Archive of Our Own

March, 2021

Troy remembers Harris, shrieking: “Oh my god, Troy! Come here!” 

They were at Troy’s apartment, looking at real estate listings online, and Troy had gone to the kitchen to replenish their snack tray. Before he could get back to the living room, he heard more. 

“Holy shit! Oh my god, oh my god.”

“What—what is it?” His heart was pounding as he zipped around the couch to collapse back down next to his boyfriend, who was sitting with his laptop on a pillow on his lap, one hand on his chest. “Are you okay?” 

“Look,” Harris told him, turning the computer so he could see the screen, clicking quickly and then … 

“Oh … oh, wow.” On the screen, Ilya Rozanov had his hands on Shane Hollander’s jaw. Hollander was sliding his hands into Ilya’s hair. They were making out like—like they’d done it a million times before and also like maybe they wouldn’t get the chance to do it again for the foreseeable future. 

“This is … Oh. Shit.” Harris, sitting next to him, was stunned. 

A little zing of adrenaline shot through Troy’s body. This was—this was not good, this was actually terrible, but fuck he knew it.

“What’s this on, who posted this?” Troy asked.

“Some random guy, look—it’s Hayden Pike’s FanMail account.”

“What the fuck?”

“Holy shit,” Harris said again. “Um.” He clicked to the beginning of the video and they watched Hayden’s message to someone named Brad, watched the camera catch Ilya and Shane kissing, watched the zoomed-in Twitter clip again. “This is … oh my God.” He paused and then whispered, “This is … horrible. And also. Um. Really hot. Right?” He sounded a little embarrassed about it.
 
Troy paused. He looked at Harris. 

“Well … yeah. But fuck.” Harris pressed play and they watched the video again.

“Have you talked to Ilya?” Troy asked.

“Not yet. I just saw this. Oh my God, I have to call him. Or text.”

“Yeah,” said Troy, letting out a breath. “Text. They must be getting a lot of calls.”

“Holy shit, holy shit. Okay.” Harris put his hand back on his chest and took some deep breaths. “I need a plan.”

Not for the first time, Troy was very glad it wasn’t his job to manage the team’s social media accounts. Harris looked at Troy.

“You don’t seem super surprised about this,” he said, eyeing Troy closely. “Look at my hand.” He held it out and let it shake, exaggeratedly. “Look at this.” 

Troy smiled, grabbed his hand, still thinking of Ilya, outed without his permission, and Shane …

“I thought maybe … Ilya came out to me. A while back.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. Bi. And like … he said he was with someone and couldn’t come out publicly. And I just thought, I think I asked him about Hollander at one point and he shut me down and I thought—since they have those camps …”

“Oh my god. You didn’t tell me. No,” Harris said, before Troy could protest, “I’m glad you didn’t. Theoretically. You’re such a good person. I love you. But wow.”

They sat together on the couch.

“This is terrible,” said Harris. And Troy agreed.

***

In the year before Shane Hollander officially becomes a Centaur, Troy Barrett’s life changes a lot, in the best ways. Ways that he wasn’t even able to imagine when he was transferred from Toronto and joined the Ottawa team. 

By the time it all goes down—Shane and Ilya being outed; Ilya announcing their engagement, inviting them all to a summer wedding—by the time those two are about to be married, Troy’s life is strangely … settled. And happy. It’s a turnaround that he’s still processing, as he gets ready to watch his captain marry the guy who is (presumably) the love of his life. 

The thing is that Troy knows he does, in fact, owe Ilya Rozanov quite a bit. He might have gotten himself together without Ilya’s presence (on the team, in his life), but … would he be out, and happy—would he be with the world’s sweetest, sexiest guy—living with him, enjoying dog walks and craft cider? While playing great hockey with the best group of guys he can imagine? He would like to believe the answer to those questions is yes. He’s not entirely sure.

So anyway, the MLH’s big gay wedding, the first of its kind (hopefully not the last), is an event that Troy will definitely be attending. He anticipates it with a jumpy combination of excitement and nerves. Nothing fancy, Ilya says. It’ll be small. But it’s his first gay wedding, and it’s two professional hockey players, one of whom is the captain of his actual team. And he gets to be a guest and watch it happen with his boyfriend, who is about to be living with him, in a beautiful house in Ottawa. Fucking Ottawa.

***

Troy meets Shane—off the ice—twice before the actual date.

The first time is in May, after Ottawa and Montreal are both out of the playoffs, several weeks after Troy had watched Hollander trip during their game.

He’s bringing Harris a latte and walks into the Cens’ social media office on autopilot, holding two cups of coffee. He startles when he comes face to face with Ilya and Shane.

“Hey, babe!” Harris beams at him.

“Oh, hi,” says Troy. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had a … meeting.” He looks at Ilya, who is also beaming. 

“Troy,” says Ilya. “You have met my fiancé Shane during games, yes? But maybe not officially.”

“Uh, no,” Troy moves closer and extends his hand to Shane. “Great to see you. I’m excited about coaching with you guys this summer.” He thinks it’s the exact same thing he’d said the last time they’d spoken, but whatever.

Shane stands to shake his hand, giving him a small smile and keeping his gaze somewhere slightly behind Troy’s shoulder. He’s wearing a light-colored linen button-down shirt and jeans. His hair is a little longer than Troy remembers, tucked behind his ears. 

“It’s great to see you, too,” he says. Damn, he really is beautiful up close. His eyes are sparkly and his skin is all … glowy. 

Ilya is looking back and forth between them like this is the best part of his day, or possibly his month. Shane sits back down.

“We were just talking through some planning for online stuff,” Harris tells him. “I might put up some posts about these guys, but we aren’t sure yet when or what, exactly …”

Ilya reaches over and squeezes Shane’s shoulder. Shane’s eyes cut to Troy and away, quickly.  

“Hollander is nervous,” he says. “Doesn’t want to post pictures of us planning our wedding.”

Shane rolls his eyes. He leans forward a little in his chair. 

“I just don’t think the internet wants to see your texts to my mom about whether or not we can have waffles at the party afterward. And other than the food, I’m not sure what else there is to plan.” His tone is sort of flat and Troy wonders if he’s actually annoyed. Ilya just laughs. Troy isn’t sure he’s ever seen him look precisely this … happy.

“Also,” Shane adds. “We’re still—I’m still dealing with stuff, like, with my team, and everything.” He keeps his eyes forward.

“We don’t need to post anything,” Harris offers. “I know you’d rather stay offline, mostly. I thought it might be nice to put up a photo now and again. But it’s up to you, of course.”

Shane shoots him a grateful look. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks. Not right now, then.”

“No problem,” Harris says easily. Ilya is locked in on Shane, now, his face serious. Shane turns his head to look at him, his mouth quirking.

Troy puts the latte down on the desk and Harris grabs his hand, winking at him and giving him another smile. “Thanks for this.”

“I’m gonna head out,” Troy says, and he only hesitates for a moment before leaning down to kiss Harris quickly. He feels two sets of eyes on them as he turns and moves towards the door. “Nice to see you guys.”

“You too.”

“Bye, Barrett! Say hi to Chiron for me.”

“See you, Roz.”

***

The second time Troy meets Shane, Ilya brings him to a team barbecue at Zane Boodram’s house.

It’s late June, and it’s a beautiful night. There’s a lot to look forward to, this summer. Troy and Harris talk about it on the way over.

“Ilya’s bringing Shane,” Harris says. “I asked him.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s cool. I guess we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of the two of them now.” He’s looking forward to it, honestly. Ilya never used to be around on off days, and was barely present at team get-togethers. Troy hadn’t put much energy into wondering why, he’d been too busy dealing with his own shit. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had spent a little more time asking Ilya questions. Checking on him, or something. 

“I bet,” Harris responds. “Do you think …”

“What?”

“I feel like—there are rumors … people are whispering.” Troy looks over at him, sees Harris’s cheeks turning pink.

“Whispering? About what?”

“Um, maybe that Shane Hollander might be … coming to Ottawa. To play.”

“Holy shit, really?”

“I don’t know,” Harris says hurriedly. “I don’t know anything. It’s just floating around. I haven’t asked.”

“Oh my god. Harris.”

“I know!”

“That would be fucking unreal.”

“I know.”

“We’ll know soon, if it’s happening,” Troy says. He looks out the window and watches the city roll by.

“Yeah, probably within the next few weeks.”

“Wow.”

“Ilya would be so happy,” Harris says. Troy is a little embarrassed that this wasn't his first thought, because yes. Ilya would be so happy. At least, he assumes so. He knows he would be happy if his husband was signed to his team.

Damn. The Centaurs could really be, like … unstoppable.

“I don’t think Montreal has been great about all this,” Harris adds. “About them.”

Troy doesn’t know where his boyfriend gets his information, but he’s happy to be on the receiving end of it. 

“You never met him before, right? Not until pretty recently?” Troy knows exactly how horrible a homophobic locker room is. He remembers their last game against Montreal, Shane tripping, Harris showing him the internet’s response. Ilya tense with unspoken rage—mostly unspoken—whenever someone brought it up.

“Right,” says Harris. “I heard he was gay, though. A while back.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Anyway, it’s gonna be an interesting few weeks.”

Troy reaches over and takes his hand.

“It will be. I’m so glad I met you.” Harris looks at him with a sweet smile.

“Otherwise I’d never get any good gossip,” Troy adds.

“I love you too, buddy.” 

***

When they arrive at Bood’s house, the gathering is in full swing. The smells of grilled meat, smoke, and spices float in from behind the house, where most of the team has gathered. Troy looks around, hoping to find Ilya and Shane already there. Maybe it’s a little weird, but he’s fucking curious about them. He wants to see what it’s like: their captain and his boyfriend, socializing.

Ilya walks in a few minutes after he and Harris arrive, Shane trailing behind him by just a couple of steps, with a friendly-but-not-that-friendly expression on his face. Ilya is himself, saying hello to everyone, introducing Shane, grabbing beers from the fridge, ushering him outside with a hand on his back to sit with a small group that has congregated around the grill. They claim a couple of Adirondack chairs, side by side. 
 
Shane is quiet. He responds to questions, chimes in occasionally—he smiles a few times, but other than that, he is quiet. He sits next to Ilya, who looks like someone has attached helium balloons to his body. He leans forward in his chair, gesturing as he tells stories about the team, or his dog, or his old team, or his old city. His hand lands on Shane’s leg and then pulls back. He bounces up to get a plate of food and Troy watches him reach down to pull Shane up. Instead of taking his hand, Shane pushes himself up off the chair arms and follows him inside. 

Troy takes a deep breath and looks at Harris, sitting next to him. He looks down at Harris’s hand, resting on his own thigh. Troy grabs it and laces their fingers together, feeling the heat of Harris’s palm against his own.

Wyatt is sitting on his other side. They make eye contact and Wyatt laughs. 

“Roz is excited,” he says. “I would be too. Seems like he’s been waiting for this for a long time.”

None of them know exactly how long.

In a minute Ilya is back, Shane on his heels. Hollander looks a little tense, but he sits back down, puts his plate on his knees. They talk about their upcoming summer. Wyatt and his wife have a trip planned to visit his sister and her family. Troy and Harris are closing on their new house soon, and Ilya peppers them with questions about it. 

The conversation turns to the wedding, which is happening in just a few weeks, and really, the grooms seem extremely chill about it.

“You guys doing live music?” Bood has joined them.

“No, no,” says Ilya. “Just a speaker. Playlist. I will make it good. Shane does not know any music.”

Shane huffs a little, reaches over to snag the sleeve of Ilya’s sweater and tug on it. He puts his plate down. “This was really delicious,” he tells Bood. “Thanks for having us.”

“Of course, man. We’ve been looking forward to it. We do this pretty regularly. And now we’ll get to see Roz more, too.”  

“Yes, is the best part, for you all,” Ilya says seriously. “You will see much more of me.”

Harris laughs, familiar and loud. Shane just smiles and rolls his eyes in Ilya’s direction.

The two of them say their goodbyes after another hour or so. The rest of the group is still sitting around the fire, for the most part, sipping drinks and shooting the shit. Troy goes in to use the bathroom and when he starts to open the door to head back outside, he hears quiet voices in the hall. Shane is putting his sweatshirt on, Ilya is patting his pocket for car keys, tugging gently at Shane’s hoodie strings. Troy overhears a snippet of conversation, not meant for him—and finds himself frozen for a moment, the bathroom door open just a few inches.

“Is that okay,” Shane is murmuring. “I’m just—do you think it’s okay if we go?”

“Of course it’s okay.” Ilya is equally quiet. “But it’s good here, yes? It was good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it was. I want … I want to do this again. But—”

“Is okay, moya lyubov. We can go home now.”

Troy waits until they’ve moved away, towards the front door, before he heads back outside. His heart is pounding a little, which is weird, so he does what he always wants to do when that happens and goes straight for Harris, squishing in next to him in his seat and hooking an arm around his shoulders.

***

July, 2021

The news hits the internet and the group chat at the same time, but Troy already knows. They’ve been talking about it under their breaths to each other for a few weeks, not entirely sure what the status is.

Luca sends a link from @MLHInsider to the group and Troy grabs his phone at the same time as Harris is composing his own post for the team’s account.

***
The wedding is in their backyard. Troy has been to this house before, a couple of times. It looks different today. He and Harris walk through the living room and see photos of Shane and Ilya, framed, on the wall and propped on surfaces. He looks at a photo of them, facing off, in all their gear, laughing.

They are so young. He can tell by the roundness in their cheeks, the way they’re laughing and not meeting each others’ eyes. They’re kids.

“What year was this?” Harris wonders out loud. Troy shakes his head. He looks at some of the other photos, sees one of the two of them side by side with their backs to a lake. Much older, but still a few years ago, Troy thinks.

“How long do you think they’ve been together?” Harris whispers in his ear. Troy squeezes his arm and shakes his head again. 

They move slowly through the room, trying to absorb it. Troy thinks of the Drover home, where a framed photo of him with Harris and Chiron is already up on one of the walls.

Just because there’s a photo of Ilya and Shane from some ad campaign when they were teenagers doesn’t mean they’ve been together since then. But … then when? Harris keeps exclaiming softly, things like “Oh wow, look how cute they are!” and “When do you think this was taken?” 

Troy smiles at him and grabs his hand. “I don’t know,” he says. Harris snorts softly.

“Maybe they’ll tell us some day.”    

They move outside and help themselves to drinks, find their team, and stand together in small groups, waiting. The day is warming up, and it’s a little muggy out, but the sky is a vivid blue and there’s a warm breeze that gusts against them gently.

Soon they’re watching Ilya and Shane stand together, listening to them repeat their vows, and Harris is sniffling quietly. Troy slides his arm around his boyfriend’s waist and tries not to cry himself—it turns out a gay wedding hits pretty hard, especially when it’s someone you know, someone who has hidden himself for so long, and now he’s crying and married and grabbing his husband for a kiss.

He watches Ilya raise their joined hands and say, “We are married!” Shane looks stunned.

Troy whoops along with everyone else, clapping, smiling hard enough to feel an ache in his cheeks.

The newlyweds rejoin the group a little while later, and he approaches them, holding out his hand to shake Ilya’s, getting pulled in for a hug. His nose gets squished against Ilya’s shoulder briefly. 

“Congratulations,” he says, feeling his eyes burn just a little. “I’m really happy for you both.”

Ilya lets him go and looks him in the eye. “Thank you,” he says, a huge smile on his face. Ilya turns to Shane, and Troy does too, holding out his hand.

“So happy for you, Shane,” he says, and Shane shakes his hand, smiling back. 

“Thank you!” Troy suddenly isn’t sure he’s ever seen him look, like, actually happy, until today. Shane grabs his husband's hand and slings Ilya’s arm around his own shoulders, sliding his hand under Ilya’s jacket, around his waist, pulling him close and grinning into his face. 

It makes Troy turn his head, looking for Harris, who is across the the yard talking to Yuna Hollander. As he moves off towards them, Shane and Ilya don’t notice him go. Ilya has a hand on Shane’s cheek and Shane is saying something quietly, laughing, his arms still around Ilya’s waist.  

***

September, 2021

***

Troy gets there before Ilya and Shane, on Shane’s first day. There’s a low level of vibrating excitement in the locker room. It hasn’t been that long since Troy himself was the newest member of the team, and he feels a pang of sympathy for Shane. This is a great team. A welcoming, friendly, amazing team. And still.

He starts to get changed, slowly, and turns to look when Ilya walks in, Shane close behind. Seeing the Shane Hollander in their locker room is a bit of a mind-fuck. He looks … like the rest of them. Carrying his shit, ready for hockey. His shoulders are square and tight.

His teammates are watching, smiling, greeting Ilya, and generally trying to not appear overly excited.

“Everyone,” says their captain, loud enough to get their attention. “This is Shane. As you all know.” He looks like he wants to say more, but glances at Shane and smiles, snapping his mouth shut. 

And that’s it. Shane gets his gear on, and Ilya pulls off his shirt to change too, right next to him. 

Wyatt goes over to Shane and claps him on the shoulder.

“Welcome to the team,” he says. 

“Thank you,” says Shane steadily. “I’m really glad to be here.”

“We’re glad to have you!” calls Zane. “The power play is going to be fucking insane, dude!”

Ilya laughs. “Yes,” he says, and reaches out to Shane, puts a hand on the small of his back, leaves it there for a moment. “Fucking insane.” 

Shane gives Ilya a look Troy can’t read and turns, sitting down on the bench to lace up his skates.

***

They work their way through training camp. Troy is put on a line with Ilya and he feels the sharpness coming back, the chemistry from last season that’s right under the surface. He’s put on a line with Shane and he gets a taste of what his career might feel like in the coming years—because on the ice, Shane is, in fact, slightly insane. In the intense, quiet way Troy expects, from watching him play over the years—but it’s different, feeling the energy of it, the way Shane passes the puck and it zings perfectly into the cradle of Troy’s stick, the way he seems to know exactly where Troy will be before Troy even knows himself. 

He watches Ilya and Shane together, on the ice, in the gym. Ilya floats around Shane, present but not too close, talking hockey, occasionally saying something under his breath that makes Shane soften, helps his shoulders drop.  Shane brings Ilya smoothies before practice. They practice faceoffs and it’s electric. Neither of them gives each other an inch.

Two and a half weeks in, they're all exhausted. The regular season is about to start, and Troy is using all of his free time to rest, icing his sore muscles—it doesn’t really help, but they’re almost done, and at least it’s later in the afternoon now, and he gets to go home to Harris pretty soon.

He heads to the lounge to collapse on a couch for their brief break between practice and the next video meeting. He pushes open the door, planning to check the fridge and grab a snack, and feels a tiny jolt of surprise when he sees Ilya and Shane on one of the deep couches against the wall, facing the television, which is turned down low. The room is otherwise empty.

Shane is stretched out, his head on Ilya’s lap, eyes closed, totally still. Asleep, maybe? Ilya’s head is tipped back against the couch and one hand is on Shane’s chest, fingers on his collarbone. He’s looking down at Shane’s face, murmuring something inaudible. Troy pauses, wishing for a second that he could silently retreat.

But when the two of them hear the door, Shane turns. His eyes open immediately, and he lifts his head.

“Hey,” says Troy, moving to the kitchenette area. “I’m hungry, again. Just going to grab something before the meeting at three-thirty. Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt. I know we could all use a nap.”

“You’re not. You’re not interrupting,” Shane responds quickly and he sits up, putting space between them, rubbing his eyes. Ilya reaches over to squeeze Shane’s knee, fast, then stands. 

“Almost time for the meeting, yes? I’m going to have something too. What do you want, Hollander? Chocolate milk?”  

Shane wrinkles his nose and watches Ilya move to the fridge.

“That stuff is …” he catches himself, seeing Troy has grabbed a carton and is starting to open it. “No thanks. Cottage cheese, maybe?”    

“Ugh. Okay.” Ilya grabs the little container and tosses it to him. “Here you go. Enjoy.” He winks at Troy and grabs himself a milk.

***

After their home opener in Ottawa, the team gets ready to travel to Winnipeg for their first road trip of the season. They’re set to go to Minneapolis after that, followed by St. Louis, and then Nashville. 

The team vibe isn’t really all that different with Shane there, the guys are friendly, they try to include him, give him shit sometimes, but … well, he’s Shane Hollander. And they don’t really know him yet, so nobody really tries to give him all that much shit. They’re all paying attention though, and a lot of the time it doesn’t even really seem like he and Ilya are married. Or together. Or anything at all except teammates.

Except for the way Ilya is, now, which is not the same as how he was before the FanMail video.

Sometimes Troy has brief flashes of memory from the last year, conversations they’d had, moments. Ilya declining invitations. Not present for barbecues, or birthdays. Or Ilya, with them, present, and alone. Arriving by himself, leaving by himself. Bringing Troy to the Kingfisher and somehow becoming the first person Troy came out to. Hearing Ilya say, during the same conversation: I have not ever said I was straight.

The way Ilya would pull into himself sometimes, answering his teammates with one-word answers, or with a joke that seemed designed to push them in a different direction, away from him. So they wouldn’t look too hard. So they wouldn’t notice, maybe, that he was not really … okay.

This Ilya, the one who is married to Shane, who lives with him in the house he bought in Shane’s hometown, who plays on the same team as his husband, is different. Still loud, shit-talking, teasing everyone, but this Ilya has shoulders that move more easily. A wider smile that appears more often, a quicker laugh.

“Ilya asked me to send him photos of them,” Harris tells him the evening before the team is set to leave, while they’re cleaning up after dinner. “Of him and Shane.” 

“You mean like ones you’ve taken for the team socials?” Troy is surprised. He knows how Ilya is, he has never minded the camera, but so far Shane seems very private. 

“Not even just for that but like, in general? He just said the other day that if I take any, he wants me to send them to him. Even if I never post them. I think he …” Harris pauses. “This is so sad. I think maybe they don’t have that many photos together.” 

Well, fuck. That really is sad. 

Troy thinks back to the framed photos at their wedding. 

“I’m not sure Shane wants me to take a bunch, though,” Harris adds. “You’ve seen the posts. I’ve done a few, but not many. I’m trying to be respectful of his space, you know? It’s been so crazy for them.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t seem super into the social media thing,” Troy says.

Shane has been nothing but kind and respectful to Harris, as far as he knows, but he was stiff and mostly awkward when they tried for a photo shoot with him and Ilya. Troy knows this because Harris told him about it - how Ilya got Shane to loosen up, eventually, but it took awhile; how Shane didn’t seem to want to touch Ilya in front of anyone else, much less while an iPhone camera was pointed at them. 

“He’s not,” says Harris. “Not into it. It’s fine, I get it.” 

“Yeah, me too. Remember the first time you took photos of me?” 

“Oh, buddy, I sure do.” Harris laughs. “I still have all those photos. Want to look at them? You looked like you were just figuring out how to perform a human smile for the first time.”

“Uh, no. No, thank you.” Troy laughs, too, and moves to Harris, sliding his arms around his waist, leaning in to kiss his neck. He always smells so good. Still. “I’m gonna miss you this week.”

“Hang on,” says Harris, a little breathless. “I’m holding dinner plates right now. Let me put these down.”

***

Their early flight to Winnipeg is smooth. Troy ends up sitting with Luca, trying to nap, listening to music and watching Ilya and Shane in the seats in front of them. Shane doesn’t seem to listen to music, but he pulls up his iPad and puts a movie on. Ilya talks to him quietly and ends up asleep on Shane’s shoulder. Troy watches Shane lean his cheek against Ilya’s forehead.

It’s an afternoon game, so they head straight to the arena. 

It’s their first away game of the season, this season: the first season the Centaurs have Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander, and Ilya is buzzing. He gives them his pre-game speech, and Troy can hear his excitement, maybe even more today than he had at their first home game. Ilya avoids looking at Shane, mostly, who stands next to Troy and observes it all closely. Troy elbows him gently. 

“He gives a good pep talk, right?” He offers Shane a smile. He can’t tell if it’s nerves or what, but Shane seems a little more tightly wound tonight. Not that Troy would really know, it’s only been a few weeks, but he is starting to read their new guy a little bit better. 

“Yeah. He is.” Shane pauses. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Troy snorts. “Oh, I won’t. You and me on the first line tonight.”

“Yup.” Shane tips his head.

“Let’s fucking get it, Hollander.”

***

It happens quickly, like it always does. In the second period—one second Ilya is racing away from the face off with the puck, Luca to his right, and Troy can practically see the line between them, the invisible tightrope on the ice where the puck will fly, he can see the play before it happens. 

The next second, Ilya is checked hard—too hard, maybe—by a Winnipeg d-man, his body twisting at an awkward angle, and then he is flat on the ice, still.

He’s only still for a few moments, Troy thinks. Then he's moving, trying to sit up. Troy is next to Shane on the bench and hears his breathless “fuck, oh my god,” sees him lurch forward to grab the boards, like his body is moving without his permission.

“Oh, shit,” Troy mutters.

Bood is there, Luca is moving towards him, too. Troy stands up, leans forward next to Shane, straining to hear. 

“Roz, stay down—” Bood is crouching down next to Ilya. “You okay?”

“Uhh,” Ilya says. His head comes up a bit off the ice, he tries to push up on his elbows. Is he saying something else? Troy can’t hear.

Shane is practically vibrating next to Troy on the bench.  

“Is he—did you see—”

“Hold on,” Troy says, tense. “Give him a second.”

Ilya is not standing up on his own, and Bood looks around, puts a hand on his chest, keeps him from moving too much. In another few moments the medical team is on the ice, coming towards him quickly.

“Fuck this,” Shane mutters, pulling his helmet off. He hops the boards, skating quickly over to where Ilya is now flat on his back, still trying to push up on his elbows, looking down at his legs.

Bood throws an arm out, keeping Shane from Ilya, saying “Wait, man, let him get checked over, he was down for a second—”

Shane pushes him away, bending over his husband. Troy hears him say something low in Russian before the medics are there, clearing the space around Ilya, talking to him, holding his head still.

Troy lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he sees them start to carefully remove Ilya’s helmet. No neck injury, then. They seem to be focused on his knee, and he can see even from the bench that Ilya is pale, his face clenched. Shane stands nearby, still talking, his eyes going from Ilya’s face to his knee to the medics and back again. He’s keeping his distance, sort of, a few feet in between him and the team, but he shakes his head when the medics say something and gesture him away.

Then they’re carefully helping Roz up and off the ice, and there is definitely something wrong with his knee, because he is using both medics, one arm around each, barely putting weight on his right leg.

He’s still talking to Shane. Troy hears Russian and “is okay, Hollander, go back to the bench, I am okay, they’ll check me over, finish the game.” 

Shane is motionless for a moment, standing there on the ice, watching them leave, eyes on Ilya’s back as he exits into the tunnel. Then he skates slowly back to their bench, to Troy, sits down next to him again, and runs his hands through his hair. 

“What did they say?” Troy asks. “His knee? Head?”

“They’re going to—gonna check it out. Imaging, probably. Fuck. And his head, too. Maybe at the hospital.” Shane’s face is tight. “I really …”

“Mick and Shayna got him,” Troy says, trying to be reassuring. “They’ll make sure he gets what he needs. And he was only out for a couple seconds, right?”

“I don’t know,” says Shane quietly. “Yeah. I think so. Um. It was, right? Only a couple seconds.”

“Yeah, that’s what I saw.”

“I need to … go with him,” Shane says, and Troy can’t see him doing it, can’t see Hollander leaving mid-game, but maybe—and then “Fuck. I can’t.” Shane turns and is about to say something else when their coach comes over to them. 

The game is starting back up again and Shane needs to get out on the ice.

“You’re up,” Wiebe says to him, not without sympathy. “Ilya’s probably going to the hospital. I’m gonna get updates from the team, okay? I’ll let you know.”

Shane looks at him blankly for a second. Troy nudges him with an elbow.

“Okay,” Shane says. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you.”

They lose the game 3-4, which isn’t bad considering they’re down one of their star centers and the other one is mostly checked out. Shane is already showered and changed and buried in his phone when their coach comes into the locker room and gestures for him. He steps away to talk to Wiebe, eyes still bouncing to his phone. The rest of the team can’t hear what they’re saying, but Shane’s shoulders tense, rising towards his ears as he nods, responding, sliding his phone into his bag.

“Get some rest tonight, guys,” Coach calls to the rest of the team, who are standing in relative quiet, packing up their gear. “Early flight tomorrow. Ilya’s at the hospital, concussion protocol and knee injury—he’s going to be staying the night, they’re waiting for some imaging. We’ll get some updates soon, I’m sure.”  

“So he won’t be traveling on with us, right?” Wyatt calls, naming the thing they’re all thinking. Shane isn’t looking at any of them.

“Seems unlikely,” Wiebe says. “We’ll talk more about it tomorrow after we know for sure. Let’s head back to the hotel for now.”

***

Shane doesn’t join them on the bus, and Troy sits with Wyatt for the short ride back, looking out at the dark evening. 

He pulls out his phone to text Harris.

“Did Shane go to the hospital?” he hears Wyatt ask.

“I don’t know,” Troy responds. “Probably, right?”

“Yeah, probably. Maybe we can go tomorrow morning before we fly out … if Ilya’s still there.”

It’s a good idea.

“I can text him,” he offers. “Shane, I mean. Or Roz, but probably Shane, right? I’ll ask him about it.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” says Wyatt. “Shit.”

***

Troy texts Shane about an hour later.

He waits, turning his attention back to the television. He’s considering FaceTiming Harris when his phone buzzes.

This is way more info than Troy was expecting tonight, from Shane.

Troy wonders if he should offer to pack up their shit and bring it all to the hospital. Would that be weird? He tries to imagine someone else doing it for him. Probably weird, but still.

He waits for a response and starts to feel awkward. He’s about to text Harris about it when his phone vibrates.

Troy wants to ask how long Ilya will be in the hospital, but he doubts Shane knows exactly. He looks at the time and wonders if Harris is still up. 

***

The team is subdued at breakfast. After they eat, Troy, Wyatt, and Bood peel off and share an Uber to the hospital. They get there before the sun is even fully up—their flight out is at ten. It’s chilly outside, but clear. The sky is starting to lighten as they make their way into the hospital lobby.

It’s just a few minutes of waiting before a staff person comes to tell them they can go see Ilya.

Troy opens the door to find him sitting in a hospital chair, right leg extended, a brace on his knee. There’s a pair of crutches propped up near him, and a reclining chair extended into some sort of cot next to the hospital bed. Shane is sitting on a rolling stool pushed up next to Ilya, his arms folded and draped over the arm of Ilya’s chair. His head is down, resting against his forearms. Ilya’s hand is carding gently through Shane’s hair. He still looks pale, and tired, but he smiles at them as they move into the room. Shane’s head pops up. He doesn’t smile.

“Morning.” 

Troy feels a little awkward. “Hey man, how are you feeling?”

Ilya lifts his arm and waves it back and forth, a so-so gesture that Troy takes to mean he’s not great. 

“I am fine. Will be fine, annoying knee thing. Sorry about the game. I hear you could not win without me.”

“Ilya …” Shane also looks tired, shadows under his eyes. Troy sees their travel bags on the floor in the corner of the room.

“How’s the knee?” Wyatt asks. “You in pain?”

“Ehhh, not so bad.” Shane gives a quick shake of his head. Disagreeing. “They say a few weeks, I should be back.” He leans his head against the back of the chair, closes his eyes, and Shane stands up quickly, puts his fingers gently on Ilya’s head, into his hair.

“The nurse said you could have your medication,” Shane murmurs quietly. “You want it now?” Ilya opens his eyes and smiles up at Shane, his face as soft as Troy has ever seen it. 

“Pills,” he says, and it’s clearly directed at them, rather than Shane. “They are giving me lots.”

“It’s not lots. You need pain control to be able to get up and move. You heard what they said.” His words are firm, but Shane’s voice is gentle, the hand that’s not in Ilya’s hair coming up to touch his ear, his cheek, where a small bruise colors a spot near the corner of his eye. 

“Okay,” Ilya says, closing his eyes again but still smiling a little. “Okay. Yes, dorogoy. I would like it now.” Shane leans down and puts his mouth on Ilya’s forehead, not even a kiss, really, but a quick press of his lips that makes Troy feel like he’s intruding. Shane reaches for a button attached to a long cord, and pushes it once. A tinny voice comes through an intercom somewhere.

“Can I help you?”

“Can you ask Sandy to bring Ilya’s pain meds, please?” Shane says into the room.

“No problem.”

Wyatt clears his throat. “We should let you rest.”

Ilya lifts his head, eyes open again. “I will rest soon when you are all going to the airport. Anybody else out there who wants to say hi?”

“I think, um,” Shane interjects. “Maybe we should skip it—we had kind of a busy night.” Ilya lifts a hand and puts it on Shane’s arm, squeezes.

“Is okay, Hollander.”

“I know, but seriously, you were up every hour or two and the MRI took forever—”

“It’s just us,” Bood says quickly. Shane is clearly relieved. “The rest of the guys will meet us at the airport. How did the imaging look?”

“It was okay,” Shane tells them, eyes still on Ilya’s face. “MCL sprain. They said grade two.  And a mild concussion, nothing else.” 

“That’s good,” offers Troy. None of it is good, really, but, well. 

“Could have been worse,” Ilya declares. 

“Right.” 

“You, um … you flying out with us, Hollander?” Troy is grateful Bood is the one to ask.

Shane is silent for a beat. The hand on Ilya’s head moves to his shoulder and then down his arm. 

“Yeah,” is all he says, jaw clenching. “Yeah, I am.”

A flicker of something passes between the two of them, and Ilya winks at Shane. 

“Need to go win in Minneapolis,” he says, adding something in Russian that makes Shane smile just a little, tightly, one side of his mouth lifting. Ilya pulls Shane’s hand up and smacks a kiss onto it, and Shane smiles a little more. Troy lets his eyes bounce around the hospital room, feeling a flash of confusion about whether or not they should have come here, this morning.

The door opens and a nurse comes in, pushing a rolling cart with a computer. 

“You ready for your pain medication, Mr. Rozanov?” she asks cheerfully. “I’ve got the ibuprofen and Tylenol for you. I also have your home prescription here, actually. In a little while maybe we’ll take you for a little walk in the hall.”

Ilya sighs. “Always trying to get me to take a walk,” he says. “But yes, medication, please.” 

Troy peeks at his watch while the nurse doles out the pills, checks the brace, then goes to get a fresh ice pack.

They actually need to leave pretty soon.

Shane catches the movement and gives him a tiny nod. 

“Okay, uh, guys—I’m gonna pack up my stuff and then I’ll join you downstairs. You going to order a ride?”

“Yeah, it’s—”

“Okay, yeah. I’ll meet you down there. Just a couple of minutes.” 

Shane threads his fingers back into Ilya’s hair, looking like he wants to grab on and never let go. Troy understands they’ve been asked to leave, so they do, squeezing Ilya’s shoulder and telling him they’ll see him soon. He glances back as the door starts to swing shut, and sees Shane bend over to tuck his face into Ilya’s shoulder, sees Ilya’s arm come up to wrap around him. Troy catches Wyatt’s eye as they turn to move back down the hallway.

***

Ilya has missed games over the last year, but Troy can’t remember another roadie where they didn’t have him present, at least. 

It’s quieter. Bood knows what he’s doing, he knows how to pump them up before games, talk them down afterwards when he needs to. They win in Minneapolis and then they fly on to St. Louis. 

St. Louis is a slog. Shane looks tighter than Troy has seen him and when he returns to the bench after his shift and sits, he is clearly tired. It’s been three days since they left Ilya in Winnipeg. It feels longer.

“We got this,” Troy tries, but really, he hasn’t had that many one-on-one conversations with Hollander, and it feels slightly foolish to be offering encouragement to this particular guy. But everybody needs it sometimes, right? And they’re teammates now.

“Yeah,” Shane replies, leaning forward on his knees to catch his breath. “Thanks.”

There’s not really anything else any of them can do, other than try to check in. Troy hears Bood ask Shane about Ilya when they’re getting changed after the loss.

“Oh, uhh, yeah. He’ll probably need the crutches for like another week. Starting PT next week, too.”

“Roz has gotta be going fucking stir-crazy, right?” Nick calls out. “You’re probably glad you’re not there for that!”

Shane doesn’t respond, but his eyes cut to Troy with a look that he thinks means is this guy for fucking real. Troy shakes his head quickly in agreement. He has a hard time imagining what kind of hockey he’d be playing right now if Harris was at home, on crutches, with a concussion.

On the flight to Nashville, they end up sitting together. Troy pulls out his phone to switch it to airplane mode, thumbing to his texts with Harris, and types “About to take off. Call you later.” The stewardess is saying something to them. He tunes it out.

Shane is looking at his own phone, not typing anything. He glances over at Troy and smiles a little. “Ilya’s not supposed to look at screens,” he offers. “So I’m not texting him much, but …” he holds out his phone for Troy to see a long string of incoming messages. Troy lets his eyes skim over them.

There are more, but Troy doesn’t catch the rest, and he has to laugh. “Oh man, he’s not a great patient, huh?”

Shane’s eyes crinkle a little bit when he smiles again. “Not really, no.” He types something short in response and sends it, closing the phone and putting it down in his lap. The wrinkle in between his eyebrows appears again. His phone buzzes with an incoming call and he flips it so the screen is up. Troy sees Ilya’s name and a photo of him with Anya. They’re both smiling.

Shane puts the phone to his ear and turns as far as he can away from Troy, leaning towards the window. “Hey. We’re about to take off.”

Troy can hear the low murmur of Ilya’s voice and tries not to eavesdrop. He pulls his earbuds out of his backpack.

“I know,” Shane is saying quietly. “Yeah. Okay. It’s for inflammation, too, not just—”

The flight attendant is back on the PA system, asking them to turn off all devices.

“Ilya, I have to go—yeah. Call you when we’re at the hotel. Okay … me too.” He says something in Russian, quick and low, before he ends the call and puts his phone away. He glances over at Troy again.

“My mom’s staying at our place. Until I get back.”

“Oh, that’s good. Nice they live so close.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “I’m glad, I’m not sure what we would have done—well, he can move around a little better now, but the knee is still painful.”

“He’ll be glad when you’re back.”

“Yeah. He loves my mom, but …” Shane turns to look out the window as the plane begins to taxi away from the terminal. “Anyway, yeah, this was our first road trip together. With the team. Well, you know that.” He clears his throat. 

“Shit, yeah.”

“Anyway,” Shane says again, “it’ll be good to get home, right?”

Troy thinks of Harris and agrees.

***

Five weeks later, Bood has another barbecue, and this time, Shane walks into the house ahead of Ilya, pulling him along by the finger. The night is dark, and freezing, but it’s warm in the kitchen.

Troy and Harris are already there, grabbing drinks and deciding what to eat. 

Ilya hasn’t been back on the ice yet, but he will be very soon. He’s been at practice and at games, watching, giving them shit and shouting at them from the bench. It’ll probably be better for everyone once he can play with them again.

Troy grabs a bottle opener and pops the cap off Harris’s beer, does the same for his own.

“Ilya! Good to see you,” says Harris. “How’s the knee?”

“Oh, great,” Ilya says. “Fully recovered. Ask Shane.”

Shane’s mouth falls open and he looks at Ilya, but doesn’t let go of his hand. “Oh, please. Yes, his knee is much better now. He’s still doing some PT.” 

“You know what is great PT,” Ilya starts, and Troy hears Harris begin to laugh next to him. “Is when Shane is—“

“Oh my—god, stop,” Shane hisses, slapping his hand over Ilya’s mouth and then squeaking when Ilya sticks out his tongue to lick Shane’s palm. He pulls Shane’s hand away from his mouth. 

“Okaaaay,” says Ilya cheerfully. “Is okay, Hollander. We are among friends here. Gay friends. I would like a beer, please.”

“Okay,” says Shane, with a big sigh, turning only slightly red. “Me too, please.”

“Beer’s in the fridge,” says Troy, turning to open it. 

“And how’s your head?” Harris asks Ilya, before Troy can stop him.

Ilya bears his teeth at them and laughs, turning to Shane and tugging him in by the hand. Shane looks at him, unimpressed, but lets himself be tugged, ends up under Ilya’s arm, pushing his hand into the pocket of Ilya’s hoodie. “Great,” Ilya says. “No complaints.”

After dinner they sit around the fire pit. Troy sits next to Harris, his attention still peripherally on Ilya and Shane because … well, it’s still so new, but also—not. New for the world, he thinks. New in front of the world. He watches Shane fucking Hollander run his fingers over Ilya Rozanov’s wrist and lean against him like it’s the only place he wants to be. And Ilya’s face, lit by the flames, his eyes bright, his smile big.

It’s cold out. Their breath sends little puffs of cloud into the evening, but the fire gives off the right amount of heat. Troy is tempted to whisk Harris away, back home, with a sudden clarity that he knows won’t leave him. He feels buoyant; lifted by the permission that’s been slowly building over the last year, the permission he has claimed, the bone-deep comfort. The knowledge that he doesn’t have to hide himself. Not ever again.

But Troy left his gloves inside, and his hands are cold. And anyway, they’re not ready to leave yet. So he turns to Harris and grabs his hand, squeezing, and feels a squeeze in return.