Chapter Text
In September, Ilya Rozanov said goodbye to the summer in Montreal, a summer he would never forget, and returned to Boston, where life was built from ice, sweat, and a rigid training schedule.
Day after day of practice, video analysis, and tactical meetings filled his life again. Everything seemed back on track, even better than before. He was in peak condition, he had a new family who supported him, and he had his boyfriend, Shane Hollander.
Ilya was thrilled.
Hell, who was he kidding? He was practically ecstatic.
This year will definitely be his year to win his second Stanley Cup. Just imagining Shane Hollander stomping around in frustration was enough to make him want to take flight on the ice.
And! Only one year remained before he could transfer to Ottawa as a free agent. When that happened, Montreal would be just a two-hour drive away.
The thought wrapped around him like warm amber and made Boston’s final season feel much shorter.
The regular season had barely begun before Ilya became unstoppable.
Goals. Assists. Crucial blocks.
His performance dominated the ice so completely that commentators seemed ready to spend entire broadcasts talking about him.
In the locker room, talk of a championship was everywhere, and Ilya’s good mood practically overflowed.
“Jesus, Roz,” his teammate Marleau said, slapping his bare shoulder with a sweat soaked glove and wiggling his eyebrows. “How many women did you sleep with in Moscow this summer? You’re on FIRE, man.”
Ilya snorted and did not even look up as he removed his gear.
“If you beg me hard enough, Marleau, I might send you my exclusive training secrets.”
He casually picked up the phone from his locker. He only meant to check for messages from Jane or maybe scroll through sports commentary.
Instead, a push notification exploded onto the screen.
[EXCLUSIVE] Late Night Meeting! Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rozanov Leaves Voyageurs Captain Shane Hollander’s Private Apartment at 2 A.M.! Photos Included!
Ilya saw his clothes.
Even in the blurry preview image, it was unmistakably him.
A hoodie pulled low, slipping quickly out of a building he knew all too well.
Ilya’s heart dropped.
Blood rushed to his head and then drained away just as quickly, leaving only cold numbness. His fingers froze. The glow of the screen illuminated his suddenly pale face.
“Hey, what kind of secret training requires begging?”
Marleau leaned closer. His grin disappeared the moment he saw the screen.
“Holy shit!” he gasped. “What the hell is that? Roz!”
The shout cut through the relaxed post-victory atmosphere of the locker room.
Nearby players paused and turned.
“Fake news!” Ilya’s voice came out sharper than he intended. He locked the screen immediately and clenched the phone in his palm until his knuckles turned white.
“Clickbait garbage,” he said quickly as he stepped toward the equipment alcove in the corner. “It's nothing.”
The denial sounded thin. He knew it, and so did everyone else.
Other players were already checking their phones, muttering low curses under their breath. Shocked whispers rippled through the room. Someone began reading lines from the article out loud.
The joy of victory vanished instantly. In its place came disbelief, suspicion, and uncomfortable silence.
All eyes, openly or not, settled on the man trying to disappear into the corner.
Ilya forced himself to read the article.
It was viciously detailed.
The writer claimed to be a devoted fan of Rose Landry, who had held a grudge against Shane ever since their breakup before last year’s All-Star Game. The author had followed Shane for months, hoping to uncover a scandal, and had instead captured photos of Ilya visiting his apartment late at night.
Multiple angles. Exact timestamps. Anonymous sources hinting at a special relationship.
Some passages even suggested that the connection might influence subtle moments on the ice.
The comment section had already exploded into chaos. Speculation, insults, and fan wars filled every line.
Ilya wanted to punch someone.
Some obsessive Rose Landry fan. Was this a fucking joke? That had all happened before last year’s All-Star Game.
Rage surged through him, tangled with a deep, helpless frustration.
Someone with nothing to do with hockey had spent an entire year quietly gathering evidence, waiting for the perfect moment to release it and drag both him and Shane straight into hell.
Their relationship had only just begun to stabilize.
This weekend he was supposed to have an online dinner with Yuna and David.
Now the locker room felt suffocating. Questions hung in the air:
Was it true? He and Hollander? The rival captain, they tried to crush every game.
Had it started last year?
What exactly was going on between them?
Ilya had no answers. He cannot answer.
At that moment, any explanation would have sounded like a lie.
Images flickered through his mind. Shane’s shocked face. Management erupts in fury. Cameras flashing as reporters swarmed the arena. Fans are shouting his name for all the wrong reasons.
Then the locker room door opened with a loud bang.
The assistant coach stood in the doorway, his expression grim.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he said quietly.
“Come with me. Now.”
Coach LeClaire sat behind the meeting table and rotated his laptop toward him.
The article filled the screen.
“So,” LeClaire said calmly. “Shane Hollander?”
Ilya met his eyes and nodded.
There was no point denying it.
“How long?”
“It’s complicated,” Ilya said. His fingers tightened together. “We only decided to take it seriously recently. But the beginning probably goes back to the summer before our rookie season.”
Several people in the room inhaled sharply.
LeClaire leaned back heavily in his chair and rubbed his face.
“Jesus! Fucking 2010?” he muttered. “This is not happening. I never imagined you two already had something going on back then.”
“My relationship with Shane does not affect my performance,” Ilya said firmly. “I am still the best player on the ice. I am still the captain. And I will win a second Stanley Cup.”
LeClaire stared at him, rephrased in a calm tone. “Our second Stanley Cup.”
“Yes,” Ilya replied. “Our second Stanley Cup.”
They held each other’s gaze for several seconds. Finally, LeClaire exhaled and leaned back in his chair.
“No matter what happens,” he said, his voice rough with reluctant acceptance. “You’re still our guy. Our captain.”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Your contract is almost up, right? What are you planning to do?”
“I want to go to Ottawa.”
“Ottawa?” LeClaire nearly jumped out of his chair. “The Ottawa Centaur? That bottom team?”
“It's two hours from Montreal,” Ilya said calmly.
LeClaire stared at him as if he had just spoken another language.
“You’re a world class star,” he said slowly. “And you’re planning your entire career around romance?”
He took a long drag from his vape and let out a tired groan.
“Unbelievable, Rozanov. Absolutely unbelievable.”
For a moment he just sat there, rubbing his temple. Then he sighed again.
“Fine. Have your agent talk to Ottawa. If it works out, you go there. If not, Boston will back you.”
His expression hardened.
“But one thing is not up for discussion. No matter what happens, we are not sending you back to Russia.”
Ilya froze.
That possibility had never even crossed his mind. Of all the outcomes he had imagined, this was the last one he expected.
LeClaire snorted when he saw the look on his face.
“What?” he said. “You thought I was some kind of heartless old dinosaur?”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“Cliff will handle the press conference tonight. You go home and stay away from reporters.”
Then he fixed Ilya with a sharp look.
“And if we don’t win the Cup this year, you’re staying in Boston and skating on my ice until you drop.”
“Yes, sir.”
For the first time that day, Ilya smiled.
“We’ll win it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” LeClaire muttered. “Now get out of my office.”
As Ilya reached the door, LeClaire added under his breath,
“I still can’t believe Shane Hollander ended up with you.”
Ilya did not return to the locker room.
Instead, he slipped out through the players’ tunnel exit, crossed the parking lot at a quick pace, and slid into the driver’s seat of his Mercedes. The engine rumbled to life as he pulled away from the arena, leaving behind the building that would soon be drowning in reporters and flashing cameras.
By the time he reached home, the first thing he did was pull out his phone.
The screen lit up instantly. Messages flooded in one after another.
Marleau:
Man, sorry about earlier. I was honestly shocked. But I just want you to know one thing. I support you. No matter what happens. You will always be my captain.
Yuna:
Ilya, don’t worry. David and I are already dealing with things on our end. Right now the most important thing is that you stay safe. Ignore everything outside.
More names followed.
Teammates. Friends. Staff.
Support. Concern. Anger. Reassurance.
The screen filled with them.
But as he scrolled through the messages, one name never appeared
There was nothing from Shane.
Something inside his chest seemed to hollow out quietly.
Ilya walked into the living room and switched on the floor lamp in the corner. A dim pool of yellow light spread across the room, barely pushing back the darkness.
He dropped heavily onto the couch and looked at his phone again. Then he opened Shane’s chat window.
Shane, are you okay?
Sent.
I saw the news. Call me when you have time.
Sent.
The chat window remained silent.
Ilya stared at it, his fingers cold as he tried to decide what to say next.
He knew Shane well.
He knew how fiercely Shane guarded his privacy. He knew how easily he unraveled when carefully made plans fell apart.
Only two months ago they had been lying together in the small cabin bed. Shane’s eyes had been bright as he talked about the future, outlining it piece by piece. Ilya still remembered the way his fingers had curled and uncurled unconsciously as he spoke.
Ilya could not become another weight pressing down on him.
Slowly, he began to type.
If you need to deny it, I’ll cooperate.
His thumb hovered above the send button.
Then he deleted the sentence.
No. It felt wrong. Too final. Like carving the ending into stone before the story had even played out.
What if Shane didn’t want to deny it?
The possibility was faint, almost fragile. Still, Ilya couldn’t bring himself to extinguish it.
He tried again.
Do whatever you think is best. I’ll support whatever you decide.
He stared at the words for a moment.
Then he deleted them too.
Too distant. Too careful. It didn’t sound like him. It didn’t sound like them.
He should say something braver. Something reassuring.
Don’t be afraid. I’m here.
Or maybe something simpler.
Fuck it. Let’s just go public.
But what right did he have to be brave for Shane?
Right now, his very existence might be the biggest disaster in Shane’s world.
Words appeared in the message box, only to vanish again moments later. Over and over.
Until finally there was nothing left but the blank screen, faintly reflecting his tense face.
For once, language felt completely useless.
“Fuck.”
Ilya turned the phone face down on the coffee table.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Cold air spilled out and brushed his face.
Inside there were only a few energy drinks, condensation on the shelves, and a single unopened bottle.
A good Russian vodka.
He twisted the cap open and drank straight from the bottle. The liquid burned down his throat and spread warmth through his chest.
The day was already ruined.
And the house was empty anyway.
He carried the bottle back to the living room and sank into the sofa. With the remote he turned on the television.
A late night talk show filled the screen. The host’s exaggerated jokes mixed with the audience’s artificial laughter.
Ilya raised the volume.
One bar. Two. Three.
The noise swelled until the apartment vibrated with voices, applause, and obnoxious music. Even the bottle on the table seemed to tremble.
He needed the noise.
He needed it to crush the questions circling endlessly in his head.
Maybe they were finished.
The thought surfaced cold and clear.
Shane might be angry. Disappointed. Blaming him.
Blaming the terrible timing. Blaming the carelessness. Blaming the fact that he was Ilya Rozanov.
All those years of careful touches in hotel rooms and whispered conversations in dim light might disappear from this moment forward.
Shane.
Shane.
Shane.
The name burned in his thoughts like a red hot nail.
He could almost see him.
Shane sitting alone in that equally empty apartment in Montreal. His face pale, fingers cold as he stared at a phone buzzing endlessly with calls and messages.
“Bang!”
On the television a guest on the talk show fell dramatically onto the stage.
Ilya closed his eyes and drank again.
He hoped the alcohol would make everything lighter for a while.
When Ilya woke the next morning, he felt almost functional.
That was, if “functional” meant a foggy head, floating limbs, and a dull pulse throbbing in his temples.
He completed his morning routine almost entirely through muscle memory. Shower.Breakfast. Exercise.
The locker room atmosphere was still strange. Teammates tried very hard to act normal. Some even greeted him with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Ilya accepted the effort with quiet nods.
On the ice he finished every drill.
Every stride. Every turn. Every shot.
His body moved flawlessly, carried forward by years of training and instinct.
But his mind seemed to hover somewhere above him, detached, watching the figure on the ice as if it belonged to someone else.
After practice, he returned to the locker room and began removing his gear. Sweat cooled against his skin, leaving behind a sticky discomfort that made him shift restlessly.
Around him, the familiar sounds of the room continued. Teammates laughing. Equipment clattering against the floor. Water rushing in the showers.
Yet everything felt strangely distant, as if he were hearing it through a wall.
Then a voice came from the doorway.
“Uh… is Rozanov here?”
The entire room paused.
A strange figure stood in the doorway.
A gray hoodie pulled tight. A black baseball cap pulled low. A blue medical mask covering most of the face.
And in his hand, strangely enough, he was holding a plunger.
Marleau jumped up instantly and stepped in front of the room.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
The stranger seemed startled by the sudden hostility and took half a step back. He lowered the plunger slightly.
“Wait. Relax. It is me.”
He quickly pulled off the mask and removed the cap.
Dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
A familiar face appeared under the bright locker room lights.
“Shane Hollander,” he said, breathing slightly hard.
His eyes swept across the stunned players before landing firmly on the man sitting in the corner.
Time seemed to freeze.
Only the faint sound of running water came from the showers.
Ilya’s fingers were still resting on the strap of his leg guard.
Slowly he lifted his head.
The fog of alcohol and the numbness of the past day shattered instantly when he saw those familiar brown eyes.
He opened his mouth but only managed a dry whisper.
“Shane?”
“Ilya,” Shane said quietly as he crossed the room and crouched in front of him. “I tried to call you. I sent messages. You didn't answer.”
He drew in a small breath
“I got worried.”
Ilya didn’t let him say anything more.
He leaned forward and pulled Shane into a fierce embrace.
His arms closed tightly around Shane’s shoulders and back, his face pressed into the familiar warmth of Shane’s neck. The scent of travel, sweat, and something unmistakably Shane filled his senses.
The cold anxiety that had gripped him since the night before began to melt away.
Slowly, Shane’s arms came up around him as well. At first they were stiff, almost hesitant, as if he needed a moment to convince himself this was real.
Then they tightened.
His fingers curled into the damp fabric of Ilya’s training shirt.
In that moment, in front of the entire locker room, words felt unnecessary.
Amid all the chaos that still waited outside, Ilya understood one thing with absolute clarity.
He loved Shane.
And unbelievably, wonderfully,
Shane loved him too.