Chapter Text
Are you seeing this?
Ilya hoisted himself off the couch, pulse pounding a desperate staccato. He stalked past the big screen where footage of Scott Hunter kissing the hell out of a random dude played on in stunning high definition.
Hollander? He tried again, pointer finger smashing against the phone screen with purpose as he sent the text.
The sounds of shock and revelry faded into the background as Ilya sought the quiet of his kitchen. Why had he invited all these people over to watch the Stanley Cup Finals anyway? Something, something about not wanting to be alone, but fuck it, he was always alone no matter how many people were in the room. Except with Hollander—he never felt alone when he was with Hollander.
He scowled at his phone, noting both messages didn’t indicate delivery. He turned toward the sound of Cliff Marleau’s familiar hulking frame rummaging in the fridge. “What’s this mean?”
“What’s what mean?” Cliff emerged victorious, gripping the last Sam Adams like he’d struck gold. “Did I miss anything?”
“Stanley Cup is over. Scott Hunter kissed a man. Is very gay.”
“What?” Cliff blinked at Ilya as if he’d grown a second head. The Boston forward had exited the living room as the clock ran out, the New York celebration nothing he needed to see in real time with his current beer bottle empty. “Scott Hunter is gay? Since when?”
“I don’t know. Since he tongued a man on the ice.”
“I left the room for 45 seconds!”
“Was important 45 seconds.” Ilya managed a casual wave even though he felt twitchy all over. “Very brave.” And reckless, and stupid, and wonderful, and a hundred other things Ilya couldn’t quite put into words. A washed-up relic like Scott Hunter had just knocked the hockey world on its ass, changing the game and instilling Ilya with the one thing always beyond reach.
Hope.
“But now more important things. What does it mean when I send text and it does not deliver? Phone is off?”
“That or you’re blocked,” Cliff shrugged, popping the top as he cast a fleeting glance toward the living room. “Can I go-”
“Blocked? Is not possible.” Ilya’s brow furrowed. Shane blocking him? After all these years, and all those tears Ilya never let himself cry? Surely not.
But…
A gnawing chasm split his gut as he considered the events that had led him to this moment. Cliff’s hard gametime hit sending Shane to the hospital. A loopy, concussed Shane extending an invitation for Ilya to come to the cottage. Ilya ignoring the request and ultimately sending Shane a break-up text a few days later. (Was it even a break-up when they’d never really labelled themselves as being together? Ilya didn’t know what an actual break-up felt like, but no way was it worse than the agony of leaving Shane on read when all he really wanted to do was press call and take it all back. Beg for his attention, beg for another invite to that stupid cottage, beg for sexts, and goodnight texts.) When Shane kept trying to text and call to talk things over, Ilya had no choice but to block him. “Is for best,” he’d muttered, miserable and broken as he punched ‘block this contact.’ They were getting too serious, too attached, the only plausible outcome mutually shared destruction if they continued this ruinous path. Ilya too careless as he stood over Shane’s crumpled form on the ice, demanding answers he wasn’t entitled to. Shane too careless in the hospital, hyped up on pain meds and beckoning Ilya near as if they mattered to one another. One of them would eventually make the misstep that outed them to the world, destroying careers and reputations, and putting Ilya’s entire existence in danger.
Ilya Rozanov could always be counted on to make the hard call…to do what needed to be done no matter the detriment to his own mental and physical health. So what if Shane’s face was the last thing he saw every night as he drifted to sleep? And Shane’s name was the first thing on his lips every morning? It needed to end, so he ended it. First with words then with sickening finality by hitting the block button.
He’d only unblocked Shane a few minutes ago to send the ‘No fucking way Scott Hunter just came out on national television texts’ to no avail. Had Shane mutually blocked him without him realizing?
“This your Montreal Girl? Finally fumbled it, huh?” When Ilya scowled, Cliff emitted a sigh that sounded weary but sympathetic. “Maybe it’s for the best, Roz. I mean, it’s been years of going nowhere.”
“Jane would not block me,” Ilya declared, narrowly resisting the urge to slam his fist into Cliff’s face for reiterating the cold, hard truth that had led Ilya to block Shane in the first place. Ilya and Shane could never have a relationship…they could never go anywhere. At least they couldn’t until this very fucking moment, when Scott Hunter--of all the damned prehistoric creatures--had come out and changed everything.
“You could try calling.” Cliff swigged the bottle. “See if she answers or it goes to voicemail. But if rings once and you immediately get her voicemail, hate to say it, but you’re probably blocked.”
“Jane would not block me,” Ilya insisted again, even as his chest constricted with uncertainty. Ilya Rozanov did not get blocked, especially by pretty, pouty, freckled Canadians who meant everything.
Marleau threw his hands out in helpless surrender, Ilya’s glare fierce enough to send him scurrying from the kitchen. Ilya waited a beat before carefully tapping Shane’s contact to call. He held his breath, heart sinking to the pit of his stomach as it rang once and connected to voicemail. Clenching his jaw, he hung up and tried again. Then one more time, torment ripping through his already tattered heart. This time when it connected, he left a message. Short, sweet, and full of intention even if Shane wouldn’t hear it. “I’m coming to the cottage.”