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There was a long list of things they probably should have discussed after Shane signed to Ottawa, but the biggest one was what to do about the roadtrips. It was, honesty, a conversation Ilya had been avoiding.
He assumed Shane wouldn’t want to room together on the road. Not that Shane didn’t like sharing a bed with him – he did, obviously, for more reasons than just the mind-blowing sex they had on the regular. Some nights, now, they didn’t even have sex (although, they usually had sex. And, okay, the nights they didn’t have sex they had often already had sex earlier in the day. But whatever). Some nights they just cuddled, Shane’s head on Ilya’s chest or vice versa, listening to each other breathe or talking softly until they both passed out. Usually they drifted apart in the night, but that was okay – Ilya loved for his first action every morning to be reaching for Shane.
The thing was mostly that Shane was A Professional. He always had been, even when they were basically children. He never got arrogant or snappish in interviews; he always said the right thing at the right time. He had the endorsement deals and the weight of a legacy franchise on his shoulders. He chirped, sure, but always lightly, usually in a way that made sure everyone was in on the joke. He fought almost never, and when he did fight, it was almost always for reasons that were justifiable – he tended to drop gloves only with the most brutish and awful the league had to offer, and he almost never dropped gloves first. The one time he scrapped with Scott Hunter notwithstanding.
Ilya knew it had been hard for Shane. All of it. The race thing, the gay thing, the every thing. To be outed against his will in such a way. To have his whole career newly summed up like this. Gone was Shane Hollander: Metros Captain, Winner of Multiple Cups, Probably Hockey Hall of Famer. Here, now, was Shane Hollander: The Guy Who Had A Secret Decade Long Affair With His Rival Which Potentially Involved Throwing a Playoff Game aka Depraved Freak Loser.
It wasn’t strictly true that people thought that about Shane, of course. More sports people had come out in favor of them than either of them had expected – Scott Hunter had, in many ways, paved the way for a slightly different landscape. Not perfect by any means, but one that had been forced to learn how to have some of these conversations already, even if it was in mostly halting and stupid ways. That both Shane and Ilya were queer seemed to be less of a shock to the media than the fact that they were both queer together – more articles had been written about what this meant about the rivalry than about what it meant for two more hockey players to come out of the closet. This was certainly helped by them being the two actual greats of the sport – it was easier to brush off players when they weren’t record holders. Ilya and Shane topped several Wikipedia lists at this point; the fact of their fucking wouldn’t take that away.
It was mostly Montreal that remained awful, but by the weekend of their wedding Shane had cleared out his apartment there and driven away from that city for ideally the last time (at least, permanently). In theory, that made everything better – it meant that for the most part they’d left behind the toxicity. Still, it had always been easier for Ilya to brush off the nasty shit the papers said about him. They’d been saying it his whole career – he’d been called an asshole by someone’s grandma before. Like, literally, a little old lady had screamed fuck you, asshole at him in a hotel parking lot in Chicago once. It was part of the package for Ilya – being the player he was meant that people were bound to truly, deeply hate him on a level that bordered on personal but that he had always known had nothing to actually do with who he really was. Shane wasn’t used to it. Being the type of player he was meant that even people who hated his team mostly had a grudging respect for him. No one ever would have accused Shane Hollander of potentially throwing a playoff game before all of this – it would have been out of the realm of possibility. It should have remained out of the realm of possibility, an insane rumour spread by an angry team and fueled by homophobia and perhaps a bit of racism and perhaps just a bit of secret, simmering personal dislike for the man the press called Golden Boy. But things had changed for Shane. His legacy was in doubt now. He had always been under a microscope – they both had – but now they were under a new microscope, and in some ways this one was even more difficult than the last had been.
So Ilya had just assumed that Shane would want to keep things professional, at least when it came to the job they now shared. He assumed Shane would demand no PDA at work. He figured they would stick to Hollander and Rozanov and a polite distance at all times and normal levels of bro-like touching. And he assumed that Shane would want to room separately, on the road. To mingle with his teammates and build good team camaraderie, or whatever players like Shane were always saying. Ilya hadn’t been pleased about it, but it was okay. He could accept it as part of the whole package of Shane, the way he accepted Shane’s immediate need to shower post-sex or his inability to ever leave a chore half-finished. That was just Shane. Professional, perfect Shane. Ilya would miss him when they were on the road together, but he had spent years missing Shane. He could room with Bood and pine from slightly-less-afar-than-before and be okay with seeing Shane every single day of his life, if not every night.
So when Lindsay, the team operations manager, had pulled them into a meeting to discuss the rooming arrangements for the season, he’d been expecting Shane to get flustered, and turn bright red, and stammer out something like we wouldn’t want to make anyone on the team uncomfortable. Ilya, in fact, had just opened his mouth to say as much to her, but Shane beat him to the punch.
“If it can be arranged and doesn’t throw off anything, that’d be great,” Shane said.
Ilya gaped at him. “You want to room together?”
Shane just looked baffled. “What do you mean? We’re married. Of course we’re rooming together.”
There were so many ways Shane Hollander still managed to surprise Ilya. It was delightful, really. So, so delightful.
Lindsay made a noise that was her very obviously trying to stifle a laugh. Ilya shot a mock little glare at her, which she smiled widely at because no one in this organization found him scary anymore. Ottawa had ruined his bad boy reputation. Or maybe the enduring decade long love story he’d secretly starred in had. Whatever. “It doesn’t throw anything off,” she said. “We book it all in room blocks anyway, so we can just request one of the rooms has a king instead of two queens.” She wrote something down with a little flourish of her pen. “Thanks!” It was a pretty clear dismissal, and Shane and Ilya took it, turning to move out of her office.
Some of Ilya’s shock must have remained on his face, because Shane was giving him a funny look. “What?”
Ilya shrugged. “I did not think you would want to, is all.”
Now Shane’s whole face furrowed in confusion. “Ilya, we share a bed every single night. Why wouldn’t I want to share one on the road?”
“Just, you know,” he gestured vaguely. “You do not like people knowing we have sex.”
“I mean, we’re married, I sort of think that cat is out of the bag.” Shane shrugged loosely. It was like he really meant it – like he’d gotten over the life-long hole of anxiety that lived permanently in his chest. Which, okay, maybe he had somehow reached nirvana overnight, but Ilya sort of doubted it. He raised an eyebrow to show that doubt, which at least made Shane laugh before he decided to clarify what he actually meant. “I mean, I don’t want them talking about it, especially not in the fucking press, but,” he faltered a bit, face going red and casting his eyes away. A little shyness, creeping in. “We spent so long not, like, being together, you know? Like talking on the phone every night and snatching a few hours when we could. It feels dumb to go back to that in the name of, I dunno, professionalism, or whatever.” He shrugged again, a bit tighter, a bit more like Shane. “I don’t want to not sleep in a bed with you if I don’t have to. Not ever again.”
Oh. Well that was enough to make Ilya want to cry, horrendously embarrassing as that was. He swallowed a few times to stop the urge, but Shane must have known anyway because he reached over and took Ilya’s hand, gently. Ilya squeezed his back.
He was holding hands with Shane in the public part of the rink where they played hockey professionally. It was sort of miraculous.
“Besides,” Shane continued, perhaps sensing Ilya needed another moment to gather his composure. “Your teammates really do seem cool with it. Bood already thanked me for taking you off his hands and making you less mopey.”
“I did not mope,” Ilya said. He was glad his voice was pretty strong, the swell of emotion pressed down.
“Not what Bood says,” Shane singsonged.
Ilya used their joined hands to tug Shane to him and nip at his jaw in retaliation, Shane laughing, giddy and free, the whole time. It was one of llya’s favorite sounds, which meant Ilya simply had to kiss him once he stopped, slow and tender and sweet.
When they pulled away Shane was still smiling, a dusting of pink across his perfect freckles. Ilya was so in love with him it made him feel stupid, sometimes. Struck dumb by it, as the poets said.
Shane reached up and cupped Ilya’s face gently, eyes flitting around like he was searching for something there. “You’re okay with it? I guess I didn’t really ask, I just sort of assumed.”
Ilya scoffed. “Hollander, of course I am okay with it. I never want to sleep in a bed without you again. You are right. Too much time apart. We must make up for it.” He grinned as wolfishly as he could. “Could make up some of it right now?”
Shane’s cheeks flushed a telltale red. “Well,” he said, voice remaining deceptively calm, even though Ilya knew he was likely half-hard already. His perfect, pretty, slutty Shane. “I guess my afternoon’s pretty free.”
Ilya grinned, and then dragged him down the hallway by their linked hands, both of them laughing all the way.
—
Ilya thought that would be the end of it, except he forgot one thing: the Ottawa Centaurs were notorious and insatiable gossips, and their current favorite thing to discuss was his relationship with Shane.
(There had been a bet, it turned out, his first couple seasons about why he’d moved to Ottawa. Only Hazy had guessed for love and won the pot. Goalies – they really did see everything. The team had two other, current bets going which were about the duration of their relationship – no one had it right, but Holmberg of all people had landed closest by guessing it started two years into their careers – and about if or when Shane would steal Captain from Ilya. He’d put twenty dollars down on “two years from now,” just to make the situation more of a win-win for himself. Lose the C, win a hundred bucks – that was livable.)
So the topic came up again, this time in the workout room. Shane wasn’t there – Gen had needed him for some promotional photos and videos, so Ilya had driven him to the rink and come in to use the gym. He liked driving Shane to work; the simple domesticity of it still sent him reeling sometimes. All of the little things he’d wanted for so long he collected now like precious treasures, like a child at a beach finding interesting shells and sticking them in his pockets to show his mother later. Here was Shane, up first and making coffee and breakfast for both of them without needing to be asked; here was Shane, sitting in the passenger seat of Ilya’s car and fiddlingly with the music while Ilya laid a proprietary hand on his thigh; here was Shane’s meticulous handwriting on a shared grocery list on their fridge, next to Ilya’s half illegible scrawl (he’d never gotten so good at penmanship in English, but Shane could always decipher it anyway).
Before they lived together, Ilya had stored every precious little moment in his brain and returned to them, hungrily and greedily, pouring over them during lonely nights to get himself through dark thoughts. It had been particularly tough the year he still lived in Boston, when things were tenuous and new and they were still so far away from each other. Ilya, knowing his contract would be up and his teammates were unlikely to forgive him had pulled away from them – and anyway, they wanted to go to bars and clubs and pick up girls, and Ilya wasn’t going to do that anymore. Wasn’t ever going to do that again, if he had his way. So he’d stayed home those dark winter nights, and when Shane couldn’t call he’d let himself pour over the memories – Shane in the early morning sunlight at the cottage, hair rumpled with sleep; Shane sitting quietly on the couch next to him, reading a book while Ilya flipped through the channels; Shane with his head in Ilya’s lap, out on the dock.
He had them every day now, those things, and it made him feel like a glutton how much he still craved them – how much he wanted more. He could spend the rest of his life leaning against the doorway of the bathroom watching Shane brush his teeth.
Ideally, he would spend the rest of his life doing that.
Which is what made the conversation he had in the gym so baffling.
“So,” Bood had said, grinning lazily. “I hear you and Holly are rooming together on the road.”
Since it was a non-mandatory day, there weren’t too many guys there. Bood, LaPointe and Dillion had all been hovering around various machines, each of them obviously partially through their workouts, when Ilya had arrived.
Ilya raised an eyebrow as he made his way to the stationary bike. “Is usually what married couples do, no? Share a bed?” He shook his head sadly at his teammate. “Problems at home, Bood? Baby Milo has split you and Cassie apart?”
“Fuck you,” Bood said, still smiling because he knew Ilya was just messing around. Cassie and Bood were incredibly solid together – not quite him and Shane but that was a deeply unfair standard to hold any other couple to, really. “I’m just saying it will be nice that someone else has to deal with your ass on the road. Clothes strewn everywhere, toothpaste all over the sink – you're an animal, Roz.”
LP snorted. “As if Hollander lets him do that shit at home. You just know that man’s sock drawer is organized as fuck.” LP said this not like an insult, but like it was something impressive about Shane – like it ranked up there with Rookie Of The Year and Three MVP Awards: having organized socks.
And, well, the kid wasn’t wrong on either count. Shane sorted his socks by color and length, and back when they were on separate teams he’d once threatened to check Ilya into the boards hard enough to break something if Ilya kept leaving them all over the goddamn house.
Damn, he missed Shane. Was it too soon to text him? Maybe he could interrupt the photoshoot for a while – surely Gen could use more photos of him, too?
Behind him, Dillion snorted softly. “We’ll see how long that lasts,” he said.
Everyone in the room turned to him. He seemed to notice the silence and looked up, a bit flushed with embarrassment.
Ilya was not used to hearing comments like that from his team. When he’d been outed – when they’d been outed – the support had been almost overwhelming. No one had made a dig at them, at least not publicly. But he and Dillon had never been exactly friendly, and he wondered, suddenly, if he’d misread the man and there was something malicious under his surface.
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” LP asked. The kid looked genuinely kind of pissed off. A bit sweet, actually, that he so immediately rose to the defense of Ilya’s relationship.
“Yeah, Dillion, might want to clarify a bit,” Bood chimed in. His tone was more pacifying, playing the peacekeeper, but Ilya could see a twinge in his jaw.
Dillon seemed to realize how he sounded. “Shit, wait, no, I’m not – I’m not saying you guys will break up or anything, obviously. And I don’t have a problem with you rooming together or anything!” He held his hands up in an I surrender gesture so pathetic it actually did make Ilya slightly less mad. Because, really – kind of a sad guy, Dillon. “I’m just saying the rooming on the road thing, you know? Might not last?”
Ilya was just plain lost now. “Why would it not last, Dillon?”
“I mean,” Dillion said, shrugging, “aren’t you two going to get sick of each other?”
Nevermind. Ilya was right back to hating this guy.
“Like, I love my girl,” Dillon continued on, not aware of Ilya’s rising ire. “So much. She’s great. But sometimes we need space, you know?”
Ilya was about to tell the man to shut the fuck up when Bood spoke. “I mean, I guess that’s fair.”
He whipped around to face his A. What?
Bood shrugged. “Not in a bad way, man, just – everyone needs me time, right? Why do you think I’m here on a day off? Cassie took Milo to her sister’s so they could watch some TV show they both pretend they hate and drink wine, and I came here to do my own thing. That’s normal.”
Dillon nodded vigorously. “And, I mean, no offense at all, I know there were a ton of extenuating circumstances, but you and Holly didn’t exactly go about the relationship milestones in the normal order.”
“Normal order?” Ilya was frowning. He’d never been in a relationship before Shane – they’d been eighteen when they met, after all, and it was pretty much set right then and there that no one else would ever hold a candle to his boring, freckled Canadian dream man. “What is normal order?”
LP hopped up off the weight bench and walked over to them – they’d all given up any pretense of actually working out several minutes ago, now. “You know, like – you meet a girl, you take her on a date, you kiss her and drop her off at home, a few dates later you have sex, you make it exclusive, she meets your parents, you move in together, you get engaged, you get married.” He gestured widely, as if to say and that’s that!
Ilya frowned even deeper. That certainly hadn’t been the order he’d gone around things with Shane. Which, yes, he’d known they’d done things a bit differently than couples who hadn’t had to hide the existence of their relationship from the world, but it’d all felt right at the time – it had all made sense as a next logical bit of progression. They were sleeping together, then they went exclusive, then they got engaged, outed against their will, moved in together, and then married. Maybe not a normal relationship, but still a very strong one. Still a very good one.
“How long have you two lived together anyway? Like, officially?” LP asked.
Ilya shrugged. “We spent summers together after we went exclusive.”
“Sure, but, like, in the same house?” LP pressed. “Like, full-time?”
He felt suddenly uncomfortable. Under a microscope again, but in a place where that normally didn’t happen to him. He wasn’t used to being scrutinized by his Ottawa teammates like this. “Since Montreal fell out of playoffs last season. So, May.”
“So you haven’t experienced getting sick of each other yet,” Dillon said, wisely. Too wisely for a guy who wasn’t, himself, married – the girlfriend he was referencing was a flighty wannabe influencer who Ilya privately found a bit annoying and who Dillon had been with for a grand total of a year. “That’s all I’m saying, man. You think it’s gonna be great being together on the road, but trust me: the getting sick of each other will come.”
“Alright,” Bood said, abruptly. “That’s enough. In case either of you morons hadn’t noticed, Roz and Holly are pretty obsessed with each other. And the season hasn’t even started yet, so maybe we can cool it with the talk of them getting sick of each other.”
LP and Dillon did both looked embarrassed, at least. “Sorry, Cap,” LP said. “Really, I think it’s great. Holly and Roz on one team! I’ve got buddies on other teams texting me begging to get traded here.”
“Yeah, man, I didn’t mean it like it sounded, really,” Dillon said. “Just, like – if it does happen, it’s normal, right? Any of us would be happy to room with either of you, really.”
Ilya wanted to respond to that – wanted to snap Shane and I will never get sick of each other – but he felt a strange pit in his stomach. He’d never get sick of Shane, of that he was fairly sure.
But Shane? Shane with his routines and his organization and his specific way of handling things? Would there be a day when Ilya actually did leave too many socks around? When his disorganization drove Shane to the brink? When his snoring got too much? Would there be a time in a season or two, or, hell, even in a couple of months where Shane saw a road trip as an opportunity for separation? As a chance to take some time apart? Where Shane started to view road trips as a break from their normal lives? Where he started to look forward to not sharing space with Ilya constantly?
The thought made him feel horribly ill. He wasn’t sure how he could salvage a workout.
Luckily, he didn’t have to. Harris popped his head through the door and saved Ilya’s afternoon. “Roz! Shane said you were here – I wanted to run a couple things by you, got a minute?”
“Yes,” Ilya said, and beat a hasty retreat, ignoring the sympathetic look Bood shot him as he left – and the muffled sounds of Bood reaming Dillon and LP out as the door shut behind him.
“What’s that about?” Harris asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” Ilya said, and he hoped he sounded as normal as he wanted to.
—
He almost didn’t bring it up to Shane. He really, really didn’t want to – didn’t want to open a door when there was the potential for hurt and heartbreak on the other side of it. But he and Galina had talked at length about this – about Ilya’s tendency to avoid important conversations out of fear they wouldn’t go the way he wanted, and then let all his big feelings pile up until they exploded. It had been the issue with Boxing Day. Galina had been so smart about it, had made it sound so simple – if Ilya had mentioned it earlier, had really articulated to Shane that it was important to him, had given Shane some time to mull it over in his own head, that fight probably wouldn’t have happened that way. And it was okay that it did – big fights were to be expected in relationships – but it would be better for both of them if they learned to communicate through these things before they reached critical points.
So Ilya and Shane had both been trying to be more honest, to have tricky conversations earlier. Ilya had asked about Shane’s limits with PDA; Shane had asked what was most helpful for him to do when Ilya fell into one of his depressive episodes. They discussed the way they wanted things in their newly shared home, what mattered to them. When Ilya had mentioned it, Shane had taken the CCM photo from the cottage and brought it to Ottawa, and Ilya had actually cried. Shane had held him through it.
It would be stupid, he knew, to let this feeling fester – to not just tell Shane that he was suddenly and newly terrified that Shane wouldn’t want to room with him after all, despite Shane having clearly made the decision to do so only a few days before.
Still, it wasn’t like he’d become a new person overnight. It was all a work in progress. Which meant instead of saying something smart or well thought out, what happened was that halfway through dinner he blurted “Dillon thinks we will get sick of each other on the road,” to Shane.
Shane had been lifting a fork to his mouth but he stopped, abruptly, to stare at Ilya like Ilya had developed a third eye. “What?”
Ilya shrugged, feeling uncomfortable, his skin too tight on his body. “Just. Today, I went to the gym while you did your little fashion shoot–” Shane snorted inelegantly, here, which oddly made Ilya feel better – “and Bood brought up us rooming together on the road and Dillon said . . . we might get sick of each other.”
Shane looked disbelieving. “You’re taking relationship advice from Tanner Dillon now?”
“No,” Ilya said, conceding that Shane had a bit of a point – Dillon really was a moron. “Just. I don’t know. Maybe he has a point?”
Hurt flashed across Shane’s face immediately. Hollander had never been good at concealing his feelings – or, at least, not from Ilya, who could read them perfectly in his big, beautiful brown eyes. He felt a horrible flush of guilt. “Not – Shane, not me, I would never get sick of you.”
“Then why are you bringing this up?” Shane asked. He still looked hurt – cagey and backed into a corner, even though he and Ilya were just sitting next to each other at the kitchen island.
Ilya dropped a hand onto Shane’s thigh, trying to be grounding. Shane’s shoulders dropped just slightly, like it worked.
“I think Dillon is an idiot,” Ilya said. “But I know. . . I know we did not exactly do things the way most people here do them. We have not lived together long. And now we will go from stolen nights every few weeks or months to. . . to living together, and going to work together every day, and traveling together on the road, and staying in the same room on the road.”
“I thought that was what you wanted,” Shane said, very quietly.
Ilya felt his heart break in real time. God, he was fucking this up. “I am not saying this right,” he said, clawing at his hair in frustration with the hand not still resting on Shane’s thigh. Fucking English – how could he be so good at it and still bungle the big conversations up?
He felt Shane’s hand on his own; felt Shane tangle their fingers together and give a small squeeze before resting their joined hands back on Shane’s leg. Reassuring. A small way of saying take your time.
Ilya took a deep breath. “This is what I want. I want to share a bed with you on the road. I want to drive you to work every day and bug you at the practice rink. But. . . I know you, Shane. You have your routines. Your things you like. Maybe there will come a day when I am too messy for you, too disorganized. Not forever, not like you will divorce me, just. . . just maybe there will come a time when road trips will be an escape, for you. A break, from me.” He shrugged, trying to come across like he was okay with this, even though he thought it would probably devastate him when it happened. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Shane’s eye.
“Ilya,” Shane said, very softly. Ilya still couldn’t look up. Shane took his other hand and hooked it around Ilya’s jaw, forcing them into eye contact – a little reversal of the move Ilya had spent years pulling on him. It made Ilya feel suddenly very tethered to Shane – like he’d dropped anchor in a port, had tied his rope around a dock. This was someone who knew him. Someone who saw him. Someone who loved him anyway.
“Ilya,” Shane said again. His eyes were so expressive – all Ilya could see in them was love. “That’s not going to happen.”
“It might,” Ilya said. He thought he sounded like a child throwing a tantrum – being contrary for no good reason – but he didn’t know how to stop himself.
“It won’t,” Shane said, firmly. A tone that left no room for argument. “Even when you leave your socks everywhere, and you get toothpaste on the bathroom mirror somehow, and you throw things in the cabinets with absolutely no logic whatsoever – even when we fight and we snip and we drive each other crazy – I will always want to end my day in bed with you. Always. I meant what I said – we spent so much time apart from each other, and I don’t want to ever do that again unless we have to. Even if I’m pissed off with you and we’re driving each other crazy – I’m still going to want to crawl into bed with you at the end of the night. Not in some cold queen bed across the room from Hayes.” He paused, for a second. “No offense to Hayes.”
“It is okay,” Ilya said, because he was apparently obsessed with digging his own grave. “If you do get sick of me. It is – I know we–”
“Ilya, stop,” Shane said, sounding exasperated. Ilya shut his mouth so quickly he teeth clacked together. “You’re right that we didn’t exactly do things in the normal pattern of western relationships, or whatever. But I have spent the last couple of years wanting nothing more than to go to bed with you every night. Even when you pissed me off. I would take your dirty socks strewn across the house forever over a house you aren’t in, you understand that?” His eyes flicked across Ilya’s face again. Ilya wasn’t sure what expression he was making, but whatever it was it must not have quite satisfied Shane, because he kept going. “I want to stay with you on road trips because the idea of us being in the same hotel but not in the same room reminds me so much of slipping away from you during All-Star Games that it actually hurts me. I can’t do that again, Ilya. I won’t. And I won’t get sick of you, because I would take a terrible, annoying night with you over the most relaxing night ever without you. Every time. Always.”
Ilya felt floored. He was aware, vaguely, that his eyes were welling with tears, but Shane still had a hand on his jaw – wouldn’t let him pull away to hide them.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself. There was a part of his brain that was still saying for now, for now, for now. A part of his brain that knew that being here in Ottawa had not been part of Shane’s ten year plan – that Shane had wanted to retire as a Metro, and that Ilya had taken that away from him. Surely, eventually, Shane would remember that? Would resent Ilya for it?
“I know,” Ilya said, hating the way his voice cracked, “that you love me. I know. But I also know this,” he gestured around vaguely, to say the Centaurs and Ottawa and playing on a team together all in one fell swoop, “was not. . . not exactly what you planned.”
That was, frankly, putting it mildly.
Shane laughed, a bit incredulously, like Ilya was being ridiculous. “Baby, what are you talking about? I am living with you, in a house we own together, married to you. That is exactly what I had planned. That was always the end goal, always! Maybe it didn’t happen quite the way I thought it would, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is I ended up here, with you. That is all I ever wanted. I’m glad that we got to move to Ottawa and be together, but honestly, Ilya, I would have moved to any city in the world to be with you.”
Ilya laughed, a bit shakily. His heart was thudding away in his chest.
He knew that Shane Hollander was his one true love. He’d never even really believed in that stuff before he met Shane – soulmates and all that seemed like fairytale nonsense. He’d seen his parent’s relationship. They weren’t soulmates. In many ways there were more like business partners, people who’d signed a contract and made a deal with strict terms and conditions. We will get married; you will give me two boys; you will be beautiful at all times and charming at parties; you will let me cheat on you; you will not be sad; you will not be sad; you will not be sad. In exchange, you will have wealth and comfort and want for nothing (except happiness and affection).
He knew that all marriages weren’t like that – Svetlana’s parents seemed to genuinely like each other – but he just figured that love was something you felt when you were young, and then it faded over time. Eventually the romance and passion subsided and you were just people in a contract together, raising children.
And then Shane had come and blown that all up. Ilya knew his passion for Shane would never fade. Knew he’d never grow bored of Shane or sick of him. And he knew that other people thought this was weird. That other people considered their partners people they needed to escape from, or people who restricted them, stole their “freedom.” He’d never understood that, but he’d accepted at some point that Shane was likely more normal. That, when it came to their relationship, Ilya would always be more in it than Shane was.
He’d felt that way when Shane had left after those tuna melts; he felt that way for large, lonely weeks when they were together but hiding.
Even now, sometimes, he forgot. He forgot that Shane hadn’t enjoyed those years of hiding – it had just been something Shane considered necessary, like getting the right amount of protein in a diet. Something you did because it had to be done, even if it wasn’t what you wanted. Shane was so, so good at wanting but he had also spent years convincing himself his wanting was something bad. But the truth was that Shane Hollander was just as obsessed with Ilya as Ilya was with Shane Hollander. He always had been. They weren't alone in their massive feelings for each other. In fact, Shane had taken many of the steps that bridged the gaps between them, even when he’d been scared. Yes, he’d run away after the sandwiches, but he’d forced Ilya to talk at the All-Star Game, and after his father died; had invited Ilya to the cottage, into his life. Ilya had said I love you first but Shane had planned their future – had built a life where they could be together.
Sometimes Ilya hated his stupid brain for letting him forget. For letting himself think that Shane would some day turn away from this. For letting Tanner Dillon convince him that Shane wasn’t as embarrassingly codependent as Ilya was. Shane made Ilya quit smoking and snuck vegetables into his meals just to make sure that Ilya was alive for as long as possible. Shane suggested he go to therapy. Shane started going to therapy when Ilya had suggested it back, just after their honeymoon, when he’d nearly had a panic attack at a (completely uninteresting) picture of them in Spain that had made TMZ. He’d agreed to that without even a question or a fight – just a sigh, and a yeah, you’re probably right.
Ilya could be so fucking stupid. Shane had said he wanted to room together, and somehow Ilya still had to look that gift horse in the mouth like a fool.
He felt a bit horrible, suddenly, like he’d been a humungous asshole, but Shane was just looking at him sweetly, softly. He tamped down his insecurities and his worst instincts and decided, instead, to lighten the tone – if only to stop the way his heart was hammering in his chest, so overwhelmed with Shane’s dedication. “Even Tampa Bay?”
Shane smiled mischievously. “Well, maybe not Tampa Bay–”
Ilya reached down to his plate and threw a little piece of bread at him, and Shane laughed brightly as he swatted it out the air, releasing his grip on Ilya’s jaw. “Okay, okay, yes, even Tampa Bay. Even Buffalo. Even,” and here he fully shuddered, “Calgary.” He threw his free hand up, but kept the other one firmly clamped against Ilya’s. “Or, hell, Italy! Brazil! If our only option was moving to Latvia I would have done that for you.” He smiled fondly at Ilya. “I would have given up hockey for you. I would have moved to a farm. I’m glad that I got to have this and keep hockey – keep MLH. But I meant what I said in Crowell’s office. I would choose you. I’d have taken retirement and a house in the suburbs and being a footnote on the league’s Wikipedia page if it meant you and I got to end up here, like this. In a house together, eating dinner. Married.” He squeezed Ilya’s hand softly. “This is exactly where I planned to be. And Dillon is an idiot. We’re not going to get sick of each other. His relationship isn’t our relationship. Maybe we’re weird and codependent, but I don’t care. I like us. And I would rather spend the next ten years of our careers having to pack extra stuff for you because you’re the most disorganized person I’ve ever met than spend one more night apart from you. Do you get that?”
“I love you,” Ilya said, aware he was crying again. “I never want to be apart either. I am sorry I even said–”
Shane silenced him with a kiss. “Don’t be sorry,” he said, when he pulled away. “I know it’s. . . I’m still getting used to it too, obviously. The not having to hide stuff.” He shrugged, a bit stiffly. “But I feel like I made you doubt my dedication for so long, and I don’t want you to ever feel that again. I’m in, Ilya, I promise. I’m always in. I don’t care who sees.”
Ilya was tempted to say something like you never made me doubt, but he was aware that it was a lie. Shane had made him doubt – and Ilya had made Shane doubt, too. It hadn’t been easy. But it had always been good. And he’d learned, over the years, that good was maybe better than perfect. That struggling together and figuring out how to come out on the other side made you stronger.
People had always said his parents were the perfect couple – so put together, always hosting parties and laughing brightly in pictures. They’d said that right until his mother had died, unaware of what happened behind closed doors.
This was better. Would always be better. Because this was real. It was the realest thing Ilya had ever done.
He kissed Shane again, just because he could, uncaring that their dinner had gone cold or that his face was blotchy and wet. Shane didn’t seem to care either. When they pulled away, Shane was grinning wickedly. “Want to go to bed?”
Ilya looked down at their plates, at the pots still on the stove. “We need to do the dishes, no?”
Shane shrugged. “Who cares?”
Ilya put the back of his hand on Shane’s forehead, feeling for a temperature he knew wasn’t there. “What is happening? Are you sick? Who are you and what have you done with Shane Hollander?” Shane laughed, delightfully loud, and Ilya couldn’t stop himself from sweeping him into a hug, pressing his nose against Shane’s neck to the feel the laughter vibrating through his vocal chords. After a quiet moment, he spoke into the skin there. “I want to do dishes with you. I want you to nag me about how I don’t use enough soap or put cups in right place or whatever. I want to have little fights and then go to bed together even when we are annoyed, too. I always want that. I never want to be where you aren’t, either. You know that. Yes?” He hated that he made the last part a question – that he still needed reassurance. He could almost hear Galina in his head telling him to be nice to himself.
“Yes,” Shane said, softly, into Ilya’s hair. “I know that. You and I are on the same page. We’re soulmates, baby.” He pulled them apart to kiss Ilya on one cheek, and then the other; to run a thumb reverently over the skin he just kissed. “My beautiful husband.”
Ilya pouted dramatically. “That is my line.”
Shane grinned. “We can share it. Let’s do the dishes and go to bed, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ilya said, already standing up to clear the plates.
—
Their fifth roadtrip of the season was going well.
Really well. Firstly, the Centaurs were winning, mostly. None of the teams were particularly tough opponents, but notching games against Toronto and Buffalo felt good.
Montreal felt the best. The crowd had probably booed when Shane had scored, but Ilya couldn’t hear it over the cheers from their bench.
Their bench. Still felt great.
So did rooming together. Tanner Dillon had, in fact, been wrong. Shane and Ilya had yet to get sick of each other. Ilya was the mess he always was, and Shane had sighed dramatically at the sheer amount of water Ilya managed to leave on the sink countertop after washing his face, but they still fell into bed together afterwards, holding each other and smiling softly.
It was almost the end of their trip – they played Columbus tomorrow and flew back to Ottawa the day after. Ilya was excited to go home. He missed Anya immensely. Shane did, too – they’d spent the night before Facetiming Yuna and David, who were dogsitting, and both of them had been slightly more interested in seeing the dog than Shane’s parents, which had caused Yuna to huff in fake indignation and David to laugh loudly. Ilya missed their home and their bed. But he was glad that a roadtrip no longer meant days away from Shane – that he got to wake up next to the man he loved every day.
He must have gotten quiet, because Bood was suddenly clapping a big hand on his shoulder. The team had congregated in the lobby bar, and Ilya had been chatting with Boyle and Bood about how eager all of them were to get back home.
“Alright?” Bood asked.
Ilya looked across the lobby bar to where Shane was talking with Hayes. He thought about going upstairs in the elevator together – about not having to pretend they didn’t know each other. About holding hands openly. About giving Shane the spare key because he knew he’d lose it himself. He thought about scattering his stuff across the hotel room haphazardly and then letting Shane pack half of it into his bag, because it didn’t matter – they were going home to the same place anyway. He thought about shared phone chargers and shared mouthwash and the extra pair of socks he’d stuck in his own bag because he knew Shane got cold feet in air conditioning and never remembered to pack for that. He thought about going to bed tonight curled up in Shane and waking up tomorrow and pulling Shane towards him and watching Shane on the ice and kissing Shane in the locker room after they won (which they would) and going to a bar and sitting next to Shane, thighs pressed together, and going back to the hotel and passing out in each others arms. He thought about the airplane ride home, about the way Shane tended to doze off on his shoulder or squeeze his hand during turbulence. He thought about driving back from the airport together and picking up Anya from Yuna and David’s and staying for dinner and going back to their home and unpacking next to each other into shared drawers. He thought about waking up together and doing it all over again.
He was the happiest he’d ever been. He felt bad for other people, really – surely they didn’t ever get to be this happy. There was no way anyone who didn’t have Shane Hollander’s love could manage to be this happy.
“Yes,” he said to Bood, aware his voice sounded soft and sappy and that Bood was giving him that look that meant it’s nice you’re so in love. “I’m alright.”
And then he decided fuck it and walked up to interrupt Shane’s conversation with Hayes and link their fingers together.
Shane lifted an eyebrow. “Ready for bed, Rozanov?”
Ilya couldn’t help but grin back. “After you, Hollander.” And he let Shane say goodbye to Hayes and lead him to the elevator, to their room in this shitty hotel, to the rest of their lives together, sharing space.