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The fight ends, as most of their fights do: with Shane at his parents’ house and Ilya at his apartment.
It started with the same old fear: cold, creeping, and impossible to reason with. The kind that makes Shane’s chest lock up and his words come out sharper than he means them. The list of people who know about them is supposed to be small. Safe. Contained. David and Yuna Hollander. Hayden and Jackie Pike. That was it. That was manageable. That was control.
But now, apparently, there is a new name on the list: Svetlana Vetrova.
Ilya told Shane she had "figured it out" like he was commenting on the weather. Shane actually laughed at first, because it had to be a joke. It had to be.
“What?”
Ilya shrugged, already halfway into the kitchen, already done with the conversation Shane hadn’t even started processing yet. “She figured it out.”
“You—” Shane followed him, his pulse picking up. “You told her?”
“I didn’t have to tell her anything,” Ilya replied, opening the fridge like this was normal, like this was fine. “She’s not stupid.”
“That’s not the point,” Shane snapped.
Ilya shut the fridge door a little harder than necessary. “Then what is the point, Shane?”
“The point is—” Shane ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “The point is we don’t let people ‘figure it out.’ That’s the whole—that’s literally the entire system.”
“It’s not a system. Didn't Hayden just 'figure it out' too?" Ilya’s voice was flat.
“That's different and you know it! Fuck, Ilya, I am just trying to keep things from blowing up in our faces.”
Ilya leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “You think Svetlana is going to ‘blow things up’?”
“I think you don’t know that she won’t.”
“She won’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Shane repeated, louder now. “You don’t get to decide that for both of us.”
“And you don’t get to decide that we have to live like this forever,” Ilya shot back.
There it was. The real fight. It always circled back to this.
Shane felt it settle in his chest, heavy and familiar. “I’m not saying forever.”
“You always say that,” Ilya said. Not angry—worse. Tired. “It’s always ‘not forever,’ but it’s never now. I am not saying tell the whole world. Just some people."
“That’s not fair.”
“It is fair,” Ilya insisted. “You just don’t like it.”
Shane stopped pacing. “What I don’t like is you acting like this doesn’t matter.”
“I didn’t say it doesn’t matter.”
“You told someone, Ilya.”
“I didn’t tell—”
“Oh my God, you might as well have!” Shane threw his hands up. “You let it happen because you were careless! You didn’t shut it down, you didn’t deny it! What did you do, just stand there and shrug like you’re doing right now?”
“Maybe I did not tell her, but maybe I wanted her to know! Would that be so wrong? For me to have one person!" Ilya fired back.
"I can't believe you, Ilya! How could you? This is my secret, too! You're so selfish!" Shane screamed.
Shane knew he didn't mean that, but he couldn't hear his own better judgment over the ringing in his ears.
"I'm going to my parents' house." With that, Shane stalked out of Ilya's apartment, slamming the door behind him.
---
Shane didn’t sleep much.
He lay awake in his childhood bed, staring at the same faint crack in the ceiling he used to trace when he was a kid—as if following it long enough might lead somewhere else. His phone sat face down on the nightstand. Silent. Heavy. He almost called three times before he actually did.
It rang longer than he expected.
“Yeah?” Ilya answered, his voice rough with sleep, or maybe just silence.
Shane exhaled, some of the tightness in his chest loosening at the mere sound of him. “Hey.”
A pause. Not hostile. Not warm, either. Just familiar.
“Hi.”
Another pause. Shane pressed his thumb into the edge of his phone.
“You left,” Ilya said finally.
“Yeah.”
“You at your parents’?”
“Yeah.”
Ilya hummed, like that made sense. Like it always does.
Shane picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I didn’t mean to get like that.”
“Mm.”
“I shouldn’t have yelled.”
A small pause. Then, quieter: “I should not have pushed it like that.”
It wasn’t really an apology. It never was. But it was enough.
Shane nodded, even though Ilya couldn’t see it. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Ilya echoed.
The silence stretched, softer now. Shane let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh. “We’re really good at this.”
“At what?”
“Pretending we solved things.”
There was a beat. Shane half expected Ilya to push back.
“Yes,” Ilya said.
And that was somehow worse and better at the same time. Another quiet moment passed before Ilya spoke again, his tone casual, as if they had already stepped around the wreckage.
“Svetlana wants to visit.”
Shane stilled. “What?”
“She has business in Montreal on Wednesday and wants to have lunch with us.”
“Where?” Shane asked.
“I was thinking your place. It is private. I could drive up in the morning and be back before afternoon practice."
Something tight crept back into Shane’s chest. Not as sharp as last night, but present. “You already talked to her about it?”
“I said maybe. I wanted to ask you before I said yes. It is your place, after all."
Shane let out a quiet breath through his nose. “Right.”
“She already knows, Shane,” Ilya said. Not defensive, just steady. “This does not change that.”
“I know.”
A pause.
“And she is important to me.”
Shane’s grip tightens slightly on the phone. “Yeah. I got that. You threatened to marry her."
"Not my brightest moment."
Shane swung his legs over the side of the bed, staring at the floor. “It’s just weird.”
“Weird,” Ilya repeated.
“Yeah. Like she’s not just someone you mention anymore.” Shane hesitated, then kept going. “She’s someone who knows. Who’s going to be there. With us.”
“She has been there before,” Ilya said.
Shane let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I know.”
A small pause.
“Me and Sveta have not been together like that for a long time,” Ilya added.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
A faint exhale on the other end. Not quite a laugh. “It is just lunch. Three hours tops,” Ilya said.
Shane swallowed. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“…Yeah.”
“Okay,” Ilya said, softer.
“It makes more sense for me to stay here tonight and drive to Montreal first thing tomorrow,” Shane told him.
“I know. Practical."
Another pause.
“Ilya?”
“Yes?”
Shane hesitated. There was something there—something sharper, something honest. He flattened it before it could come out. “Nothing. I’ll see you next weekend.”
“…Okay.”
They hung up without saying goodbye.
---
Ilya and Shane texted sporadically the next week. Their calls were short and slightly tense. The Metros secured a win against the Raiders; Shane didn't care as much as he should have.
Shane was a mess during Wednesday's morning practice, nothing glaring, just some sloppy edges and a missed pass. Compared to the average player, he skated fine, but he wasn’t an average player. He was Shane fucking Hollander. Everyone noticed. Shane gave the excuse of a mild cold and was thankfully left alone.
The plan was for Ilya to get to the apartment around 11:00 to start making lunch, Shane would arrive at 11:30 to set up, and Svetlana would arrive at 12:00. It was a perfect plan.
Shane opened the door to his apartment to hear a laugh. A woman's laugh, followed by rapid-fire Russian. He turned into the kitchen to see Svetlana sitting on his countertop with her hands affectionately in his boyfriend’s hair. It felt like a nightmare.
For a second, Shane just stood there, keys still in his hand, practice bag hanging off his shoulder as if he’d forgotten how to set it down. Up close, she was not what he expected.
Svetlana Vetrova smiled at him like this was normal—like she hadn't just stepped into the most carefully contained part of his life and made herself comfortable on his kitchen counter.
“Hi,” Shane managed.
“You are early,” he said bluntly.
“Apologies,” Svetlana replied, clearly not sorry at all. “Flight was faster. And I was curious.”
Ilya beamed at Shane, completely unbothered by the tension. Shane dropped his keys on the counter a little harder than he meant to. “Yeah. I can see that.”
The room felt smaller. Like the walls had shifted inward while he was gone.
“I hope it is not a problem,” she continued, sliding off the counter with an easy grace. “Ilya said eleven, but I thought earlier is better than late, yes?”
“No,” Shane said finally. “It’s… fine.”
It was not fine. Svetlana stepped closer, offering her hand like this was a business meeting. “It is good to finally meet you properly.”
Shane hesitated a half-second too long before shaking it. Her grip was firm. Confident.
“You too,” he said.
Svetlana looked between them, something flickering behind her eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or confirmation.
“Hm,” she hummed softly, like she had just solved a puzzle she already knew the answer to.
Shane pulled his hand back, suddenly very aware of where Ilya was standing. Close. Familiar.
“I just got back from practice,” Shane said, needing to fill the silence. “I was gonna—uh—shower. Before… this.”
“Of course,” Svetlana said easily, already turning back toward the stove. “Take your time. Ilya has been a terrible host anyway. I had to make my own coffee.”
“I made you coffee,” Ilya protested.
“You watched me make coffee,” she corrected.
“I supervised.”
Shane let out a short breath that could almost be a laugh, except it caught halfway out. “Right,” he said. “I’ll just—”
He gestured toward the hallway and escaped.
---
The bathroom door clicked shut. Shane gripped the edge of the sink, staring at himself in the mirror.
This is fine. This is happening.
Svetlana was in his kitchen. Svetlana knew. Svetlana had her hands in Ilya’s hair like it was the most natural thing in the world. His jaw tightened. It shouldn't matter. He just didn't think it would feel like this. Like something that was his and Ilya’s was suddenly visible from the outside, and he didn't know how to hold it anymore.
There was a muffled burst of laughter from the kitchen. Ilya’s this time.
“Get it together,” he muttered. He turned on the shower harder than necessary, as if the noise might drown out the world. It didn't.
When Shane came back out, his hair still damp, the apartment smelled like actual food. Svetlana was at the stove now, sleeves rolled up. Ilya was leaning against the counter, watching her with that soft, entertained expression Shane knew too well.
Something in Shane’s chest twisted.
“There you are,” Ilya said, straightening slightly. His eyes flicked over Shane, quick and familiar. “You look better.”
“I took a shower,” Shane replied.
“Yes, I can see how that works,” Svetlana said dryly.
Shane huffs out a small breath despite himself. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured with a wooden spoon. “Come. You can set the table, at least. Make yourself useful in your own home.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You got comfortable fast.”
“I am very adaptable,” she said.
“I noticed.”
Shane moved to the cabinet, pulling out plates. It felt strange and normal at the same time—a routine with one extra person in it. Behind him, he heard Ilya shift.
“See?” Ilya said, quieter now. “This is fine.”
Shane set a plate down a little too carefully. “Yeah,” he said. “Fine.”
Shane was halfway through setting the third plate when Svetlana said something to Ilya in rapid Russian. Ilya snorts.
Shane looked up immediately. “What?”
“Nothing,” Ilya said.
Svetlana didn't hide her smile. “I said you hold a knife like a child.”
Shane blinked. “I—what?”
“She is exaggerating,” Ilya added.
“I am not,” Svetlana insisted, switching back into Russian for another quick sentence. Ilya laughed outright.
Shane set the knife down. “Okay, no. Absolutely not. You don’t get to just—” he gestured between them, “—do that.”
“Do what?” Svetlana asked innocently.
“That. The… secret language thing.”
“It is not secret,” she replied. “It is just Russian.”
“Which I don’t speak,” Shane pointed out.
“Yes,” Svetlana said, as if it were a personal failing.
Shane narrowed his eyes. “Wow.”
“What?” She tilted her head. “You have been with him how long? Months, yes? And you do not know even a little?”
“Sveta—” Ilya started.
“No, I am curious,” she cut in.
Shane crossed his arms. “I know some.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Say something.”
Shane hesitated. “I—no, I’m not doing that.”
“Because you cannot,” she said.
“I can! I just don’t feel like performing for you.”
Svetlana hummed, unconvinced. “Convenient.”
Ilya was watching this like it was the most entertaining thing he had seen all week.
“Are you seriously enjoying this?” Shane asked him.
“Yes,” Ilya said easily.
“Great. Awesome. Love that for you.”
Svetlana laughed, softer this time. “Relax, Shane Hollander. I am teasing.”
“You’re bad at it,” Shane said.
“I am excellent at it,” she corrected. “You are just sensitive.”
“I am not sensitive.”
“You are a little,” Ilya added.
Shane turned to him. “Oh my God, whose side are you on?”
Ilya shrugged. “There are sides?”
“Yes! There are very clearly sides right now.”
Svetlana pointed at herself. “I am on the correct one.”
Shane exhaled through his nose, but a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “You know, for someone who just invited herself into my apartment, you’re kind of—”
“Charming?” she supplied.
“I was gonna say rude.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Also true.”
Another quick exchange in Russian followed. Shane watched their faces instead—the way Ilya’s expression shifted, the way Svetlana’s eyes softened for a split second.
“What did you say?” Shane asked.
Svetlana looked back at him. “I said you are pretty.”
Shane blinked. “You—what?”
“Ilya disagrees,” she added lightly.
“I did not—” Ilya started.
“You hesitated,” she said.
“I was thinking of a different word.”
“Worse word,” she said.
“More accurate word.”
Shane looked between them. “Okay, cool, I hate this.”
Svetlana laughed, brighter now. “You see? Sensitive.”
“I am not—” Shane stopped, then shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
Lunch settled into a quiet lull. Ilya was the first to check the time. He squinted at his phone and exhaled. “Hm.”
“That’s not a good ‘hm,’” Shane said.
“It is fine,” Ilya replied, grabbing his bag. “I just need to leave.”
Svetlana glanced over. “Now?”
“I am cutting it close,” Ilya insisted.
“You are late,” Svetlana corrected.
Ilya pointed at her as he moved toward the door. “You are a bad influence.”
“Text me when you get there,” Shane said.
“I will this time,” Ilya replied. He looked over at Svetlana and nodded once. “I will.”
Then he was gone.
The apartment felt different. Shane stood there staring at the closed door. Behind him, Svetlana exhaled. “He really does this often? Loses track of time, then pretends it was always the plan?”
“Constantly.”
She looked at him again, sharper. “So. Now it is just us.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“Good,” she said simply. She moved back toward the kitchen. “Now we can talk properly. I like you, Shane. I did not come here to like you."
"Neither did I," Shane agreed ruefully. "I do have one question, though: why did you lie? There is no way you just happened to have a business meeting in Montreal on a Wednesday."
Svetlana smiled. "You are smart. Good. I needed to speak with you, Shane Hollander, and this seemed like the best way to do it."
A slight chill ran down Shane's spine. The energy had shifted.
“I am going to tell you a story,” she said quietly. “You need to listen carefully.”
Shane nodded. “Okay.”
“Every day, Ilya wakes up afraid,” she said. her accent more noticeable now. “Afraid of becoming his father. Afraid of looking in the mirror and seeing his brother.”
Shane stilled.
“He does not understand that he cannot become them,” she continued. “Because he has always been his mother.”
“Irina,” Shane whispered. The name felt fragile.
“Irina was a social woman,” Svetlana went on. “She had friends. A life. Then Gregori married her and took her away. Suddenly, everyone she knew became his first, and hers second. That is a problem. Because when he hurts her, when he hurts her boys, where can she go?”
Shane’s throat tightened.
“Who does she tell? The friends who belong to him? The people who will comfort her and then send her back?”
Svetlana’s gaze was unwavering. “Gregori killed her. Not quickly. Not cleanly. But he killed her.”
A beat.
“He killed her the same way you are killing Ilya.”
Shane couldn’t breathe. “I am nothing like his father,” he said, his voice breaking. “I would never hurt him.”
“You would not hit him,” Svetlana agreed evenly. “But you hurt him. You go somewhere safe. You go to your parents. Your friends. People who know you. Who does he have?”
“It’s complicated,” Shane said, the words coming faster. “We can’t just tell people. It’s dangerous.”
“Let us pretend you did hit him,” she said.
“I wouldn’t—”
“Pretend.”
Shane didn't answer.
“Who would he tell?” she pressed. “Your parents? Your friends? Where would he go? He would not leave you. You know that. He would stay, because he has nowhere else.”
Something cold twisted in Shane’s stomach.
“And if he is sad? The kind that makes you disappear slowly? Who does he tell? His new team, whom he keeps at a distance? His old teammates, whom he left without explanation?”
“I love him,” Shane said, the words small and helpless.
“I know,” Svetlana said with real softness. “I am not questioning your love. I am questioning what your love is doing to him. Living like this is killing him. And he will let you.”
Shane put his head down on the table, blocking out the light. The wood was cool against his forehead.
“That’s not simple,” he muttered. “It’s dangerous. You don’t get it—the media, the league, my parents—”
“I understand risk,” she cut in. “Better than you think. You think if you keep the circle small enough, quiet enough, nothing can touch you. And maybe you are right. But you have also made it so you are all alone. He is all alone.”
Shane shut his eyes. He saw Ilya in the kitchen, laughing, loose, easy. Rare.
“…He said he just wanted one person,” Shane whispered.
“Yes.”
“And I—I called him selfish.”
“You were afraid,” she said.
“I still am.”
“Good. That means you are not done thinking.”
Shane pressed his palms flat against the table. “I don't want to do this to him anymore."
“Let him have something that is his,” she said. “Not yours. Not controlled by you. A friend who knows. A place he can go that is not borrowed from you. A life that does not disappear when you leave the room.”
Shane nodded.
Svetlana stood up, grabbing her purse. "Goodbye, Shane Hollander. I will be in touch."
The door shut. Shane was alone. He reached for his phone before he could overthink it. He pressed call. It rang three times.
“Hey.” Ilya’s voice was a little breathless.
“Hey,” Shane said, steadying himself. “Give me a list of people you trust enough to tell."
"What?"
"A list. We can go through it and decide together." Shane added, quieter: "I don't think… I don't think I've been very fair to you."
"What did Sveta do to my Shane?" Ilya asked incredulously.
"Don't worry about it. Just… send me a list and we can talk about it, okay?"
"She can be scary. Don't let her bully you," Ilya said.
"I'm being serious, Ilya."
"Yes, okay, Shane. A list. Whatever you want."
Shane felt a wave of nausea. Whatever you want. How much of their relationship had been Ilya rolling over to accommodate him?
"I love you," Shane said, trying to put everything he couldn't say into the tone of his voice.
"I love you, too."
Shane could fix this.
Shane would fix this.
There was no other choice.