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People think I am loud because I am happy. This is a lie.
I am loud because if I stop, everything gets quiet, and in quiet, I start thinking. And when I think too much, I don’t like where my head goes. So I laugh, I chirp, I make jokes before anyone else can.
It works on everyone.
Except Shane. Shane Hollander notices things. Too many things.
We are not supposed to exist.
Boston Bears captain and Montreal Metros captain don’t text each other every day. They don’t meet in hotel rooms. They definitely don’t fall into routines that feel suspiciously like… something more than casual.
But we do. For years now.
“Just sex.” I told him at the beginning.
“No strings.”
Shane nodded like he was memorizing rules for survival.
“Okay.”
He always says okay like it costs him something. I always pretend not to see that.
Shane is… quiet.
Not boring. I call him boring all the time, but that’s just noise. The truth is… he is precise, careful. He thinks before he speaks, which is very strange concept for me.
He lines things up: his skates, his schedule, his thoughts.
And when he relaxes, really relaxes, he lets himself be soft in a way that makes something in my chest ache.
Also, he has freckles. I noticed them the first time we met properly. Not across rink, not in interviews, but close. Too close.
They are everywhere. Across his nose, cheeks, a few disappearing under his collar.
I stared too long.
“You’re doing it again.” he said.
“What?”
“Looking at me like I’m a math problem you don’t understand.”
“I understand math.” I said.
“You don’t.”
“…Okay, I don’t.”
He almost smiled.
We text constantly… or we used to. It is stupid things mostly.
Shane: “Did you sleep?”
Me: “Sleep is for weak. I am strong Russian machine.”
Shane: “Machines still need maintenance.”
Me: “You sound like instruction manual. Very boring.”
He sends me a picture of his tea. I send him a picture of beer.
He sends me a thumbs down. I send him something worse.
It is easy. With him, it is always easy. Until it isn’t.
The night I mess everything up starts like a joke.
Which is fitting. Because I ruin it with one.
We go out: me, Cliff, a couple of the guys. Loud place, music, people shouting over each other. Good place to disappear in noise.
Then I see him. Shane. At a table with Hayden.
Hayden notices me first. Of course.
“Rozanov!” he calls. “You following us now?”
“I follow good entertainment.” I shoot back, walking over.
“Four kids, Hayden? You don’t know protection, huh?”
The table laughs. Hayden laughs too. Easy, no problem.
Good. This is working. I am working.
Then I turn to Shane. Because I always do.
“Shane.” I say, leaning on the table. “You still go to sleep at nine? Drink your little tea, read boring book?”
A few of my teammates laugh. I grin wider.
“You probably iron your socks too.”
More laughter. Too much laughter.
I don’t notice at first. I just keep going.
“Schedule your fun? ‘Okay, at 8:15 I will enjoy myself.’”
Now everyone is laughing. Not with him. At him.
Something feels wrong. Like skate catching wrong edge.
I look at Shane.
And… he’s not laughing. He’s not rolling his eyes. He’s just… still. Like I froze him.
His mouth opens slightly, but no words come out.
And suddenly I understand. Too late.
“Hey.” I start: “I didn’t mean…”
“You’re an asshole.” Hayden cuts in, standing up.
Not joking now.
He grabs Shane’s arm gently. “Come on.”
Shane doesn’t argue. He doesn’t look at me again.
They leave.
The noise around me keeps going, but it sounds far away.
Cliff nudges me. “Dude… that was rough.”
“I was joking.” I say.
But it doesn’t sound convincing. Not even to me.
I text him that night.
Me: “Hey. You okay?” No answer.
Next day:
Me: “You mad?” Hours pass.
Then:
Shane: “I’m fine.” Short. Too short.
Something twists in my chest. This is not how we talk.
Where is the sarcasm? The overthinking? The tiny corrections?
I try again.
Me: “You are never fine. You overthink breathing.” No reply.
Days go like this.
His messages are… polite. Like we are not us anymore.
Like I am just another person he has to respond to.
I hate it. I hate it more than I thought possible.
When we finally meet again, I expect it to fix everything.
Because it always does.
We don’t talk much. We never do at first.
We just fall into each other. Familiar. Easy. Automatic.
But something is wrong.
He doesn’t look at me. Not really.
He doesn’t say my name.
He doesn’t react the way he usually does, quiet, but present. Now he feels… far.
Even when he’s right there.
After, I lie next to him, trying to slow my breathing.
Waiting for him to say something.
He doesn’t. He just gets up. Dresses quickly. Too quickly.
“Shane.” I say, sitting up. “Hey… what…”
“We can’t do this anymore.”
The words hit hard.
“What?”
“I can’t…” he says. Still not looking at me. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“Because of the bar? That was joke.”
“It wasn’t a joke to me.”
I stop.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” I say.
“I know…” he says softly. “That’s why it hurt.”
That makes no sense. But it does at the same time.
He finally looks at me. Eyes sharp, tired.
“I need someone who isn’t embarrassed of me.”
“I am not embarrassed!”
“You are.” he says, not angry. Just… certain. “You hide me. You hide us. And when it’s convenient, you turn me into a joke.”
I don’t know what to say.
Because I don’t think that’s true. But I also don’t know how to prove it isn’t.
“Ilya.” he says, softer now: “I need someone who sees me. Not just when it’s easy.”
Silence stretches. I should say something.
Something important. Something that fixes this.
But my head is empty. For once.
He nods once. Like that’s his answer. Then he leaves.
I don’t go after him. I just sit there.
And for the first time in years, I feel quiet. And I hate it.
He doesn’t answer my messages after that. At all.
Game day comes. Boston vs Montreal. Important game.
But all I can think about is him.
Warm-ups. He doesn’t look at me. Not once.
That hurts more than anything he said.
Game starts aggressive, too aggressive. Everyone is on edge.
I play harder than I should. Angrier than I should.
Then it happens.
One of our guys - someone I barely like - starts something with Shane. Shoves him. Shane pushes back. Gloves drop.
I don’t think. I move. Fast. I slam into my own teammate, drive him into boards.
He shouts something. I don’t hear. I grab him and I hit him.
“Do not touch him!”
Everything stops.
Shane’s voice cuts through everything.
“Stop, Rozanov! Stop!”
I don’t. I can’t.
“Ilya.”
Softer. Pleading.
I freeze.
Hands still raised. Breathing hard. I turn to him. He looks… scared. Not of me. For me.
I drop my hands. Nod once and skate away. I don’t look back, because if I do, I might not stop again.
We lose the game. I don’t care.
Later, Cliff drags me out.
“You need drink.” he says. He’s right.
We walk into a bar, loud, crowded. And of course, Montreal is there celebrating.
I find Shane instantly at the bar ordering something.
And there’s a guy next to him. Too close. Too comfortable.
I watch.
The guy is talking. Smiling. Touching Shane’s arm.
Shane shifts slightly, but doesn’t move away. Because he’s polite. Because he doesn’t want to make scene.
But I can see it. He’s uncomfortable.
The guy leans closer. Shane freezes. Panic.
I know that look. I hate that look.
I move before I think. Again. Always problem.
“Hey!” I snap, loud. “Fuck off.”
The guy turns, confused. “Excuse me?”
“He said no.” I cut in. “You just don’t listen?”
“Ilya…” Shane starts.
But I’m not stopping.
“He’s taken.” I say.
The bar goes quiet.
The guy laughs awkwardly. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I turn to Shane. My heart is racing. This is it.
No jokes. No hiding.
I pull him close and I kiss him.
Not careful. Not casual. Not something we can pretend is nothing.
It’s everything.
Noise explodes around us. Cheers. Shouts. Phones out.
I don’t care.
When I pull back, I rest my forehead against his.
“I’m sorry.” I say quietly. “I am idiot.”
He lets out a shaky breath.
“You are.” he says.
Then softer:
“But you’re my idiot.”
I laugh. Because of course.
“Is this real?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
I swallow. “No more hiding.”
He studies me. Long, carefully. Like he is deciding something big.
“Okay.” he says.
And this time it sounds like hope.
The world around us is chaos.
But for the first time in a long time the silence in my head isn’t scary.
Because he sees me and finally, I let him.