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Drapeau concluded his story with, “She’s lucky I love her,” and rolled his eyes while saying it. Shane wondered if he really did, or what difference it made, considering he’d been cheating on his wife for almost the whole time Shane had known him.
He wondered, not for the first time, if she was indeed lucky, if what Drapeau was talking about was indeed love, and if these two words even fit together—lucky, love. Was love lucky?
Listening to his teammate talk about his wife, Shane had never supposed it was.
*
Ilya was holding his eyes while he opened his McDonald’s paperbag and pulled out his disgusting breakfast sandwich. He reached back into the bag and pulled out two more, and he raised his eyebrows at Shane as if he was daring him to comment on it. By the way he was staring him down, Shane knew he wanted him to say something. It was like an itch he needed to scratch.
Or maybe it was a scab he wanted to pick at.
These days, it was hard to tell.
*
“At least you’re pretty,” Hayden told Jackie after wrapping up a cute, silly story about her, and everyone in the room hollered. The women present gasped; some, Shane assumed, genuinely, others, he equally guessed, in mock-shock, going by the expressions on their faces.
“At least you’re rich,” Jackie countered without missing a beat, and that got an even bigger reaction out of the room.
Shane scowled at nobody in particular. It was a joke, obviously, good-natured and familiar, and yet it sat in front of him like a quiz he could not figure out. He had no answer to why he didn’t find it funny; not even enough to crack a small smile. When Stedlund clapped him on the shoulder, Shane pasted on a practiced grin, and nobody cared enough to notice how fake it was.
*
“Is just a party, Hollander, relax,” Ilya said, and he sounded so much like back then when they were strangers stumbling into each other to fuck. Distant, forced. “We are ‘friends’, yes?”
Shane heard the quotes but the words felt like an elbow to the chin. “No, we’re not fucking ‘friends’, Rozanov.”
Ilya’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He stood unnaturally still, every muscle in his body pulled so tight that Shane could see it by just looking at him.
“Then what did we start the foundation for together?” he asked. Shane had to force himself not to flinch at the tone; or maybe at Ilya’s clearly willfully wrong understanding of what Shane had meant.
“Oh, fuck you,” Shane snapped back, baited, angry at himself for rising to it. “You know exactly what I meant.”
Ilya’s face looked like a mask that Shane wanted to rip off. “Do I? Sorry, my English…”
Shane gritted his teeth until his jaw hurt and refused to cede any ground.
*
“I swear, dude, her pussy is like a flood gate. And it’s as wide open,” someone—Comeau?—Gagnon?—Olsson?—said, sounding downright disgusted, despite talking about his girlfriend. “Might as well be fucking a barn gate.”
Shane made a face, though honestly, he couldn’t say if it was because he was offended on her behalf, or because of the topic of pussy. He remembered reading how it was a good sign when a vagina was…wet and loose during sex; how that meant that the woman was turned on and relaxed. Not that he had much experience with that but then again, he hadn’t really been paying attention to that, and more to just…getting it over with.
And it was this lack of experience that led him to not dwell on why his teammate would take issue with turning his girlfriend on this much.
“Fuck, man, that sucks,” someone else said, and he sounded genuinely distressed.
“Yeah.” It was followed by a deep, dejected sigh. “I love her anyway.”
Somehow, it sounded like a chore.
Maybe it was a heterosexual thing that he would just never understand.
*
“It’s the middle of the day,” Shane said flatly, staring at the bottle in front of Ilya and the glass that was filled with way too much than what was proper for a wine glass.
Ilya shrugged. “Is six PM somewhere.”
“Don’t you have a game tomorrow?” Shane didn’t need to ask; he knew. He knew Ilya had a game tomorrow.
“Yes, so?”
Shane felt a dull ache behind his eyes. This was a game they had started playing, though he wasn’t a willing participant. He wasn’t sure he could say the same about Ilya.
Well…no.
It was an unfair, unwanted thought, and as much as Shane disliked it, he couldn’t help the way it would always cross his mind first.
As much as they had hurt each other before, sometimes knowingly and sometimes simply because they didn’t know how to navigate what they were to each other, this, now, Shane was certain—or maybe he was desperate to believe it—didn’t come naturally to them.
He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know what to do.
Neither does Ilya, probably, a little voice in his head told him.
It didn’t help the situation.
“You shouldn’t be drinking before games.” He was nagging, he was acutely aware of it; he wasn’t nagging, he was responsible and disciplined and he was right— “Your performance—”
“My performance?” Ilya’s eyes were blazing suddenly. There was something on his face that Shane couldn’t read.
It was unsettling; as if he was standing in front of a stranger right now, not the man he loved with every molecule of his being; who he’d rather hug and kiss and undress right now than argue with about dumb shit. Except now it felt like there were worlds between them and Shane didn’t know how they got here.
“What about my performance? Is it not to your liking?”
Shane bit back the first comment that threatened to roll off his tongue. As frustrated as he was, he didn’t want to add another world between them.
“I’m just saying—”
“What?”
Shane winced at Ilya’s tone, anger rising like bile at the back of his throat. Ilya, for all that he was sprawled across the couch, was braced for something as well. It was all in the long lines of his body, a readiness to fight, and over what? Fucking daydrinking before a game. He knew better. Regardless of how Ilya seemed to make his play work despite his frankly outrageous intake of fast food, nicotine, alcohol, and parties, he knew better than to get wasted before a game.
He wound his frustration tight around himself so as not to say something he’d…wouldn’t be able to take back, regardless of how much he felt like wanting to say it.
With effort, Shane relaxed his shoulders and his jaw and his hands. He exhaled louder than he intended. “Nothing. Just…make sure to drink some water, too.” Softly, softly, he added, “You know that headache will be a bitch otherwise.”
Before he turned, he saw Ilya deflate. It almost would’ve been comical if Shane hadn’t felt like tearing down the wallpaper.
*
Shane was absently rubbing his left thumb across the underside of his left ring finger, right where the digit met his palm, while he half-listened to Hayden talking about one thing or another Jackie did. He smiled to himself. He’d gotten his own engagement ring and liked to slip it on whenever he could, whenever it was safe to do so. There was something incredibly satisfying running the pads of his fingers over the smooth surface or twist it around his finger. The sensation of wearing it left a ghost imprint on his skin but it was barely enough to tide him over until he could slide it on once more.
He loved wearing it. He wished he didn’t need to hide it.
Not long now. Soon.
Soon he’d be able to wear it openly. Soon he’d be able to show a wedding ring, too.
“Anyway,” Hayden was saying as Shane’s mind returned to the present moment, “Sometimes I can’t believe I love her.”
He was looking at Shane as if he was fully expecting Shane to understand.
Shane wasn’t sure he did. “You can’t believe you love her?”
Hayden nodded, and then grinned. “C’mon,” he said. “You can’t tell me there aren’t moments when you can’t believe you love, you know…”
When Shane didn’t say anything, the grin started to slip from Hayden’s face. His voice dropped to a whisper as he said, “As in, you can’t believe that you love…Lily.”
Shane watched something on Hayden’s face change and pasted on a placating smile. “Yeah,” he said quickly, quietly, nodding, as if he knew what Hayden meant. This was a conversation he didn’t want to have. Not with Hayden, not here. Not ever. “Of course.”
The words felt like he was rubbing sandpaper over his tongue until it was scraped raw.
Not since I allowed myself to love him. Not at all.
*
Shane came home feeling like an itch he’d scratched bloody. The shoot had been a fucking nightmare that had gone on for much longer than anticipated and had felt much cheaper than it had felt in the script. But he was Shane Hollander and he was a professional and he’d dealt with worse. It was just another thing to get over with and go home. It was a job. It was his brand. It was his image. It was just another thing.
An empty tub of ice cream sat on the counter on the kitchen counter, next to a basket of laundry. It was the load Shane had put into the machine this morning before he’d left. The smell was still fresh but his nose twitched with the underlying scent of stale wetness that was beginning to set in.
As he rounded the corner, he saw Anya pulling out the stuffing of one of the throw pillows that usually sat on the couch. She was shrouded in white tufts, two more pillows scattered across the floor, in shreds. She was very dramatically flapping her tongue trying to get rid of the white stuffing sticking to it. He would’ve laughed if he hadn’t felt like frustration was about to bowl him over.
Lifting his gaze, Shane also spotted an uprooted plant. Anya had dug the soil out of the pot, deep enough to leave the plant tilting to the side.
It was a mess.
Shane took a breath. Sharply, he told Anya to stop and sent her to her kennel when she looked up at him, cowed. He gathered what was left of the pillows and cleaned up, tried to salvage what was left of the soil in the pot and gave up, deciding to fill it back up tomorrow, and put the pot outside on the terrace.
Most of the laundry consisted of their gym and workout clothes, so he got the rack and put them on to air dry.
Through it all, he tried to keep his mind quiet, empty, but the thoughts kept coming, barreling into his head unbidden.
All Shane had asked Ilya to do was the laundry which of course included putting it up to dry. It wasn’t much, it was just laundry, it was a chore that took less than twenty minutes to do and Ilya had done it many times before.
And of course, keeping an eye on Anya who he knew was still eagerly chewing up anything that she got between her teeth—or went looking for—when she was feeling bored.
It was barely any effort at all, and nothing out of the ordinary, really.
Stop.
Guilt sat heavily in his stomach. It wasn’t Ilya’s choice. It wasn’t a decision.
Shane knew that, logically, objectively. He was still struggling to understand. Why it was so hard for him sometimes, to do the laundry, to eat something proper, to care that Anya might be destroying their throw pillows. Why it was so hard to do something that was the bare minimum. Something that Shane did without thinking about or even putting much effort into.
He knew, he knew, and still the thoughts kept returning. Every time, the first thing he felt was frustration, and every time, he barely kept himself from shaking with guilt and shame a second later.
Shane wanted to help so badly. He just didn’t know how.
And Ilya—
Ilya had been at a loss when Shane had asked, and Shane thought that maybe Ilya himself didn’t know. Or maybe he did and didn’t know how to put it into words.
Or he simply, for some reason—one Shane couldn’t even begin to fathom—didn’t want to tell Shane.
That thought scared him so much he shoved it out of his head.
Shane made himself busy throwing together some dinner, partly because he needed the time to stomp out any of the unwanted thoughts in his head and partly because he assumed Ilya hadn’t eaten anything substantial today yet, and the least he could do was make him something to eat that wasn’t practically all sugar or artificial.
Carefully, he piled the food onto two plates before grabbing cutlery and calling Anya over. Together, they padded upstairs.
Ilya was in bed, lying down more than he was sitting up, scrolling on his phone while the TV played in the background. There was an almost empty bottle of coke next to the bed and an open bag of Doritos on his bare stomach, and Shane barely bit back a comment about crumbs in bed.
Something awful passed over Ilya’s face when he lifted his eyes and looked at Shane. It was some horrible combination of guilt, shame and fear, and Shane almost threw the plates down in his haste to get to him, to wipe that expression off his face.
“Shane,” Ilya said. It sounded like an apology. “Sorry.”
“I made some dinner,” Shane said instead of Jesus Christ, Ilya, couldn’t you at least keep an eye on Anya so she wouldn’t destroy shit again?; instead of Yeah, well, it’s too late now; instead of What for?; instead of I know; instead of Don’t apologize; because none of it was adequate. “It’s got spinach and whole grain pasta, but I also put in heavy cream, so…”
Ilya opened his mouth and then closed it again, and Shane knew it was serious when Ilya didn't take the chance to tease him. So he wandered over and handed Ilya the plate; sat down facing him, one leg on the bed with his knee pressing into Ilya’s thigh, a steady, comfortable pressure that soothed him as much as it soothed Ilya, he thought.
The silence between them didn’t feel heavy or stilted. It did feel—charged, though with what Shane couldn’t quite put into words.
Ilya took his plate when they were done. “Go shower,” he said, and when Shane looked at him, he added, with a slight grin, “Don’t pretend you don’t want to wash this day off yourself. I fear you will set bed on fire if you have to sit here in your clothes any longer.”
Shane scoffed but he grinned himself. “Let me get the dishes first.”
“No.” Ilya pulled the plates back against his body and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, “You go shower. I get the dishes.”
There was an argument on Shane’s tongue. He swallowed it. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Ilya echoed. He got up, and it looked like it took him a lot of effort. Shane watched him pick up the bag of Doritos and the bottle of coke in silence.
Ilya was back in bed by the time Shane came out of the shower, adjusting the waistband of the fresh pair of boxer briefs and enjoying the way the residue moisture cooled his skin. He crawled into bed beside Ilya with a small sigh, feeling the day settle into his body heavily now that he was in the soft, warm comfort of their bed.
Ilya held himself carefully, as if he was trying to gauge Shane’s reaction; as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop; as if he was afraid to ask for something.
“Hey,” Shane said softly, and Ilya’s face crumpled. He scooched over and draped himself over Shane, one knee hiked up by Shane’s hip and nose buried in his neck, and the weight of him settled something in Shane that he hadn’t realized was so awfully agitated. The skin of his shoulders was so warm against Shane’s palms.
“Sorry,” Ilya said again, a choked off noise that sounded like it was being ripped from his throat, and Shane tightened his arms around him.
“Is it…bad today?” he asked.
What a stupid question. He wanted to take it back.
The muscles in Ilya’s shoulders tensed minutely. Then, he nodded, a quiet m-hm huffed against Shane’s neck.
Why? Shane wanted to ask. That, too, was a stupid question. He knew there was no logical answer to it. That wasn’t how depression worked. And yet, there was a part of him that feared he was the reason for it. Maybe he’d done something unwittingly to make this day particularly bad for Ilya.
That’s not how it works.
Doesn’t it? How would you know? What if it does? What if it’s you?
“I want to help,” he said instead. He always wanted to help. He needed Ilya to know that.
After a beat, Ilya murmured, “Dinner helped. Cream made spinach edible. Could’ve used cheese.”
Shane felt the corners of his mouth curl. “Alright, asshole.” It slipped out before he could even think to catch it, and—Ilya’s huff of laughter against his skin was enough to make him relax again.
He sank a hand into Ilya’s hair to card his fingers through it, dragging blunt nails over his scalp softly to feel him shudder slightly.
“Seriously, though,” Shane started again. He held still as Ilya readjusted his position to place an ear over Shane’s heart. Sometimes he’d do that when Shane was reading in bed or on the couch: nudge his head under his hands to settle his head on Shane’s chest, and then he’d stay like that until Shane was done reading—or whatever else he was doing.
“Seriously what?” Ilya asked. He wedged a hand between Shane’s shoulder and the pillow, and let the other drift over Shane’s collarbone. Shane didn’t think he was aware he was doing it.
“I want to help you,” he said. “I don’t fucking know how and I hate that.”
Ilya was silent.
He stayed silent.
“Do you—” Shane’s heart was stuttering weirdly and he swallowed, wetting his lips, garnering enough courage to suggest an idea that had been floating around his mind. “Do you want me to come with you to Galina?”
Ilya lifted his head, and Shane dropped his eyes to stare at the hinge of his jaw.
“I mean, not every time, obviously. But maybe so we can talk about, I don’t know, ways that I can help you, not just when it’s really bad. Or something. I don’t know. If she thinks this is a good idea, maybe. Figure out a strategy.”
Strategy. You sound like Mom.
He saw Ilya’s jaw work. Then, “You want to come with me?”
“I mean.” Shane used his index finger to wrap one of Ilya’s curls around it. “If Galina thinks it’d help. If you want to.”
There was a tick in Ilya’s jaw. Shane realized the stubble on his face was more than just a five o’clock shadow. How did he not notice this before?
“You would do that.” It sounded cut off, an incomplete sentence that Ilya made himself not finish, and finally, Shane raised his eyes to meet Ilya’s.
“I want to do that,” he corrected, and then finished what Ilya left out, “For you. For me, too. For us.”
There was something like disbelief, maybe, in his eyes, wonder perhaps, or something more profound that Shane had no word for. It almost looked like the look he’d worn that night at the cottage after Shane had told him he loved him. Emotion so raw Shane felt he was seeing something barely anybody else had ever witnessed. It made his heart race, or maybe slow down, eased with the knowledge of Ilya’s feelings; he didn’t fucking know.
Ilya bridged the gap between them and kissed Shane. He didn’t quite reach all the way, catching just Shane’s bottom lip and his chin.
“I will ask her,” Ilya promised when they separated. He sounded shattered.
Shane leaned in to press his mouth to Ilya’s forehead as best as he could, one hand fisted in his hair.
Ilya returned to his spot on Shane’s chest then with a quiet sniffle.
Shane didn’t know how much time had passed when Ilya spoke again. “‘m sorry.” The words were spoken against Shane’s skin, muffled, so softly that Shane almost missed them. “That it’s hard to love me.”
Shane’s heart launched into his throat so suddenly he felt choked. He didn’t say anything.
“Thank you for loving me in spite of it.”
He’d heard it so often from everyone around him, about loving someone despite whatever thing they supposedly did or didn’t do. So many unsubtle comments about how hard it was to be with someone; how one thing or another made the relationship a hardship of some sort. Lucky love.
Shane wrapped his arms tightly around Ilya and dipped his head to press his mouth against the top of his head. He pressed his cheek to Ilya’s hair then and cupped his head. “No.” It came out flat, hard, absolute.
Ilya shifted, and Shane held him.
“I don’t love you in spite of it,” Shane clarified, though his tone, to his own ears, sounded more forceful than he intended. He tried to gentle it. “I just love you.”
Ilya made a noise, something between a moan and a sob, maybe.
“I just love you,” he said again, and then, because maybe Ilya’s brain was telling him something wrong, tried to make him believe a lie, “There’s nothing hard about loving you.”
Ilya made another noise and this one sounded wet. “Nothing? Nothing’s hard?”
Shane couldn’t help the little snort. He squeezed Ilya tight tight tight. “Not about this. Nothing about this.”
“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya choked out before he turned his face into Shane’s chest to press kiss after kiss after kiss into his skin. Shane smiled and held Ilya even tighter.
Lucky.