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Shane had known—deeply, instinctively, fundamentally known—that this was a terrible idea.
Not just a bad idea, not just a questionable decision made in the hazy aftermath of adrenaline and rivalry and far too much pent-up tension, but a catastrophically, spectacularly stupid idea of the sort that would one day be used as a cautionary tale.
And yet.
Here he was.
The Boston game had been brutal, fast, and messy in that way that always seemed to drag something sharper and stranger out of both him and Ilya—something that had nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the way their eyes kept locking across the ice like a dare neither of them could refuse. By the time the final buzzer sounded, Shane had been running on fumes, adrenaline, and a single, reckless thought that had drowned out every ounce of common sense he possessed.
Hotel room.
Now.
Which, in hindsight, had been where the plan should have stopped and been reconsidered.
Because hotel rooms, unlike private apartments or carefully chosen neutral ground, had one fatal flaw: they were not, in any meaningful sense, secure. Teammates wandered. Staff knocked. Friends assumed. Doors, it turned out, did not always get locked as thoroughly as one might hope when one was distracted.
All of which culminated in the current situation.
Shane froze.
Not metaphorically. Not in the poetic, his blood ran cold sense. No—he physically, completely, utterly froze, every muscle locking up as if someone had hit a pause button on his entire existence.
Because the door was open.
And standing in that doorway was Hayden.
Hayden—his best friend, his teammate, the guy who had seen him through road trips, injuries, terrible haircuts, and at least one deeply regrettable karaoke incident—was now staring at him with an expression that could only be described as a catastrophic blend of horror, confusion, and a rapidly deteriorating will to live.
For a long, unbearable moment, no one spoke.
Shane’s brain, meanwhile, had vacated the premises entirely. Thoughts flickered in and out like a faulty lightbulb:
This isn’t real.
I’m dreaming.
I have died and this is hell.
I should learn how to disappear forever.
Behind him, Ilya did not freeze.
Of course he didn’t.
Instead, there was the faint, unmistakable shift of movement, followed by a low, utterly unbothered voice, edged with amusement so blatant it might as well have been weaponized.
“Well,” Ilya said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, “this is new.”
Shane made a noise that was not a word in any known language. And then Ilya, with a shit-eating grin, thrusted forward and Shane face planted into the mattress with a quiet moan.
Hayden blinked once. Twice. Then he dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to manually reset his entire brain.
“I—” Hayden started, then stopped. He pointed vaguely into the room, then at his own eyes, as if attempting to confirm that yes, unfortunately, they were still working. “I’m going to need—like—ten years of therapy.”
“Fifteen,” Ilya corrected helpfully.
“Not helping,” Shane croaked, finally rediscovering the ability to speak, though not the ability to move or, ideally, cease existing.
Hayden let out a long, suffering exhale, the kind usually reserved for people who had just witnessed something they could never, ever unsee.
“I knocked,” he said weakly.
“You did not,” Shane shot back, because if he was going down, he was at least going to argue about something.
“I did! You just—didn’t answer!”
“Because I was—” Shane gestured helplessly behind him, immediately regretted it, and dropped his hand like it had betrayed him. “Busy.”
“That’s one word for it.”
There was another shift behind him, unmistakably deliberate this time, and Shane squeezed his eyes shut.
“Ilya,” he hissed under his breath, “if you make this worse, I swear—”
“What?” Ilya said, the grin practically audible. “It is already worst.”
Hayden made a strangled noise.
“I’m going to leave,” Hayden announced, backing toward the hallway like he was escaping a crime scene. “I’m going to forget this ever happened. You two—” He pointed at them again, deeply, personally offended by their existence. “Figure your lives out.”
“Great plan,” Ilya said. “Let us know how forgetting works.”
“I hate you,” Hayden muttered.
“Mutual.”
The door slammed.
Silence fell.
For approximately three seconds.
Then Ilya started laughing.
Not a small laugh. Not a polite chuckle. No—full, unrestrained, this is the funniest thing that has ever happened to me laughter, the kind that shook through him and made the entire situation about ten times worse.
Shane, meanwhile, slowly lowered his forehead to the mattress and contemplated every life choice that had led him here.
“I am never leaving this room again,” he said into the fabric.
“You must,” Ilya replied cheerfully. “You have game next week.”
“I’ll retire.”
“You are dramatic.”
“I am ruined.”
Ilya’s laughter softened into something warmer, though the amusement never fully left.
“Relax,” he said. “Your friend will survive.”
“My friend just saw—” Shane cut himself off, because absolutely not, he was not finishing that sentence. “He’s going to look at me differently forever.”
“Mm,” Ilya hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe with more respect.”
Shane turned his head just enough to glare over his shoulder.
“You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” Ilya said, entirely unrepentant, “you invited me.”
Shane opened his mouth to argue.
Closed it again.
“…I hate that you’re right.”
“I know.”
There was a pause, quieter now, the chaos settling into something almost manageable—if one ignored the lingering, mortifying reality of what had just occurred.
After a moment, Shane sighed, long and resigned.
“…We’re never doing this in a hotel again.”
Ilya considered that.
Then, with impeccable timing: “Unless you forget to lock door.”
Shane groaned and buried his face back into the mattress.
Somewhere down the hall, Hayden could probably still be heard questioning every decision that had led him to this exact moment in his life.
And honestly?
Fair.
Shane did not sleep.
This was not surprising, given that every time he closed his eyes, his brain—traitorous, vivid, and far too committed to accuracy—replayed the exact moment Hayden had opened the door. The angle. The eye contact. The silence.
The pointing.
At approximately three in the morning, Shane had sat bolt upright in his hotel bed, stared into the middle distance, and whispered, “I need to fake my own death.”
From the other side of the bed, Ilya—who had, insultingly, been sleeping perfectly fine—cracked one eye open.
“No,” he said, voice thick with sleep. “Too much paperwork.”
Shane threw a pillow at him.
It missed. Ilya didn’t even bother moving.
By morning, things had somehow gotten worse.
Because reality had set in.
Hayden knew.
Hayden—his best friend, his teammate, the guy who had once taken a punch for him during a bar fight and then complained about it for three straight weeks—had seen everything. Or, well. Enough.
And now Shane had two options.
Option one: pretend it never happened, avoid Hayden forever, and eventually move to a remote cabin in the woods where human interaction was minimal and no one could look at him like that ever again.
Option two: be an adult.
Shane stared at himself in the mirror.
“…Cabin is still on the table,” he muttered.
Behind him, sprawled across the bed like he had absolutely no regrets in life, Ilya propped himself up on one elbow.
“You are overthinking,” he said.
“I am underreacting,” Shane shot back. “Do you understand what happened? Do you comprehend the level of social devastation we’re dealing with here?”
Ilya shrugged. “Your friend walked in. He saw. He left. It is done.”
“It is not done,” Shane said, turning around. “I have to talk to him.”
“Then talk.”
Shane stared at him.
“You’re coming with me.”
Ilya blinked, genuinely surprised for the first time since this entire disaster had begun.
“Why?”
“For moral support,” Shane said immediately. “And also because if I have to suffer through this conversation, you don’t get to just sit here and be fine.”
Ilya considered this.
Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face.
“Okay.”
Hayden opened the door before Shane could knock.
Which was, frankly, ominous.
He took one look at Shane—who was hovering in the hallway like he might bolt at any second—and then his gaze shifted, landing squarely on Ilya standing just behind him.
There was a long, loaded pause.
Hayden leaned his head back against the doorframe and closed his eyes.
“Oh, good,” he said flatly. “You brought him.”
“I said I needed moral support,” Shane said defensively.
“You brought the problem as moral support.”
“I am not problem,” Ilya said, stepping forward like he had been personally challenged. “I am solution.”
“You are absolutely not the solution,” Hayden replied, opening his eyes again. “You are—” He gestured vaguely, as if the sheer concept of Ilya was too much to articulate. “—whatever that was last night.”
Shane made a strangled noise. “Can we not—can we please not—”
“Yeah,” Hayden cut in, pushing off the doorframe and stepping aside. “Get in here before someone else sees you two standing in the hallway looking like the world’s worst secret.”
They filed into the room.
The door shut behind them with a soft click that somehow felt far too final.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Shane stood there, awkward and tense, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Ilya, by contrast, looked entirely at ease, like this was just another casual morning conversation and not the aftermath of the most humiliating moment of Shane’s life.
Hayden turned around slowly.
He looked at Shane first.
Then at Ilya.
Then back at Shane.
“…I have so many questions,” he said.
“Please don’t ask them,” Shane replied immediately.
“I’m going to ask at least one,” Hayden said. “Actually, no, scratch that—first, I need to say something.”
Shane braced himself.
Hayden pointed at him.
“I do not care that you’re gay.”
Shane blinked.
“…Okay,” he said, because that had not been what he expected to hear first.
“Like, at all,” Hayden continued. “Could not possibly care less. You could’ve told me this years ago and my reaction would’ve been exactly the same.”
“That’s—good,” Shane said, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening.
Hayden then turned, very deliberately, to look at Ilya.
“This, however,” he said, pointing now, “is where I have concerns.”
Ilya placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. “You wound me.”
“Oh, I’m not done,” Hayden said. “Of all the people—all the people—you go for him?”
“I am right here,” Ilya said.
“I know,” Hayden replied. “That’s part of the problem.”
Shane made a helpless noise, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we stay on topic, please? I’m trying to have, like, a serious conversation here.”
“You’re having a serious conversation,” Hayden said. “I’m having a crisis.”
“You’ll survive,” Ilya said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Hayden shot back.
There was a pause.
Then Hayden sighed, some of the sharpness leaving his expression as he looked back at Shane.
“…Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, quieter now.
Shane hesitated.
Because that was the real question, wasn’t it?
Not the chaos of last night, not the unfortunate visual trauma Hayden had endured, not even Ilya standing there like he belonged—just that simple, complicated question.
“Didn’t seem like it mattered,” Shane said after a moment, shrugging slightly. “I mean, it’s not exactly something that comes up in the locker room."
“Tragic,” Ilya murmured.
“Not helping,” Shane snapped.
Hayden huffed out a laugh despite himself, shaking his head.
“You’re an idiot,” he said, but there was no heat in it. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “I’ve been made aware.”
Another pause.
Then Hayden stepped forward and pulled him into a quick, rough hug, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“I mean it,” Hayden said, pulling back. “I don’t care. You’re still you. Just—” He glanced over Shane’s shoulder at Ilya again, his expression twisting. “—your taste is deeply questionable.”
“He has excellent taste,” Ilya said immediately.
“Then he has terrible judgment,” Hayden shot back.
Shane exhaled, something in his chest finally unclenching.
“…So we’re good?” he asked.
Hayden looked at him.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re good.”
Relief flooded through Shane so fast it made him a little lightheaded.
“Okay,” he said, laughing weakly. “Okay, good. That’s—good.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Hayden added. “I’m still never unseeing last night.”
“That’s fair,” Shane admitted.
“And you,” Hayden said, pointing at Ilya again, “are banned from his hotel rooms within a fifty-mile radius of me.”
“Impossible,” Ilya replied calmly. “I cannot resist slow hockey player with weak backhand.”
Hayden stared at him.
“…I hate everything about this.”
“I know,” Ilya said, smiling.
Shane groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
“Next time,” he muttered, “we’re locking the door.”
Ilya hummed. “Or—”
“No,” Shane said immediately. “There is no ‘or.’”
Hayden pointed at him. “Yeah. No ‘or.’ I’m serious. I will start knocking with a battering ram.”
“…That seems excessive,” Shane said.
“Not after what I saw,” Hayden replied.
There was a beat.
Then, despite everything—despite the mortification, the chaos, the sheer absurdity of the situation—Shane started laughing.
And, annoyingly, the other two joined in.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t exactly how he would’ve chosen to come out to his best friend.
But somehow, ridiculously, it worked.
Even if Hayden was going to complain about his life choices for the rest of eternity.
By the time they made it back to Shane’s hotel room, the hallway had gone quiet again—mercifully empty, as if the universe itself had decided Shane had suffered enough public humiliation for one lifetime.
He closed the door carefully this time.
Locked it.
Checked it once.
Then, after a brief pause, checked it again.
Behind him, Ilya made a soft, amused sound. “You think Pike will break in?”
“At this point?” Shane muttered, pressing his forehead lightly against the door. “I think he might bring tools.”
Ilya snorted, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the chair like he had already moved on from the entire ordeal. Which, of course, he had. Ilya had the deeply irritating ability to experience chaos and then simply… not care.
Shane, meanwhile, was still unwinding from it, piece by piece.
But it was different now.
Lighter.
The tight, coiled knot in his chest—the one he hadn’t even fully realized had been there—had loosened somewhere between Hayden’s blunt reassurance and his exasperated complaining. The fear he’d been carrying for years, quiet and persistent, had been dragged out into the open in the most catastrophic way possible… and nothing had broken.
Hayden was still Hayden.
Everything was still intact.
“…Hey,” Ilya said.
Shane turned.
Ilya was watching him, not with that usual sharp, teasing glint, but with something softer—something steadier.
“You did good,” Ilya said simply.
Shane blinked. “I—” He huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I didn’t exactly plan that.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ilya replied. “You still did it.”
There was no teasing in it. No smirk. Just quiet certainty.
And for a moment, Shane didn’t know what to do with that.
Because Ilya wasn’t someone who handed out praise easily. Not real praise. Not the kind that settled somewhere deep and stayed there.
“…Yeah,” Shane said after a second, softer now. “I guess I did.”
A small smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth, brief but real.
“Come here,” he said.
Shane didn’t argue.
He kicked off his shoes, peeled off the last of the day’s layers, and slid into bed, the familiar hotel sheets cool against his skin. A second later, Ilya followed, close and warm, like he belonged there—as if this wasn’t something temporary or stolen, but something steady and certain.
For once, Shane didn’t overthink that.
Ilya settled behind him, one arm draping loosely over his waist, pulling him in without hesitation. It wasn’t urgent or demanding like earlier—no edge of competition or adrenaline left over from the game—just something quiet and grounding.
Shane exhaled, sinking back into him.
“…You’re not going to make fun of me for the whole ‘checking the door twice’ thing, are you?” he asked, voice half-muffled against the pillow.
“Three times,” Ilya corrected.
Shane groaned softly. “Unbelievable.”
“I will make fun of you later,” Ilya added, almost thoughtfully. “But not now.”
“Wow,” Shane said dryly. “How generous.”
Ilya’s hand shifted slightly against his side, thumb brushing once, absent and almost comforting.
“I mean it,” he said, quieter this time. “You were worried. For long time.”
Shane stilled.
He hadn’t said that out loud. Not really. Not in so many words.
But Ilya had always been annoyingly perceptive when he chose to be.
“…Yeah,” Shane admitted, after a moment.
The room was dim, the city lights filtering faintly through the curtains, casting soft shadows that moved with the occasional passing car. It felt… still. Safe, in a way Shane wasn’t used to letting himself feel.
Ilya shifted closer, pressing a brief, warm kiss to the back of Shane’s shoulder—casual, but deliberate.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured.
The words landed heavier than Shane expected.
For a second, he just lay there, staring at nothing, feeling them settle somewhere deep in his chest.
“…You’re not supposed to be the supportive one,” he said eventually, voice quieter than before. “That’s not your brand.”
Ilya huffed a soft laugh against his skin. “Maybe I have range.”
“Terrifying,” Shane muttered.
But he smiled.
He shifted slightly, turning just enough to tuck himself more comfortably against Ilya, their legs tangling, the space between them disappearing entirely. It was easy, in a way that still surprised him—how natural it felt, how quickly the tension drained away when they weren’t fighting or pushing or testing each other.
For once, there was nothing to prove.
Just this.
“…Hey,” Shane said, after a minute.
“Mm?”
“Thanks,” he said. “For, you know. Not making it worse back there.”
Ilya was quiet for a beat.
Then, lightly, “I made it a little worse.”
Shane huffed. “A little.”
“But I was there,” Ilya added.
That, more than anything, was the point.
Shane nodded, even though Ilya couldn’t see it.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “You were.”
Another quiet moment passed, the kind that didn’t need filling.
Then Ilya tightened his arm slightly around him, grounding and warm.
“Cuddle,” he said.
Shane let out a slow breath, eyes finally drifting shut.
For the first time all day, his mind didn’t replay the door, the shock, the panic.
Instead, it settled here—steady, quiet, and real.
“…Okay,” he murmured.
And just like that, with Ilya’s warmth at his back and the weight of everything unsaid finally lifted, Shane let himself drift.