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Ilya had never been much of a swimmer, but his grandparents had a modest dacha north of St. Petersburg, and he and Alexei would amuse themselves almost every summer by plunging to the bottom of the nearby lake. He would scramble frantically down to the bottom until he felt the rocks against his toes and then try to hold as long as he could. It was always a strange sensation — sound muffled, colors dulled, the weight of the water pressing upon him. He didn’t like it exactly. But he’d stay as long as he could before he shoved himself off the bottom of the lake, soaring toward the sunlight. If he timed it right, there would be that small thrilling moment of panic, his lungs contracting, his heart frantically beating until the sun and the sound of his brother burst into being again. The feeling of nothing at all followed by everything at once. The everythingness was the reward.
Once, he’d mistimed it and come back to consciousness to find himself laying on the sand, a Greek chorus of angry adults shouting and fussing in equal measure. His father, dripping with water, had pounded him on the back with what felt like more force than strictly necessary. His mother had cried. Alexei had covered his own terror by calling Ilya stupid, which earned him a slap from their grandmother, seemingly unaware that her own mingled curses and prayers had included far worse epithets for her youngest grandson. Eventually they’d all gone back to the house, the mood of the day thoroughly ruined, because Ilya had wanted too much.
His father was dead, and people had wanted to talk to him about it. When his father had been dying, no one had wanted to mention it, and certainly no one wanted him to mention it. But now it was all anyone wanted to talk about.
But Ilya had already mourned. The grief had settled into a corner of his heart years ago, maybe even before he'd left home. If he'd thought about it, maybe he would have expected the reality of his father's death to crush him, to consume him as his mother's death had done for a time. He had spent most of that year feeling as though his skin had been removed from his body, leaving all of his organs raw and subject to complete collapse at even the slightest bit of pressure. But this time, his grief sat quietly in the cage he'd made for it years ago. Bulky and obtrusive and ugly, but stationary.
So he nodded and said all the right words. And then he crawled into bed and called Shane Hollander.
He had no friends in Moscow, not really. Just teammates from a decade ago, most of whom hadn’t played much beyond juniors or a few years in a lesser league. This was perhaps Ilya’s fault, not bothering to keep in touch or see much of his old friends during his summers home, too focused on arguing with Alexei and partying with strangers who didn’t know him. A few of them had messaged him on social media, but he didn’t respond. Once his father’s death had filtered back to ESPN, there’d been a second wave of messages in his inbox from teammates and various others, even a few past hookups. Mostly he ignored these too, instead turning off notifications so he could mindlessly scroll his feed in peace.
But he felt like he was existing at the bottom of that lake, the weight of the water and the sensory deprivation pressing down upon him. It was not a terrible place to be.
He tried to think about hockey. Hockey still felt real. He watched all of the Raiders game tapes from the five games he had missed. They had lost to Tampa Bay in his absence, which was frankly embarrassing, though not as embarrassing as it would have been last year, to be fair. He watched Shane’s games too.
Shane had been in excellent form lately, though Ilya would never tell him so. If the Voyageurs won the Stanley Cup, it would be despite frankly mediocre performances from everyone but Shane. Hockey pundits had begun to point out the almost embarrassingly large percentage of the Voyageur’s total goals that had been directly scored by Shane Hollander, which, given Shane and Ilya’s goal totals and team standings for the season were essentially the same, said more about the underperformance of the rest of the Voyageurs than anything else.
Shane had scored a gorgeous goal in Chicago that had been so graceful it gave Ilya a semi, though that was at least partially because of how beautifully Shane had beamed at his (useless) teammates as they pounded him on the back.
He had missed Shane badly, which was stupid, because they’d arguably spoken more this week than any week they’d known each other. If he’d thought it would be enough, a few phone calls and some virtual sex, he’d have been sadly mistaken. Time with Shane would never be enough, and that was the problem.
He had thought about this problem when he boarded his connecting flight from Moscow. He had thought about it when he dished scrambled eggs onto his plate in the crowded Heathrow Airport lounge. He had thought about it when he went through customs and had to show his stupid visa. He had thought about it when the Uber driver pronounced his name like Eye-la and loaded his overpacked bag into the car. He had thought about it when he’d played Colorado and Edmonton and St. Louis.
And now he was in Montreal.
It was pathetic, but after seven years, the sight of those stupid church spires from the window of the team plane made him fucking horny. Weird Quebec French made him fucking horny. Because of Shane Hollander.
Of course, it was impossible to forget that Montreal belonged to Shane Hollander, though the sight of Shane Hollander’s face on posters and billboards was just infrequent enough to be a surprise every time. Once, he’d stumbled into a corner store and come face-to-face with a full-size cardboard cutout of Shane Hollander holding some trendy soda. He had nearly jumped out of his skin. He’d been with his teammates, and they’d wanted to steal it. Ilya had been tempted to let them.
This was Shane Hollander’s city. But that had always been a good thing, because it meant Shane Hollander.
Part of him wanted to enjoy Shane one last time before he broke the news, but he knew that would be cruel. He would have to make do with the scraps of old texts and drunken memories. A clean break, that was what he had promised himself. That’s what was fair to Shane. Because he loved Shane. He could admit that now. But it was a destructive and dangerous love — the kind of love that had nowhere to go, so it had calcified like rocks in Ilya’s stomach instead, and now the unbearable weight of it was pulling him to the bottom of that cold dark lake.
He’d been weird during warmups, and of course Shane had known he was being weird, and had asked if he was all right, which of course he wasn’t. Shane had promised they’d talk later. Shane so rarely alluded to their private activities on the ice that it should have thrilled Ilya, and under normal circumstances he’d have upped the ante, maybe muttering something about how they’d do more than talk. Shane would bite his lip like he did when he was trying not to smile at whatever horrible thing Ilya had just said and his cheeks would turn that perfect shade of pink, and he’d skate away but spend the rest of warm ups hovering nearby, in case Ilya had any more horrible things for Shane to scowl prettily at. But instead Ilya had ground out a few words of agreement before skating back to his team.
Hammersmith had shot him a curious look, but he hadn’t asked. And after all, what was there to say?
There had been a round of awkward condolences when he’d rejoined the team in Colorado. He’d gone out with them a few times, just to feel less lonely, though it didn’t really work. A Colorado player Ilya didn’t know well had very bravely approached him and said that his dad was dead, a car accident years ago, and if Ilya ever needed someone who understood, he could text him. Ilya was sincerely touched. But it was different for him.
Was it better, Ilya wondered, to lose a mother so abruptly or to lose a father bit-by-bit over years? He had thought maybe it would be easier this time, he didn’t love his father like he did his mother, and it was, in a way, but it wasn’t. He’d remembered an expression he’d heard somewhere and stored in the dusty recesses of his brain. To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. Ilya was careless. And now he had no one. Well, he had one person. He would take care of that tonight though.
They played the game. He couldn’t help looking at Shane. He loved playing with Shane. He would, he thought, still have that.
In the second period, Shane made a clumsy (by his standards) shot on goal, which Hammersmith blocked easily and sent Ilya’s way. By force of habit, Ilya cackled loud enough for Shane to hear as he sailed off with the puck, Shane breathing down his neck.
In the third period, Shane collided with Marlow and caught himself awkwardly, Ilya saw him rubbing his elbow, but he was back on the ice for the final few minutes of the game.
Boston won, but it didn’t really matter. Both teams were going to the playoffs anyway.
He went back to the hotel with the team like he always did. One of the rookies was crowing something about a new club. Ilya declined, but no one pressured him as they had in St. Louis. Instead, Connors smirked, and Marlow clapped him on the shoulder. “Good for you, man.” They thought he was going to see his secret Montreal girl for a comfort fuck. They were wrong on both counts.
Shane had given him the entry code for the condo years ago. He didn’t even need the dim street light to see the numbers, he knew the buttons by touch.
Shane was smiling when he opened the door.
He rushed at Ilya the second the door was closed, and oh God, Ilya loved the feeling of Shane on him. All he wanted in the entire world was in this room right now in a t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Shane’s hands were on Ilya's hips, rolling down his waistband. He could feel Shane’s tongue pressing on his in the way that meant Shane was about to pull away from Ilya’s mouth, not to leave him but to sink down to his knees in front of Ilya’s cock. Because Ilya was an orphan now and Shane wanted to make him feel better.
Ilya broke the kiss.
“Hollander, stop. We need to talk.”
Shane drew back but kept his hands on Ilya’s hips. He pressed the pads of his fingers into Ilya’s bare skin, not greedily but as though he wanted Ilya to know he was still there. “Come on, let’s sit down,” he said, taking Ilya’s hand.
Shane guided Ilya to the couch, but then left him there, bustling off to the kitchen instead. Ilya keenly felt the loss of him. He had barely ever sat on Shane’s couch.
“Do you want anything to eat?” Shane called from the kitchen. “I have some of those pre-prepared meals if you want that, or there’s chips and stuff.” There was a small array of snacks on the otherwise bare counter. The chips were the same brand Ilya had bought when they'd seen each other in Boston on that horrible day six months ago. Maybe Shane thought that was Ilya's favorite, though truthfully Ilya had only bought them because he'd seen a video of Shane eating some in the Metros training room. “Or there’s beer and vodka too if—”
“I’m okay,” said Ilya hollowly. Shane nodded, but removed a can of Coke and a bottle of water from the fridge. Shane popped the Coke for Ilya, as though Ilya was too fragile to do it himself.
“How has it been, being back?” said Shane earnestly. He was sitting practically on top of Ilya, which normally Ilya would have liked but right now made him feel like the worst person on earth. He wished Shane hadn't bought fucking groceries.
“Okay,” said Ilya stiffly.
“No one is being an asshole about it, right? Like your coach and stuff?”
Ilya shook his head. He wanted to tell Shane about how his coach had made almost the exact same speech to Ilya that he’d made when Connors broke his arm, and Ilya had tried not to laugh. He wanted to tell him that half of his teammates were shying away from him as though losing a parent was a contagious disease, and the other half were watching Ilya nervously like he had a contagious disease and was about to drop dead any moment. Shane wouldn’t understand, he’d widen his eyes and be scandalized and angry on Ilya’s behalf, even though in Ilya’s opinion it was a tiny bit funny. But he still wanted to tell him.
“No assholes.” Well, that wasn’t true, was it? “I am the asshole.”
“No you’re not,” said Shane firmly. Ilya wished he’d stop touching him. He couldn’t bear it. He pulled his hand away and leaned away from Shane. Shane’s face puckered.
“Hollander, we can’t—we can’t do this anymore.”
Shane blinked. He looked down at Ilya's hand as though confused by the loss of it. “What do you mean?”
“This,” said Ilya, gesturing at Shane, the Coke on the table, the everything else.
Shane said nothing.
“It was always a bad idea, we knew that,” Ilya said stiffly.
“Did something happen in Russia?” asked Shane. “Did someone catch—”
“No,” said Ilya, a pang of sharp horror cutting through dull misery. “Nothing like that.”
“What…what changed?” said Shane. His voice had become very small and his shoulders had risen towards his ears like they did when he was retreating into himself. “I’m sorry if I—”
“You did nothing,” said Ilya firmly.
“Then what?”
“It’s too much,” said Ilya. English didn’t feel adequate for how much it was. How much it couldn’t be.
“Ilya—”
“It’s better for both of us, Hollander. You know this.” Ilya dragged one of the cream throw pillows out from behind him so he could shift even further from Shane, clutching it like a physical barrier between the two of them. He fingered the loose knit fringe.
Shane stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of Ilya. Ilya watched him, enjoying the strip of perfect skin visible above his low-slung sweatpants and Shane’s nose, which was perfect even when it was wrinkled like it was now. He was so very beautiful, even if he couldn't belong to Ilya.
Ilya should have been miserable, and he was miserable, more miserable than he’d ever been in his life. But there was an obscure relief too. He had turned this over in his head for days, and now it was done. Shane would cry and shout and tell him to go fuck himself, and then Ilya could slink back to his hotel room and die.
“No.”
Ilya looked up. “What?”
“No, Ilya,” said Shane firmly. Shane wasn’t looking at Ilya, just pacing. He looked like he was thinking very hard about something.
“What do you mean no?” said Ilya, dumbfounded.
“No, as in, I’m not going to let you do that.”
“Let me? It’s a fucking—” Ilya paused. What was this? A breakup implied a state of togetherness that had never actually existed. “You’re not allowed to say no.”
“Watch me,” Shane snarled, before rededicating himself to his apparent mission to wearing a hole in his own floor.
Ilya wanted Shane to shout at him. No, he needed Shane to shout at him. He wanted to drown in Shane’s anger. He wanted Shane to tell Ilya that he was the worst person alive and then he wanted Shane to cut him into little pieces with the fancy chef knives on his countertop. He thought this might be the last thing he'd ever feel, and he wanted to fucking feel it.
“It was just sex, Hollander,” said Ilya, summoning his most cutting voice. “It was nothing to me.”
Shane flinched, and Ilya was glad of it. It would make it easier for both of them, for Shane to hate him. Or maybe, said a nasty voice, you just want to hurt him. Because you caused this, after all, you asked for this from him, over and over and over again. You are careless with the things you love.
Shane stopped pacing and was looming over Ilya on the couch. He was finally looking at him. Ilya couldn’t help but feel as though if he shifted or tried to rise, Shane would tackle him as though they were on the ice. Ilya wondered for a moment if Shane was going to hit him. He would deserve it.
“Bullshit,” Shane spat. “You fucking called me. You fucking stalked me at All Stars. You made me that fucking sandwich.” Ilya flinched. “Don’t pretend like this is because you’re fucking bored, you fucking coward.”
“A fucking coward?” said Ilya, rising to his feet. “You hide us in secret apartments, you run away, and I’m the coward?”
“Am I running away? I’m standing right here,” said Shane, throwing his arms out as though daring Ilya to fight him. If they were on the ice, he would have dropped gloves. Ilya wanted to grab onto Shane’s collar and feel Shane’s fist pounding against his skin until they both tumbled to the ground. He wanted bruises shaped like Shane’s knuckles to flower on his cheeks.
“If you want to leave, fine,” said Shane. “Fuck you, but fine. There’s the fucking door. But if you think that we’re done—”
“We’re done, Hollander.”
“What, and you think I can just walk away? Don’t you think if I could do that, I would have done it eight years ago, you asshole?”
Ilya realized with a jolt that Shane was, almost by default, his first and oldest friend in this new life. He’d known him longer than anyone on the Raiders. They had lived a lifetime of wins and losses, of handshakes and fights, of whispered arguments and frantic nights. He knew Shane, knew the way his feet flexed when he wanted to touch Ilya and the way that little vein in his neck that bulged when he started thinking too hard. Knew how he pressed his fingernail into his palm when he was talking to reporters.
Shane knew Ilya too, maybe.
“You should have,” Ilya muttered.
“Maybe. But here we are.”
“What the fuck do you think this is?” said Ilya furiously. It was his turn to loom over Shane now. “You think we’re going to get fucking married? You think you’re going to be allowed to play hockey if they find out—”
“I don’t give a shit about hockey!” Shane snapped.
Ilya blinked. Shane blinked too.
“Are you fucking possessed, Hollander? Is this one of those scary movies where you’ve been replaced by an alien?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
There was a pause.
“I give a shit about you,” said Shane, through gritted teeth. “You fucking asshole. I fucking—I fucking like you.” Ilya was suddenly unbearably aware of the word Shane had very nearly said.
Ilya wanted to say something terrible. Maybe if he was cruel enough, this would end. The word that Shane had almost very nearly said would sit lodged in his throat forever. Ilya would never ever ever have to hear Shane Hollander say that he loved him. But Shane was right. Ilya was a coward. Or maybe he wasn’t anymore.
“I like you too.”
“Thanks,” said Shane, almost bitterly.
“You said, back in Tampa, that you think you might like me too much,” said Ilya. “I think maybe…I like you too much too."
“Well that makes us even,” said Shane. They were nose-to-nose now. Back where they started, with Hollander half-pinned against the wall of his own apartment.
“What are we going to do about that?” Ilya breathed.
“I don’t know,” said Shane. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay.”
He pressed his mouth to Shane’s. It was the best feeling in the world.