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The large calendar on the wall with every game of the season has been taunting Shane for weeks. So now, staring at the little square that is just a few short days away with MTL inside of it feels bigger and more daunting than ever. A hand comes to rest on Shane’s shoulder as he is lost in thought. It feels as if it is made of molten lead - too hot and too heavy where it is pressing through the thick material of Shane’s sweatshirt.
Instinctually, Shane rolls his shoulder away and swats at the hand before turning to see Wyatt there with a sort of shocked expression on his face, his hand still lingering in the air where Shane had pushed it away. Heat pushed its way up Shane's neck, tendrils of flame licking at the underside of his jaw.
“Sorry,” Shane says in a rush, the hoodie string he had been chewing on falling from his mouth, “You just… startled me. I didn't mean to hit you or push you away, sorry. My bad.”
A few guys passing by on their way to their stalls shoot the pair of them sidelong glances but don't say anything. Shane wishes a hole would open up and swallow him. Wyatt shakes his head and an easy smile spreads across his face.
“Don't worry. I didn't mean to scare you. I was just seeing if you were alright. I know the Montreal game is coming up,” Wyatt broaches carefully.
Shane's fingers flex by his side as he has to physically stop himself from reaching up to pull his hair out or claw at his sweatshirt. He swallows harshly, feeling the contraction of every muscle on the way down. It's disgusting. He forces his face into the approximation of a smile and shakes his head.
“Yeah. I'm alright, thanks,” he says stiffly.
Before either of them can say anything else, Ilya is in the middle of the dressing room clapping his hands to gather everyone's attention. It is loud. It is painful. Shane grits his teeth and joins the group but stays toward the back so as not to accidentally bump anyone or be too close to his husband's energetic and booming voice.
“Okay! Listen up! We have two days until those Voyager motherfuckers come here, to our barn. We have been playing well but we can do better. Lace up, get on the ice, we are going to earn this win!”
The resounding shouts from every other player in the dressing room vibrates Shane's bones unpleasantly. He forces a smile and quickly turns away to his own stall. He just wants to get practice over and go home. Everyone is shuffling around as they get ready and leave the dressing room. Shane can hear and feel every movement.
He wants to cry.
“Sakharok?” Ilya’s soft voice rumbles from beside him.
Shane tilts his head forward and squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to peel his skin from his body, maybe run a Zamboni over his skeleton. Surely that would ease the discomfort he is feeling. “I'm fine,” he says shortly, voice tense.
“You do not sound fine,” Ilya says easily.
Turning his head slowly, Shane opens his eyes to look over at Ilya. “Well, I am. Go bother someone else,” he snaps. He snatches his skates from his stall and sits on the hard bench seat in front.
Ilya is quiet – thank God– for several seconds.
Shane can practically feel every movement of his eyes on his body. He can hear Ilya suck at his teeth and when Shane glances up again Ilya rubs a hand over his nose before shaking his head. “I will see you out there,” he says simply before turning to head toward the rink.
A part of Shane feels bad. Well, all of Shane feels bad, but he feels a twinge of guilt watching his husband walk out of the dressing room. He knows that he shouldn't have snapped at Ilya, he didn't do anything wrong. But he cannot bring himself to apologize, or even verbalize what is wrong, before he is left alone.
The solitude should be nice but as Shane finishes putting his skates on he is painfully aware of the buzzing lights overhead and the way the chain around his neck with his wedding ring dangling feels as it lays at the back of his neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. He counts slowly to four as he pulls in a breath through his nose, holds it for two seconds, and slowly releases it for a count of six.
Four.
Two.
Six.
He does this a few times until he can physically feel his bones settle inside of his skin, no longer planning to escape. He shakes his head as he stands and grabs his stick to head out onto the ice.
*****
At home after practice, Shane tries to relax. He changes a pair of butter soft shorts and one of Ilya's old Bears hoodies that has been well worn and hangs loose around Shane's body. They are comforting, warm, and soft. They usually help to ease the livewire inside of his nerves.
They are no match, however, for his husband playing whatever stupid mobile game he's into recently at full volume on the opposite side of the couch. Or Anya repeatedly squeaking the terrifying banana man toy Ilya insisted she needed.
Shane chews on the string of the hoodie he is wearing as he tries so hard to focus on his breathing, to try to ignore the incessant bells and whistles and the uneven rhythm of the plastic squeaker. Then, without warning, Ilya stretches his leg out across the sofa cushions to press his toes against the side of Shane's thigh. For the briefest of moments, Shane considers peeling his skin off and tossing it into the washing machine.
He stands abruptly, sending the TV remote tumbling to the floor.
“Shane? Are you alright?” Ilya asks, straightening his slouched posture.
“I… I'm going to bed,” he says in lieu of an answer. It doesn't matter that the sun was still out or that they hadn't even eaten dinner yet. The thought of food in his mouth has Shane shuddering in his skin.
He turns to make his way toward the stairs, but as he passes by Ilya he reaches a hand out in an attempt to touch Shane's arm. Shane wrenches his body away with a grunt and keeps moving, not bothering to look back at his husband. He can hear Ilya calling after him, his voice tinged with confusion, but Shane absolutely cannot have this conversation, or any conversation for that matter.
The only thing on Shane's mind was wrapping himself tightly in their sheets and blankets and laying in blissful silence.
*****
“Ilya. Ilya. Ilya! Turn it off!”
The concussive grinding of the blender comes to a sudden halt, but Shane stands completely still in the middle of their kitchen with his hands clamped firmly over his ears. His chest is heaving with each breath that he takes, like it does when he's been on shift for far longer than he should. He peeks open a single eye –when had he even closed them?– to look over at his very confused husband.
“What is wrong, Shanya?” Ilya asks, turning away from the blender.
Shane exhales shakily and swallows back a corrosive rush of bile. “It hurts,” he whispers, hands still planted firmly against his ears.
“Hurts? What hurts?”
“Does that not kill you?” Shane all but gasps, nodding toward the blender with its not quite smooth smoothie inside.
Ilya's brow furrows as he looks between the blender and Shane, “The… blender? Is loud, sure, but it's not… painful.”
“Feels like a machine gun going off in my skull,” Shane groans, finally lowering his hands. His fingers are trembling and his heart jackhammers against his sternum like it is trying to escape. “I could feel my teeth rattle.”
Slowly, Ilya walks closer to Shane like he is afraid any sudden movement will cause him to spook. Maybe it would, who knows? “It's just a blender, zajchik. Same one we use all the time. Are you okay?” Ilya tentatively lays a hand on the back of Shane's neck, a solid pressure that is both wonderful but way too much.
Shane shrugs his shoulders to dislodge Ilya’s hand, ignoring the confused and almost hurt expression that briefly flashes across his face.
“I'm… I'm fine.”
Ilya looks at him in disbelief, a look that pulls Shane back in time several years to when he had suggested that Ilya wait in the car after his father had walked in on the two of them at the cottage. “You are fine but feel personally attacked by our blender?” Ilya asks with a scoff that, deep down, Shane knows is meant to be playful.
“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles, wheeling around and storming out of the kitchen.
*****
Shane is painfully aware that he isn't performing. He isn't being Shane Hollander – Hockey's Golden Boy and Ottawa's Prodigal Son. He is, for all intents and purposes, being a dick.
The team greets both Ilya and Shane happily as they enter the dressing room for practice. Ilya is, of course, the dutiful captain who takes the time to greet each teammate with a smile, a playful jab, or a hug. Shane, on the other hand, can hardly move his face muscles into the barest hint of a smile.
He can see the sideways looks as he nods and shuffles away to his own stall. He has seen those looks his entire life. Eyes full of questions, bleeding judgements into the air.
“Morning Shane,” Luca greets as he passes by, stopping a foot or so in front of him.
Shane closes his eyes for a second and tries desperately to make himself speak – to be normal and say hello to the kid. The whole of the preseason Luca had been almost too afraid to make eye contact with Shane off of the ice and now he was going out of his way to speak and Shane just had to be a fucking asshole who can't open his mouth to be polite.
He hums, forces what is no doubt a poor attempt at a smile, and nods back to Luca.
The younger man's eyes soften in a way that feels like a punch to the solar plexus. Shane works his jaw and finds the sensation painful, as if he had a Jolly Rancher wedged between his molars and had to rip them apart again.
“Hi, Luca,” he murmurs. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, but at least the smile is back on Luca's face.
“I ordered that book you told me about last week. It arrived last night. I started to read it after I ate dinner and I really liked—”
Shane's ears, on their own accord, tune out what Luca is actually saying. But he continues to nod and hum softly while he gets dressed, hopefully giving the illusion of listening.
As Shane is tying his laces, Ilya walks over.
“Coach said you're opting out of skating today, Haas?” Ilya says casually, sitting beside Shane on the bench in front of their stalls.
Luca nods, “I'm going to go to the training room and do some workouts there.”
“Well, have fun,” Ilya laughs, pulling his shirt off.
Shane lets out a soft grunt as Luca says goodbye before he runs off to his own stall. Once they are alone at their stalls, Ilya shoots Shane a sideways glance. “You look like you have… what's the phrase? When your face is natural but mad?”
“Resting bitch face?” Shane hisses through the agony in his jaw.
Ilya chuckles and points a finger right at Shane's nose. “Yes! You looked like you were going to murder poor Haas. And he was so excited to talk to you about boring hockey book,” Ilya explains, clearly delighted as he gets dressed.
Shane, not having the energy or desire to say anything in response, purposefully knocks over Ilya's helmet as he stands.
“That wasn't very nice, Shane,” Ilya says in a tone that is simultaneously teasing and annoyed.
A shrug is the only reply that Shane can muster. He stuffs his mouthguard into his mouth so that it is mostly out, letting his teeth work against one side. The sensation is soothing, letting his brain chill out for just a moment. He notices, absently, Ilya leaving the room. With a soft sigh, Shane grabs his helmet and turns to make his way from the dressing room out to the ice.
Bood and Barrett are standing near the bench when Shane approaches, not completely blocking the way but definitely taking up enough space that Shane has to squeeze through. He grits his teeth and has to hide a wince as he brushes shoulders with Bood, not saying sorry but only offering an awkward sort of nod that Shane hopes appears apologetic and not pretentious or annoyed.
As Shane approaches the gate to the ice, he spots Ilya watching him with hard eyes. Something angry flashes hot from within Shane's chest as they watch one another. His anxiety over the game tomorrow has left Shane an open and frayed groundwire ready to spark and burn anyone who comes into contact with him.
Including himself.
Especially himself.
“Fix. Your attitude,” Ilya says low and slow through gritted teeth once Shane is close enough.
Shane's nostrils flare in defiance, and he snaps, “Why don't you fix it for me?”
For a moment neither of them say anything. They hold each other's gaze for far too long. From Shane's left, Troy awkwardly hops the wall onto the ice to avoid having to walk by the pair of them. Shane huffs and makes a move to step onto the ice himself but suddenly Ilya’s large hand is pressed directly to the center of his chest, stopping him from moving.
“You can take your skates off. You're not joining us for drills,” Ilya says firmly.
Shane stares back at his husband with wide eyes and a slackened jaw. “What the fuck, Ilya?” he hisses, narrowing his eyes.
“You obviously need to work off some steam. Go to the training room and get a workout in.” Ilya doesn't wait for a response, he turns and begins to skate away toward center ice.
“You can't do that!” Shane calls after him.
Ilya turns with more speed and grace than someone his size should possess. He lifts his arms out to either side of him, his lips twisting into a challenging smug-as-shit smirk. “I am captain. I am running practice. You are dismissed, Hollander.”
Shane can feel the eyes of every person on the ice burning into his skin. He feels hot with anger and shame. He could yell, he could break something, he could cry. He purses his lips into a hard line as he finally looks away from Ilya, and all but throws himself down onto the bench behind him. His fingers are rough and clumsy at pulling the laces of his skates loose before wrenching them from his feet. He drops them in a heap on the floor in front of the bench, and gets up to stomp off away from the rink.
Fuck, Ilya.
He can pick them up.
Back in the dressing room, Shane tosses his helmet into his stall with a bit too much force that sends most of his things clattering to the ground. He considers leaving all together. It is an optional practice after all. He could just go home and… he wasn't sure what he'd do at home. Shaking his head, Shane changes out of his practice kit into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. He tugs on his sneakers, grabs his phone and airpods, and heads off to the training room.
Maybe Ilya was right.
Maybe he just needed to blow off some steam.
Maybe if he ran fast enough his brain would be quiet for the first time all week.
In the training room, Shane makes a beeline to the treadmill. He puts in his airpods and starts some workout playlist that Ilya had made for him – Shane's music taste evolved in the late 2000's to early 2010's pop-punk scene and hadn't moved on since much to his husband's chagrin. Ilya had taken it upon himself to make a special running playlist for Shane. The songs gradually increase in BPM from a walking pace to running and then back down to cool down. It was very thoughtful, even if the songs weren't really Shane's cup of tea.
He starts at a pretty steady walking pace, staring straight ahead at the mirror in front of him. Through the reflection, Shane can see Luca working through a Russian box exercise. If Shane wasn't such an asshole today, and his jaw wasn't fused together by phantom hard candy, he would tell the kid that his form was really good but his balance needs a bit of work.
Shane shakes his head and picks up his pace with the next song.
His thoughts drift to the game tomorrow. Part of him is thankful that the first time that he is facing off against Montreal post Trip-gate is in Ottawa. He doesn't know how he would handle playing under the three Stanley Cup banners that he helped put there. Shane starts running faster before the next song even begins. He imagines the faces of his former teammates. He called those men his brothers for over a decade. He bled, sweat, and cried with them as they fought tooth and nail for three Stanley Cups. And they threw him away like he was trash.
He was a traitor because of a mistake.
No, because he was in love with Ilya.
They would have found a way to get rid of him eventually. He was sleeping with the enemy and that made them the same in the eyes of the Voyager organization. As if he wasn't the same as he'd always been. As if they had even known a version of Shane Hollander that wasn't always intrinsically intertwined with Ilya Rozanov.
Shane's pace has increased without much thought and his whole body begins to tremble as he pushes himself further. The heavy sound of his feet against the treadmill overpowers whatever song that is pumping into his eardrums. He reaches for the emergency stop, and finds himself stumbling off of the machine as his lungs gasp for breath. He lets himself fall to the floor, airpods slipping from his ears and legs sprawling out as he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“Hollzy? Shane? Are you alright?” Luca's voice sounds a million miles away.
Shane swallows harshly, pushing his hands harder against his eyes. He opens his mouth, tries to speak, but between his panting breath and Jolly Rancher jaw there are no words.
“Hold on. I'll go find Dr. Terry.”
“No!” Shane manages to shout, the sound rough and strangled. His body feels like it is vibrating apart. He needs to find a way to hold it together, to hold all of his broken little pieces together so that they don't shatter and splinter and scatter across the floor. He needs…
“Ilya. Get Ilya.”
He can't bring himself to lower his hands, to look, but Shane can hear Luca sprinting from the room. Ilya will come. He will help. Ilya always helps. In the meantime, he tries to keep breathing. Shane has no idea how long he lays there waiting and counting his breaths until he hears frantic steps and even more frantic Russian.
“Blyat'! Shanya?”
Ilya’s hand is on his chest, just like it had been when he told Shane to take off his skates, but this time it isn't frustrated or angry. It is firm and present. “What is wrong? What do you need?” Ilya asks, voice cracking softly.
“Panini me.”
There is a terrible stretch of silence that has Shane slowly lowering his hands just to check that Ilya is still there.
“What?” Ilya asks. His brows knitting together and his eye twitches in the way it always does when he is mentally attempting to translate or understand an English phrase that he doesn't know or have a reference point for.
Shane lays a hand over where Ilya's is still laying against his chest and pushes against it slightly. “Press… Panini press,” he says, voice more air than actual voice. “Panini me.”
For a brief moment, Shane worries that Ilya will think that he's lost his mind. However, Ilya quickly sits beside him on the floor and grabs Shane's body, manipulating his limbs until he is settled heavily in the other's lap. Shane lays his head onto Ilya’s shoulder just as Ilya wraps his arms tightly around Shane and presses. The pressure acts as a fire blanket, snuffing out the flames of anxiety and unrest in Shane’s nervous system.
Tears spill from Shane's eyes and he presses his face closer to the crook of Ilya’s neck. The hold is a bit awkward, with Ilya still in most of his practice gear, but Shane can't help but melt into his husband's embrace. This is what he needed – not the light touches of hands or feet as single points of uncomfortable pressure, but the full all encompassing press of Ilya’s body surrounding him.
“Are you okay, Shanya?” Ilya whispers.
Shane sniffles softly, nodding against Ilya’s neck, “Better now.”
*****
“I am sorry.”
Shane lifts his head from the pillow to peer over his shoulder. Ilya walks into the room, gently shutting the door behind him. Shane's brow furrows. “What're you sorry for?” he asks around the hoodie string in his mouth.
Ilya carefully sits on the edge of the bed, hardly looking at Shane. “I have not been good husband, or captain this week,” he says softly, hanging his head slightly, “I saw you were upset and you were struggling but I did not press or try harder to help.”
Slowly, Shane shifts so that he is laying on his back in the middle of their bed.
“Ilya,” he whispers, a sad sound.
Ilya shakes his head, “I know you don't like… certain noises or touches or whatever. I know this about you. I also know that you need help sometimes… dealing with those things when they get too much. I let them get too much and I let you hurt.”
He moves slowly, crawling toward Shane. His arms bracket Shane's shoulders and his legs seamlessly tangle with Shane's own before he lowers himself down effectively pressing his body weight along the length of Shane's body.
Panini-ing him.
Shane exhales slowly, letting his eyes fall shut. “It isn't your job to handle my weird bullshit,” he scoffs self-deprecatingly.
“No, it is. That is what I signed up for when I signed marriage license – handler of Shane Hollander's weird shit,” Ilya says firmly, pressing a soft kiss against Shane's jaw.
Shane lets out a very unattractive snort of a laugh.
“I'm sorry I didn't let you. I just… I've been so in my head about tomorrow night and it was like my body didn't know how to respond to anything else.”
Ilya hums out a soft, understanding sound. “Is okay. You are human sandwich now and tomorrow you will get a hat trick against those no good Voyagers in your home town, with a team that loves you,” he says, laying smile laced kisses across the freckles on Shane's cheeks.
The tiny fraying bits of Shane's nerves lay flat under the pressing weight of Ilya’s body. Whatever was fracturing inside of him with every touch and sound and stressful thought over the last few days seems to have healed enough to allow Shane to breathe again.
Maybe Ilya was right.
“Thank you,” he whispers softly, lips brushing the gentle curve of Ilya's ear.
Ilya chuckles, “I will always be here to panini you.”