that Shane had left on. Hayden thought about changing the channel, but knew that he would be unlikely to find anything good playing at 2 PM on a weekday.
Instead, he stepped closer to the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines. No dust came away. Typical. Who else would have literally not even one speck of dust on their shelves.
Hayden tilted his head to read the book titles easier. After only a few books, he realizes that the books are placed alphabetical by title.
He pauses as he notices the book on the end. Instant Moments is written in thick black font along the spine.
To its left, a book titled Orr: My Story. To its right, The Russian Five. Hayden recognized both the famous hockey books.
It was unlike Shane to make an organizational mistake. Shane catalogued his life the way he did his plays—precise, repeatable, correct.
To be sure, Hayden ran through it in his head. A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z...
Hayden reached out, pulling Instant Moments off the shelf. The least he could do is put it in its proper alphabetical location and restore order before Shane noticed.
Creating space amongst the 'I' section, Hayden raised his hand to slot the book into place. As he did, he noticed that the pages appeared different than a normal book, each page separated slightly to allow for space between them.
He pulled the book back, looking closer at the cover but finding no author listed. He flipped it in his hand, seeing no indication on the back cover of what the book was about.
He isn’t snooping. He’s waiting. Shane said he needed a minute, and Shane’s minutes were famously elastic.
All of Shane’s books were boringly, predictably about hockey: biographies, histories, strategy. Hayden was mostly sure this one would be no different.
Which was why it felt reasonable, almost courteous, when he opened it to the first page.
The world tilts.
Oh.
Oh no.
The book in his hand is an album of Polaroids.
The image itself is unmistakably Ilya Rozanov, a player Hayden knows well from vicious hits into the boards every time Montreal and Boston face off.
Jesus.
Ilya isn't smirking at the camera the way he does in public, not grinning sharp and confident. He's not baring his teeth like he does when he's throwing a ruthless punch at his opponents.
This Ilya is softer. Reclined. Shirtless, shoulders bare, skin lit by warm, low light. His head is tilted, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in something that isn’t a smile so much as an invitation.
Hayden’s breath leaves him in a rush.
He flips the page.
Another Polaroid. Ilya again, closer this time. Bare skin, shadows, the deliberate placement of fabric just out of frame. A hand at his own throat. A look that feels private and not posed for an audience, but for one person.
Holy shit.
Hayden drops the book shut like it’s burned him.
With the impact of hitting the floor, dozens of polaroids slip out of the plastic sleeves on the page and lay on the carpet alongside the fallen book.
Shit. Fuck. Shitfuckshitfuck.
He kneels, scrambling to pick up the photos without looking too closely at the images, reopening the book to find empty pages to put the prints back into place.
He glances down to check his work, groaning when he sees that some of the photos are backwards and others upside-down.
Moving quickly, Hayden adjusts the Polaroids until all are back to normal. His pulse is pounding in his ears, and he works hard to listen out for Shane, ensuring that his friend is not returning to the living room.
Hayden's mind is racing. Trying to come up with any and all plausible explanations of why this book exists.
He opens it again. More carefully this time, like he’s handling something fragile.
Shane is...
The thought lands fully formed, undeniable.
Shane is gay. And he's with Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Hayden turns one more page, against his better judgment, because the truth is already out there and looking away won’t erase it.
There are dates under each picture, handwritten in the margins. Short notes in messy, looping script. Little jokes. A few words in Russian, untranslated. Does Shane know Russian??
One page has a photo that’s mostly shadow and the curve of a hip, a glimpse of collarbone, the faint suggestion of teeth against skin. Nothing explicit, but somehow worse for how much it leaves to the imagination.
The last photo has Ilya standing in front of a mirror, holding the camera such that the reflection captures his entire body. A bed visible behind him, sheets messy. The image is sexual in a way that still conveys deep intimacy. Ilya's strong and nude body fully exposed, one hand holding his length with unabashed confidence and clear arousal.
Written under the photo in clear masculine scrawl: Happy Anniversary, моя любовь
Hayden slams the book shut once more.
That's enough! That is MORE than enough! I should not be seeing this.
He slots the book back onto the shelf and begins to untangle his thoughts.
This isn’t a fling. This isn’t a joke or a dare or some drunken mistake. The photos are deliberate. Composed. Loved into existence.
Hayden scrambles back to the couch, hearing the bathroom door reopen and footsteps approaching.
When Shane enters the room, he finds his friend watching the documentary in rapture.
"Did you know blue whales eat tuna?" Hayden's voice cracks at the end of his question.
"What? That doesn't sound right..." Shane replies, scanning his friend's face.
Hayden hasn't looked away from the documentary still playing on the TV, "No, yeah, they just said it. So must be true."
Shane shrugged, rejoining Hayden on the couch.
They sat in silence for only a minute before Hayden spoke up.
He tried to sound nonchalant when he asked, "Who were you on the phone with?"
Shane answered much too quickly, face burning as he rambled on about his mom and some contract that they needed to talk about.
Hayden can't help but notice the distinct look in Shane's eyes. One he had seen many times over the years but never been able to name.
The realization falls into place in an instant. He was on the phone with Ilya.
Memories began to play over when he had seen Shane's expression before. The locker room when teammates would toss out barely disguised homophobic insults. The way Shane defends Ilya too quickly, too carefully, always referencing his hockey abilities and leadership. The look Shane would fight to hide when he slipped out of their hotel room to meet up with Boston Lily.
The room is too quiet, Hayden realizing too much time had passed without him responding to Shane's obvious lie.
"Yeah, of course. Contracts. That makes sense."
They sat together until the credits of the nature film rolled across the screen. Hayden rose from the couch, excusing himself to shower.
The rest of Hayden's separation from his germ filled family goes smoothly. He moves with more caution through the house, being careful of where he goes as not to intrude on any other personal areas of Shane's life.
The week ends, and Hayden doesn't say anything. He won’t. Whatever Shane is carrying, whatever that book represents, isn’t his to name.
But at home with his arms wrapped around his wife, when Hayden lies awake unable to rid his mind of what he had seen and wondering why Shane wouldn't have hid the book in a bedside table or deep in a closet, he knows one thing with absolute certainty:
Shane didn’t keep that book because he’s careless. He kept them because sometimes loving someone means choosing the risk anyway.
Shane's home had returned to its original state of quiet once the Pike children had recovered and Hayden was able to return to his own house. Montreal was playing New York, midway through the second round of the playoffs. Hours away, Boston was one game away from an easy domination of their series against Ottawa.
His phone buzzed, a text incoming from Ilya.
Ilya: I love you.
Ilya: I will call you after the game once I am in hotel.
Only minutes later on the TV, the broadcast showed #81 on Boston skating onto the ice for warmups.
Shane smiled at the mental image of Ilya in the locker room, remembering to message him before the start of an important game.
He probably screamed his pump up speech and reached for his phone to text me all in the same breath. It was an attractive image for Shane, his cheeks flushing at knowing how intense Ilya could be, both in his captain role and in his attention to Shane.
The Boston vs. Ottawa game went as expected. By the end of the second period, Ilya had scored twice, a feat only slightly dampened by four penalties, likely accrued from his incessant instigating.
During the intermission period as the announcers droned on, breaking down every play, Shane's gaze slid to his bookshelf, landing on the photo album that Ilya had made for their most recent anniversary.
The book exists because it couldn’t exist anywhere else.
They learned early that phones were liabilities, screens always at risk of being seen over their shoulder and phones could be easily hacked or stolen. They didn’t keep pictures. They didn’t save messages. Nothing that could be taken, twisted, or exposed with a moment of carelessness.
It had made anniversaries strange things.
How do you mark time when proof is dangerous?
Then came Ilya’s gift, first presented as a joke.
He had been sprawled across Shane's bed, cocky grin in place. Reaching down and into his duffel bag, he had pulled out a poorly wrapped gift and handed it to Shane.
By then, Shane was well versed in knowing Ilya's signs of uncertainty and vulnerability. As he opened Ilya's gift, he had worked hard to keep a poised face, knowing that even if he did not like the gift, he would need to appear appreciative since whatever it was, Ilya had clearly put a lot of thought into it.
Shane had stayed silent flipped through each page.
Ilya had stilled, smile flickering, clearly wondering if he had gone too far in giving Shane physical proof of their intimate involvement.
It wasn't until Shane had met his eyes, a tear escaping and carving a path down his freckled cheek that Ilya knew that his gift had been correct.
Shane had fallen forward into Ilya's lap, curling around his body. Small sobs had shaken his body and he had to work hard to gather himself to share his thoughts with Ilya.
"I love it. I love you. It is so hard only having photos in my memory, and now I will have some that I can see whenever I need. You are perfect."
The photos were a quiet, defiant act of love, pressed into a book and hidden on a shelf, waiting.
From that day forward, the book had lived on the bookshelf, taking up a small space in Shane's otherwise boring living room.
He could have hidden it deeper, locked it away or buried it farther from view, but he didn’t. It stayed where it was, nestled between hockey biographies and histories no one ever touched. Close enough to reach for when the apartment felt too quiet. Close enough to remind him that something real and deep existed beyond the careful distance of his life.