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If you asked around about Ilya Rozanov, people would start with the obvious.
The medals, the captaincy and the way he can take over a game like it personally offended him not to. Someone would bring up the speed eventually, he skates like physics is optional, like friction is more of a suggestion than a rule. He wins things. Frequently, casually. Like it’s just something that happens to him while he’s busy doing something else.
And then, inevitably, the rest would follow. His cars, too many, too fast. All of them loud in ways that feel intentional. The tattoos, especially the one across his back that never seems finished because he keeps changing his mind halfway through. His name, which comes up in interviews, in highlight reels, in conversations that start with “Did you see what Rozanov did?” and end with something like disbelief.
He has a manager whose full-time job appears to be stopping him from making decisions that would either get him fined, injured, or featured in a headline that starts with controversial.
Ilya Rozanov collects stories, the kind that end in bruises and laughter and someone calling him insane like it’s a compliment.
If you asked around about Shane Hollander, the answers would come slower.
People would say he’s reliable and careful. The kind of person who shows up early, stays late, and makes sure things are done properly. Someone might mention the way he taps the ice before stepping onto it or how he always laces his right skate first, never the left.
If you knew him better, you’d notice the rest.
The hesitation around heights and the way he goes quiet when injuries come up, his hand drifting, almost unconsciously, to his knee. The way he prepares for things: small things, big things, all of it, with the quiet assumption that something could go wrong if he isn’t careful enough.
Hayden Pike would probably sum it up best, Shane is afraid of everything and still shows up anyway, which is either admirable or deeply questionable depending on the day.
Shane Hollander collects different things. Routines. Systems. Small, quiet reassurances stacked carefully on top of each other.
The point is, Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander do not match. So naturally, they’re dating each other.
Objectively speaking, this should not work. And yet, for the past ten months, it has.
Mostly because Shane has been.. distracted. Which, to be fair, is understandable. Ilya is extremely distracting. In multiple ways, frequently, with enthusiasm.
But distractions wear off.
And what’s left, once things settle into something quieter, is the slightly alarming realization that Shane and his boyfriend may not actually have anything in common beyond mutual attraction and a shared tolerance for terrible TV.
That maybe, just maybe, they don’t actually fit.
(“Um, yeah?” Hayden Pike says, when Shane brings it up over their usual Friday night out, completely unsurprised. “That’s kind of what we’ve all been trying to tell you.”
“Oh my god, Hayden.”
“No, seriously. You’ve been, like, blissed out. Constantly. It’s actually been a little concerning.”
“Oh my god, Hayden!”
“I’m just saying,” Hayden shrugs. “Your boyfriend is a world-class athlete with a death wish, and you panic if you put the wrong sock on first.”)
The problem is simple, really.
Ilya is cool.
And Shane is.. Shane.
Ilya has The Boys, teammates and adrenaline junkies who think “what if we tried something dangerous for fun” is a reasonable sentence and cliff diving, mountain climbing, and high-speed anything are reasonable weekend plans.
Shane has Hayden, a routine, and a job that involves teaching kids how to hold a stick properly and not fall over, which, in Shane’s opinion, is both respectable and significantly less likely to result in death.
So when Ilya says, casually, “I was thinking of going cliff diving this weekend—”
Shane says, “Sure.”
There is a pause, Ilya blinks. Shane does not immediately take it back, which is where things start to unravel.
“I was going with the boys,” Ilya adds. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out after.”
“Oh,” Shane says. Of course, The Boys.
“Wait,” Ilya says, blinking. “You want to come cliff diving?”
Shane straightens, already aware this is a terrible idea but now too committed to back out with dignity. “Why not?”
“Because you’re terrified of heights.”
Shane rolls his eyes, “Terrified is a strong word.”
It is not, it’s actually the correct word but Shane commits to the lie anyway. “I just think it would be nice,” he adds, “to actually do something together.”
Ilya narrows his eyes like he’s trying to figure out if this is a trap, “We do things together.”
“We eat,” Shane counters. “We watch dumb TV. We—” he gestures vaguely, because some things do not need to be said out loud. “We don’t actually do anything.”
That earns him a look. Then Ilya’s hand drifts absently, unconsciously to Shane’s knee, thumb brushing lightly over the scar there.
“But cliff diving,” he says.
“Cliff diving,” Shane agrees.
Seriously, how bad could it be?
The answer is, a lot.
Shane wants to die. Or throw up. Ideally not both at the same time, but he’s flexible.
“I’m so pumped for this!” Ilya says, practically vibrating beside him.
“Yay. Excitement.” Shane replies weakly.
“Can I go first?” Ilya asks.
“Please do,” Shane replies, because watching someone else survive this feels like useful information.
Ilya grins, pulls him into a quick, casual hug, and jogs off like this is the best day of his life.
Shane watches him go and tries not to think about statistics. Or gravity.
Or his knee.
Or everything.
Or the fact that he has made several deeply questionable life decisions in rapid succession.
It happens too fast. Ilya turning, grinning, shouting something Shane doesn’t quite catch before he disappears over the edge.
Then the echo of his yell.
Then silence.
“Huh,” Shane says faintly.
“Ready?” a staff member asks.
There is still time to say no. There is still time to be reasonable.
“I have to,” Shane says instead, which is concerning for everyone involved.
And then something in him just stops.
The panic and the noise and the constant second-guessing. It all quiets into something strangely blank, the same strange blankness from before his surgery. Before everything changed and before he stopped playing seriously and started settling into something quieter, safer, more familiar.
He steps forward.
Edge.
Air.
And jumps.
It’s awful.
It’s exactly as bad as expected. Worse, even. His stomach lurches, the ground disappears, his body forgets what it’s supposed to do.
And then, it’s over.
He’s alive, which feels like an achievement.
And then, Ilya is there.
Crushing him in a hug.
“Oh my god. Sweetheart, are you okay? Are you okay? Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me.”
Ilya is babbling.
This is new.
Ilya does not babble. He does not panic. He does not call Shane anything remotely soft in public. He definitely does not look like he’s about to either yell or cry in public.
And yet, here he is.
Shane, still somewhat dazed and trying to remember how breathing works, manages, “I just.. wanted to do this for you.”
Ilya pulls back like he’s been hit. “What do you mean for me?”
Shane shrugs weakly. “I don’t know. You’re.. you. And I’m—”
“Don’t,” Ilya snaps, then exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. Then softer, “Don’t do that.”
His hands tighten slightly on Shane’s arms, grounding. “You’re the bravest person I know,” Ilya says. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, not this. Not anything.”
Shane blinks.
“I love the dumb TV we watch,” Ilya continues. “I love your terrible cooking,”
“Excuse me..?”
“And yeah, the sex is great, obviously, but that’s not the point,” Ilya says like he needs Shane to understand this part most of all. “I just.. I love you.”
Oh.
“Oh,” Shane says. “You do?”
“God,” Ilya groans, dropping his forehead against Shane’s shoulder. “Yes!”
Shane lets out a shaky laugh, resting his chin against Ilya’s curls.
“I thought you’d rather be out there doing.. all that,” he admits.
“I’d rather be with you,” Ilya mutters.
Shane stands there, letting it sink in, noticing for the first time that he doesn’t have to measure up to anything. No medals, no speed, no fearlessness. He’s been so busy bracing for every fall that he forgot what it feels like to just be.
Ilya isn’t asking him to be faster, braver, different. He’s just here, holding on. Not letting go.
“We missed The Great British Bake Off for this,” Ilya adds grumpily.
And Shane laughs, really laughs this time, soft and sharp, the kind that loosens everything in his chest.
The fear is still there. The height, the fall, the what-ifs but they don’t feel as loud anymore.
Not when Ilya is standing in front of him. Not when he didn’t let go.
And for once, Shane lets himself fall while letting Ilya hold him upright.