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Breathe. Just breathe.
Shane could feel the eyes of stage hands burning into the back of his skull, whether because he was the Shane Hollander or because he was gripping the glass plaque in his hands like it was his only tether to this world, he didn’t want to think about it.
Thankfully he had stopped pacing backstage about 2 minutes ago, but now that nervous energy was being funneled straight down his legs to his knees, which were bouncing and causing a small blister to form on the back of his ankle from rubbing against the heel of his new shoes Rose talked him into buying.
It was laughable, honestly, that the league had asked him to do this.
Vultures, Shane thought sardonically. Just can’t get enough of their self-made rivalry, can they?
Little did they know, that rivalry they loved so much was far from the truth. Or it used to be. Now it’s–
“On in 15 seconds,” someone whispered behind his shoulder.
Shane blew out a shaky breath, hoping his sweaty palms weren’t smudging the glass beneath them. Hoped the beautifully carved image in the icy material wasn’t blemished or distorted, but crisp and clear like it deserved to be.
“And now, Metro Voyagers captain, Shane Hollander, will present the Honored Member plaque to newly inducted Hall of Fame member, Ilya Rozanov.”
No more stalling.
Shane tried to remind himself to walk at a steady pace as he rounded the corner of the billowing curtains; Just because he was rushing to get off stage didn’t mean that others weren’t trying to take in all that this moment was.
And what a moment it was. God, he looked amazing.
The resounding claps could have been miles away for all he knew, because the moment his eyes landed on the tall Russian walking towards him from across the stage, Shane could have sworn it was just the two of them.
The two of them, who hadn’t spoken in nearly three years. The two of them, who had once been something. The two of them, who were nothing. Because of him.
But it had been good once. So, so unbelievably good.
It was no question 2017 was the best year of Shane’s life, which is hilarious seeing as he ended that season benched with a concussion and damaged collarbone, but he had Ilya.
Ilya waking up next to him, cooking with him, swimming, and joking, and loving him.
He also had his parents, who welcomed Ilya with open arms and home cooked meals. Hell, Shane had even told Hayden about Ilya.
Travelling and being apart had been so much harder than before, but it was so worth it for the phone calls, and face times, and sexting and reuniting like he was welcoming home the other half of himself.
A year. A beautiful, messy, perfect year with Ilya was all he had before he had fucked it all up.
It was actually ironic that they had been caught doing, of all things, kayaking. Shane had begged Ilya to go out with him that first summer, and over the course of the following year it had become something of an inside joke between them that Shane would be dragging the Russian out on the lake at some point.
It had been a picturesque day— Sunny, warm and bright. Ilya finally agreed when Shane coerced him with the reminder that when he begged Ilya to fuck him outside last year he had brought up doing it against a tree, and there was a lovely, singular Tulip Poplar out on a little island not that far from his own dock.
“Of course you know type of tree on little island, Hollander. Could you be more boring?”
At least there weren’t any photos of that.
But there were pictures. Of the two of them, together. On the lake. Laughing, joking. Happy.
When the pictures came out a few days after, Shane was sure his career was over. He jumped every time his phone rang, convinced it was his coach or the commissioner calling to reign hell fire down upon him for even daring to be seen with his arch-rival.
Ilya and Yuna fielded calls from reporters and fellow players, saying the pair were just friends and connecting over the summer now that Ilya was officially moving to Canada. It also led to the announcement of the Irina Foundation sooner than they had planned, but it was a great excuse as to why the two were spending time together. Yuna made it clear she and Shane were happily helping Ilya build up the foundation to, hopefully, be fully functioning with summer camps and charity banquets within the year.
Sure people thought it was strange, maybe even slightly suspicious (his team and coaches especially), but it blew over in time. But not for Shane.
Once the ball was set in motion, it was like his brain couldn’t even process the fact that people couldn’t tell how in love he was with Ilya Rozanov. He saw those pictures and all he saw was a flashing sign screaming “I’m gay!” into the void, and he was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Little did he know, that shoe was a fight that ended it all.
“What are you so afraid of, Shane?” Ilya had yelled at him. “World has moved on from photos, why can’t you?”
“It’s not just about the photos, Ilya! This is about our careers, our privacy.”
“All we’ve ever been is private, Hollander! Iisus Khristos, the only way we get more private is never talking in first place!”
“Well maybe that’s what we need. What I need.”
The silence that followed still haunts Shane’s dreams. And so does the utter devastation on Ilya’s face immediately after.
Shane instantly tried to backtrack. That isn’t what he meant, he just meant a break. Time for his brain to rewire and reset. Time for him to be who Ilya deserved to love. Someone confident, sure of what he wanted and who he was. Not the nervous, panicky man who lost his shit just because of a few leaked photos of them doing absolutely nothing.
Ilya left that night in tears. And they’ve barely spoken since.
Shane tried, at least, he thought he did. At first, they texted here and there after games. Ilya still moved to Ottawa, still officially announced the Irina Foundation which was headed by Yuna, who refused to allow Ilya to shut her and David out after everything. Shane asked if he was going to come to the cottage that summer, that his parents missed seeing him for things other than business. That the house isn’t the same without him anymore.
Can’t, sorry. Planned trip to Boston to visit with Sveta and Cliff. Give Yuna and David my love.
And somehow it drifted into nothingness after that. Shane was too afraid of being rejected, and Ilya was too afraid of getting hurt again.
Yuna stopped giving updates, his parents stopped asking if he wanted to watch the Centaurs games. Shane stopped smiling.
When he would work himself up to watch some of the games and their press, Ilya looked withdrawn. Nothing out of the ordinary for those who didn’t know him, but a blaring alarm to Shane. He could see it in his tight smiles and guarded eyes.
And after, when his chest constricted so hard he was sure he was going to combust right there on his couch, he’d pull up the photos that started this whole thing. Because they were all he had. Because they looked so happy, and that’s who Shane misses everyday.
After over a year of this constant misery, Shane was sure he was going to die a shell of himself if he didn’t change something soon. Rose was worried, Hayden was at a loss. His parents were calling everyday just to make sure he was feeding himself.
And then change punched Shane right in the gut.
“Whoa. The Centaurs’ plane had to make an emergency landing.”
If 2017 contained all of Shane’s happiest memories, then 2020 was the pandora’s box of Shane’s darkest.
Shane had a breakdown, a total collapse in his hotel room with Hayden that night. Inconsolable until the Centaurs’ social media posted a picture of the whole team thanking everyone for their concern and assurances that they were unharmed.
“I can’t live like this anymore, Hayd.” Shane had sobbed as he clutched his phone to his chest, the small image of Ilya pressed against his heart like it alone was resuscitating him. “If anything had happened to him– Oh God, what would I have done if–”
“But it didn’t, Shane. He’s okay. He’s still here.” Hayden squeezed his shoulder, sitting tight against his left side on the floor. “You still have a chance. Don’t waste it.”
And what did Shane have to show for all his trying over the last few months? Nothing.
Shortly after the emergency landing, Ilya announced he was bisexual to the world.
“If I learned anything from plane landing, it’s that I don’t want to sit here hiding who I am anymore.”
Shane had watched the press conference in his home, silently and devastatingly proud of Ilya. His fear had been quickly been qualmed when Ilya announced at the conference that his agent and lawyer had supported him through the citizenship process, and that the Canadian government had assured him that if Russia revoked his passport or issued a warrant for his detainment he would be granted asylum until he gained his citizenship.
He’d called his parents and sobbed tears of relief with them.
The locker room, however, was a different story. Maybe if Shane had come out to his teammates before this it wouldn’t have been so bad. Or at least they would have kept their comments to themselves. Shane had nearly punched many of his own linemen for the things they said about Ilya between practices.
And then came the announcement of Ilya’s premature induction into the Hall of Fame. So many players guffawed at that. Hall of Fame while still an active player? Nearly unheard of. But with all his work through the Irina Foundation, being the captain of a team that hadn’t even looked at playoffs in decades to nearly winning the cup, to coming out and being turned away from his home country . . . Why shouldn’t Ilya be inducted into the Hall of Fame?
If anyone deserves it, it’s his beautiful, kind, selfless Ilya Rozanov.
After leaving the hostile atmosphere of his locker room behind, Shane had sat staring at their texts for nearly an hour trying to think of something to say.
Hey, I heard about the induction. Congratulations!
I want you to know how proud I am of you.
I’ve never loved you more than I do right now.
Congratulations. You deserve it.
God, he really is a boring coward.
Shane allowed himself to press his forehead into the steering wheel for a few minutes before he drove home to his lonely, quiet home.
Bing!
Shane’s eyes flew open, but he hesitated actually picking up his phone and seeing everything he feared staring back at him in the response.
But there wasn’t a response. Just a small heart hovering over the top right of his text message. Showing it was seen. Liked.
A small, incredulous laugh escaped his throat as he stared at that little heart that seemed so insignificant, but so important.
That had been 4 months ago.
And now here he is, walking slowly towards him looking devastatingly beautiful.
How is it someone could have the striking looks of both a surly lumberjack and a model walking the runway?
Ilya’s playoff bear was neatly trimmed back, short but rugged. His curls were still slightly longer than normal, tied back neatly in a small ponytail. He was dressed head to toe in a crushed velvet suit steeped in deep burgundy, the dark black lapels pulled back to reveal his cross still where it always is against his chest.
But it was those deep blue eyes that made his breath catch.
Breathe, Hollander.
Suddenly everything around them came crashing into Shane. The clapping, the lights, the award heavy in his hands.
And then they were standing in front of one another– Eyes locked in emotion no one around them could possibly understand.
“Uh, here you go.” Shane all but shoved the award into Ilya’s chest, sure that his cheeks were a bright pink made only worse by the bright lights illuminating the pair on live television. “Congratulations, Ilya.”
For a brief second Ilya didn’t move, and Shane almost believed he was going to refuse to take the plaque from him. Then, almost in slow motion, Ilya reached to take the glass award from his hands, and their fingers briefly brushed against one another.
Shane’s thoughts immediately went to an intense workout in a hotel gym, panting against the heat and tension of the man before him.
“Thank you, Hollander.” Ilya responded softly.
And then it was over.
Shane blinked and found himself back behind the curtains, watching Ilya from the side as the claps slowly died down and the god-like Russian turned to address the crowd before him.
“Thank you, thank you.” Ilya hadn’t started speaking directly into the microphone yet, his voice sounding somewhat far away compared to the echoing of exclamations and cheers from the players out in their seats.
“I want to thank the MHL and everyone who helped me achieve this amazing award.” Ilya paused for a moment. “I honestly never expected to see this moment while still on the ice to kick Admirals’ Scott Hunter’s butt.”
That got some laughs.
“If you told that little boy back in Russia that he would be here today to join so many greats in the Hall of Fame, he would tell you ‘Da, eto ochevidno, idiot’”.
More laughing this time.
“But to be here at 30 wasn’t even a possibility to that kid.” Ilya paused for a second, blinked quickly and took a deep breath.
“Americans and Canadians would never have known how amazing I am if not for my mama, Irina.” He chuckled at that, eyes still misty. “She would walk me to the frozen pond near our home every winter to practice skating, drive me to every competition and spend all her free time watching highlight reels on the television with me into the night on Saturdays.”
Shane felt his own eyes filling with tears, remembering all the pieces of his mother he had once shared with him through whispers in the dark over phone calls.
“As you all know, I started the Irina Foundation to help raise awareness about mental health struggles and for suicide prevention.” Ilya’s voice caught on the word, but he recovered quickly. “My mother sadly lost her battle with her mind when I was twelve, and as an adult I have seen those same struggles in my own life.”
Silence.
Shane heard a choked whimper leave his throat, his hand coming up to his throat as if to squeeze the torrent of thoughts now flooding his brain into submission.
Oh God, Ilya–
“But through this work, through talking with these charities and people who help those at their lowest, I know my mother was more than just her illness.” Ilya looked down at the glass plaque clasped in his hands, his knuckles white in their struggle to hold on to something. “That . . . I am more than this illness.”
Applause erupted amongst the men in the crowd, some even going so far as to stand with tears in their own eyes.
“So I dedicate this– My career, this award, the foundation– to her, my beautiful mama who I know would be here front row if she could.” Ilya smiled and nodded his head with a firm sincerity that led to more cheering and clapping to start again.
“I’d also like to thank the LGBTQ+ community, who have been so welcoming and kind since I came out earlier this year.” There was a singular whoop somewhere far in the back of the room.
“Coming from Russia, growing up the only GB I was familiar with was KGB.” Ilya chucked again, but this time with no warmth behind it. “Living somewhere you can be arrested or killed for being who you are created a fear in me I carried with me every day of my teenage and adult life.”
The audience was deadly quiet, everyone feeling the weight of what Ilya was referencing.
“But that plane landing showed me that I did not want to leave this world as just Ilya Rozanov, greatest hockey player in MHL.” Laughter. “But as Ilya Rozanov, great hockey player and man who is honest to himself and world about who he is.
So thank you Canada, for welcoming this homeless, queer Russian into your country. I will never be able to express enough how happy I am to be part of welcoming culture.”
Applause thundered through the room again.
“And thank you Scott Hunter and Troy Barrett for making sure I was not only queer player in league. Your bravery makes it so players like me know they are not alone.”
Shane saw on a screen against the wall the cameras pan to the men mentioned, both smiling and clapping along with those around them.
“To my teams, the Boston Raiders and Ottawa Centaurs: thank you for giving me the chance to show you what winning is like.”
Shane could have sworn he heard a “that’s our Rozy” being yelled by someone in the audience.
“And last, thank you to hockey.” Shane watched as Ilya’s eyes lifted slightly, seeming to stare at something past the cameras and past the crowds. “Thank you for saving my life, and giving me the greatest pieces of my life.”
Taking that shot with Scott Hunter for “old times’ sake” was a mistake.
Shane cradled his now lukewarm ginger ale in his hands, leaning against the table before him. Thankfully the room had stopped spinning after the other men had moved on to mingle elsewhere, but Shane could still feel an oppressive heat coating his cheeks.
Players and their significant others moved from table to groups, all full of congratulations and well-intended small talk. Shane watched as men laughed loudly and slapped others on the back slightly too hard, women holding delicate flutes of champagne and sharing gossip from their children's PTA.
Shane’s eyes slowly scanned the crowd, hoping to see a flash of burgundy or blond curls, but saw nothing.
Shane had dashed from backstage just as Ilya was finishing his speech, sure that he was not emotionally ready to say more than a few words right after hearing Ilya bare his heart for the whole world to see. But now, with warm liquid chasing down the acrid liquor, Shane felt a pressing need to find his Russian man right this second.
If Ilya could bare his heart to the world, then Shane could at the very least bare his own to the love of his life.
But the man of the night was nowhere to be seen. Apparently he had been missing for a while now, because a few players had even come to ask Shane if he had witnessed him.
It all felt very familiar. A reminder of a time so long ago, and yet so similar.
Shane brought his half empty glass back to the bar, turning and leaving the loud room behind him. He kept walking even after the buzz of conversation and laughter filtered into a soft hum in the background.
And then . . .
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be smoking here.”
Ilya slowly looked over his shoulder from where he was slouched over the rail of the balcony, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips.
Their eyes locked, and Shane felt the anxiety fizzling up past the alcohol until a slow smile stretched on Ilya’s lips. Shane returned the smile and walked up to his side, taking the smile as permission to lean over close enough for their arms to just barely brush.
“Are they done partying?”
Shane looked over again, this time their smiles taking on a more knowing look.
“I just needed some air.” Shane felt a warmth settle into his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. “Wanted to see the view.” He made sure to look Ilya in his eyes for that part.
Ilya continued to stare for a few seconds before sticking the cigarette back between his lips and straightening, throwing his arms wide and swinging around to reference the skyline all before them.
“Well here it is, Hollander.”
Shane chuckled, partly at how silly Ilya’s accent sounded with something in his mouth and partly (definitely) due to the alcohol.
They stayed there in comfortable silence for a while longer, the only sounds coming from the traffic below and the soft exhales of Ilya after taking a drag.
Shane felt that bit of anxiety started to creep up on him again, making him question what exactly he was going to say now that he was finally face to face with the man who has haunted his ever waking— and sleeping— moment. But . . . What should he say? What could he possibly say after everything?
“Congrats again.” Oh my god. “Seriously, being inducted while still playing is incredible.” He tried looking anywhere but Ilya, but he couldn’t say this next part and not be looking at him in those beautiful eyes. “I’m . . . I’m really, really proud of you. My parents, too.”
Ilya smiled at the mention of his parents, and once again they settled into a comfortable lull of conversation.
“What are you doing here, Shane?”
Shane thought about playing it off like he meant the award ceremony, or maybe the balcony and use the same “view” response.
But he was so tired of running, of hiding from what he wanted. From Ilya.
Shane swallowed past the rising anxiety. “I’m planning on coming out this summer.”
That obviously was not what Ilya was expecting from his raised eyebrows, but he quickly returned to his carefully crafted calm expression.
“Exciting.”
“Yeah, I—“ cough. “I think it’s well past time. I’m tired of pretending.”
“And your team,” Ilya crushed the finished cigarette against the railing before tossing the butt in the trash. “How will they take this?”
“I don’t know, probably fine?” Shane straightened as he responded. “But it probably won’t matter by the time the season starts.”
“Oh?” The eyebrow returned, along with the playful mocking tone. “Mr. Confident.”
A huff that sounded like a laugh escaped past Shane’s lips. “No, no, nothing like that, I’m still terrified.
But, I’m having my agent talk to other teams, so it’s unlikely I’ll be around my team much after I actually tell anyone.”
Another silence stretched out before them, this one much heavier and loaded than before. Filled with everything that could possibly mean.
“You are leaving Montreal?” Ilya almost sounded like he didn’t believe it.
“Yeah, I just— I think I’m ready for something new. Something better.”
“Better?”
Shane really did not want to spend this conversation talking about him, but here they were. “The locker room, it’s been . . . Weird, since your announcement.” A look of understanding settled over Ilya’s face. “Doesn’t seem like the place for me to be if I’m gonna come out, you know?”
“Da,” Ilya also straightened, but turned so his back now faced the view and Ilya looked at Shane with a level of understanding he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “Not place for you.”
Ilya’s eyes roamed over Shane’s face, searching for something he hoped his next few answers would give him.
“I told my agent my first choice was Ottawa. If they’ll have me.”
A car horn went off somewhere in the distance, players started filtering out of the venue and into the streets.
“You are Shane Hollander, they are idiots if they do not want you.”
“Well, I’m sure my offer to cut my pay also doesn’t hurt.”
Ilya blinked hard and fast, not too differently from when he was on stage just a few hours ago.
“You want Ottawa that bad?” He sounded like it was taking everything in him to push the words out his throat.
And now Shane felt his own throat close, that burning anxiety causing his eyes to burn and his ears to ring.
“Of course,” how could he ever want anything else? “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Ilya stares, his eyes filling with unshed tears.
Finally, as if the sobs and tears couldn’t contain themselves anymore. “What took you so long?”
All the air left Shane’s body and suddenly he couldn’t tell the difference between his own body and Ilya’s. His arms were wrapped around his chest so tightly, he could feel Ilya’s huffy sobs against his forehead. Ilya’s lips grazed his skin, first accidentally and then with intention.
“I’m sorry,” Shane tried to keep his voice steady. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”
They stayed like that for a long time, just holding and rocking and breathing one another in. But that didn’t stop Shane from feeling Ilya nuzzle into his neck, his response replacing the anxiety for a small, calm smile.
“You are worth it.”