Archive of Our Own

26 August 2018

The number forty-six is completely arbitrary and meaningless. Which is why, when the news starts circling in the league – trickling down from the Commissioner’s office to the coaching staff and then, eventually, the players – everyone thinks it’s a joke. The leaked screenshot of the email is dismissed as fake, particularly when efforts to trace down its source prove futile, and it’s only when the league releases an official statement that everyone is forced to acknowledge that it’s actually happening.

The league is resurrecting the Summit Series.

Speculation as to why begins almost immediately following confirmation of the news. Some sources argue that it’s a chance for Canada to redeem themselves after underperforming at the PyeongChang Olympics. Other analysts suggest that it’s the last attempt to showcase the Russian dominance while it still lasts; the team has been aging for a while now, they say, and may soon prove incapable of contending with the veritable force of up-and-comers on the international stage by the next Olympic cycle. 

The undercurrent to it all – the one that no one says out loud despite the fact that they’re all acknowledging it – is that this might be the last chance to showcase the Hollander/Rozanov rivalry at its best.

It’s not that either of them are anywhere near retirement; they’re both still playing at their peak and showing no signs of slowing down anytime soon. But it’s now public news that Ilya has signed with Ottawa, currently the lowest ranked team in the Atlantic division, and the decision makers in the league – the ones in charge of playing up antagonism to drive ratings – are starting to realize that the golden days of the rivalry may be behind them. They’ll still meet in the regular season, of course. But unless Ottawa’s stock takes a sharp spike – something analysts have agreed is unlikely to happen anytime soon – they’re unlikely to be battling it out in a high stakes environment ever again.

Unless a high stakes environment is manufactured.

After all, as the league’s official statement says, there’s nothing more exciting than best on best.

The structure is almost identical to that of the 1972 Summit Series, with only a few modifications; they’ll play best of seven, the first four games will take place in Moscow, and the last three games will be played in Ottawa. If the series goes all the way to game seven, it’s scheduled to wrap up a week and a half before the start of the regular season.

“Is bullshit,” Ilya complains over the phone. “Offseason is already too short, and now they send us back early for, what? Stupid series that does not matter?”

“I don’t like it either,” Shane replies, trying to suppress the irritation in his voice because someone has to be calm about this, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Ilya. “But I don’t think there’s a way for us to sit this one out.”

“I’m so tired, Shane.” Ilya’s voice breaks on this, and Shane has never felt the distance between them as acutely as he does now. He aches with the desire to pull Ilya into his arms, to reassure him, to tell him that they’ve gotten through everything else and they’ll get through this, too. They’d had plans to spend Labour Day weekend together at the cottage, one last breath of summer before the season begins in earnest and they’re forced to return to another year of stolen moments in secret. But now Ilya flies to Moscow tomorrow for a training camp, and the next time they’ll see each other in person is when they meet for the face off for game one of the series.

“It’ll be okay,” Shane says, and he tries to believe this himself. “We’ll see each other in a week.”

“In Moscow,” Ilya reminds him. “We can’t–”

“I know.” Shane sighs deeply into the phone, trying to keep his voice even. “I know. It’s okay. We’ll be okay.” 

We’ve been through worse, he wants to say, but he bites these words back because he’s not sure if they’re true. Because at face value this is nothing more than a glorified playoff series, another chance to shove the league’s favourite rivalry down everyone’s throats before it fades into the obscurity he and Ilya have been hoping for. But there’s something dangerous lurking beneath the surface, an echo of the stories about the ‘72 Summit Series that Shane was raised on, and he fears that this, too, is at risk of becoming just another thinly veiled war.

“I love you,” Ilya says quietly, like he can read Shane’s mind, and maybe that will be enough to see them safely through to the other side of whatever this might become.

“Have a safe flight,” Shane says, trying to ignore the heavy feeling in his chest. “I love you, too.”

In the summer of 2017, Ilya had come to terms with the fact that he would never return to Russia. If he’s honest with himself, he’d made the decision the day of his father’s funeral, the same day he’d called Shane on the verge of tears because he was – and still is, really – the only stable thing Ilya has ever had in his life. 

In the year and a half since then he’s gotten better at allowing himself to be loved, but the first step off of the plane in Moscow threatens to take a sledgehammer to the foundations of everything he’s slowly been building. The city is suffocating, surrounding him in a way that feels like it’s trying to force itself into every pore of his body. Back when he’d had no other words to describe it, Ilya had once called this place home. But now, home is a lake nestled deep in the boreal forest, the loft of a third-story Montreal apartment, the arms he can collapse into that will hold him for as long as he needs with no expectations. 

Home is something he cannot allow himself to have, for as long as he’s here.

The Moscow portion of the series – the first four games – is slated to last a week, and he’s already told Shane that they won’t be able to see each other off the ice during this time. Shane had fought him on it, hard, insisting that he understood and accepted the risks, but Ilya hadn’t relented. Because Shane knows, but he doesn’t know. He views danger in the abstract manner of someone raised in the relative comfort of Canada, thinks that any threats will clearly present themselves as such. He doesn’t understand – because he can’t, not when he’s never experienced it – the idea that there is no place so hidden that it can’t be watched, no conversation so secret that it can’t be overheard.

The thrill of that danger had been like a drug to Ilya, once, back when he’d had nothing to lose.

And that had been the crux of his argument when Shane had fought back. They can survive one week apart – if the past decade has proven anything, it’s proven that. But if Ilya loses Shane – loses him permanently – well, he’s not entirely sure he won’t lose himself.

And yet there’s a subtle fear that tugs at the back of his mind because Shane has known – to a certain extent – since the beginning, and that hadn’t stopped him from seeking Ilya out in Sochi, from standing there in all his innocent earnestness and risking his life in ways he was hardly aware of because he’d needed to know if Ilya was okay. Ilya knows, because he knows Shane, that Shane will slam the override button and disregard every last rule if he suspects – even for a moment – that Ilya needs him. And so it’s to protect them both that Ilya forces himself to retreat into his old shell, pulling his mask back into place, becoming cold and distant like the country that raised him to believe that he wasn’t worthy of love.

And he hopes that it won’t break him, before all this is over.

04 September 2018, Moscow, Game 1

The Russians set the tone for the series, delivering a vicious slash in the opening moments of the game that has Troy Barrett sprawled on the ice and immediately puts Canada on the power play. Troy shakes this off quickly, opening the scoring for the Canadian team less than a minute later.

This victory, however, is short lived. Russia keeps the play in Canada’s end, shutting down their every attempt to enter the neutral zone and all the while unleashing a relentless barrage of shots on goal. The result of this attack is a two goal lead by the end of the first period, and a dejected Canadian locker room.

Wyatt Hayes, Canada’s starting goaltender, seems to be the only one still in good spirits. “A couple of those were bound to sneak in, eventually.” He taps his stick against Shane’s shin. “Feel like getting one back for us?”

Shane does get one back, just fifteen seconds into his first shift of the second period. The Russian crowd, buoyed by their team’s dominance so far, erupts into a cacophony of jeers and taunts. “Just like playing in Boston!” Hayden shouts into Shane’s ear as the team encircles him in celebration, and Shane finally allows himself to smile.

This victory is short lived, too, because when Shane returns to center ice for the face off, Ilya won’t even meet his eyes. “You good?” Shane asks quietly, studying Ilya’s face carefully, but Ilya never looks up, never even offers the smallest flicker of acknowledgment. When Shane loses the face off he just stands there for a moment, frozen, feeling like his heart has momentarily stopped beating.

The rest of the second period and most of the third pass uneventfully, until the Canadians are still trailing by one goal with less than a minute to go. Desjardins waits until the play is solidly in Russia’s end before waving Wyatt over to the bench so an extra attacker can take the ice, but an unfortunate bounce leads to an interception and Russia buries the puck in the empty net, cementing their win.

“It’s one game,” Desjardins tells the team in the locker room, after. “Now we understand what we’re up against. If we’re lucky, they might underestimate us going into game two, and that’s where we’ll get them. There’s six of these left, and we need to win four. Everyone, go get some rest, and we’ll debrief more at tomorrow’s practice.” This no-nonsense approach is something Shane had always liked about Desjardins, back when he’d coached in Montreal. Hockey is formulaic, and right now this team is trying to build a puzzle without any of the straight-edged pieces for guidance.

Give it time to come together, had been the formula of Shane’s first three seasons with the Metros. The team had been young and enthusiastic and bursting with promise, but it had still taken a while for them to translate this potential into actual success on the ice. But the message after every devastating loss had been trust the process, and eventually it had paid off.

It’s not exactly comparable to attempting to speedrun the process in just two weeks, but the theory remains the same.

Shane takes a second shower once the team is back at their hotel, because the grime of the city feels like it’s sticking to him in a way that threatens to suffocate. Once he’s in a clean pair of sweats he picks up his phone and – before he can overthink it – calls Ilya.

The phone rings once, twice, three times, and Shane is taking a deep breath in preparation to leave a message when Ilya finally picks up midway through the fourth ring. 

“You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“Why did you answer, then?” There’s silence on the other end of the line, and Shane sighs deeply. “You said we couldn’t see each other, you didn’t say anything about–”

“Is hard enough without this, Hollander. I can’t–”

“No, hey.” Shane’s tone is firm, betraying none of his inner turmoil as he commits – once more – to being the one of them who is going to be calm and rational about all of this. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?” There’s a hint of despair in Ilya’s voice that tugs at Shane’s heartstrings.

“Shut me out. Listen, if you don’t want to see me off the ice until we’re home, that’s fine.” He emphasizes the word home, hoping this detail doesn’t escape Ilya’s attention. “But you don’t get to pretend you’re going through this alone, not when–” Shane cuts himself off, because there are tears prickling at the corners of his eyes now, and he’s promised himself that he can be the strong one. But then–

“When what?” Ilya prompts, his voice soft, and Shane blinks and the tears spill over anyway, and it’s the first time he’s glad that he’s alone.

“When I need you just as much as you need me,” he finishes, his voice ragged. Shane remembers a night in his apartment in Montreal that feels like an entire lifetime ago; sleep-addled adrenaline and gentle hands wiping away his tears and I will always come, if you need me.

“Shane,” Ilya whispers, sounding just as broken, and Shane knows that it isn’t fair to hold him to any of those promises, not now.

“What were they saying about me?” Shane asks instead. “In the arena, after I scored.”

Ilya’s voice is hard when he speaks again. “You don’t want to know.”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Shane does his best not to make this sound accusatory. “Was it that bad?”

“Is not you. Is…”

“It’s what, Ilya?”

Hearing his name in Shane’s voice seems to unlock something, because Ilya lets out a deep, shuddering breath and says, “I don’t want you to think I am like them.”

“I don’t.” Shane says it once quietly – almost to himself – before repeating it again, more forcefully this time. “I don’t. I know who you are, Ilya.”

Ilya’s voice is heartbreakingly fragile when he says, “Well maybe I don’t. Not right now.”

“Come here,” Shane whispers, pleading. “Let me remind you.”

“No.” The hard edge is back in Ilya’s voice. “We can’t. You know that.”

“Ilya–”

“Goodnight, Hollander.” 

The line goes dead and Shane swipes angrily at the tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, discarding his phone on the bedside table as he slips under the covers and falls into a restless sleep, with the hollow way Ilya had said Hollander echoing in his mind.

06 September 2018, Moscow, Game 2

It’s a grey, humid morning, the sky full of late summer storm clouds that Ilya eyes warily as he pulls his lighter from his pocket, leaning back against the wall and taking the first drag of his cigarette. He keeps telling himself he’ll quit at the start of the regular season. It fits neatly with everything else; new team, new home, new habits.

Same secrets, he thinks, blowing out a puff of smoke.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s only doing this because he needs to give himself a break, because if he spends one more second in that locker room he’s going to say something he may never be able to take back.

It’s not like they’re doing anything wrong, exactly. But there’s a pervasive undercurrent of nationalism that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Ilya has played more than his fair share of playoff hockey, and he knows how intense things can get during a championship series. But something about this is fracturing the very foundations of the sport, causing divisions, turning this into an us and a them in ways he has never experienced before. Even Varkov and Kovalev – his old teammates from Boston – are adding fuel to the fire in a way that makes Ilya wonder if he ever really knew them.

It doesn’t help that the only person he wants to talk to about all of this is the one person he can’t allow himself to see. He misses Shane like a physical ache in his chest, like a hole has been torn in the fabric of his heart and all the best parts of him are slowly leaking out. It’s just one week, he tells himself, lifting the cigarette to his lips once more. Stop being so dramatic.

“Hey.” It’s as if Ilya’s thoughts themselves have summoned him. Shane approaches cautiously and leans back against the wall, mirroring Ilya’s position. The five feet or so of space between them is both too much and not enough – an ocean between them would not be enough – and it takes every last drop of Ilya’s willpower to resist the urge to pull Shane into his arms right here, right now.

Instead, he clenches his hands into fists so tightly that his fingernails slice through the skin of his palms, sucking a breath in through clenched teeth as he says, “Go away.”

It’s Sochi all over again, with Shane standing there just out of reach, that heartbreakingly earnest expression on his face, just wanting to know if Ilya is okay. It had broken Ilya’s heart to send him away back then with no explanation, unable to even look him in the eyes because he’d known that all his defenses would have crumbled immediately. But at the forefront of his mind now – just like it had been that last time – is the thought that it doesn’t matter if Shane hates him, as long as Ilya can keep him safe.

Shane doesn’t leave. Instead he leans his head back against the wall, fixes Ilya with a piercing gaze, and says, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here.”

The words would be completely innocuous to anyone who doesn’t understand their meaning, anyone who wasn’t in that Saskatchewan parking lot in late December of 2008. Ilya almost laughs as he takes the cigarette from his mouth and lets it fall to the ground, grinding the butt against the pavement with the heel of his shoe. “Okay.”

It’s a far cry from anything either of them want to say, but the message is there all the same.

Remember where we started.

Remember how far we’ve come.

It’s another hollow Russian victory, 1-0 in a game that sees few chances and even fewer shots on goal. Ilya sits alone in his hotel room afterwards, the TV playing highlights that he’s not really watching, when all of a sudden Shane’s face fills the screen. It’s a clip from his post game interview, his hair still plastered to his forehead with sweat as he speaks to one of the Canadian news outlets who have flown to Russia to cover the first portion of the series. He looks tired as he answers their questions – haunted, even – and that spark in his eyes, the one that always appears whenever he talks about hockey, is noticeably absent in a way that threatens to tear Ilya’s heart from his chest and drag it across the floor.

“Shane,” the reporter on screen is saying, “what do you say to the people who are arguing that this is about more than just hockey, especially given the politicization of the original Summit Series back in 1972?”

Ilya’s breath catches in his throat and he turns up the volume, watching intently as Shane looks into the camera in a way that feels like he’s looking directly into Ilya’s soul.

“I’d say that we already have enough dividing us. One of my favourite things about hockey has always been the way that it brings people together. You know, obviously all the guys here grew up dreaming of holding the Cup, or winning Olympic gold, but…but this sport has given me some of the most important people in my life. And when I retire, that’s the thing I’m going to get to keep. And I’m not a politician, I’m just a guy who plays hockey. So I’m just going to keep doing my job, and hope it keeps bringing people together.”

The broadcast switches to a highlight reel of all the goals scored in the first two games of the series but Ilya makes no move to turn off the TV, just sits there immobile, with Shane’s words echoing in his mind. He can’t prove it, but there’s something about Shane’s message that feels like it was meant for Ilya, and Ilya alone.

He pulls out his phone, fingers flying across the keyboard, sending the text before he can overthink it. I saw your interview.

Shane’s response comes almost immediately. What did you think?

I think you’re right.

And it still doesn’t come close to anything he wants to say, but for now it will have to be enough.

08 September 2018, Moscow, Game 3

The last two games in Moscow are scheduled back to back, which means Game 3 is slated to start in the early afternoon to allow for a longer break before the fourth and final game on Russian soil. Which – incidentally, if the Canadian team doesn’t get their shit together – risks being the final game of the series. And for as much as Shane wants this whole ordeal to be over, there’s a rush of childlike anticipation that shoots through him whenever he thinks about the concept of wearing the maple leaf on home ice for the first time in almost a decade.

The rest of the team seems to be in alignment with this; their practice yesterday had been full of an energy that suggests that maybe today will be the day that the tide turns in their favour.

Just over an hour before they’ll have to leave for the arena, a knock comes at Shane’s door. It’s nothing entirely unexpected, Hayden and JJ have both been stopping by at regular intervals – more out of boredom than anything else, Shane thinks. He’s not entirely in the mood to be social but he doesn’t really have an excuse, so he slowly rolls out of bed, making his way over to the door and pulling it open–

Only to freeze in shock.

Ilya is standing in the hallway, two takeaway cups of coffee precariously balanced in one hand, the other hand suspended in midair in preparation to knock a second time. 

“Can I come in?” he says finally, raising an eyebrow, and only then does Shane realize that he’s blocking the doorway. He nods once, a short jerk of his head, stepping back just far enough for Ilya to slip through the door. “Here,” Ilya says curtly, thrusting one of the cups he’s holding into Shane’s hand.

“Is this…?”

“Black.” Ilya’s lips twitch just slightly, like he wants to smile. “I know how you like your coffee, Hollander.”

Shane curls his fingers around the cup, letting the warmth of it seep into his hands. “Is it safe for you to be here?”

“I don’t care.”

Shane nods again, processing this. “Okay.” 

Ilya had been the one who had laid down the rules before they’d come to Russia, who had insisted they couldn’t see or speak to each other even in passing, who had avoided Shane for the better part of the past week. And now that Ilya is here, seemingly indifferent to the danger he’s been so concerned about, Shane isn’t quite sure what to do. 

Ilya crosses the room without looking at him, sinking down onto the edge of the bed. His head is turned towards the window, turned away from Shane, the way it always is when his emotions are a little too raw for him to hide in any other way.

Shane still isn’t quite sure what the rules are, but he moves until he’s positioned directly in Ilya’s line of sight. “Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, but he doesn’t know what else to say, and he’s too uncertain to do anything besides follow Ilya’s lead.

“They hate me,” Ilya responds, still staring resolutely out the window.

“Your team?”

Ilya nods in confirmation of this, taking a sip of his coffee, and Shane watches the way his throat tightens when he swallows.

“You’re their captain, I’m sure they don’t–”

“They don’t hate me as player,” Ilya clarifies. “They hate me as person. They just don’t know it.”

Shane thinks about the language that has been pervasive in every single locker room he’s ever been in, the words that had taken on new meaning as he’d begun to slowly realize fundamental truths about himself. He thinks about the taunts from the Russian crowd after he’d scored his first goal of the series, the way Ilya hadn’t been able to meet his eyes, the way his voice had been sharp enough to cut on the phone later when he’d refused to translate the crowd’s words.

He thinks about Ilya calling him the day of his father’s funeral, his voice breaking as he’d said I wish he could know me.

“Ilya.” It’s barely a whisper, but it shatters all the invisible walls between them. Ilya reaches out even as Shane moves towards him and they collide into each others’ arms, rough and gentle all at once, Shane straddling Ilya’s lap as he rocks him back and forth just like he’d done in Tampa – a solid, comforting presence and absolutely no expectations for anything that Ilya can’t allow himself to give.

“I never want to come back here,” Ilya says in a choked voice. “I thought I wouldn’t have to after…after…”

“Two more days,” Shane says, with more bravado than he feels. “Two more days, and then we can go home.”

Ilya whispers home into Shane’s shoulder so quietly that Shane isn’t sure if he was meant to hear it and Shane tightens his arms in response and for one brief, immeasurable moment, they can pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It ends too soon, like all their stolen moments always have. “I should go.”

“Yeah.” Shane disentangles himself from Ilya, pretends that the action isn’t equivalent to tearing off his own skin. And then Ilya surges forward, capturing Shane’s lips with his own, and Shane closes his eyes and loses himself in a moment he knows can’t last. The kiss is over before it begins, but Shane’s lips are still tingling with the phantom sensation when he and Ilya meet for the first face off of game three, just over an hour later.

This time, Ilya meets his eyes.

Hayden scores off of the opening face off – his first goal of the series – and Canada runs with the lead for the rest of the game. It’s a shutout victory, the first time all week that the team has really clicked, and Desjardins is smiling when he addresses them in the locker room after the game. “One more of these, and then we bring it back to home ice.”

And there’s honest-to-god cheers.

09 September 2018, Moscow, Game 4

Ilya’s teammates take the ice for game four with a vengeance that almost terrifies him. They’re still up one game in the series, but delusions of ending it all on home ice have been shattered and they’ll be making their way to Ottawa for – at the very least – game five.

Russia comes out strong from the drop, but the Canadians match their intensity hit for hit, shot for shot. The game is tied at the top of the third, and tensions in the arena – both among the fans and the players – are the highest they’ve been throughout the whole series so far. 

So far, because something tells Ilya that this may still only be a taste of what’s to come.

It’s still early in the third period when Ilya finds himself battling for a loose puck behind Canada’s net. Someone shoves him from behind and he shoves back, and his field of vision is a mess of sticks and skates and the puck still there, somehow, but not under anyone’s control yet. And then someone swipes at his stick, hard, and it flies upwards towards his own face and Ilya ducks out of the way just in time, only to hear a grunt from behind him.

When he turns, it feels like his entire world has been tilted on its axis. Shane is standing right behind him, a bloody slash across his forehead, blood coating the inside of his visor and dripping down the side of his face. He has one glove held against his head, trying to stem the flow, blinking rapidly as the blood pools in the corners of his eyes. 

“Get the fuck away from him, Rozanov!” Hayden Pike spits out, shoving Ilya roughly backwards. If he’s expecting a fight, he doesn’t get it. Ilya lets himself fall back against the boards in a daze, the blow of a whistle echoing faintly in his ears. Dimly, he realizes that one of the refs has him by the arm and is trying to lead him towards the penalty box. 

“Wait,” he protests, pulling back, knowing it’s a bad idea but unable to bring himself to care. “Wait, no, I didn’t mean to–”

“Box,” the ref tells him firmly. “Now.”

“Russia penalty, number 81. Four minute double minor for high sticking.” The crowd boos this because they have to, even though the evidence is on the ice clear as day in front of them, in a pool of Shane’s blood. 

Ilya watches from the box as Shane is helped off the ice by two of his teammates, and then immediately escorted back into the visiting team’s locker room. He stays in the box as they take an extended break to clean the blood off the ice, and then he sits there for the duration of his four minute penalty. By the time they let him out, a part of him is wishing he could stay there for the rest of the game.

Shane doesn’t return to the ice.

The rest of the Canadian team attacks him viciously at every available opportunity, putting all of their effort into shutting him down every time he sets foot on the ice. Unfortunately, they do it at the expense of the rest of their defense, and the Russian team manages to squeak out a victory. The atmosphere in the locker room is ecstatic, and Ilya changes as quickly as possible, throwing his gear into a disorganized pile, desperate to be alone.

He texts Shane the second he steps out of the arena. Where are you?

The reply comes an agonizing seven minutes later. Hospital.

Ilya’s heart turns to ice in his chest. He reminds himself that Shane being alert enough to respond is a good sign, that there are plenty of non-life threatening reasons to be at the hospital. But there’s a disconnect between this rational part of his brain and the part currently controlling his body and his throat is constricting like he’s being strangled, his breath coming in short gasps, his heart pounding in his chest like it’s trying to escape. 

A loud honk temporarily jolts him back into reality, and Ilya realizes that in the haze of panic that’s overtaken him, he’s stepped directly into traffic. A car swerves around him as the driver yells something out the window that he can’t quite hear, and Ilya quickly backtracks until he’s safely on the sidewalk, trying desperately to regulate his breathing the way Shane has taught him.

Close your eyes. Deep breath in. Count to five.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s to see that Shane has texted him I’m okay, like he knows that Ilya needs this, and Ilya is hit with a brief stab of guilt over the knowledge that Shane – in a hospital in a foreign country – is comforting him.

Can I see you? Ilya can’t bring himself to give a fuck about the rules anymore; they both fly back to Canada tomorrow and if he has anything to say about it, he’ll never be coming back here again. And besides, safety and conformity have never felt as irrelevant as they do right now.

Later, is Shane’s response. Hotel. And while Ilya knows this is probably the best course of action, that Shane – despite everything – is being the responsible one, there’s a part of him that can’t quite bring himself to care, that wants to see Shane in the hospital now because he’s not sure he can handle waiting. Instead, he goes back to his own hotel room and alternates between pacing and lying on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. When his phone finally rings, Ilya almost drops it in his haste to answer.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s voice is soft, tired, and Ilya closes his eyes, allowing a wave of relief to wash over him. “Yeah, I’m…I’m back at the hotel.”

“Can I come see you?” He’s scared to even ask the question because Shane has every reason to say no.

But instead Shane’s voice is beautifully, painfully earnest when he replies, “I was hoping you would, yeah.”

When Shane opens the door to his hotel room, Ilya’s eyes skip immediately to the bandage plastered across his forehead. His hands flutter in the air helplessly for a moment before he pulls them back, curling them into fists at his sides.

“I’m okay,” Shane says, watching Ilya with cautious eyes.

Ilya opens his mouth, still unsure what he’s going to say, and the first words that tumble from his lips are, “There was so much blood.”

“Head wounds bleed a lot,” Shane replies, like he’s reciting something from an academic textbook. “The doctor told me it’s because there’s a lot of blood vessels just under the surface of the skin– and,” he realizes, still studying Ilya’s face carefully, “you probably don’t care about any of this.”

Ilya takes a hesitant step forward, lifting his hand once more, brushing the tips of his fingers across Shane’s cheek so lightly that there’s barely any contact. “It was my fault.”

It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to admit this and Ilya holds his breath, waiting for Shane to agree, to send him away.

“You didn’t do it on purpose,” Shane reassures him instead, but Ilya just shakes his head.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s…are you…?”

Shane shrugs, a wry smile on his face. “It’s fine. A few stitches, but honestly the most annoying part is that I’m not allowed to shower.”

“That is worst part?"

“My hair feels gross.” Shane says this like it makes perfect sense, like Ilya hasn’t spent the past hours worried out of his mind, seeing the pool of blood on the ice every time he closes his eyes, knowing it was his stick that had done the damage. It’s so perfectly Shane that he almost laughs.

Partially to give himself something to do – because it feels good to have a purpose – and partially because he just wants an excuse to be as close to Shane as possible, Ilya grabs a chair, dragging it into the bathroom and pushing it up against the sink. “Come here.”

Shane’s eyes widen just slightly as he realizes what Ilya is doing, and he follows him wordlessly into the bathroom.

“Sit down,” Ilya says softly. He fiddles with the tap while Shane sinks into the chair, gently tipping Shane’s head back into the water once he finds what he thinks is the right temperature. “Is okay?” he asks Shane as the water soaks into his hair. “Not too hot?”

“Yeah,” Shane says quietly. “Yeah, it’s good.”

Ilya retrieves Shane’s shampoo from the shower, pouring a small amount into his palm and working it into a lather in his hands. Shane closes his eyes, letting out a soft sigh as Ilya’s fingers slide into his hair, and Ilya massages the shampoo into his scalp for longer than he needs to because this is the most at peace that Shane has looked in weeks. It’s only when the last of the suds have disappeared down the drain that Ilya finally turns the tap off, reaching for a towel. He takes care to avoid the line of stitches in Shane’s forehead as he gently dries off his hair, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his temple once he’s finished. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Shane whispers, a soft smile spreading across his face. “Thank you.”

Ilya discards the towel somewhere on the floor and reaches out a hand to pull Shane to his feet and into his arms. They fit together easily, like the space between them has only ever been a placeholder, and Ilya takes his first deep breath all day.

“I should go,” he says finally, at the same time that Shane asks, “Can you stay?”, and Ilya shakes his head sadly even as he presses their lips together, fighting bodily against all of the distance between them. 

“Not tonight,” Ilya whispers regretfully, and Shane nods into his shoulder, pulling him tighter for a fraction of a second before he steps back all at once, letting go.

“I’ll see you in Ottawa.”

Ilya nods in acknowledgment of this, and then – because it’s not enough – adds, “I’ll see you when we get home.”

When he boards the plane in the early hours of the next morning, the memory of the smile on Shane’s face is the only thing Ilya takes with him from Russia.

13 September 2018, Ottawa, Game 5

The Hip’s ‘Fireworks’ blares from the speakers when Canada opens the scoring, competing with the deafening roar of the hometown crowd. It’s a sea of red and white everywhere Shane looks, and this is fun, these are the days he’d always dreamed of as a child shooting pucks into a sheet of plywood in his parents’ garage. For all the moments his hockey career has brought him, there’s nothing quite like wearing the maple leaf on his chest in a sold-out Canadian arena.

The energy in the place is palpable, and he can tell that his teammates feel it, too. Canada is still on the ropes – they need to pull out a win to stay alive in the series – but tonight, everything feels easy.

“Having fun yet?” JJ shouts in Shane’s ear as he engulfs him in a hug after Shane’s second goal of the night, and Shane pounds him on the back, grinning broadly. It’s been four days since their last game in Moscow, and while the team is still a little fatigued and a lot jet lagged from their long day of travel, they’re all still riding the wave of the way that the crowd had welcomed them onto the ice for their first game at home.

There’s no other word for it: it’s electric.

If there’s one thing that could mar a perfect night, it’s that the Canadian team – with the notable exception of Shane – is out for blood. Ilya’s blood, specifically. Ilya’s high stick during game four had ignited a fire under the rest of the team that still hasn’t gone out. Never mind that Shane has tried to explain to them – multiple times – that it had been an accident, that he, personally, doesn’t hold any ill will towards Ilya and doesn’t want the rest of them to, either. Never mind that Shane is perfectly fine, and has been the team’s top goal scorer so far tonight.

“Hey,” he says quietly when he meets Ilya at center ice for the first face off of the second period. “Take it easy. The guys are out to get you.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows at this. “You think I cannot handle myself?”

“I know you can. I’m just telling you to be careful.”

“That’s enough from both of you,” the ref warns, and Shane carefully avoids making eye contact with Ilya as he tries desperately to hold back his smile.

In the end, it’s another shutout win for Canada, their second of the series, and Wyatt Hayes leaves the ice to an earsplitting roar from the crowd, waving his stick in the air in acknowledgment. Spirits in the locker room are the highest they’ve been all week, and just like he’d done after their last win, Desjardins keeps his post-game speech short and sweet. “We’ve got two more of these to win, but if you guys keep playing the way you did tonight I don’t think we’ll have anything to worry about. Enjoy the day off tomorrow.”

“Hollander!” JJ slots himself into the space between Shane and Hayden, slinging an arm around each of them. “You ready to get hammered?”

Shane neatly extracts himself and resumes organizing the gear in his stall. “Not a chance.”

“Come on, buddy,” Hayden presses. “It’s a day off tomorrow. Let’s go get trashed.”

“Sorry.” Shane shakes his head, speaking over their protests. “I promised my parents I’d meet them for dinner.”

It’s not entirely untrue. When Shane arrives at Ilya’s house, his parents’ car is already parked in the driveway. Shane pulls in behind Ilya’s SUV – the one he’d bought just after moving to Ottawa because he needed something that would handle well in the snow, and then lets himself in through the front door.

“Is that you, Shane?” his mom calls from the kitchen.

“Who else would it be?” Shane calls back, following the voices. He’s still not entirely familiar with the layout of Ilya’s house; they’d spent most of their shortened summer up at the cottage, and so he’s really only been here a couple times since Ilya had moved in back in late July. It’s a nice place, tucked away down by the river in a quiet neighbourhood that Ilya lovingly calls ‘boring’, perfectly situated for privacy and anonymity.

Ilya smiles at him from the stove as Shane walks into the kitchen, and Shane makes his way across the room until he’s close enough to wrap his arms around Ilya’s waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. “What are you making?”

“Pasta,” Ilya declares proudly, waving a sauce-covered spoon. “David is teaching me new recipe.”

David and Ilya had bonded over cooking in a way that Shane doesn’t fully understand, but these are always the moments – besides when the two of them are alone – that Ilya is the happiest, softest version of himself, and Shane will never not be unbelievably grateful for the easy way that both his parents have accepted Ilya into their lives. 

“I’m helping drink the wine,” Yuna says from the other side of the kitchen, holding a glass aloft, and Shane turns to smile at her.

It could almost be just another one of their dinners at the cottage, and for a while Shane pretends that it is. They make easy, comfortable conversation at first – about the upcoming season and how Ilya is settling into life in Ottawa. But then–

“How was Russia?”

Ilya meets Shane’s eyes and Shane can see the way his throat is working as he swallows, the infinitesimal stiffening of his shoulders, the way that the spark in his eyes dims just slightly. “Was fine,” Ilya says eventually, his voice tight. “I am happy to be home.”

Shane catches the way both of his parents soften visibly when Ilya says home, and he presses his foot against Ilya’s under the table. Ilya’s lips quirk upwards just slightly, and a bit of the spark rekindles in his eyes, and no one mentions the series for the rest of the dinner.

When his parents have finally left – after helping to clean up, despite Ilya’s many protests – Shane all but falls into Ilya’s arms. “Fuck, I missed you so much.”

“You saw me earlier,” Ilya says with a grin, and Shane shakes his head as he leans in to press their lips together.

“Not like this.”

And it’s true, because it hasn’t been like this for far too long, not when their few stolen moments in Russia had all been laced with an undercurrent of fear. The electricity Shane had felt on the ice earlier is only intensified now as he presses his body desperately against Ilya’s, trying to destroy all the space in between them.

“Upstairs?” Ilya asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Upstairs,” Shane confirms breathlessly.

Ilya is heartbreakingly tender in a way he hasn’t been since their first time, and Shane is almost reduced to tears by the way he kisses a slow trail up Shane’s back as he enters him. “Okay?” he whispers, his lips grazing Shane’s earlobe, and Shane nods into the pillow because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

They shower together afterwards before tumbling back into bed, a tangle of arms and legs, and if they’re both finally breathing easier now that they can exist in the same space again like this, neither of them mention it.

“Your dad was telling me stories,” Ilya says, running his fingers idly through Shane’s hair. “About the first Summit Series. What he remembers.”

“I was raised on those stories,” Shane replies, smiling softly. His dad had talked about Paul Henderson and Phil Esposito like they were gods, lulling Shane to sleep every night as a child with thrilling tales about all the great Canadian hockey legends. Shane remembers scrawling their names into the tape on his stick, going to bed dreaming of the day he’d get to step onto the ice with a maple leaf on his chest and the Canadian flag hanging from the rafters above him. “Those guys were my heroes. It’s all I ever wanted to be when I grew up.”

“He told me they tried to destroy each other,” Ilya whispers. 

Shane swallows around the tightness in his throat. He knows, of course – has known, for years – that there was a dark side to all of his childhood bedtime stories. And yet he’s always made a conscious decision to exist in the light, in the heroics of it all, the belief that maybe this thing really can bring them all together.

They tried to destroy each other. 

“We’re not going to do that,” he tells Ilya.

Ilya brushes his fingertips lightly over the still-healing scar on Shane’s forehead. “I am scared we already are.”

15 September 2018, Ottawa, Game 6

Ilya’s fears, as it turns out, are well founded. The Canadians are still out for blood when they take to the ice for game six, but this time the Russian team is ready to answer. Ilya has played his fair share of aggressive hockey in high stakes playoff series, but this game is something else entirely. A combined total of fourteen penalty minutes are accrued in the first two periods alone, and the game is scoreless going into the third. 

Canada’s defense shuts him down every time he crosses into their zone on an offensive play and Ilya is getting increasingly frustrated the way he always does whenever he’s left with no room to manoeuver. He finally decks a player in the neutral zone, far away from the puck, when his frustration gets the better of him. It’s a mistake, he knows it’s a mistake, and he’s prepared to go to the box without a fight when he sees the ref’s hand shoot up. But then Canada’s massive defenseman – Dagenais, he thinks – comes barrelling towards him like he’s ready to kill. Ilya braces himself for impact, but the impact that comes isn’t the kind he’s expecting. Instead, Dagenais slashes out with his stick with full force, catching Ilya’s wrist, and an audible, sickening crack reverberates through the arena that Ilya realizes belatedly has come from his own body.

A memory flashes through his mind like it’s been summoned by an external force; during the semi final of his first national tournament, Ilya had taken a slapshot to the wrist. The pain had been intense and immediate and he’d been ushered off the ice and directly to the hospital for imaging, which had revealed an ulna fractured in two places. He remembers sitting on the sidelines with his arm in a sling, watching his team lose the final game, and wondering if he could have played anyway.

White hot pain shoots up his arm, and the arena swims in and out of focus in his field of vision as he drops to the ice.

The brawl starts immediately, as the Russian team engulfs Dagenais and the Canadians rush to his defense. Gloves are discarded on the ice, helmets are flying, and the officials throw themselves into the melee in an attempt to break it up. Every single other person on the ice is actively engaged in the fight.

Except one.

“Hey.” Shane’s voice is low as he crouches by Ilya’s side. “Let’s get you to your bench.”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, forcing the words out through his teeth.

“No, you’re not.” Shane lifts Ilya’s good arm – the one that isn’t cradled against his chest – pulling it across his shoulders. “Come on.”

They stand to their feet together, and Ilya leans heavily into Shane as an unexpected wave of dizziness and nausea sweeps over him. “Easy,” Shane mutters, one hand on Ilya’s back for support.

The brawl continues on the ice as Shane and Ilya slowly make their way to the Russian bench while the rest of Ilya’s teammates watch with stony expressions. “Shane,” he whispers, his lips barely moving. “You shouldn’t be–”

“The only thing I’m outing myself as is a good person,” Shane interrupts, carefully extracting himself from under Ilya’s arm once they get to the edge of the rink, allowing him to grip the top of the boards for support. 

One of the linesmen skates over to them as the fight on the ice begins to break up. “Get to your bench, Hollander,” he orders firmly, and Shane turns without a word.

Ilya, unsurprisingly, doesn’t return to the ice. The atmosphere on the Canadian bench is tense as the officials tally up the penalty minutes, and Shane takes deep breaths in through his nose in an attempt to ground himself. “What the fuck were you doing over there with Rozanov?” Hayden asks, and Shane forces himself to count to five before he answers.

“Helping him off the ice,” he replies evenly, his gaze fixed firmly on center ice. “He’s hurt.”

He sees Hayden shrug in his peripheral vision. “So?”

“So?” The rage brewing in Shane’s chest is seconds away from boiling over, and he’s not sure what’s going to happen when it does, and it terrifies him. “It’s a game, Hayd! It’s just a fucking game. It’s not worth…whatever this is that we’re doing.”

“I thought you wanted to win.” There’s a rare accusation in Hayden’s voice, now. “No matter what it takes.”

Shane just shakes his head. “Not like this.”

The game is still scoreless at the end of the third, and tension between the two teams continues to escalate as they take to the ice for overtime. It’s sudden death in more ways than one – if Canada doesn’t win it here they lose not only the game, but the entire series. Shane loses the face off to Russia’s second line center, whose pass is almost immediately intercepted by Troy Barrett. The Russians are caught briefly off guard and Troy fires the puck up to Shane, who is all alone at center ice, and all of a sudden it’s nothing but him, and the goalie, and the net.

There’s only one man in the entire league who can match Shane’s speed, and he’s not on the ice.

For a fraction of a second as he races towards the Russian net, Shane thinks that he could miss. He could trip, fumble, shoot a little too wide, and maybe they won’t have to come back and play tomorrow. He could let this end.

And then he thinks of the way Ilya would look at him, if he ever found out that Shane had done anything besides give his all to win, and he fakes the shot, dropping the puck behind his stick and chipping it into the net in the goaltender’s split second of hesitation.

So much for a weak backhand, he thinks, as the crowd erupts into cheers. His teammates flood onto the ice to surround him, wide smiles on their faces, but Shane can only find a hollow place inside him where his joy should be.

He drives straight to Ilya’s house from the arena, letting himself in with his key. He’s not sure what to expect when he gets there, but Ilya is already back, reclined on the couch with his injured wrist resting across his chest while the TV plays highlights from the game.

“–slash heard around the world,” one of the commentators is saying. “It seems this series is echoing the ‘72 series in more ways than one.”

“But here’s something you don’t see every day,” another commentator replies, and all of a sudden Shane is watching himself on screen. “That’s Canada’s Shane Hollander – leader in goals and overall points in the series so far – helping Russia’s Rozanov off the ice after Dagenais’ slash. These two have had a bitter rivalry going back a decade, but to see this level of sportsmanship from Hollander in the light of the way both of these teams have been at each others’ throats–”

“They’re never going to get it, are they?” Shane says quietly, and Ilya mutes the volume as he shifts slightly on the couch. Shane sits down, fitting himself naturally into the space made for him, letting Ilya rest his legs across his lap. It’s like a weighted blanket, and something about the compression calms him down in a way even the deep breathing exercises he’d done in the car on the way over hadn’t managed to. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” 

Shane looks pointedly at the splint on Ilya’s arm. “Right.”

“Is just a broken bone, Shane.” 

“It’s not just anything!” Shane spits out, his anger bubbling to the surface again. “Fuck, Ilya. You were right.” He lets himself deflate into the couch, accepting defeat. “We’re destroying each other.”

“No.” Ilya reaches out his good hand, sliding his fingers into Shane’s, and they grip each other tightly like they’re each the only thing holding the other to Earth. “You were right. There are things stronger than hate. We are both proof of that.”

Shane swallows around the lump in his throat, blinking back tears. “I’m not sure how I’m going to convince the rest of the guys of that.”

“I think,” Ilya says slowly, “is time for you to be their captain.”

16 September 2018, Ottawa, Game 7

“They can’t be serious,” Shane says as he dresses on the morning of the final day of the series. “There’s no way you can play with a broken wrist.”

Ilya just shrugs. “Is last game of the series. Does not matter if it gets worse.”

“There’s only a week and a half until the regular season starts!” Shane protests. “Do you really want to start your career in Ottawa benched because of a stupid–”

“Is coach’s decision,” Ilya interrupts. “Not mine.”

“He can’t make you play,” Shane argues.

“No,” Ilya agrees. “He can’t. But we both know what it will look like if I choose not to.”

The first time Shane had ever skated on ice had been at his parents’ cottage. It had been one of those rare early winter days – no snow on the ground yet, but cold enough for the lake to freeze over like an unblemished plane of glass. He remembers gliding triumphantly away from shore, relishing the crisp sound of his skates against the frozen lake and the feeling of the wind in his hair – until he’d caught an edge and gone down hard, face first. It had been only then that he’d turned around, registering the distance he needed to cover to get back to safe ground, realizing that the way to get there was now associated with fear in his mind. Realizing that he’d have to cover the distance all the same.

The roar of the crowd reverberates in the arena as Shane steps onto the ice for game seven, bridging the gap.

The puck has barely dropped when the fighting starts. Ilya shoves him up against the boards with his good arm, holding him there. Shane shoves back half-heartedly to make it look – for all intents and purposes – like they’re participating in the brawl, when in reality they’re doing everything they can to keep each other out of it. 

By the end of the second period, the game is shaping up to be another bloodbath. Canada has scored twice, and Russia has quickly retaliated each time. Half the team limps off the ice and into the locker room, most of them having sustained minor injuries as a result of the aggressive gameplay from both sides. The atmosphere among the Canadians is tense, quiet, the enormity of one final period – which will decide the fate of the series – hanging over all of their heads. 

With five minutes to go before they need to take the ice again, Shane takes a deep breath and moves to stand in the center of the room.

It’s time for you to be their captain.

“Everybody listen up.” He’s not one to make speeches, not really. He prefers to quietly lead by example, both on and off the ice. But it hasn’t been enough, not this time, and he can see in the eyes of his teammates all the ways that he’s failed them over the course of this series. “We’re tearing each other to shreds out there,” Shane continues. The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “That’s not what this team is about. That’s not what this country is about. If we’re going to win this thing, we’re going to do it in a way that we can be proud of, or we’re not going to do it at all.” Shane can see smiles starting to form on the faces of the guys looking up at him and he continues on, his confidence buoyed by this response. “Everyone out there came here to see best on best hockey. So let’s show them our best. Let’s beat these guys at our game, not theirs.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, he thinks that they’ll laugh at him. And then–

“Fucking right!” JJ shouts, clapping Shane on the shoulder, and the locker room erupts into cheers.

The last twenty minutes of the series are another turn of the tide. The Russian team continues their aggressive gameplay, doing their best to instigate fights, but the Canadians stop rising to the bait. Instead they play clean, getting good chances on the offense and shutting Russia down on the defense. When Shane meets Ilya for a face off in the Russian zone following an icing call, there are less than two minutes left in regulation play and he knows they’re staring overtime in the face.

Shane wins the draw, firing the puck over to Troy Barrett, who loses control of it and immediately sends it back. He looks up to see both Russian defenders barreling towards him at top speed, leaving Zane Boodram wide open in front of the net. Time seems to slow down as Shane takes a deep breath, waiting until the last possible second before firing the puck across the ice, into the space where Boodram’s stick will be if he’s anticipating the pass. Which he will be. He has to be.

The Russian defenders slam Shane into the boards and he doesn’t see the goal, but he hears the horn blare, followed by the deafening roar of the crowd, and he knows in this moment that they’ve done it.

Russia pulls their goalie with thirty seconds left in regulation, but it’s too late.

When the horn blares to end the game, the first thing Shane feels is a profound sense of relief. And then the entire team whoops and cheers as they pile onto the ice, and the sea of red and white in the arena is louder than he’s ever heard it in his life, and as he gets pulled into the middle of it all, he allows himself to be proud of what they’ve just done.

After the carnage of the past two weeks, the handshakes are a surprisingly civil affair. Most of the Russian players don’t quite meet his eyes, and Shane can’t say he blames them. But then Adropov – his teammate from Montreal – mutters “See you next week,” with a small smile, and the knot that has been tightly wound in Shane’s chest for the duration of the series loosens, just slightly. So that isn’t broken, at least.

Before he knows it he’s face to face with Ilya, and they have far too many things to say to each other, and not a single one of them can be said here, with the entire world watching. 

“Good game,” Shane says simply, at the same time that Ilya says, “Congratulations,” and it’s enough for now.

“Hollander!” Desjardins corners Shane in the locker room as he’s removing his gear. “Press wants to talk to you and Rozanov.”

“Together?” Shane asks, surprised.

Desjardins raises an eyebrow at him. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“No,” Shane says quickly. “No, it’s fine.”

For the second time in their careers, Shane and Ilya present a united front behind a table that separates them from a sea of reporters. Ilya’s wrist – back in the splint – is resting gingerly on top of the table, and Shane can see the twinges of discomfort in his face every time he moves it. He breaks the tension by answering several questions about starting his season with a broken wrist, joking that it’s about time to let someone else in the league lead the scoring race for a while, and Shane fights back a smile.

They field the usual questions about team dynamics and playing with or against current and former teammates and the feeling of representing their countries at the national level (to which Ilya gives a non-answer so subtle that Shane is fairly certain he’s the only one who picks up on it). And then, just when the questions are starting to die down, one of the reporters steps to the front of the crowd.

“I wanted to ask both of you about something that happened in game six. We had that big brawl that happened right after Dagenais’ slash, and while all of that was going on, Shane, you were helping Ilya off the ice. Millions of people watched that moment live and many of them are commenting on what a phenomenal display of sportsmanship it was, but can you both tell me what you were thinking at the time?”

“I was not thinking,” Ilya admits, drawing scattered laughter from the assembled crowd. “When you have pain like that, is hard to think, is hard to do anything on your own. I needed help.” He shrugs, a small smile playing across his lips. “Shane noticed.”

For a moment the rest of the room disappears and it’s just the two of them, and Shane feels Ilya’s knee brush up against his under the table and they could be back at their first All Star game, for all that it’s still the two of them against the world in ways that no one else around them will ever understand.

“Shane?” the reporter prompts, and Shane snaps back to the present.

Ilya leans towards him, just slightly, a small enough movement that it probably escapes the notice of everyone else in the room, save Shane. But the message it sends is the same that it always is, the thing they’ve spent a decade learning to tell each other silently in hundreds of different ways.

I’m here.

Shane takes a deep breath, and speaks from his heart. “I saw a person that needed help,” he says simply. “And in that moment it didn’t matter if he was a member of the opposing team, or a rival or…or a friend.” He risks a glance sideways at Ilya when he says this and his heart leaps into his throat, because Ilya has turned completely in his chair to face Shane and is staring at him like no one else in the room matters. “What matters,” Shane continues, turning to face the reporters once more, “is that he was human. And he needed someone to help, and I was there to do it. You know, I’ve said this before, but I can say it again, I don’t want this sport to divide us. There’s already too much of that going on everywhere else.” He pauses, takes another deep breath, watches Ilya’s shoulders rise and fall in time with his own out of the corner of his eye. “My dad raised me on stories about the ‘72 Summit Series. There might be some people here who can relate to that.” A hushed murmur of affirmation runs through the crowd, and Shane nods in acknowledgment of this. “People are going to tell stories about this series someday, too, and I don’t want the message to be about how many points we scored or how many games we won.”

Shane pauses, unsure of how to finish, his throat abruptly tight as a room full of people look back at him expectantly. And then – in front of everyone, with cameras pointing at them from every single direction – Ilya reaches out to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. He squeezes once, briefly, and then lets his hand fall back to the table, and – as if he’s somehow transmitted them by touch – his words from the night before resurface in Shane’s mind, and they’re exactly what he needs. “I want the message to be that there are things stronger than hate.”

They leave the rink separately to keep up appearances. Shane feels worn and frayed as he drives back to Ilya’s house, a bone-deep fatigue quickly overtaking him now that the adrenaline of the series has worn off. He thinks back to the feeling of winning his first Cup with the Metros and the elation that had lasted for days, the way he’d felt like he was walking around on clouds, absolutely buzzing with energy. Now, he just feels tired.

Ilya is waiting for him just inside the door, and they collapse wordlessly into each others’ arms. Shane doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until he pulls back far enough to see the damp stain of his tears in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. He swipes at his eyes, a half-formed apology on his tongue, but then he looks up to see that Ilya’s eyes are glassy too, the wetness on his cheeks shining in the dim light of the entryway.

“Sorry,” Shane says anyway. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”

But Ilya just presses his lips to Shane’s hair, to his face, to his mouth, murmuring the same thing over and over and over again as he does so.

It’s over. I love you. It’s over.

They eventually make their way upstairs, to Ilya’s bed, and they don’t leave it for a long time. 

Late morning sunlight is streaming through the window by the time Shane finally blinks his eyes open. When he rolls his head to the side it’s to find Ilya watching him quietly, a soft, unguarded expression on his face. “What?”

“Nothing.” Ilya shrugs one shoulder, a tender smile playing across his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“No matter what, yes?”

Shane smiles at this. “I think we’ve proven that by now.”

The next two days feel like coming back to life. They leave the house only to sit in Ilya’s backyard, basking in the late afternoon sun and soaking up the last few moments that still feel like summer before the season begins in earnest. They talk about nothing deeper than their schedules and the weather, and Shane lovingly berates Ilya for using his broken wrist in ways that he shouldn’t, and ever so slowly, they begin to heal. And Shane is left marvelling – not for the first time – at the ways that all of the things meant to tear them apart have only ever made them stronger.

Shane puts off leaving for as long as possible, but eventually the hour becomes unavoidable. Even then he moves slowly, reluctantly, in an effort to prolong the inevitable. “It will be okay,” Ilya tells him, like he can read Shane’s mind, and maybe he can, after all these years. “Is not like last season. We are only two hours apart, is practically nothing.”

“Yeah.” Shane nods, thinking about Ilya driving to Montreal from Boston in the middle of the night, Ilya showing up unannounced to his hotel room in Moscow, Ilya’s hand on his shoulder in a room full of people, Ilya’s words falling from his lips when he’d sat there frozen and not knowing what to say. I will always come, if you need me.

And the day will come when the distance between them disappears entirely, but until then, they can survive this.

After all, they’ve survived worse.