Archive of Our Own

“I’m just so proud of you, Shane. You worked hard for this!” Mom said for the ten millionth time. She leaned to her left to make eye contact with Shane in the rearview mirror, her shoulder brushing Dad's over the center console. “A kinesiology degree from McGill will open so many doors for you once you’re through with the NHL!”

“Thanks, Mom,” Shane replied quietly, also for the ten millionth time. He turned his face away from the window just long enough to meet her gaze, then went back to looking at the bright green trees lining the rural Ontario highway. The way they blurred into one another as the car moved past helped soothe Shane’s perpetually ragged thoughts.

It wasn’t like he was ungrateful to have had the opportunity to attend his dad’s alma mater. Earning back-to-back natties with the Redbirds his junior and senior years would forever be one of his most cherished accomplishments, even if (when) he got to raise Lord Stanley’s Cup one day. His studies had provided him with a deeper understanding of his body and its needs, too, and he knew his hockey and his long-term health were better for it.

He just…well, he just wished that college had been his own free choice. When he was seventeen, Mom and Dad had sat him down at the dining table and explained in no uncertain terms that he would not be sacrificing his education to maybe be an NHL player by the time he was legally old enough to drink. (Whether they were using Canada’s standards or America’s was still unclear to him.) They had all sorts of rationale for him, too: wouldn’t he prefer guaranteed ice time on a U Sports or D-I team? Wouldn’t it be nice to enter the league as a free agent and theoretically have some control over where he went rather than take the risk of getting drafted to God knows where, probably Buffalo?

Shane could admit they had had a point with that last one. Almost every team in the league had come knocking by the time he graduated, and he loved that he could politely decline offers from teams that were not a good fit culturally (Nashville) or geographically (why in the hell would anyone want to play hockey in Dallas?). Mom had been right about Buffalo as well - they’d had the first draft pick all three years Shane would have been eligible, and going there would have been a fate worse than death.

In the end, Shane had three offers he felt were really worth considering: Montreal, Ottawa, and Edmonton. In Mom’s eyes, he knew there was only one answer - the Voyageurs were the stuff of hockey legend, an Original Six team looking to solidify their dominance over the sport for another decade at a minimum. Yuna had been their biggest fan since her elementary school field trip to one of their games at age six. If Shane was smart, he’d pick Montreal both because they were the best team in the sport and because it would make Mom literally scream with joy.

But Ottawa, his soft, selfish heart whispered. What about the Centaurs?

What about the Centaurs? A newer team (relatively speaking), cellar dwellers, the least prestigious of his options. Even Edmonton had made more Cup runs than Ottawa recently. It would be career suicide to choose the NHL’s worst team when the best was knocking on his door.

Still, the Centaurs were his team. He’d grown up surrounded by red-and-black jerseys and fans who were just so happy the league had finally brought a team back to Ottawa, even if that team couldn’t find the playoffs with a map. Shane had always harbored dreams of being the center who finally got them a Cup after sinking a game-winning goal on home ice. He’d be a hometown hero, the pride of his boring, beloved Ottawa. Winning a Cup with Montreal was more probable, sure, but it just wouldn’t mean as much to him.

Mom would have him in front of a therapist and a neurologist before he could blink if he told her he wanted to sign with the Centaurs. Their offer wasn’t bad by any means, but it certainly wasn’t what Montreal had on the table, and he’d be guaranteed a couple seasons of slogging before he had the other players whipped into post-season shape. She’d be right to think he was out of his mind. Hell, maybe he was.

He wanted so badly to do it anyways, it made the space behind his eyes ache with suppressed tears.

“Shane?” Mom asked, clearly repeating herself.

“Sorry, what? I drifted off there.” Shane blinked hard and realized they were alone in the car, which was parked outside the main lodge - Dad must have gone to check in and get their keys.

“You have all the offers flagged in your inbox, right?” Mom said. She had an indulgent smile on her face - the look she always got when she thought Shane was just her precious baby. “I know we have our whole stay here at Vetrov’s for you to decide which one to accept, but I’ll feel so much more relaxed if you choose sooner rather than later, won’t you?”

“Yes, Mom,” Shane said, barely keeping from rolling his eyes. Even he could pick up the implied won’t you make the right decision and choose the Voyageurs already? undercurrents in Mom’s tone. “They’re all starred for easy access. Can I have dinner first, at least, or am I on hunger strike until I sign on the dotted line?”

Dad snorted as he returned to the car, clearly able to hear Shane’s comments through his partially rolled-down window.

“Manners! Did your father and I teach you nothing?” Mom’s tone was scolding, but Shane could see her fighting back a laugh. She accepted the key Dad held out to her, and Shane reached across the center console to take his own.

“He’s a hockey player, Yuna. There are no manners in the dressing room,” Dad pointed out, squeezing Mom’s hand as he settled back into the driver’s seat. The car trundled slowly across the resort grounds to the chalets.

“But seriously, Mom - I’ll decide soon, I promise,” Shane said, earning a nod of acceptance. 

At that moment, Dad pulled up between their chalets and turned off the car. Shane clambered out of the back seat and stretched, grunting in satisfaction as his hips loosened and popped, then grabbed his bags from the trunk. “Meet you in ten for dinner?”

“See you then, Shanebug.”

Shane checked the tag on his key, then headed for Chalet 14. The timbered A-frame structure was small, just big enough for two, with a low front porch and windows all around the sides. He entered into a kitchenette with one upper cabinet, a mini-fridge, and a sink - enough to keep a few snacks around, with the main lodge providing their full meals. To the right, there was a bathroom that might have been the size of two airplane lavatories put together. The back of the room featured a small wooden table and two chairs, an old-fashioned wardrobe, and a queen-sized bed with nightstands on either side. The color scheme was predominantly deep greens and sandy browns.

It wasn’t much, but it would be perfect for the summer. Shane hummed, pleased that he had managed to convince his parents to rent the chalets as a graduation gift to him rather than getting rooms at the main lodge. While the neighboring units were still visible, the environment as a whole was far more peaceful than being in a cramped hotel for three months. 

“Montreal or Ottawa?” Shane muttered as he hung his clothes in the wardrobe, eyes snagging on the blue linen button-down Mom had gotten him for the ‘casual meeting’ the Voyageurs had invited him to a few weeks ago. He’d only been able to leave without signing their contract offer right then because Mom didn’t want him to look too eager and get exploited.

“Ottawa or Montreal?” he asked again, organizing his toiletries as best he could in the shoebox of a medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror. For a second, he could see himself in a bright red jersey, terrible Centaurs logo across his chest, and felt a smile burst across his face, unguarded and joyful.

“...Edmonton?” he considered, locking the front door behind him as he stepped back onto the porch. Shane snorted and shook his head. “No.”

“What’s so funny?” Mom asked from her own porch, Dad on her heels. The three of them met up on the paved path that would lead them back to the main lodge.

“The thought of signing with Edmonton,” Shane said. He ended up walking slightly behind his parents, the trail not quite wide enough for three. “It’s a good team, but I just…”

“No, it’s not for you,” Mom agreed. “A worthwhile offer, and you probably want to let Montreal know their terms in case they can sweeten their deal even more, but no. I mean, come on, Edmonton?”

“So it’s between Montreal and Ottawa, then?” Dad asked, looking back to smile at Shane for a moment. “Glad you won’t be too far from home either way.”

“Shane. Ottawa? Really?” Mom also turned back to look at Shane, one eyebrow raised. “When you compare them to Montreal-”

“Let me just read over their offer again, Mom, okay? I didn’t get the chance to look at any of the contracts as much as I’d like, with finals and everything. I haven’t made any decisions yet,” Shane said, willing himself to sound resolute.

Dad took that moment to point out an interesting bird in one of the trees up ahead, blessedly, and the rest of their walk to dinner was spent on lighter subjects. When they got to the main lodge, they were escorted to the dining room by a cheerful girl in a forest-green Vetrov’s polo shirt, who informed them that a server would come around shortly to take their drink orders and let them know what was on the menu that evening.

“Thank you!” Mom replied with a smile. Dad and Shane nodded politely at the girl as well before she left. “So, David, Shane. What are you looking forward to while we’re here?”

“Those dock chairs by the lake are calling my name,” Dad said. “I loaded my Kindle before we left Ottawa and I can’t wait to start this new book about the War of 1812.”

“I’m going to check out the ice rink as soon as I can,” Shane said before Dad could start dropping ‘fun facts’ about Canadian history. “I can’t believe they offer skating lessons year-round here.”

“It’s what makes us special,” a deep, Russian-accented voice boomed. Shane flinched and looked to his left, where a large, bald, brown-skinned man about Dad’s age was now standing next to their table. A beautiful girl closer to Shane’s age was at his side; she had more delicate versions of the man’s strong facial features and springy curls. “Sergei Vetrov. And this is my daughter, Svetlana. We like to introduce ourselves to all of our guests right away, so they feel comfortable coming to us with any concerns.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Mom said. She and Dad exchanged handshakes with Mr. Vetrov, while Shane shared an awkward smile with Svetlana. “I’m Yuna Hollander. This is my husband, David, and our son, Shane.”

“Shane Hollander! McGill’s Shane Hollander?” Svetlana asked, eyes sharpening with interest. “Two-time national champion Shane Hollander?”

“That would be me.” Shane felt his cheeks start to burn scarlet from the unexpected attention.

“Then you have come to the right place,” Mr. Vetrov said, clapping a massive hand on Shane’s shoulder. “We will make sure you have some ice time. As much as you want if you promise to join my Bears!”

“Boston didn’t make me an offer, sir. They don’t think I fit their playing style.” Shane couldn’t bring himself to look up from his plate at the admission.

“Their loss.” Mr. Vetrov’s tone was firm yet reassuring, making Shane feel comfortable enough to look back in his direction. “Still, we’ll make sure you stay in shape for whatever team you do end up with this fall. Talk to Svetlana at breakfast tomorrow - she’ll let you know when the rink is open.”

“Thank you, sir,” Shane said, receiving a handshake of his own. “I appreciate it.”

“Please, it’s Sergei! We’re practically colleagues!” Mr. V- Sergei let out a roar of a laugh. “Enjoy your meal, Hollanders.”

The Vetrovs moved on to the next table and began charming the guests there. Mom turned to Shane with an eager look on her face.

“I knew the name ‘Vetrov’ was familiar,” she said, shaking out her napkin and laying it over her lap. “He was a brick wall in goal when he played - ugh, I just hated it when the Voyageurs went up against him! I can’t believe I didn’t realize that’s how he has all those retired pros on staff here.”

“Hopefully they can spare a little time for me this summer,” Shane said as the waiter approached. They all ordered drinks, then Shane picked up where he had left off. “Technically, the lessons are for new skaters and children, but maybe if they hang around during open ice…?”

“We’ll see how busy their lessons keep them,” Yuna said decisively. “Plenty of children must want to spend their time here water-skiing or canoeing, right? They can’t all want skating lessons in June.”

“Don’t look at me,” Shane said with a grin. “Little Shane would have slept on the steps outside the arena to be the first one on the ice in the morning.”

“Oh, my darling Shanebug.” Yuna reached out and squeezed Shane’s chin from across the table, making him blush. “Don’t pretend like you aren’t considering it to this day.”

Dad snorted in amusement, and Mom and Shane quickly followed suit.

— — — — —

Shane’s focus had narrowed to his immediate surroundings, and every nerve in his body felt like it was singing. He deked around invisible defenders once, twice, three times, then shot the puck forehand into the wide open goal.

Since he was alone, he indulged himself and let out a high-pitched hmmm, quietly doing his best imitation of a goal horn as he pumped his fist and dropped into a celebratory knee slide.

“Beautiful shot,” came an appreciative voice from the Zamboni gate. Shane flailed, catching himself on his hands before he could go face-first into the ice. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right,” Shane replied quickly. He got back to his feet and skated over to the other man, who he could now see was about his height and blond. “Do I need to clear out? I thought the rink was open for the rest of the night-”

“There’s nothing on the schedule, but a few of us instructors get together a couple times a week for a shinny,” the man explained. “You should join us! I’m Hayden, by the way.”

“Shane.” After a fist bump, he continued, “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to throw off your numbers or anything.”

“No, no, no, you’d actually be doing us a solid! We only play three-on-three, but Huff was saying he didn’t feel like it tonight, so we could use someone else to rotate in with Hunter and me. What do you say? With you on our team, we might actually stand a chance at taking down Roz and Marley.”

“...Okay. Why not?” Shane said, feeling wild (or at least wild for him). Hayden looked so excited and friendly, and he had to admit he hadn’t played a pickup game in ages. Plus, if the Hunter Hayden referred to was Scott Hunter, legendary retired captain of the New York Admirals, how could Shane not leap at the chance to be on a line with him?

“Really? Awesome,” Hayden said with a pleased smile. “Hey, you mind helping me get the goals off the ice? I was gonna run the Zamboni over everything before the other guys got here.”

“Of course.” Shane took a moment to set his stick and his gloves on one of the benches, then skated back to help remove the nets. As Hayden smoothed the ice, Shane waited in the Zamboni gate, grateful there were mats down to protect his blades.

Guys started trickling in and getting ready as Hayden finished up, giving Shane curious looks as he and Hayden set one net and then the other back in place. Finally, they had the last peg secured, and Hayden motioned for Shane to follow him over to the benches, where he reached for a gear bag and began to swap his tennis shoes for skates.

“Fellas, this is Shane,” Hayden introduced as he laced up and tossed Shane a blue pinny. “Shane, the fellas.”

A chorus of heys and sups echoed, but it was the loud no that caught Shane’s attention.

“Excuse me?” Shane asked, looking in the direction of that last remark. The crowd parted as if God himself were coming down from heaven, revealing-

Motherfucker.

Thick blond-brown curls. Piercing blue eyes. Full lips and a mole on his left cheek that Shane wanted to press a kiss to, he realized with abject horror. Though the man was wearing long sleeves and thick socks over his joggers, Shane could tell he was built like a brick shithouse.

“No,” the man repeated, Russian accent thick. “A guest, Pike, seriously? One hard check and he’ll go crying to Sergei.”

“I’m going pro this fall, I think I can take a hit,” Shane said, scowling. “Or are you saying the only way you can win is by playing dirty? Last I heard, maiming the other team wasn’t permitted under the IIHF.”

Hayden cackled. “So there, Roz. Besides, I put him to work helping me get the rink ready. That makes him one of us, right?”

“What work?” the man - Roz? What was that short for? - retorted with a scoff. “Warming the bench as you drove the Zamboni?”

“I carried a goal,” Shane defended himself.

I carried a goal? his brain repeated the second he finished speaking. Jesus Christ, Hollander.

“Don’t sell yourself short, buddy. You carried both,” Hayden joked, making all the other guys laugh.

“Let him stay, Roz,” Scott Hunter - holy shit - said from a few places down the bench. “We could use a fresh face. You and Marley have memorized all my moves by now, and I’m tired of losing.”

Roz let out a dramatic groan, dropping his head to his chest before turning those arresting eyes back to Shane. “Fine. I will make you a deal, pretty guest.”

“Shane. Hollander. I’m Shane Hollander.” Shane spit his name through his teeth, ready to go to his grave denying that something had fluttered in his chest when Roz casually called him pretty.

“I will make you a deal, pretty Hollander. Your team wins tonight, and you can play with us whenever you want for the rest of the summer. My team wins - like we always do - and you don’t play with us unless I invite you. Yes?” Roz’s smile was sharp, almost condescending. He held out a hand.

“I don’t make deals with men whose names I don’t know,” Shane said, crossing his arms.

“Ilya Rozanov, in the flesh.” Rozanov spread both of his arms out wide in a take it all in gesture, then extended his right hand back to Shane. “Do we have a deal, Shane Hollander?”

“You’re on, Ilya Rozanov.”

Sparks shot up Shane’s arm as he finally made contact with Rozanov’s skin. They both sucked in a surprised breath, but Ilya recovered first, pulling on a red pinny.

“Marley! Jalo! Andersson! Let’s go.”

— — — — — 

Ilya wished the guest - Hollander - were a goalie. The other man having to wear a full-face mask would be helpful right about then.

Focus, he told himself as he did a couple quick circuits around the rink to loosen up, his teammates in his wake. Some sheltered little hockey prince doesn’t get to just waltz onto your ice and do whatever he wants.

Still, Ilya had to admit Hollander was gorgeous even in profile, with his straight nose and determined pout of a mouth. His freckles popped under the bright white lights of the rink, and if Ilya wasn’t careful, he’d find himself wanting to trace a finger over those smooth cheeks while he counted exactly how many there were, preferably with Hollander warm and naked in his lap-

No, Ilya!

“All right, Hollywood, here’s how this works,” Pike called from his bench. “No refs, no blood, light pads. Two forwards and a D-man on the ice at all times, one of each on the bench. And a goalie, of course. You get tired, you tag your sub in. Whenever we all feel like we’re going to throw up and die, we take an intermission.”

“That’s a very…specific metric,” Hollander said, coming to a halt at center ice. “But okay, I get it. When do we know the game is over?”

“Usually Hunter starts begging for mercy and I am obligated to listen, out of respect for my elders,” Ilya chirped. Hunter shot him the bird as he skated to meet Shane at the other side of the faceoff circle.

Vaughany came over from Ilya’s team’s bench, puck in hand. “Ready, boys?”

Ilya nodded. Hollander let out a quiet mm-hmm. They locked eyes as Vaughan dropped the puck-

-and Ilya lost a face-off for the first time in three years. Pike whooped as Hollander sped up the ice, easily catching Breezy’s pass and bearing down on Andersson. Ilya wasn’t far behind, but the shock of it all delayed him just enough that Hollander buried the puck top-shelf completely undefended.

“Your team always wins?” Hollander said, raising an eyebrow at Ilya. Ilya wasn’t sure if he wanted to smack or kiss the smug look off his face. “Cute.”

“It’s called - what is phrase? - a false sense of security, Hollander,” Ilya retorted. “Other team automatically gets puck after a goal so we don’t have to keep making someone do face-offs. Watch and learn.”

Andersson knocked the puck to Ilya, and he turned on the jets, finding a little more resistance in Hunter and Brisebois, who were used to his antics. Hollander was hot on his heels, even poking his stick at the puck, but Ilya kept control and notched a goal of his own just under Bennett’s glove.

“One-one.” Ilya skated over to the bench and grabbed his water bottle, squirting some into his mouth. Hollander followed and did the same. “Still think I’m cute?”

Hollander’s water sprayed over the ice as he choked, making Ilya cackle.

— — — — —

“All right, I can’t do this anymore,” Hunter said when they called their fourth throw-up-and-die break. “Not to give Roz more ammunition, but I am too old for this.”

“Hear, hear!” Marlow called from where he was starfished on the ice. A few other shouts of agreement followed.

“So it’s…a tie?” Shane asked, not sure who he was addressing. Even his muscles were burning from the workout, but he would crawl back to his chalet later if it meant besting Rozanov and his cocky grin.

“I know the IIHF would have a fit, Hollywood, but I might actually die on the ice if we go for another round,” Hayden said. He was a concerning shade of red - almost as bright as the other team’s shirts. “And then my children would grow up without a father. Do you really want that on your conscience, dude?”

“No, I don’t - of course not - it’s not about the official rules,” Shane sputtered. He felt his own cheeks flush and hoped no one seriously thought he prioritized winning over Hayden’s family. “It’s just - can I still play with you guys this summer? Rozanov and I did have a bet…”

“Fuck your bet. I haven’t seen Roz work this hard on the ice ever. Please come back and make him sweat a little more,” Vaughany said from where he was slumped over on the bench.

“You’re on my team, Vaughany!” Rozanov cried in outrage. Shane couldn’t hold in a laugh.

“Not always, man. All in favor of Hollander returning?” Ayes rang out around the rink. “Motion passed. Good game, everyone!”

Shane thought he lost Rozanov in the crush of men changing and packing up, but when he eventually emerged from the rink, Rozanov was a few feet from the door, having a smoke.

“You really are a great player,” Shane said, closing the distance between them. He offered his hand for another shake. Rozanov just stared at him for a moment before taking it.

More electricity crept up Shane’s spine.

“You need to work on your backhand,” Rozanov replied when they let go.

“Excuse me?” Shane’s eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“It’s very weak,” Rozanov said, matter-of-fact. “Easy to get past Andersson, with his bad shoulder. An NHL goalie in good health? They will stop that every time.”

“How would you know? You’re not one of Sergei’s retired pros,” Shane said defensively.

“I don’t need to be pro to understand hockey.” Rozanov shrugged. “Believe me or don’t. I know what I saw.”

“Fine. You want to know what I saw? You don’t protect your right side for shit.” Shane couldn’t hold back a smile at Rozanov’s consternation. “Every time I got the puck away from you, I was on your right.”

“And yet we still tied,” Rozanov said lightly.

“This time,” Shane replied. “I could help you work on that, if you wanted. And maybe you could…”

“I could what?” Rozanov asked when Shane lost the courage to finish his sentence.

“You could teach me that move you did to score your third goal? I’ve never seen it before.”

“Ah, that’s because it’s my move: The Rozanov,” Rozanov said with a wicked smile. “Fake a backhand without shifting the puck, then wrist shot a goal with your forehand. Simple. You’ll need to improve your backhand to get any goalie to believe you, though.”

“Fuck you-”

“But we can work on that, yes? Meet me at the gym tomorrow morning. 7 AM. Keep up with me, and I might just decide you’re worth the effort.” 

At that, Rozanov stubbed out his cigarette and left. Shane didn’t know what to do first - unclench his jaw or will his semi to die down.

— — — — —

The resort gym was crowded, even this early in the morning. Shane couldn’t believe how many of the other guests wanted to start their day by using the stair climbers or taking a sunrise yoga class. Didn’t normal, non-professional athlete people like to relax and be lazy when they went on vacation?

“Come.” Shane jumped at the sound of Rozanov’s voice, just behind him. He turned to see the other man dressed all in black and holding out a hand. “Plan B.”

Shane felt out of his depth at first, clinging to Rozanov’s hand and following him down a trail marked “Staff Only Beyond This Point,” but something about the way their calluses matched was soothing, and Rozanov’s fingers weren’t chilled from the morning air like Shane’s. Rozanov only let go once they arrived at a low rectangular building and he needed to open the door, and Shane tried not to mourn the loss.

“Staff gym,” Rozanov said, flicking on the lights. “Not as fancy as the guest facility, but probably better for our training. No Pilates or yoga taking up space that could be used for weight machines.”

“Actually, I find practicing yoga improves my game,” Shane said with a shrug. Rozanov groaned. “What? It opens my range of motion and helps me stay focused. There’s more to hockey than muscle and size.”

“Mm, debatable,” Rozanov joked. Shane took off his zip-up hoodie and chucked it at him. “Fine! Today we do cardio, but maybe we try yoga another time. If you’re a good workout partner.”

“I don’t think I’m the person we need to be concerned about here,” Shane muttered, but he appreciated even a begrudging agreement on Rozanov’s part. He’d tried throughout college to get some of the other guys on the team to join him, but they’d either blown him off or spent the whole session trying to get phone numbers from the women in attendance. Shane had the  sneaking suspicion Ilya would do something to aggravate him while he demonstrated asanas - it just seemed to be in his DNA - but he also thought Rozanov would be open-minded enough to reserve his final judgment on yoga until he actually tried it.

Rozanov started his workout by doing more traditional calf and arm stretches in the center of the floor, and Shane quickly fell into a rhythm with him. They didn’t speak much, but Shane still found himself hyperaware of Rozanov’s motions, always trying to outdo him. Could he squeeze in one more jumping jack, one more curl, one more pull-up?

Much to Shane’s chagrin, Rozanov was just as fit as he was, and seemingly just as dedicated to trying to one-up him. If Shane grabbed the twenty-five pound set of dumbbells, Rozanov grabbed the thirties. If Shane started doing push-ups, Rozanov matched his pace and even managed to get enough leverage to clap his hands between reps. It was maddening.

It was also really fucking hot.

An hour or so into their workout, Shane hopped on an exercise bike, thinking he would use it as his cooldown. When Rozanov climbed on next to him and set the resistance one level higher than Shane had it, though, Shane couldn’t resist one last challenge.

He bumped his bike up two levels. Rozanov joined him.

Another. The same.

One more. Shane was now past his usual limit, but he wanted to see what would make Rozanov break. The guy had to be as exhausted as Shane was, right?

Shane dared to glance over at Rozanov one last time and saw that the other man was looking at him intently, those blue eyes scrutinizing every inch of him.

His foot slipped off the pedal, and he earned a whack in the calf from the hard rubber in response.

“Fuck!” Shane regained his footing and let the bike spin out. Rozanov laced his fingers behind his head and let out a grating whoo! as he did the same.

They ended up sitting across from each other on the gym floor, bracing themselves against their respective bikes. Rozanov took a drag from his water bottle, then offered it to Shane, who didn’t have one.

“They don’t teach you about hydration in Canada?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“I must have left it in the chalet earlier. I was nervous I’d be late to meet you,” Shane admitted. He took a small sip, not wanting to be rude.

“More,” Rozanov mouthed. Shane’s body complied before his brain even registered the command. “Next time, go back for your water bottle, Hollander. I will wait.”

“Next time?” Shane repeated, hoping he didn’t look as eager as he felt.

“I think so, yes.” Rozanov smiled. “We still have to try your yoga, don’t we?”

Shane practically floated back to his chalet. It was only after a shower and a hearty breakfast with his parents that he regained enough awareness of the outside world to mull over the question that had started plaguing him during their workout:

Why the hell wasn’t someone as athletic and talented as Ilya Rozanov playing professional hockey?

— — — — —

A week or so later, Shane and Rozanov had established an unspoken routine. A run or a workout before breakfast, then Rozanov led skating lessons while Shane read a book in his chalet or laid out by the lake with his parents. After lunch, Shane took advantage of the open ice, and Rozanov alternated between joining him for drills or heckling him from the stands, depending on his mood. Shane made sure to always eat dinner with his parents - both because he did actually enjoy their company and because he knew they expected some family time on this trip - then snuck off to the staff area to join the guys for a movie or a round of cards or a midnight swim.

He did not look at Rozanov’s V-line in his low-slung swim trunks on those evenings. Or the way his thick thighs flexed as he dove off the dock.

Then one morning, Hayden jogged up as he and Rozanov were getting ready for their run.

“Hey, Shane! Roz.” He waved once, the motion tight and kind of dorky. “Mind if I join you? These kids are just wearing me out, and I was thinking a run might help my stamina.”

Rozanov leaned into a calf stretch, using the motion to whisper, “Four kids at home and skating lessons ruin his stamina? His poor wife,” directly into Shane’s ear. Shane choked, clapping a hand to his mouth and hoping desperately that Hayden would think he had sneezed.

“Sure, man,” he said once he had regained some self-possession. “Great idea!”

“We do five miles around camp,” Rozanov said, taciturn. “If Hollander is not back in time to take his million-year shower before breakfast because you slow us down, I will not protect you from his wrath.”

“Oh my God.” Shane pinched the bridge of his nose, then fired back, “I’m sorry that I’m hygienic and like to use soap to clean myself off, rather than just cannonballing into the lake and letting the swimmer’s itch get me.”

“Swimmer’s itch,” Rozanov scoffed. “Russians do not get this. Is not real phen- phena-”

“Phenomenon?” Shane said, crossing his arms. “See if I offer you my calamine lotion when this comes back to bite you in the ass later, Rozanov.”

“Bite me in the ass? Kinky, Hollander,” Rozanov said - purred, really. Shane shivered at the sultry look in his eyes all of a sudden.

“Uh, is this how all of your runs go? I can just use the treadmill…,” Hayden said, making Shane jump - he’d completely forgotten Hayden was there.

“No, no, sorry.” Shane shook his head, clearing it, then shook out his arms and legs for good measure. “Let’s go.”

The three of them set off, Shane and Rozanov taking an easy but not substantial lead over Hayden. Running next to Rozanov always calmed Shane - probably because Rozanov couldn’t talk if he wanted to keep up his pace - and Shane soon fell into a flow state, only aware of the trees and the path and Rozanov’s footsteps, Rozanov’s heavy breaths, Rozanov’s-

“Fuck!” Hayden yelped, breaking the moment.

Shane looked back and saw Hayden on the ground, clutching his right ankle.

“Pike!” Rozanov shouted. Shane thought he might actually be concerned for Hayden, surprisingly enough. “What happened?”

“Caught my leg on that root,” Hayden said, cocking his head at the gnarled wood sticking out of the trail. The bark was almost the same color as the dirt, making it difficult to spot if you weren’t expecting it. “Oh, fuck. It’s swelling already.”

“Come on. We’ll get you to the infirmary,” Shane said, crouching down by Hayden’s side and helping him back to his feet with an arm under his right shoulder. “Can you walk?”

“Maybe?” Hayden tried to take a step and staggered. “No.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Rozanov said. He looped Hayden’s left arm over his shoulder, distributing his weight evenly between himself and Shane. “Only you, Pike.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Hayden retorted. He hopped along between them for a few moments, then came to a sudden stop, face paling. “Fuck. This is gonna take at least a couple of weeks to heal. Sergei’s not going to pay a skating instructor who can’t skate, and the twins need new school uniforms. Fuck.”

“What if - maybe-” Shane tried to come up with a solution, but nothing immediately sprang to mind. He wasn’t an NHL star yet, so he couldn’t offer to pay for the uniforms himself. Mom might lend him the money, but she would definitely ask why Shane needed it, and then she’d demand to know why Shane had befriended the only two guys on the staff who hadn’t been pros before Sergei hired them. He couldn’t risk it.

“You could do it,” Hayden said, eyes widening with excitement. 

“What?” Shane and Rozanov asked in unison.

“You obviously know how to skate, and Roz can help you with the finer details. A successful lesson just means nobody started crying, given how young the kids we work with are,” Hayden explained. “It’s easy!”

“I’ve never taught before,” Shane said, uncertain. “Hell, I don’t think I’ve spoken to a child since I was one. Won’t the parents be concerned that there’s a new instructor without any warning?”

“Shane. Seventy-five percent of the parents here enrolled their kids in skating lessons so they could day-drink at breakfast. They won’t care,” Hayden said with a snort.

“You want him to work for free?” Rozanov asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hollander is about to be first-line NHL center. We can’t afford him.”

“Fuck you, it’s not about the money,” Shane snarled. “Hayden wouldn’t have sprained his ankle if he hadn’t been running with us, and like he said, he needs to get his kids new uniforms. I wouldn’t take his paycheck even if he offered.”

“Whoa, whoa, Hollander. I was kidding,” Rozanov said quickly. The sincerity in his eyes knocked Shane on his metaphorical ass. “I’m sorry, was bad joke.”

“It’s alright,” Shane murmured. “I overreacted.”

“We can find another instructor. Rozanov’s voice was soft, almost tender. “If you don’t want to do this-”

“No, I do,” Shane said firmly. “The other guys all have their own lessons, and, well…I’ve always wanted to start a hockey camp if I do well enough in the league. Maybe this could be a practice run.”

“Oh, bud, I love that idea,” Hayden said, clapping Shane’s collarbone in appreciation. “And thanks. I owe you one.”

“Sure, man. What are friends for?”

— — — — —

Ilya was so fucking screwed. He found Hollander distractingly adorable already - he didn’t need the sight of him leading a line of children around the ice while they played crack-the-whip burned into his brain forever. Hollander threw his head back in delighted laughter every time one of his kindergarteners lost their grip on the person in front of them and went sailing off shrieking with glee, and only the thought of what Svetlana would do to him if he misbehaved in front of the students kept Ilya from shaking off his own train of kiddos impatiently and sinking his teeth into the tempting expanse of Hollander’s throat.

The lessons hadn’t been nearly this fun when Hollander first took over for Pike. He had said he wasn’t experienced with children, but that turned out to be an understatement - he was terrible, completely unable to handle the constant interruptions and redirections that came with trying to keep a bunch of five-year-olds on task and reasonably entertained. By the time their first session was over, both Hollander and the students looked near tears.

“Hey, hey,” Ilya had said, pulling Hollander to the opposite end of the rink from where the children were packing up. “It can only get better from here, yes?”

Hollander had chuckled wetly. “God, I hope so.”

“No, seriously,” Ilya replied, ducking his head to lock eyes with Hollander, who had been staring down at their skates. “It genuinely cannot get worse, Hollander, not unless you actually run a child over with the Zamboni tomorrow. You aren’t on roster for driving it, are you?”

“Fuck off.” Hollander shoved reflexively at Ilya’s shoulder, but he let out another laugh, and something in Ilya’s chest loosened. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You liiiike it,” Ilya drawled. “Just…relax tomorrow, OK? These kids aren’t going from Vetrov’s to the Olympics. If we get them skating in a straight line without falling by the end of the week, we’re already ahead of schedule.”

“Okay. Yes. Okay,” Hollander said, the tension finally leaving his spine. “They’re here for fun. No one expects me to turn out a bunch of little hockey stars when we’re done. There’s no pressure.”

“There’s no pressure,” Ilya repeated gently. Something about the way Hollander focused on pressure and expectations made Ilya want to get him out of that rink, away from the lights and the people and the noise. He’d take Hollander back to his cabin and get him some water and let him just exist, demanding nothing from him except maybe one of those sweet smiles-

Jesus fucking Christ, what was he doing?

Thankfully, Hollander had improved with each session, and now the kids were ecstatic to see Coach Shane every morning. For some reason, they were more impressed by him than any of the retired pros, maybe because Coach Shane taught them, while the old guys worked more with the teens and tweens. It was all Ilya heard about now.

Did you hear Coach Shane is going to be a real live hockey player this fall, Coach Ilya?

I think Coach Shane should sign with Minnesota. They have the prettiest logo.

Could I be a hockey player someday like Coach Shane?

Hollander always said yes when the children asked him that, even the girls. Yes, of course they could, just keep practicing. If they loved hockey enough and they worked hard enough, it would all work out.

It was what anyone would have said to children their age, Ilya included. What infuriated Ilya was that Hollander actually believed it.

“Olivia S. has a real shot at the majors,” Hollander said, bringing Ilya back to the present. They were leaning against the boards, waving at the kids as they met up with their parents and left for the day. “Did you see that goal she made earlier?”

“She’s five,” Ilya replied shortly. “She’ll be lucky if there still is a women’s league when she’s grown up, and that’s if she even wants to play by then.”

“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Hollander said with a frown. “Maybe she’ll be so good she makes people pay more attention to women’s hockey. She’s got the passion and the love for the game. Never say never.”

Ilya just stared at Hollander, silent and incredulous.

Hollander’s cheeks turned pink, highlighting those fucking freckles. “What?”

“The way you see the world, Hollander. You really think that a little girl who just put on skates for the first time two weeks ago could be the face of women’s hockey someday.”

“...I’m being an idealist again,” Hollander said, biting his bottom lip. “I’m sorry-”

“No,” Ilya interrupted. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to squeeze Hollander’s hand. “It is…endearing. I hope she proves you right.”

Hollander’s face lit up at the compliment, and Ilya had to pretend he heard Hunter calling for him from across the ice in order to keep from kissing him right then and there.

— — — — — 

“So it’s deke left, deke right, spin-o-rama-”

“Spin-o-rama?” Shane repeated, snorting. “In what world-”

“Shh, Hollander, I am not finished. Spin-o-rama, hip check, slapshot goal,” Rozanov outlined. They had finished running real drills a while ago, and now they were coming up with increasingly absurd trick plays, prolonging their time on the ice. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he had truly goofed off like this with another person, especially someone like Rozanov, who not only matched his energy, but took it to another level. It was intoxicating. Shane wanted to bottle the feeling, to ensure he felt it not only for the next six weeks he was at Vetrov’s, but for the rest of his life.

“You’re ridiculous,” Shane said, but he lowered his stick to the ice all the same. “Fine.”

He took off, following Rozanov’s instructions as given - deke left, deke right, spin-

Shane caught his skate in a groove and fell, tumbling onto his ass and sending his stick flying. Rozanov waited just long enough for Shane to give him the I’m good nod, then burst into delirious laughter. Shane’s own giggles joined in a moment later.

“That was-”

“Shane?” Mom’s voice called from the seats. “Shanebug, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Mom?” Shane shouted back, squinting and spotting her a few rows up. “When did you get here?”

He skated over and met her by the Zamboni entrance, Rozanov on his heels.

“A few minutes ago,” Mom answered once they were close enough to talk at a regular volume. “I thought I’d see how your training was getting on before dinner. Who’s this?”

“This is, uh, Roz, Mom. Ilya Rozanov. He’s one of the instructors,” Shane said, leaning out of the way so Mom could shake his hand. “Sometimes we do drills together.”

“No drills I’ve ever seen before,” Mom said pointedly. “But I admit, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you practice, Shane. I also have to admit you don’t look old enough to be retired, Roz.”

“I was never pro,” Rozanov said. He looked small under Mom’s gaze, and Shane was seized with the urge to step in front of him, to - to protect him until he could regain his usual confidence. “But I am good with children, and Vetrovs are long-time friends of my family back in Russia.”

“Children,” Mom repeated. “As in the beginners?”

“As in people like me, Mom, your beloved child?” Shane shot Mom a melodramatic wide-eyed look, making her snicker and dropping the tension in the room ever so slightly. “Give me a minute to change, okay? I’m starving.”

Mom nodded and walked away. Shane turned back to Rozanov.

“I’m sorry. She can be…overzealous about hockey sometimes,” Shane said, deciding he didn’t need to mention it wasn’t only hockey that got Mom intense.

“Mm, now I know where you get it from,” Rozanov teased. He seemed less off now that it was just the two of them again, but Shane still didn’t like how quickly he had shrunk in on himself under Mom’s interrogation. Rozanov was great at hockey, and he should know that.

“I’ll see you for yoga tomorrow morning?” Shane asked tentatively. “Just us?”

“Yes. Just us sounds perfect,” Rozanov said. “See you.”

Shane grabbed the boards so tightly he thought he heard them crack. It was that or pull Rozanov into his arms, and there was no way he’d be able to explain that one away to Mom.

— — — — —

Shane knew dinner was going to go poorly when he got to their usual table and Dad was nowhere in sight.

“He got too much sun today,” Mom said when Shane asked where he was. “I told him I’d bring dinner back so he could try to sleep it off a little.”

“Is he waiting for you? I can entertain myself for one meal, I promise,” Shane said with a somewhat false laugh.

“I think I’d like a moment alone with you, actually,” Mom said, folding her hands on top of the table. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you all summer! You’ve been so busy with that…Roz.”

“Ilya,” Shane countered. He bit down on his tongue after saying it, so used to referring to him as Rozanov, but it felt…right. Final. “Like I said, Mom, we’ve been running drills together.”

“Come on, Shane.” Mom made a dismissive gesture. “He’s a children’s skating instructor in Nowheresville, Ontario. You’ll be in the league this fall. How does it benefit you to skate with someone like him?”

“Mom, that’s not fair-”

“He could have gotten you seriously hurt with that little stunt he had you doing, Shanebug!” she continued, really building up a head of steam now. “You’re not under contract yet - Montreal could rescind their offer if they thought you wouldn’t heal right.”

“I guess-”

“And why haven’t you signed yet, bug? I know training camp doesn’t start until September, but waiting until August to confirm where you’re playing is just going to make you look flaky. They might send you to the AHL to make you prove yourself.”

“Laval’s basically Montreal, though.” Shane finally got out a full sentence, weak as it was. “You were just saying you miss me - if I ended up in the AHL for a while, Laval wouldn’t be any harder to visit. And there’s always Ottawa.”

Mom snorted. “That’s no better than the AHL.”

“Hey, they’ve had a couple of good runs,” Shane defended. “Boodram is a great winger, and Hayes puts up some incredible saves. If they didn’t collapse every March, well…”

“Oh, Shane,” Mom said, that my sweet son is at it again smile on her face. “You don’t need to make up arguments. I know why you want to sign with Ottawa.”

“You do?” Shane really thought he had kept his dreams of playing for the Centaurs under wraps, but Mom was a smart woman. If she knew how much it meant to him-

“You’re afraid of leaving the nest,” Mom said. Shane fought to keep his face neutral as his heart threatened to drop out of his ass. “But bug, you already lived in Montreal. I know you were just in the dorms, but there are some nice neighborhoods near Centre Bell. Dad and I can stay until you’ve established a routine, and then you’ll be so busy with the season you won’t have time to miss us. Don’t sign with Ottawa just because you think it will be too hard to live away from home.”

Shane took a deep breath and forced a smile. He desperately wanted to correct Mom, but he also thought he might burst into tears if he tried to speak more than a couple of words just then. “I won’t, Mom. I promise.”

Technically, it wasn’t a lie.

— — — — — 

Shane couldn’t focus during yoga the next morning. He was trying to lead Ilya through a sun salutation - an exercise that normally helped him feel anchored in his body and energized for the day - but he kept falling out of the poses. He couldn’t shake Mom’s comments from dinner.

How did his own mother have such a misconception of him? Had he ever said something to imply he wanted to live in his childhood bedroom forever, holding Mom’s hand and letting Dad drop him off at games like he was back in Bantam? And the way she’d made it sound like Ilya was just using him, like he was peer pressured into their trick shot game instead of an equally responsible party…

He couldn’t hold in a scream. The sound echoed off the mirrors in the staff gym, hanging in the air and making Ilya fall sideways out of downward dog.

“Hollander?” Ilya asked, startled. He pushed himself to sit upright, running a hand through his now-mussed hair.

“I can’t,” Shane said. He fisted his own hands in his hair and pulled, needing stimulation, needing something. “I just. I can’t today. I can’t do yoga, I can’t lead skating lessons, I can’t think-”

Ilya stood and gripped Shane’s biceps tightly. The pressure helped settle Shane a little. “OK. Then we take today off, yes?”

“But the kids - we have lessons.” Shane managed to get out his whole protest, weak as it was, before giving in to his instincts and letting his head thump against Ilya’s collarbone.

“Pike was back in the staff mess hall this morning,” Ilya said, voice gentle. He rubbed a hand down Shane’s back, soothing and sure. “He’s cleared to skate. He can handle lessons today - doesn’t he owe you after you covered for him?”

“By himself?” Shane asked. He pulled back just enough to look Ilya in the eyes, already half-convinced.

“The kids listen better now,” Ilya said with finality. “And Pike can grab one of the other guys for a moment if he needs to. The older kids can be less supervised for a day - they probably won’t kill each other.”

Shane took a deep, centering breath. “What are we gonna do instead?”

“You’ll see,” Ilya said, a delighted smile on his face. In an echo of the day he first brought Shane to the staff gym, he held out his hand. Shane seized it without hesitation. “Come on, malysh.”

Ilya led Shane to a boxy black sedan that must have been from the ‘90s at best, with shiny silver trim and patches of rust along the bottom. He opened the passenger door and carefully laid a hand over Shane’s head as he sat down, protecting him from the roof of the car. When Ilya took his own seat behind the steering wheel, he glanced at Shane’s hand and then his own, silently indicating that Shane should rest it atop of Ilya’s on the gearshift.

Shane didn’t have to be told twice.

“Do you care about radio?” Ilya asked as he started the car. When Shane shook his head no, Ilya turned up something with a thumping bassline and incomprehensible Russian lyrics and sped out of the resort. When they hit the highway, he let out a whoop and drummed the steering wheel in excitement.

Ilya pointed to the glove box with his chin. “Hand me my sunglasses. Please.” Shane fished out a pair of black Ray-Bans and dusted off the lenses on his shirt.

“Here,” Shane said, leaning over to put them on Ilya himself. “Do you actually have a destination in mind?”

“Patience, Hollander,” Ilya said, mock-scowling. “Enjoy the ride, yes? There’s no rush.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” Shane teased. He mirrored Ilya’s expression for a second - just long enough to get Ilya to laugh - then melted against his seat. There was something freeing about trusting Ilya to plan their day, and he had to admit, the drive itself was beautiful. It was a perfect Canadian summer morning, warm and sunny without a cloud in the sky, and Ilya’s electronic dance music somehow melded with the birdsongs and the throaty hum of the engine. If Shane wasn’t careful, he would - would-

“We’re here, malysh.” Ilya’s voice was quiet, as were their surroundings. Shane opened his eyes muzzily and saw that they were now parked by a pristine lake framed by vibrant green trees, like something out of a postcard. They must have been well off the beaten path, because no other cars were there. “Sleep well?”

“Mm, yeah,” Shane said, rubbing his face with his fists in the childish habit he’d never quite been able to break. “I feel like I just tossed and turned all last night - probably another reason I couldn’t focus earlier.”

Ilya got out of the car then and moved to plop down on the narrow stretch of beach in front of them, Shane close behind. There was maybe a foot of space between them once they were settled. “Dinner with your mother did not go well?”

“It could have gone better,” Shane hedged. “She was mostly just upset that I still haven’t signed my contract offer.”

“Offer? Only one?” Ilya asked, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were big deal, Mr. Popular. Canada’s hockey prince.”

“Shut up,” Shane said with a scoff. “I do have multiple offers, thank you very much, but in Mom’s eyes, there’s only one worth taking.”

“But not in yours.” Ilya’s tone was certain this time. His hand inched closer to Shane’s, both their fingers splayed along the sand.

“I also think there’s only one offer I really want to accept. It’s just not with the same team as Mom.” Shane hung his head, directing his next words to his thighs. “And Mom’s team is objectively better than mine, so I get it. Still, I think the team I want to play for has its merits, and I’m saying that based on their stats, not just my heart.”

“Your heart matters here too,” Ilya said seriously. Shane looked at him, startled, as he pulled off his sunglasses and hooked them on the neck of his tank top. “Statistics are important, sure, but these are people you will have to work with every day for nine or ten months. Shouldn’t you want to be there?”

“What I want has never been a factor before,” Shane said, matter-of-fact. “I wanted to go for the NHL draft the second I was eligible. I knew I was good enough. Mom and Dad said I had to go to college, though, so here we are.”

“Here we are,” Ilya repeated. His fingers finally locked with Shane’s. “I’m sorry and I’m not. I’m sorry that your parents didn’t respect what you wanted. For what it’s worth, I’m sure you would have gone first in the draft. After all, I wouldn’t have been there, so you would have had no competition.”

Shane used his free hand to shove a wave of sand in Ilya’s direction. “Okay, asshole!”

“But I’m not sorry you’re here,” Ilya continued, sincere and direct. “I’m not sorry I got the chance to play with you this summer. I don’t think I ever could be.”

“If everything in my life needed to happen how it did so I ended up here this summer, then I would do it all exactly the same way again. These have been some of the happiest weeks I’ve had in years.” Shane leaned in closer to Ilya. “And you know how you could make them even happier?”

Ilya didn’t need further prompting. He cupped the side of Shane’s face and pulled him in for a slow, hungry kiss, his tongue delving deep into Shane’s mouth. It was somehow exactly what Shane had dreamed of, yet better than he’d ever imagined.

Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya’s shoulders and pressed them closer, closer, closer, only breaking for air when he accidentally shoved them over and landed on Ilya’s chest with an oof!

“You have to tell me one thing, though, malysh,” Ilya said once he’d regained his breath. Shane tilted his head up questioningly, making no moves to extract himself from Ilya’s arms. “What teams are we talking about here? If your dream franchise is Florida, you will have to walk back to Vetrov’s - I cannot have that kind of insanity in my car.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, laughing. “You’re so obnoxious. Of course I don’t want to play for Florida. Mom wants me to sign with Montreal, but I…I’ve wanted to play for Ottawa for basically my entire life.”

“Mm, both decent options,” Ilya said, petting a hand through Shane’s hair. “Yes, Montreal is better on paper, but Ottawa has the pieces to become great. A couple of decent centers, one more weapon on defense, and they could be real contenders for a while. More fun to build a team from the ground up, too.”

“That’s exactly it! They aren’t as bad as their record indicates - they’ve just had some shitty injury luck-”

“-And need someone like you providing some reliability from game to game,” Ilya finished. “None of their current centers are consistent, unless consistently disappointing is league’s new metric.”

“Why aren’t you aiming to go pro?” Shane breathed, unable to hold the question in any longer. “You’re an incredible forward, Ilya, and you’ve clearly got the hockey IQ to match. Why are you wasting what could be the prime years of your career?”

Ilya stiffened underneath him. “Maybe is not my dream to go pro. Maybe I like teaching.”

“Bullshit.” Shane sat up for better frowning leverage. Ilya pushed himself upright as well. “You’re a good coach, Ilya, and I’m not saying you don’t enjoy it. But I’ve seen you play. Maybe none of the other guys can keep up with you enough to see the smile on your face as you fly down the ice to the goal, but I can. Don’t tell me teaching a bunch of kids how to stay upright on their skates makes you feel the same way.”

“There are other considerations, Hollander!” Ilya roared. Shane flinched, both at the volume and at the use of his last name instead of whatever tender Russian word Ilya had been calling him all afternoon. “I owe Sveta and Sergei so much - you don’t even know-”

“I don’t know,” Shane agreed quietly, without rancor. “So tell me.”

Ilya looked lost for words. Shane reached out and reconnected their hands, squeezing once.

“I won’t judge,” he promised. “Just - help me understand. I want to understand.”

After a heavy sigh, Ilya spoke. “I did want to go pro when I was younger. Even now, it is my dream. But dreams do not always come true. Everything started falling apart when my mother died. I was twelve.”

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Was accident,” Ilya said with a shrug. “She accidentally swallowed entire bottle of pills. I found her when I came home from school, thinking I would just say hello quickly as I grabbed my skates and went to practice.”

He rubbed at his eyes impatiently. Shane scooted closer so he could press their sides together and guide Ilya’s head to rest on his shoulder.

“Was not long after that when my father got sick,” Ilya continued, shoulders relaxing slightly as Shane ran his fingers through his hair. “Alts - alz-”

“Alzheimer’s? Jesus,” Shane said. “He must have been awfully young.”

“No.” Ilya shook his head, his curls brushing Shane’s chin. “He was much older than Mama. Almost could have been her father. But he needed care, and he wanted to hide his illness for as long as possible. He was big police officer, important. Would not do for people to know he was losing his mind. So I quit hockey.”

Shane pressed Ilya even closer.

“I was…almost sixteen? My coaches did not understand. I had such promise, they said. Could play for Russia someday. I thought it would be temporary, that I just needed a season off, and then I would pick up where I left off. But then my father died, and my brother was - is idiot. He only sees costs of ice time and equipment and travel, and he will not pay. That money could be used to buy vodka and cocaine and sex right now. So I never play again, and I think I will live under Alexei’s thumb forever until Svetlana comes to me with idea.”

“You said her family had been friends with yours forever,” Shane said, biting down an irrational stab of jealousy.

“Yes. Her father moved them here when we were thirteen, but we write and email and text over the years. Even when she was not with me in Russia, she was with me in my heart. So she had idea to hire me as skating instructor here at Vetrov’s and get me Canadian work visa as soon as I was eighteen and Alexei couldn’t stop me.” Ilya lifted his head at that, looking Shane in the eye with complete seriousness. “I owe her and Sergei everything, Shane. They get me away from my brother, give me job, help me get better at English and get used to new country. I cannot spit in their faces by saying I want to leave and play for NHL.”

“But they’ve never told you you have to work for them for the rest of your life?” The wheels in Shane’s brain were already spinning, and he needed to make sure he had all his facts straight. “You just want to repay them for everything they’ve done for you?”

“I can never repay them,” Ilya said, brow furrowed. “I can only try to come close, even if it takes my whole life. And now I will owe them even more, after skipping classes for a day to comfort distressed future Centaur with beautiful freckles.”

“Beautiful?” Shane repeated softly, trying not to blush like a cartoon princess. Ilya just nodded. Finding more volume, Shane asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you with this debt, Mr. Rozanov? After all, it’s all my fault you’re at this nice, secluded beach on such a lovely day…”

“Mm, I have some ideas, malysh,” Ilya purred. He pressed Shane down onto his back and kissed him again, and any rational thought disappeared.

— — — — — 

“Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov!”

“Fuck.” Ilya froze, halfway out the front door of his cabin. Could he flee out the back and into the woods before Svetlana made it to his porch? “What the fuck did I even do?”

“Don’t even think about running.” Sveta’s quick strides ate up the remaining distance between them. For some reason, Hollander was hot on her heels, looking like he was fighting to keep up even though he had a few inches on her in height.

Oh, who the hell was he kidding? He had just spent a whole day kissing the other man, learning exactly how to make him let out all sorts of delicious moans and sighs and whimpers. Hollander wouldn’t cut it anymore, not when Shane - or even better, malysh - was right there.

“Sit down,” Sveta ordered as she barged into his cabin. “You too!”

Ilya and Shane wedged themselves onto the small loveseat Ilya had replaced his dining table and chairs with. Sveta leaned against the front window, scowling furiously.

As an oppressive silence thickened the air, Ilya pulled at his shirt collar and Shane shuffled his feet against the floor. Finally, Sveta took mercy on them.

“Why,” she intoned, speaking so low she was almost inaudible, “did I have to learn from Shane  that you still want to play for the NHL?”

“What?” Ilya threw a betrayed glare at Shane, who looked like he wanted to melt into the sofa. “Sveta, I would never-”

“I know you would never, idiot. Honestly, this is partially my own fault. I knew you were deeply, stupidly loyal. I let my happiness at having you here blind me to how indebted you would feel to me and Papa. It’s a good thing your Shane came along when he did.”

Ilya wanted to smooth his thumb along the sweet flush that bloomed on Shane’s cheeks at Sveta’s words, but he forced himself to play it cool. “My Shane?”

“Please, am I blind? You’ve been attached at the hip all summer, and he’s the only guest who’s ever learned how to properly pronounce your name. If he liked women, I would try to steal him from you,” Sveta said, shooting Shane a mischievous, flirty smile.

“If I were going to go for a woman, I’d choose you, ma’- I mean, Svetlana,” Shane replied, playing along. Ilya stopped resisting his impulses and wrapped his arm around Shane’s shoulders, tucking Shane securely into his side. Shane didn’t need to be flirting with anyone who wasn’t him, joking or not.

“You really went to her to - what? Plead my case?” Ilya asked. He thought he knew what had driven Shane to seek out Sveta, but he wanted to hear it directly from him.

“I didn’t have to plead anything,” Shane said, turning to face Ilya. “I thought - well, I thought you would have to hear from Svetlana that you don’t owe her and her father anything for getting you out of Russia. You said yourself that they didn’t specifically tell you you had to work here for the rest of your life, but that still doesn’t mean you’d feel comfortable telling them you had other dreams. I thought maybe if I gently broached the subject, Svetlana would encourage you to try for the NHL. I didn’t realize I’d be marched down here before breakfast like I was about to face a firing squad.”

“Gently,” Sveta repeated. She let out a derisive snort. “You barely let me close the door to my office before you blurted out ‘Ilya wants to play in the NHL and thinks you’ll be upset if he tells you. Do you know how good he is? Don’t you think he should do it?’”

Shane turned scarlet. Ilya’s heart did something complicated in his chest.

“So what if I want to go pro?” he asked, staring down at his thighs. “I don’t have any tape, and I don’t want to lean on Sergei’s connections. How am I supposed to get any teams to notice me?”

“I thought of that, too,” Shane said quietly. “And Svetlana had some really good feedback when I started explaining my idea to her. We will have to use Sergei’s connections, but not in like a nepotism way, I promise-”

“Malysh,” Ilya interrupted, one eyebrow raised. “Get to the point.”

“Right.” Shane squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath. “What if we had an exhibition match at the arena in Ottawa? Like an All-Star Game, but for prospects and UDFAs like me, and in neutral territory, so it's fair and also we don't overload the resort. We could start with a skills competition, then do retirees versus rookies in a real game. I’m sure Hunter and the other guys would participate if it meant you’d go play for the league and stop humiliating them during shinny every Wednesday.”

Ilya laughed. “Hunter and the other guys would do just about anything to make that happen, is true. But how does this game get me to the league?”

“We’ll invite scouts,” Sveta said, an eager light in her eyes. “Papa will be happy to reach out to his friends in the front offices, and Shane has been building intrigue all summer by staying unsigned. Scouts will take any chance they can get to convince him to play for their teams, and then they’ll see you.”

“I know some guys from college and the OHL who’d love some more face time with the scouts, too,” Shane said, answering Ilya’s next question before he could ask it. “No one will be able to say you got preferential treatment just because you’re friends with Sergei and Svetlana.”

“You really have thought of everything,” Ilya said. He let out another, more incredulous chuckle, then tugged Shane in for a short, sweet kiss. “Except maybe who’s going to coach these teams.”

“Actually, I thought maybe you, Svetlana, could coach the rookies, and Sergei could coach the retirees?” Shane turned to face Sveta without moving too far from Ilya’s side. “It would be a real draw for the fans as well as the scouts.”

“She’ll do it,” Ilya said before Sveta could reply. “There’s nothing Sveta loves more in life than shouting at unsuspecting hockey players until they cry.”

Sveta scowled at Ilya. “I can’t help that I’ve been burdened with perfect hair and comprehensive knowledge of the only sport worth playing. If people just listened to me the first time….”

“I think I’d like to rescind my offer,” Shane said, looking from Sveta to Ilya apprehensively.

“Too late,” Ilya and Sveta chorused.

“The things I’ll be able to do with you and Ilyusha on a team…,” Sveta mused. “You’ll both play center, of course, but we could switch it up on the power play…Papa’s team won’t know what hit them.”

“Think we can work the Rozanov in at some point?” Shane asked, shooting Ilya an impish grin. “Of course, if I do it first, they’ll call it the Hollander.”

“Over my dead body.” Ilya tackled Shane onto the couch cushions, pinning him on his back and making him shriek with laughter. He dropped another kiss to Shane’s lips, then continued, “Thank you, malysh. Really. I never would have come up with this plan or been brave enough to talk to Sveta about leaving the resort.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what that means?” Shane replied. He looked soft and starry-eyed beneath Ilya, and Ilya kind of wanted to keep him there forever. “Malysh?”

“You really want to know?” Ilya leaned in close to Shane’s ear. “Baby.”

Shane melted. “Oh.”

“You like that?” Ilya asked, feeling a feral grin burst across his face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.” Shane leaned up and chased Ilya’s lips. Ilya didn’t make him work for it, and soon the world narrowed to nothing but Shane, Shane, Shane-

“I’m still here,” Sveta cut in, making both Ilya and Shane jump. “We start practicing this afternoon. If you two aren’t focused by then, I’ll have you doing bag skates until you vomit.”

She swept out of the cabin at that, slamming the door behind her. Shane looked up at Ilya with concern.

“Does she get less intimidating as you get to know her?”

“No, but you learn to appreciate it,” Ilya said. He rubbed his thumb over the rabbiting pulse in Shane’s throat. “I think you need to relax before lessons this morning, baby. Yes?”

“Yes,” Shane breathed, and Ilya got back to work.

— — — — —

If this whole summer had been a dream, Shane never wanted to wake up. He’d spent almost every hour with Ilya since they’d come up with the exhibition idea, and he genuinely thought he could spend the rest of his life with Ilya, skating and planning and fooling around, and still not be satiated.

(Had he always had this potential for sluttiness in him, or was Ilya uniquely engineered to turn him to mush with nothing more than a smile and a light touch? Shane couldn’t imagine anyone else being able to make him feel so confident and safe and cherished. He didn’t want to.)

They’d easily gotten the other guys at Vetrov’s to agree to the match, and plenty of Shane’s buddies from college and juniors were conditioning nearby for the summer and leaped at the opportunity to play against some of the legends of the league. Svetlana had worked Sergei’s contacts, too, and scored a few more pros to bulk up the retiree team as well as promises of attendance from more than half the scouts in the NHL. While they weren’t really advertising the match, Shane had heard that some local hockey fans had heard about their plans online and were intending to come watch, which should make for a decent environment. No one liked playing to an empty arena, especially one the size of Scotiabank - wait, fuck, Canadian Tire Centre - oh, whatever the hell they were calling the one in Ottawa now.

All of the pieces were in place. Now the only thing left for Shane to do was eat a healthy breakfast and hope everything went off without a hitch that evening.

“What are your plans for today?” Mom asked, startling Shane out of his reverie. She buttered a slice of toast as she continued, “Just so you know, the only correct answer is ‘signing a contract like I promised I would back in June, beloved mother.’ It’s August, Shane!”

“I will, Mom,” Shane said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “I swear, I will have signed with a team by tonight. Training just kept me busy this summer, that’s all.”

“You do look stronger than ever,” Mom said with an approving smile. “I’m so glad you were able to convince Scott Hunter and Cliff Marlow to let you work out with them. See the difference it makes, working with pros?”

Shane had been his mother’s son long enough to hear the implied and not that Rozanov boy at the end of her question. He had also been her son long enough to know she wouldn't appreciate him replying Actually, Scott Hunter couldn't keep up with me if I strapped him to a jet engine. Ilya is the one who helped me get in the best shape of my life.

So he simply nodded and smiled and ate more breakfast. He at least wasn't lying when he said he'd sign by the end of the day - she just didn't need to know he intended to be in a dressing room in Ottawa when he did so.

Please, please, please, he willed the universe as he walked to the rink for their final morning of lessons. Let Ilya get an offer tonight. Let us both sign with a team. Maybe even-

Shane stopped himself before he could finish that thought. Some dreams were too unlikely to ever come true, even if the universe was on his side.

Still, they had tonight. If this was going to be Shane's only chance to play on a line with Ilya (providing they got a power play, which he was sure they would), he was going to seize it with both hands. The world thought he was a powerhouse on his own?

Wait until they saw him with Ilya.

— — — — —

Ilya was fighting to not feel discouraged. He and Shane were in his car, driving back to Vetrov’s, the sun still blazing in the bright blue afternoon sky.

The exhibition match had been cancelled - postponed, he could hear Sveta and Shane correcting him - just as they had arrived in Ottawa.

“The last of the scouts agreed to wait until Friday? That’s great news, Svetlana,” Shane said into his phone. He had his left hand to his free ear, blocking out some of the road noise. “Hang on, I’m getting a text - okay, Hausmann just let me know he can come back then, too. That’s all of the rookies accounted for. Maybe this water main break won’t fuck us over after all.”

There was some incomprehensible noise from Shane’s phone. Shane unplugged his ear and smiled, saying “In their dreams. You’re on the way back now? Okay, see you later.”

He dropped his phone in the cupholder, then turned to Ilya, still grinning. Ilya did his best to smile back, but Shane crinkled his nose at the expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, laying his hand atop Ilya’s on the gearshift.

“Maybe I’m not meant to play hockey,” Ilya said. He kept his focus on the road, knowing he’d lose his words if he tried to say everything he was thinking while looking at Shane. “Think about it. I found my mother’s body before practice one day. I had to stop playing to take care of my father. I teach skating just fine, but the second I try to pursue hockey for myself, the arena we rented has a freak accident? It’s a sign, malysh.”

“It is not.” Shane squeezed Ilya’s hand hard, almost painfully. “The pipes being shitty at the arena is not some kind of cosmic message, babe. It’s a pain in the ass, but we’ll get through it. Sergei already agreed to let us use the rink at Vetrov’s instead, and it sounds like everyone is willing to wait a whole two days until it’s free. You’ll have your chance.”

“Babe?” Ilya repeated. He appreciated all of Shane’s reassurances, of course, but he had priorities.

“Shit. That just slipped out. Do you not like it?” Shane flushed a pretty pink. “I don’t have to use it-”

“No!” Ilya said, flipping his right hand up to interlace his fingers with Shane’s. “Say it again.”

“Take a breath, babe,” Shane said with a playful grin. “This is just a delay. On Friday, everyone will see how great you are, and then you too will be signed to an NHL team.”

“Me too?” Ilya pushed his sunglasses into his hair, needing to see Shane’s face without any barriers. “You mean-”

“I ran into Harris when we were dealing with all the arena issues and told him to bring the paperwork on Friday. He and Coach Wiebe and the GM will all be there, and they said I can sign as soon as I step off the ice. I’m going to be an Ottawa Centaur.”

They had pulled in via the staff entrance as Shane was speaking, and Ilya hastily threw the car in park outside his cabin. “Out.”

“What?” Shane asked, bewildered.

“Out of the car, baby. Now.” Ilya met Shane by the passenger door and promptly backed him into the nearest tree. “First: congratulations.”

He took his time kissing Shane, deep and filthy and full of promise. Shane’s arms came up around his shoulders, and his fingers sank into the hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck. His own hands cupped Shane’s ass, encouraging one of Shane’s muscular thighs to wrap around his hips.

“Second,” he continued when they had to break for air. “Why now? I know you’ve wanted it all summer, but what made you finally do it?”

“A few things,” Shane said, settling more comfortably against Ilya’s body. “Part of it was just being in Ottawa, at the actual arena. It felt good being there, you know? Natural. Welcoming. But more than that, it was being here this summer. Before Vetrov’s, I didn’t know I could plan an event like this and actually pull it off, and I didn’t need my mom’s help to do any of it. I needed yours and Svetlana’s, of course, and that was crucial, but we worked as a real team. You guys didn’t try to stop me or rein me in - you encouraged me. You made me believe I could do it. If I can do this…why can’t I achieve my other dreams?”

“I don’t mean to spoil your nice speech, malysh, but we didn’t actually pull it off yet,” Ilya said with a smirk. Shane pulled one hand out of his hair to smack his shoulderblade. “Ow!”

“But we will, you asshole,” Shane grumbled adorably. “And even the way we reacted to the water main break gave me confidence. There will always be things I can’t control, but we came up with a new plan right away, and everyone was willing to roll with it. I know I didn’t spend much time with Montreal, but I didn’t get the feeling they were that adaptable. I don’t want to spend my career walking on eggshells every time the smallest thing goes wrong.”

“Smart.” Ilya pressed another kiss to Shane’s lips. “And handsome. Maybe you’ll be the one to make that stupid logo look good.”

“It’s so bad, isn’t it?” Shane laughed. “How many Cups will I have to win for Ottawa before I can convince them to redesign it?”

“Five, at least,” Ilya said, letting out a chuckle of his own. “You’d better get to work this fall.”

“I can’t wait.” Shane reconnected their lips. Ilya was just about to slip his hands under Shane’s waistband when another figure slipped out of the trees.

“Cups for Ottawa?” Yuna Hollander asked.

— — — — — 

This was it. Shane’s heart was going to explode outside the staff cabins at Vetrov’s before he ever played an NHL game. At least he would get to see Ilya’s face one last time as he left this mortal plane.

“What does he mean, Shane?” Mom said, arms crossed. “What did he convince you to do?”

“Jesus Christ, Mom,” Shane replied, instantly irate. He pushed away from the tree so he could face her head-on. Ilya tried to slip away, but Shane tugged him close, tucking him behind his shoulder. Anything he had to say, Ilya could hear. “Where did you even come from?”

“That Montreal scout, Chatelain, texted me earlier. He said he was so sorry to hear the exhibition had been cancelled, but that he looked forward to seeing you play on Friday, and could I introduce him to Sergei Vetrov? I didn’t know what he meant, but I would never admit that to him, of course. So I did some digging, and suddenly I see Hockey Twitter is just buzzing about this exhibition game in Ottawa where Shane Hollander will be playing. Don’t tell me you let this boy talk you into risking your health as well as signing with a subpar team.”

“I made these decisions, Mom! Yes, Ilya and I talked about it-”

“Talked about it,” Mom scoffed. “Is that what you call what you were just doing? Talking? You’re clearly not thinking straight, Shanebug. Can’t you see? Of course he wants you to sign with Ottawa. He can string you along as long as he wants and ride the gravy train on your paycheck.”

Shane sputtered. All of Mom’s accusations were so wrong, it was hard to know where to begin. “That’s not-”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not what he’s told you. Even the sweetest little Shanebug can’t be won over by a man who clearly only wants him for his money.” Mom shook her head, a pitying smile on her face. “But you’re a rational boy, too, bug. Come back to the chalet with your father and me. We can talk this over together, help you make the right decision. You didn’t actually sign anything today, did you? A verbal commitment isn’t totally binding - we can still get you where you belong.”

“No.” Shane was barely audible, even to himself. Ilya’s hand sneaked up and squeezed his shoulder gently, a reassuring weight.

“What was that?” Mom raised an eyebrow.

“No, Mom. I’m not coming back to the chalet, and I’m not changing my mind. God, do you really think so little of me?” Shane felt tears spring to his eyes and fought to speak clearly. “I’m not making the choice you wanted, so I must have been seduced into it by my big, bad Russian boyfriend. I couldn’t possibly have thought through my options and come to my own conclusions. I couldn’t possibly have had any part in organizing the exhibition match - I must have been cajoled into it.”

“Organizing it?” Mom repeated. She looked as if all the air had been knocked out of her.

“It was my idea, Mom. I presented it to Svetlana and Ilya, and they helped me make it happen. And you know what? I did it all for Ilya,” Shane said, building up a head of steam. “He’s so good, Mom. If you had ever actually seen him play, you would know that. On top of that, he makes me better. I haven’t been training with Hunter and Marlow all summer - I’ve been training with Ilya. He makes me dig deeper, skate faster, try harder. He deserves to be in the league alongside me, and I think this match will get him there. So yeah, I organized this game for my boyfriend, and I can’t wait to see how bright he shines when he plays in front of the scouts on Friday. Maybe you’ll deign to attend.”

Shane spun on his heel and grabbed Ilya’s hand before stalking up to his cabin and ushering him inside. Once the door had closed with a sharp bang, he sagged against it.

“She’s walking away,” Ilya said, peering out the front window. “Malysh. Did you mean it?”

“Every word of it.” Shane snapped back to full intensity, staring at Ilya. “I would organize a hundred exhibition matches for you if that’s what it took, and I made all of these decisions of my own free will.”

“No, no, of course,” Ilya soothed. He silently encouraged Shane to rest his body weight against him rather than the cabin door, and Shane went gladly, cuddling into the crook of Ilya’s neck. “I wasn’t questioning any of that, baby. But…boyfriend?”

Shit.

“Oh my God, I said boyfriend.” Shane’s head snapped up, narrowly missing Ilya’s jaw. “I said boyfriend twice. Shit. I know we haven’t, like, discussed it-”

“What do we need to discuss?” Ilya asked, a soft smile on his face. “I like you, you like me, we want to be together. You arranged entire exhibition game for me. Is that not boyfriend behavior?”

“I was being selfish,” Shane teased, a matching grin spreading across his own cheeks. “You see, I’m actually a gold digger, and I expect to be kept in luxury for the rest of my life. Your salary here at Vetrov’s just won’t cut it.”

“Is that right?” Ilya hoisted Shane fully into his arms at that, and Shane yelped as they began to move toward Ilya’s bed. “I do have other redeeming qualities, you know.”

“I think I’ll need a full demonstration of those qualities, babe,” Shane said before sealing his mouth to Ilya’s and tightening his legs around Ilya’s waist. “Show me what you’ve got.”

— — — — —

“Go.”

“But-”

“Go,” Ilya repeated firmly, smacking a kiss to the apple of Shane’s cheek. “You’ve been miserable ever since that fight with your mom the other night.”

“I have not,” Shane defended himself. The effort was half-hearted at best, though, and as always, Ilya saw right through it.

“Oh, so you’re pouting because why? It’s a beautiful day? We will get to destroy Scott Hunter later?” Shane shoved at Ilya’s chest, but he just laughed and pulled Shane in close. “Talk to her, malysh. You’ve both had some time to cool off - maybe it will help.”

Shane sighed. “I do feel bad about how I said what I said. And I really will hurt myself if I’m this unsettled during the game later. But will you…could you…”

“Could I what?” Ilya asked, smoothing a hand down Shane’s back.

“Could you come get me if I haven’t made it back here by lunchtime? I want - no, I need to do this on my own, so Mom knows I’m not just parroting your opinions. But I might also need an excuse to leave if things go downhill again.” Shane finally lifted his eyes from the floor when he was finished speaking and was relieved to see an understanding smile on Ilya’s face.

“Of course, baby. Whatever you want.”

Shane burrowed in closer to Ilya for one more moment, then stepped back and squared his shoulders. “Okay. I’m going. See you in a couple hours?”

“Twelve-thirty at the latest,” Ilya promised, and Shane left his cabin.

The walk back to his own chalet was quiet, thankfully - many of the guests were checking out at the main lodge since the end-of-summer skate for the students had occurred last night. Only a few hockey die-hards had decided to stick around for the rescheduled exhibition match, and even they were spending their mornings having one final swim in the lake.

Shane glanced at his parents’ chalet as he unlocked his own for the first time in two days, happy to see no movement through the blinds. He had borrowed clothing from Ilya yesterday - clothing he was still wearing - and he wanted enough time to change, to show up in one of his own outfits to speak to his mother.

He quickly tossed on clean underwear and shorts and fished the blue button-down out of his wardrobe. It really was a good shirt, lightweight and comfortable, and he knew Mom had taken his fabric preferences into consideration when she picked it out for him. He could offer her this much of an olive branch, at least.

(But he was still going to wear Ilya’s zip-up sweatshirt over it. It smelled like Ilya’s body wash, and the scent soothed the worst of Shane’s nerves. Sue him.)

Once he’d packed up another outfit for the post-game reception, he shouldered the bag and headed back outside, where he ran into-

“Mom.”

“Shane.”

They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment, Shane on his porch and Yuna on the path back from the main lodge. Shane forced himself to take a deep breath, then spoke.

“Can I come in? I’d like to talk.”

“Yeah, Shanebug. I think that would be for the best.” 

Shane followed Mom to her chalet and took a seat across from her at the small dining table, dropping his bag on the floor next to him. “Where’s Dad?”

“Oh, he got caught up chatting with Sergei. I told him I had a headache, to meet me back here whenever he was ready.” Mom took a deep breath of her own, then stood to get them both a glass of water. She didn’t speak again until Shane had taken a sip. “Tell me why you chose Ottawa, Shane.”

“So you can point out all the flaws in my judgment?” Shane asked. “I don’t want to fight again, Mom.”

“Neither do I!” Mom said - screeched, almost. “I just want to understand, Shanebug, really. You said you had thought this decision through, so tell me how you got there. Please.”

“I did think about it,” Shane said after another moment, hoping he sounded at least semi-eloquent. “I’ve done nothing but think about it since I got their offer. I know I’d be making less money than I could in Montreal, but it’s still an NHL salary - it’s not like I’ll need a second job waiting tables just to pay the bills. And Ottawa’s offer feels more secure in a way, you know? Montreal has a lot of prospects. It won’t take much for them to stick me in the AHL for a while or decide I’m not living up to my potential and put me up for trade. Ottawa already gave me trade protection, and you know I’d be on the first line right away.”

“So it’s all for your own glory?” Mom asked. She didn’t look impressed.

“Fuck, I’m not explaining this well,” Shane said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I mean, yeah. I’d like to finally be a star center, I’ll admit it. I was afraid never going for the draft would screw my chances, that people would think I just don’t have what it takes. You clearly didn’t, or you would have let me do it. But it’s more than that.”

“Wait, bug-”

Shane steamrolled right over Mom. “Ottawa has a good culture. Whenever I saw anyone affiliated with the team - a player, a coach, admin - they seemed happy. They took the game seriously, but they didn’t let it dictate their whole lives. The people at Montreal always felt…I don’t know, brittle. I got the impression that if you had an off day, they would make sure to let you know how exactly you let the team down and how you could never redeem yourself. How is anyone supposed to thrive in that kind of a culture?”

“You make a good-”

“And I know part of the reason you wanted me to sign with the Voyageurs is because you’re their number one fan, Mom, don’t deny it. Is it really so wrong of me to want to sign with the Cens for the same reason? They’re my team, Mom. Ottawa is my city. I want to raise the Cup in front of my kindergarten teacher and my dentist and our neighbors and make all of them proud. You should have raised me in Montreal if you wanted me to have that kind of passion for the Voyageurs.”

Silence fell as Shane finally petered out, grateful Mom had gotten him that water so he could soothe his now dry throat. After he had polished off most of the glass, she spoke.

“Is it my turn now?” At Shane’s nod, she smiled wryly. There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Shanebug. You’ve clearly had these feelings for a while, and I haven’t made you feel like you could come to me with them. That is my fault, and I apologize.”

She paused to take a sip of her own drink.

“Do you really think I thought you weren’t good enough for the draft, Shane?”

Shane just nodded, confused.

“Oh, bug. That was never a concern of mine,” Mom said, taking Shane’s hand across the table. “Never. I’ve known you would make it to the league since you were eleven.”

“Then why-”

“Do you remember Frank Zullo? That career-ending hit back when you were in high school?”

“Oof, yeah, that was bad. What a way to go out,” Shane said, remembering. The guy had only been in his second season when a Detroit defender caught a weird angle while checking him and ended up paralyzing him from the waist down. Just one of the freak things that could occur while playing a contact sport.

“I couldn’t help but picture you in his shoes.” The tears were flowing down Mom’s face now. “What if you suffered a career-ending injury before you were even in your twenties? I needed you to have a backup plan, and that meant college. I was thinking long-term, Shanebug. Trying to cover every angle.”

“You never said.” Shane’s mind was reeling, flashing back to that terrible conversation when he was seventeen. “You and Dad just kept talking about my education and how good the ice time in college would be. I thought you were just being overbearing.”

“I mean, I was,” Mom said with a snort. “I can admit that. You’re my only child, Shane. It took us so long to have you, and you were so small when you were born. The minute they put you in my arms, all I wanted was to protect you and to make sure you had the best of everything. I may have become a little…single-minded in my goals.”

“You think?” Shane let out a wet snort of his own.

“Shut up,” Mom said, wiping her eyes. “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it, hotshot Centaurs player or not.”

Shane froze. Was it really going to be that easy?

“Yes, I said Centaurs player,” Mom confirmed. She laughed at the dumbfounded expression Shane must have had on his face. “You raised a lot of good points, Shanebug, and they were all about what you want. Not me, or your father, or Rozanov-”

“Ilya,” Shane broke in. “Please.”

“Ilya,” Mom said, voice going softer. “This isn’t just some summer fling for you, is it?”

“I don’t want it to be,” Shane said, feeling tears spring to his eyes. “I know you think he’s just some wannabe skating coach-”

“I think you were right before - that I need to get to know him before I make up my mind about him.” Mom squeezed Shane’s hand again. “You said you talked with him about your decision? Trained with him?”

“Every time you thought I was with Scott or Cliff this summer, I was with Ilya,” Shane admitted. “He challenges me, Mom. In a good way. If I beat him at shinny or doing drills, it’s because I worked for it and earned it. But he also looks out for me. The first time I helped him lead skating lessons, I was an absolute disaster, but he didn’t judge me or let me stay in my own head about it. He makes me feel…seen. Safe, but not coddled. Free to just be myself.”

“Well. I look forward to meeting him properly, then, bug,” Mom said, smiling warmly. “I wasn’t sure whether to expect a man or a woman when you first brought a partner home, and I didn’t care, to be clear. The way you say he makes you feel - that’s what I care about.”

“How about tonight?” Shane asked, daring to meet Mom’s eyes for a fleeting moment.

“You want me to come to the game? I wasn’t sure-”

“I was being snarky before.” Shane shook his head. “Please come, Mom. This might not be the most important game I’ll ever play, objectively, but it’s important to me. Ottawa’s coming, and they’re bringing my contract paperwork. Maybe you could look it over one more time, make sure they didn’t add a clause where I’m selling my soul to Stephen Harper or anything?”

Mom cackled. “I’d love to see them defend that one in arbitration. Of course I’ll come, Shanebug. But I will not be wearing Centaurs gear.”

“Not even when my name is on the back?”

“Mm. I’ll consider it.”

Shane stuck out his tongue childishly, making both of them laugh. He knew there would be growing pains - Mom would try to micromanage him, he’d regress to sullen silence - but he thought this conversation might be the first step to them having a more equal, adult relationship, even if he’d always be her Shanebug at heart.

— — — — — —

Ilya felt electric. Unstoppable, even.

The game had gone perfectly. Shane had won more of the skills competitions than he had, sure, but only by one, and they’d all been close races. He’d made up for it by getting two goals and an assist during the exhibition match, while Shane had only had one of each. Surely at least one team would want to take a chance on him after that kind of showing, wouldn’t they?

He scanned the dining room, now emptied of tables and turned into a makeshift event hall for the post-game reception. Shane had showered and changed quickly once they were finished, eager to meet the Ottawa management and get his contract signed, but Ilya had wanted to take his time and make an entrance. He might not be as formally dressed as some of the other guys, but he knew he looked damn good.

His mother’s crucifix shone brightly under the colored spotlights, drawing attention to his chest and half-open black shirt. His pants and boots were black as well, giving him a dangerous, devil-may-care look, if he did say so himself.

Now all he needed was to locate the other star of the evening. A flash of shiny black hair and crisp white shirt in the far corner drew him to Shane, who had been waylaid by a couple of old white men in suits.

“I suppose it’s too late now that you’ve signed, son, but I do hope you knew what you were doing, choosing Ottawa-”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Ilya said, sweeping in and offering Shane his arm. “Sergei needs us.”

Shane latched on gratefully, and Ilya led them away without another word.

“Thank you,” Shane whispered once they were out of earshot.

“Nobody puts my baby in a corner.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Shane laughed and pressed closer to Ilya’s side. “You look incredible, babe. I suppose I’ll forgive you for not being there when I signed my contract.”

“Oh, very kind of you,” Ilya teased, leaning in to press a quick kiss to Shane’s lips. “Don’t worry, I have plans for how we can celebrate lat-”

“Ilya!” Yuna Hollander exclaimed, swooping in from God-knows-where and giving them both brief hugs. Ilya thought he might be having an out-of-body experience. “Sweetheart, you were phenomenal out there. If you don’t get a contract offer tonight, I’ll personally take it up with the commissioner.”

“Ooookay, Mom,” Shane said, flushing a pretty pink. “I didn’t expect you to come around quite so easily.”

“You know I love good hockey, Shanebug. Anyone would have thought you two had been playing together for years, the way you dominated those power plays. Why have you been hiding your talent from the league, Ilya?”

“It’s a long story,” Ilya mumbled.

“Tell me another time, then,” Yuna said, a shrewd, understanding look in her eyes. “Whatever the case, you’re here now. If you do get any offers, feel free to flag me down, okay? Some of these teams will try to take advantage of you, thinking you’re some foreign nobody who will just be grateful to be signed. I’ll make sure you get what you’re worth.”

She floated back to her husband’s side before Ilya could finish stammering out a thank you, unable to believe his own ears.

“Oh, babe. This is great,” Shane said, smiling blissfully. “Now I won’t be the entire focus of Mom’s attention. I should have brought a boyfriend home years ago.”

“The fuck you should have,” Ilya growled. He pulled Shane in once more, slipping his tongue in Shane’s mouth the moment their lips met. The idea of Shane meeting some other guy in college, melting in his arms the way he melted in Ilya’s…it made something primitive rattle in his chest.

He had started to debate dragging Shane off to the nearest supply closet to start their celebrations early when a tentative ahem came from behind him.

“Ilya Rozanov? Hi, I’m Harris Drover.” The short, sunshine-y blond man who had interrupted them stuck out his hand, and Ilya shook it, bemused. “I’m a scout for the Ottawa Centaurs. Can I talk to you for a moment? Hi, Shane.”

Shane greeted Harris cheerfully, accepting a handshake of his own.

“I know we just convinced Shane to sign with us, but we still need depth at center. How would you feel about playing for Ottawa? Management is prepared to offer you an identical contract to Shane’s - not even a tryout. We were really impressed by you tonight, Ilya.”

Shake spoke almost before Harris had finished talking. “He accepts!”

“Baby, play it cool,” Ilya said, unbearably fond. “I’ll think about-”

“Mom!” Shane interrupted, waving a hand and getting Yuna and David to come back over to them. “Ottawa just offered Ilya a contract. Identical to mine.”

“He accepts,” Yuna said immediately.

“I accept,” Ilya confirmed, laughing. “If my boyfriend and my manager want it, well…”

“You want it too, right?” Shane asked. His eyes went wide and fearful. “Fuck. If there’s another team you’ve dreamed of playing for, Ilya, of course you should sign with them-”

Ilya cut Shane off with a kiss. “Wherever my boyfriend is is where I want to be, yes? And we’ll be close enough to Vetrov’s - maybe we can come back for a couple weeks every summer, offer some lessons. Every child will want to learn from the reigning Stanley Cup champions, I’m sure.”

“Damn right,” Shane said with a fierce grin. “We’ll start a hockey dynasty.”

“Our names in all the record books,” Ilya confirmed. He tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Shane’s neck, and Shane’s arms tightened around his shoulders. “You and me. Together at the top. Always.”

“You promise?”

“I swear.”