Archive of Our Own

Shane wakes up about fifty percent sure that he’s actually dead. He lies in quiet agony for ten long seconds, then twenty, then thirty, willing himself to have the strength to peel his eyelids open. When he finally rallies, he immediately regrets it—piercingly bright light ricochets through his skull like a hockey puck loose in the rink, or like a… 

Like… something else that bounces around. 

Or something. 

Ugh. 

Did Shane take a knock to the head? He’s lying on a bed, and there’s a bright light, so he could be in a hospital…? But no, the room is too quiet for a hospital room, even a private one. There’s the annoying whistling sound of a poorly calibrated air conditioner and the too-loud murmur of voices from people talking in what sounds like a hotel hallway. 

Right. 

Vegas. The MLH awards. Against his better judgement, Shane went to fuck Rozanov, and now he’s quietly dying from the worst hangover he’s ever had in his life. 

Shane needs to get up. He has to shower, get dressed, and meet his parents in the lobby to go to the airport… probably soon. The sun is shining directly onto Shane’s face from where he was clearly too drunk to close the curtains last night, so it has to be mid-morning already. He just needs to work up the courage to open his eyes into the glaring brightness. 

Which he can totally do. Opening his eyes is easy. Easy peasy. 

Shane manages another sixty seconds of entertaining the idea of missing his flight before he’s jerked awake by a sharp knock on his door. 

Shane’s eyes shoot open. Ugh. He smacks a hand over his eyes, clears his throat, and tries very hard to both project his voice and sound normal. 

“Yeah?”

“Shane, honey, it’s ten o’clock,” his mother’s voice says through the door. A squinting, painful glance at the clock on the bedside table says it’s actually 10:12, which means his parents gave him a ten minute grace period before coming to fetch him. “...Are you ready to go?”

“Uhhh… I need ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Shane is not opening the door for his mother right now, only partially because he thinks that if he gets out of bed quickly he’s going to yarf all over the carpet. 

“...Okay.” A pause. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, be down soon!”

After a long stretch of silence, Shane finally hears her footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Then: a groan, from the other side of the massive bed. 

Shane sits up so fast he throws up in his mouth a little.

“Why so loud?” says Rozanov’s voice from a pile of bedding. 

Shane swallows, tries not to heave. 

“What…?” Shane says stupidly. “Why are you in my hotel room?”

They had fucked in Rozanov’s penthouse suite—that much, Shane knows for sure.

“I don’t know,” says Rozanov’s muffled, disembodied voice. 

“Can you get out of there?” 

It’s weird talking to a pile of blankets.

“Too bright.”

“So you’re as hungover as I am?”

“No.” A pause. “...Maybe. What the fuck did we do last night?”

“I don’t know,” Shane says miserably, “but if I don’t get up I’m going to miss my flight.”

“I have afternoon flight.”

Rozanov probably planned on getting drunk, on sleeping off a hangover, on having an unhurried morning after winning his big award. Shane didn’t, because Shane doesn’t do this. He’s not even sure how this happened in the first place, but he doesn’t have time to try to remember. 

Instead, Shane flips the blanket off, and pivots so that his legs are off the side of the bed. Step one, down. Only… thirty more small steps to go before he’s ready to leave. Step two being stand up without falling over and step three being take more than two steps without vomiting on the carpet. He reaches out to steady himself on the bedside table, unsure of how wobbly he will be on two feet. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, then—

—Yelps. 

There, on Shane’s left hand, is a gold band. 

A wedding ring. 

On Shane’s hand. 

“The fuck, Hollander?”

Shane blinks, then blinks again even harder. Nope, still there. Giving up on standing for the moment, Shane gropes blindly for Rozanov’s arm, then yanks it out from under the covers. 

“Why do you do this?” Rozanov groans, glaring at Shane through squinted eyes. 

Rozanov’s left hand is miraculously bare. Shane isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not. Did he get married? If Shane was with Rozanov, who is ringless, maybe he didn’t. But if he did, then… who the fuck would he have gotten married to??

“I’m wearing a wedding ring,” Shane says finally. “You’re not.”

Rozanov turns his head, so Shane holds up his left hand, gold band on display. Rozanov blinks, frowns. Then, after a long moment of consideration, he unearths his other arm from the bedding and holds up his right hand, which has… a matching gold band.

“In Russia…” he says, “...is this one.” The words are punctuated with a little wiggle of his right hand, like Shane needs to have his attention drawn to it, like Shane isn’t already staring, horrified, at the shine of gold in the morning’s unforgiving light. 

“Oh.” Shane stares dumbly at Rozanov’s hand, at the matching ring, at the stick of dynamite about to blow up both of their lives. “Oh, god.”

“You have to go to airport, yes? Or you will miss flight.”

“Rozanov, did we… did we fucking get married last night?”

“Maybe yes, I don’t know. But missing flight will not fix.”

“I can’t…”

“Your parents are waiting. Downstairs. If you do not go… they will come. Looking for you.”

…Looking for Shane, and finding Rozanov in his bed. If Shane’s mom comes upstairs a second time she won’t leave until Shane opens the door. Shane has… ugh… four minutes to pull himself together. 

“Right, okay. I need to….” 

Shane levers himself out of bed and, thankfully, doesn’t immediately faceplant onto the ground. The adrenaline coursing through him helps, and he manages to stumble into the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet. He brushes his teeth, splashes cold water on his face, and staggers back into the room in search of clothes. 

What Shane wants, desperately, is to take a shower, but he doesn’t have time—instead he will have to brave the airport (and his parents) reeking of vodka and stale sweat. Thankfully, smelling like a bar should mostly cover the smell of sex that surely still clings to his skin. 

Shane pulls on clean underwear, sweatpants, and a sweatshirt, then crams everything else into his suitcase and zips it closed. 

A sudden, horrible thought occurs to Shane, then. Marriage License. If they truly did get married last night, there’s a legal document somewhere in this hotel room with both of their names on it. A quick glance at the desk doesn’t turn up anything obvious, nothing that says SHANE HOLLANDER AND ILYA ROZANOV ARE IDIOTS WHO GOT MARRIED LAST NIGHT. Shane frantically grabs anything paper—room service menu, folder with a glossy printed itinerary from the event last night, welcome letter from the hotel, pad of paper, even the hotel bible—and skitters back over to unzip his suitcase and then pile his stash on top of his clothes. 

Re-zipping the suitcase is harder, with all the random junk, but Shane manages—barely. Once closed, he realizes that the pens swept up in his frenzy could easily mark his clothes, but ultimately decides against fishing them out. If he needs to throw his clothes from this weekend away, then so be it. 

Maybe he’ll do that anyway. Fresh start. 

(Everything will be wrinkled and dirty and disorganized when he gets back to Canada, but he doesn’t have time.)

“I have to go,” Shane says finally.

“Yes.”

“You need to go back to your own hotel room.”

“Yes.”

Shane huffs. “And we need to talk about… this. Obviously. Not now, but.” Shane raises the handle on his suitcase, thumb worrying over the ridges. “Are you flying straight to Russia?”

“No. Boston.”

“But you’re going to Russia.”

Rozanov groans. “Yes, Hollander, I go to Russia in summer. Three days. Boston first, then Russia.”

“Okay.” Shane presses down on the button on his suitcase handle, lowering the handle slightly, then pulls it back up so that it click-locks into place again. “I’ll text. Or maybe call, I guess. When I get back.” He clicks the suitcase handle a second time, and then a third. “Or—you should text me when you’re home. In Boston.” 

“Okay yes I will text.”

Shane considers for a moment. His flight has a connection, since he and his parents are flying to Ottawa, and Rozanov’s flight is later. With the time change, they’ll both be getting in late, and realistically, Shane is going to pass out as soon as he makes it to the house. Might fall asleep in the car home, even. 

“Maybe tomorrow is better, actually. That gives us a chance to get home and also get some sleep.”

“Okay, tomorrow.”

Shane presses down on the button again, letting the handle fall a couple of inches, then pulls it back up. Click. Snapping into place. 

“...Do you remember anything?”

“Hollander. You will miss flight. You will have to explain Russian in your bed to angry parents. Go.”

“Right, I need to go. I’ll see you… around. I mean. We’ll talk. Later.”

Shane stares at the mop of curls in his bed. 

“...Bye,” Shane says dumbly. 

“Bye bye,” Rozanov mumbles. 

“Check out is at eleven, so you only have like. Half an hour.”

Rozanov groans. “I have late checkout.”

“Okay, well, I don’t, and you’re in my hotel room. So you have to leave before housekeeping comes to turn over the room.”

It’s not that Shane thinks that Rozanov will forget. Not completely. But there’s something that makes him nervous about leaving Rozanov in his hotel room, leaving the country with Rozanov in the room that is his. 

Rozanov groans, then sits up. 

“I am up,” Rozanov says with a glare. “I will not sleep. I go upstairs, to my room, with late checkout and no nagging, yes?”

Rozanov must be exceptionally hungover. He looks as bad as Shane feels, and his English is the worst Shane’s ever heard it outside of when they first met. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, for lack of anything better. 

“Go.”

“Okay, I’m going.” 

“Do not forget ring.”

“Oh, fuck.” Shane pulls the ring off his finger and slips it into his pocket. 

“Security,” Rozanov says.

Right. He can’t have anything in his pocket going through airport security, and the last fucking thing in the whole world Shane needs right now is to have a wedding ring flag him in the security line. Fuck. 

Shane pulls the ring out of his pocket and slips it into one of the zipper compartments in his suitcase. 

“Thanks,” Shane says, grateful. Rozanov just grunts in reply. 

With one last look at Rozanov’s bedhead, Shane finally musters the nerves to open the door, step out into the hallway, and face the music.

—

The trip home is miserable. Thankfully, Shane’s parents immediately recognize that Shane is catastrophically hungover, and while his mom raises her eyebrows and his dad huffs out a little laugh at the state of him, neither of them actually say anything. 

Shane spends the entire flight leaning up against the window and piecing together what he can remember from the night before. 

He had gone to Rozanov’s room. They fucked. But Rozanov was cold, distant. Shane left, feeling like shit. Got as far as the elevator, typed up some sad little message on his phone, and then, instead of sending it, he stormed back to Rozanov’s room.

They argued. That much, Shane remembers. Something about how Rozanov had chased after Shane for years, and then when he had gotten what he wanted, he thought he could treat Shane like trash. Ignore him for months, and then… 

The first time Rozanov fucked Shane, he was thoughful. Tender. He checked in, made sure that Shane was comfortable, made sure that Shane was enjoying himself. The second time, Rozanov was kind of an asshole. The sex was good. Great, even. But Rozanov was so distant and uncaring. It made Shane feel really, really shitty about himself.

The drinking, Shane remembers too. Rozanov had been evasive, didn’t want to talk, like usual. Said that there was no point, that they couldn’t be anything even if they wanted to, so why bother talking about it. Shane had taken the bottle of vodka and said something about how they needed to be honest with each other, even if getting drunk was the only way to do it. 

And so they did. Get drunk, that is. From there, it’s all a bit of a blur. They had continued arguing, and Shane has the vague sense that Rozanov actually acknowledged having feelings for Shane, but the details are hazy. Something about hockey, something about Russia. 

Something something the impossibility of it all. 

The rest of the night is just bits and pieces. Leaving the hotel. Stumbling around the streets of Las Vegas. The distant impression of an Elvis impersonator, a gaudy chapel. Making it back to the hotel, against all odds, leaning on one another to stay upright. Going back to Shane’s room instead of Rozanov’s because the bed was clean. Stripping down to their underwear and crawling into bed together, Rozanov collapsed on top of him like a weighted blanket. 

Shane can’t stop the quiet groan of annoyance at his past self, the sound thankfully swallowed by the hum of the airplane. He can’t do anything right now, and he needs to figure out what Rozanov remembers, too. 

Shane survives the flight, survives the airport, and survives the drive from the Ottawa airport to his parents’ cottage. 

Before going to the MLH awards, going straight to his parents’ place afterward had seemed like a reasonable plan. Shane had driven from Montreal to Ottawa the day before they left for Vegas, and then planned to stay with his parents for a couple of weeks so that he could easily check on the construction of his own cottage. 

It’ll be nice to have his own place for the summer, with some privacy. 

Soon. 

In the meanwhile, Shane is camped out in his childhood bedroom, frantically googling how to get a divorce in Las Vegas. Or Nevada, probably, since those laws tend to be state-by-state. Or an annulment, possibly, if that would be better. Very quickly he realizes that marriages are a matter of public record, and while they’re not, like, announced, anyone who inquires can get that kind of information. 

Fuck. 

Shane just has to make sure not to do anything that might make people wonder if he’s gotten married in Vegas. Easy enough. Shane’s everything says that he’s a guy who would never get married in Vegas. 

Rozanov, on the other hand…

But no. Rozanov is very famously a rake, and while people expect him to be waltzing around with a new supermodel every week, no one expects him to marry her. Not even drunkenly, not even in Vegas. 

Okay. 

Shane takes a break from his research to unpack his mess of a bag. First, he carefully unstacks the mess of papers he swept into his suitcase before leaving the room. Inspecting each one carefully, he checks for a marriage license, an envelope, or anything that might be proof of their idiocy, but if he has it, it’s not in this stack. The clothes all go straight into the laundry hamper, but he returns his toiletry bag to the bathroom. Then, Shane opens the zipper side compartment and fishes out the wedding ring he stashed there. 

The ring is gold. Heavier than it looks. It’s cold, in the middle of Shane’s palm, but warming quickly from his body heat. There’s a small engraving on the inside, too. Shane turns the ring so that he can read it: 81 & 24. 

Shane snorts. Of course Rozanov’s number is first. 

There’s something else that he should have, though. If Shane hadn’t left the marriage license on the desk, that means that his drunken self had the presence of mind to pack it before passing out. Rozanov wouldn’t have it — they weren’t in Rozanov’s room, so he didn’t have anywhere to hide it, unless it was crammed into his tux pocket crumpled on the floor. 

No, Shane, even drunk Shane, would have kept secure a document that could completely change the trajectory of both of their lives. If it hadn’t been on the desk, that means Shane had already packed it. 

First, Shane checks the medium-sized outer zipper compartment on the front of his suitcase — empty. Then, the slightly larger zipper compartment tucked behind the first — empty. The padded laptop sleeve inside of the suitcase — empty. The zippered pocket attached to the laptop sleeve — Shane’s fingers brush against thick paper, and he pulls it out of the pocket with trembling hands. 

A paper envelope that Shane doesn’t remember. Well. Barely remembers. Finding it jogs the memory of him stumbling to his suitcase, tucking the envelope away so that he didn’t forget it in the hotel room. 

With as much courage as he can muster, Shane peaks into the envelope, afraid to even take the paper out. The words CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE stare back at him. 

Shane manages a controlled fall onto the floor from where he had been squatting. Okay. So. They really did it. They have rings, and they have a marriage certificate, because they are married. A married couple. Husbands. 

Fuck. 

—

The next day, Shane's parents decide to go grocery shopping to restock the house and pick up a supply of foods that comply with Shane's diet, and Shane is able to beg off of coming along. He's recovered from the hangover to end all hangovers — mostly — but he doesn't like going to the grocery store on the best of days. His parents nod along with his refusal, unsurprised, and wave goodbye at the door. 

Shane has his phone out and open to Lily's contact information before their car has even finished backing out of the driveway. 

He had wanted to call Rozanov yesterday, as soon as he had gotten home, anxiety buzzing under his skin and the patchy memories of Vegas haunting him. Instead, practicality had won out. He had been exhausted from travel and miserably hungover, and far too hyper-aware of his parents down the hall. Shane grew up in this house. He knows how sound travels — which is to say that they might overhear him, if one of them was walking down the hall while he was talking on the phone in his room. Even if not, they would be able to hear the rumble of his voice, might ask who exactly he saw fit to call after the long day that he had. 

Shane didn't want to deal with any of those questions, so he dug through his duffle bag and waited for the morning. 

Now, finger hovering over the call button, Shane waffles. 

Shane managed to do very little effective research yesterday, hungover as he was. He should probably talk to Rozanov with a plan in place, rather than just panicking. 

So Shane puts his phone down, picks up his laptop, and starts searching. 

The results are… inconclusive. Different websites have different and sometimes contradictory information. The deeper Shane gets into the legal differences between a divorce and an annulment, the faster his breathing gets. He has to get up and walk away from his computer three different times to calm down, trying desperately not to have a panic attack. 

This isn’t working, Shane can admit as much to himself. He’s not preparing, he’s edging himself closer and closer to a full-blown meltdown. So finally, he gives into the temptation, and picks his phone back up. 

Now, Shane's thumb only hovers for a few seconds before hitting the call button. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Maybe he should have texted first, given warning. But then: 

"Hollander." Rozanov sounds okay. Tired, maybe. Maybe a little resigned, too. 

"Hey. I said I would call today, so...." 

"Yes."

Shane realizes, abruptly, that he's never spoken to Rozanov on the phone before, only through texts. 

"Um. How was your trip back? Were you okay?"

Rozanov snorts. "I was fine."

"You were just as hungover as I was."

"Yes, maybe, but it did not last as long for me, probably."

Rozanov's tolerance is certainly better than Shane's, given how much Rozanov drinks and how little Shane does. 

"Yeah, that's probably true," Shane admits. "I've, um, been trying to... remember... but it's all still pretty spotty. You probably remember more than I do."

"You remember the first part of the night."

"Yeah. And... leaving. And then coming back."

"You came back and wanted to talk about feelings," Rozanov says, and Shane makes an affirmative noise. “I did not want to talk about feelings. You were the one to suggest vodka."

That part Shane mostly remembers, since he was still mostly still sober. Rozanov makes him feel so much, both highs and lows, and he just wanted the other man to acknowledge that there was something there, something more than meaningless sex. Shane likes Rozanov, more than he should. And he was sure that Rozanov felt the same. Hoped that Rozanov felt the same. Rozanov deflected and deflected and deflected until Shane took a swig of vodka straight from the bottle, then pressed the neck into Rozanov’s hand. In vodka veritas. 

"So this is all my fault?" Shane says. He means for the words to come out joking, but instead they somehow land on soft. Fond, even. 

"Yes, of course it is all your fault. My plan was to keep my feelings inside until I die, like proper Russian."

"Sorry."

Rozanov makes a dismissive sound. "So we have vodka, you force me to admit that I like you. Then we talk about... hockey and Russia.”

Shane takes a shaky breath. That’s part of the conversation he was pretty drunk for, that he only remembers in bits and pieces. 

“I like you, Shane,” Rozanov — Ilya — says, so soft the phone speaker barely picks up the sound. “Too much. And I don’t know how much you remember of this part, but… Russia is not safe. I could be arrested, or worse. The men they have taken, I… I don’t know what has happened to them.” 

“Ilya.”

“And I cannot stop coming back there,” Ilya continues, like he can’t stop now that he’s started, “my father is sick. My family is complicated. Messy. And hockey is not so good either. If I came out and got kicked off the team I would lose my visa. They would send me back to Russia.” 

“God, Ilya. I…” Shane trails off. Some part of him knew that Russia was not the most friendly country, but hearing the words like they’re being torn out of Ilya causes Shane so much stress it’s turned to physical pain, all of Shane’s muscles ready for a fight that he can’t do anything about. 

“And then we go find Elvis."

Ilya glosses over what's maybe the most important part, which means that he remembers more than he's letting on. It means he doesn't want to pin the blame on Shane, not for this. 

"I suggested it," Shane says. 

"You remember?"

"No." That's true — Shane genuinely doesn't remember the gap between them blubbering about feelings and the impossibility of it all, and the blurred memory of the chapel, rings. But every time Ilya says anything about Russia it's like a knife straight between Shane's ribs. Everything is so huge, so scary, and Shane doesn't even have the looming threat of imprisonment or worse hanging over his head. It's not right. It's not fair. Shane wants to fix it, somehow, even though he has no control over the situation at all. There's nothing he can do. "But... every time I think about Russia I want to grab onto you with both hands and never let you go there again. So."

“Yes,” Ilya says, voice soft. “You said that before, too.”

“Right. So I can guess that I suggested it, even though it wouldn’t actually work. Like. I don’t know if you could even apply for citizenship in Canada if you’re living outside of the country without any plan of moving here, spouse or not.”

“I also do not know this.”

“But even if you could… it would take time. At least a year to get the paperwork in order, I would think, but probably longer. And in the meanwhile we can’t risk anything leaking, or anything happening to your contract.”

“Yes.”

Shane groans, frustrated with his past, drunken self. He had been trying to help but instead made things so much worse for them both. 

“I would stay married to you if I thought it would keep you safe,” Shane says, and means it. 

“But it will not,” Ilya says, so fucking understanding. 

Defeated. 

All at once, Shane is furious that they’re countries apart. He wants to be in Ilya’s lap right now, wants to run his hands through Ilya’s curls and tuck Ilya’s face against his throat. 

“Marriages in the state of Nevada are a matter of public record,” Shane continues, needing to get the rest out before he loses his nerve. “Anyone could pull the license and see. Before we could make sure that you’re safe.”

“So we divorce,” Ilya says, trying hard to sound casual and missing by a wide margin. 

“We could try for a divorce. Or an annulment. I can figure out the paperwork for both of those, I think, but…” Shane trails off, searching for the right words. “I don’t know if they would be confidential, or if they would also be part of the public record. And there’s probably some way to do it confidentially but there’s so little time. And I’m afraid of you going back to Russia and something leaking while you’re there.”

“I can push my trip back by a couple days. Change my flight.”

“I think I need to tell my parents,” Shane says finally. “My mom is really good at this kind of stuff. I think she’d be able to have everything sorted in like, a day and a half. Maybe even less. She would do a much better job fixing this than I could ever hope to.” 

It doesn’t help that every time Shane tries to read the legalese, it’s like his brain turns to very loud, very angry static. He reads the word divorce and panic claws up his throat; he reads the word annulment and his higher brain functions wink out of existence. 

Researching is hard when he dedicates half his brain power to reading and the other half to talking himself out of having a panic attack. 

“Do they know about you?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You think they will be… okay? You will be safe?”

“Yes! Yeah, of course,” Shane rushes to clarify. “I think they’ll be surprised, and they’re not going to be thrilled about the, uh, circumstances, but they wouldn’t…” Shane trails off. They wouldn’t what? He doesn’t even know, but Ilya hums in response, like Shane’s panicky words make sense to him. 

The words play on a loop in Shane’s head — you will be safe? — from his own family. Ilya asked because he himself wouldn’t be. Because Ilya’s family… 

Shane swallows. 

“I would need to tell them about you, too,” Shane says finally, trying hard not to think about Ilya’s tenuous position or else he really will have a panic attack. 

“Is okay,” Ilya says, trusting, so much more trusting than Shane deserves after getting them into this mess. 

“Okay,” Shane breathes into the phone. “Okay. I’m going to hang up, do some more research, talk to my parents, and I’ll call you as soon as I’m done, okay?”

“Okay,” Ilya says, soft. “I will be waiting.”

“Goodbye, Ilya.”

“Goodbye, Shane.”

—

After hanging up the phone with Ilya, Shane spends several minutes breathing deeply, eyes closed, sitting cross legged on the ground. He’s not meditating, not really, because he wouldn’t be able to clear his mind enough to approach anything even close to meditation, but he still needs a few minutes to gather his thoughts and calm his racing heart. 

Once Shane feels like he can walk out of the room without his knees buckling or bursting into tears, he decides to brave the rest of the house. He could really use a glass of water. Should have grabbed one, before calling, but the only thing on his mind had been to call Ilya. 

Admittedly, the water helps. The physicality of it — the cold of the glass, the smooth glide down this throat, the refreshment that was badly needed — does a lot of the work in centering Shane to here and now. 

“Hey kiddo.”

Shane chokes, sputters, and almost drops the cup. He fumbles, trying to regain purchase on the condensation-slick glass, all while trying not to cough too much and lose his grip. 

“Woah, sorry,” Shane’s dad says, patting him on the back. Shane’s dad, who is here. Shane’s dad, who is home and who walked into the kitchen like he’s been home for a while. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I didn’t realize you guys were back already,” Shane manages to choke out. 

“We got home a little while ago.” Shane’s dad putters around the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water, then raises his eyebrows at Shane. “You probably didn’t hear us. It sounded like you were on the phone.”

“Yeah,” Shane says faintly. “I was.”

“Everything all right?”

“Uh.” Shane’s brain stalls out a little. It’s better to get this conversation out of the way, rather than allowing it to make him more and more anxious. Better, but no less terrifying. “I actually need to talk to you about something. You and mom.”

“Talk to us about what?” Shane’s mom says from behind him. Sound carries easily in this house, and Shane can only hope that they didn’t overhear any part of his conversation with Ilya. She comes to stand next to Shane’s dad, and both of them have similarly curious expressions, so he doesn’t think they did. 

“Let’s sit down,” Shane says, unwilling to have this conversation standing awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen. Instead, he sits at the table, and waits for his parents to join him.

“Okay, so. I wanted to tell you guys that I’m gay.”

Shane actually isn’t 100% sure that he is gay. Part of him is still holding out hope that he’s like Ilya — who likes both — but he either needs to say I’m gay or I’m bisexual and gay just seems simpler. If, later, he meets a beautiful woman and falls in love, it shouldn’t be too hard to tell his parents that he was wrong, and that he likes girls, too. It would be worse, he thinks, if he says that he’s bisexual and gives his parents false hope that one day he could fall in love with a woman, only to realize later that that will never happen. He doesn’t want his parents always quietly hoping for the right woman to walk into his life. 

So. 

For all intents and purposes, he’s gay. 

“Oh, honey,” Shane’s mom says. “Thank you so much for telling us.”

“We love and support you, Shane, no matter what,” Shane’s dad says. 

Shane glances back and forth between his parents. They wear twin expressions of loving sympathy, and their replies feel… practiced. 

“You knew,” he says.

“We didn’t know,” his mom corrects. “But we thought it was… a possibility.”

A possibility. Shane swallows. “Is it obvious?”

“Not obvious at all,” Shane’s dad reassures him. “But we know you pretty well, kiddo.”

“Then what made you think…”

Shane’s parents share a look between themselves. 

“Well,” his mom starts, “you haven’t had a girlfriend since high school, and you never talk about dating, or women.”

“And,” his dad continues, “you’re good-looking, rich, and pretty damn famous. You should have women all over you. If you were interested, you would have a girlfriend by now. Or, if you weren’t interested in dating, you could easily have as much… um, attention as you want. Hell, look at Rozanov.”

Shane bites back a wince. 

“But we never hear about you with women, and you never talk about women, so…” his mom trails off. “With as much money and fame as you have, I was prepared for vetting girlfriends to make sure that you didn’t meet someone who would take advantage of you, either for money or connections. But I’ve never needed that.”

Shane thinks that if he had bothered with even one girlfriend, his parents would have taken the bait, would have backed off immediately. Maybe he’s not gay after all, they would have thought, and then his sexuality wouldn’t have been a foregone conclusion to them.

Not that that would be better, per se, but… 

Shane forces himself to nod. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”

“But honey, I think that everyone else just sees a very dedicated hockey player. And a discreet one. We’re your parents. I don’t think anyone else has thought as much about it.”

Shane nods again. “Right. That’s… good.” There’s a few seconds of silence, and then Shane forces himself to continue. “There’s something else I need to tell you.”

Once again, his parents share a look. Shane takes a sip of water, then fiddles with his glass for a few seconds. This part will be harder. This part is worse. Much worse. 

“So, I, um,” Shane swallows. “I’ve been. Seeing someone. Casually. Neither of us are out so, it’s not… anything serious, or exclusive,” he adds, thinking about his dad’s comment about Ilya. “He’s another player, so, you know, we have the same secret. And he, um. Gets it. Like, hockey, and everything.”

Shane pauses. He needs to continue, to push through the discomfort, but anxiety is a hand closing around his throat. 

“That makes sense,” his mom says, encouraging. 

“Right. Well. We… I saw him after the awards, in Vegas. And. I think you noticed that I was pretty hungover?”

Shane’s dad chuckles. “Yeah, we noticed.”

“Right. Well, we were drinking together after the awards. Like, we both got pretty trashed. And we, um… we got… married.”

Silence rings for about five unbearably long seconds. 

“No, you didn’t,” Shane’s mom says in her most sponsor-ready, no-nonsense tone. 

“Yeah, mom, I did.” Shane knew that this was going to be the hard part. He’s always been so careful, always been so measured and particular. For all the things his parents have ever thought to worry about, getting married in Vegas surely never made the list. 

“Who is the other player?” Shane’s dad asks, brow furrowed. 

“It’s Ilya. Rozanov,” Shane says, and watches twin looks of shock bloom across their faces. “I know, it’s unexpected. And the fact that it’s him and not some third line player for Tampa makes it a lot more complicated, I know.”

Shane’s mom scoffs. “Like you would be attracted to a third line player from Tampa.”

Shane can’t help but laugh, a little wetly. “Yeah, well. It’s super complicated because there’s the obvious, like, hockey aspect. And obviously we’re both, um, particularly famous, and with the rivalry it would be really big news if this got out.”

“Shane, honey. You did not get married to Ilya Rozanov in Las Vegas.”

“Yeah, I did, mom. I really did. And I need you to let me finish, okay? Because on top of everything else… Russia isn’t safe. For queer people. I don’t know as much about it as I probably should, but I know that Ilya could be arrested, or worse. So, we need to figure out how to get a divorce, or a — an annulment, or whatever, whichever one is better, and we need to seal the records or something so that it’s not like, public, because I looked it up and marriages in Vegas are a matter of public record. And Ilya is flying back to Russia in like two days, and he can push his flight back a little if needed, but he has to go back because his dad is sick, but I’m terrified that something is going to leak when he’s over there and something terrible will happen to him, and it’ll be all my fault—”

Shane swallows and blinks away the wetness in his eyes. Takes a deep, slow breath. Panicking won’t help anything. He needs to focus. 

Shane’s mom takes both of his hands in hers. 

“Shane, look at me.” Shane drags his eyes from the table to hover somewhere around her chin. She squeezes his hands. “Look at me, please.” So Shane drags his eyes up to meet hers. She looks worried, but also weirdly calm. “Shane. Gay marriage isn’t legal in the United States.” 

Shane blinks. He blinks again, then frowns. 

“What?”

“I mean, the laws vary from state to state, and it’s almost certainly legal in Boston, so that’s probably why Rozanov didn’t realize either.”

“Ilya,” Shane corrects faintly.

“Sorry, Ilya. But gay marriage isn’t legal in most of the United States, and it almost certainly isn’t legal in Nevada.”

Shane stares, vacant, trying to re-calibrate. “...But I have a marriage certificate?”

“Do you have it with you? Here?”

“Yeah.” 

“Go get it, please.”

Shane’s mom releases his hands and immediately picks up her cell phone, tapping away. Shane looks at his dad, who shrugs. So, he gets up, staggers down the hall, and finds the envelope he stashed under his mattress last night. Walking back to the living room, he pulls the paper out. 

CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE
State of Graceland

“I can confirm that gay marriage has been legal in Massachuttesses for as long as it has in Canada, but it is not legal in Nevada.” She looks up from her phone and gestures to the paper in Shane’s hand. “What does that say?”

Shane walks back to the table, putting one foot after the other, until he can collapse back into his chair. Mute, he puts the certificate in the middle of the table. 

“State of Graceland,” Shane’s dad says. “Huh. So, Graceland is Elvis’s estate in Tennessee, where—”

“I know what Graceland is, dad. I just don’t know why it says that on this.”

“It’s not a valid marriage license. It would say State of Nevada, if it was. Marriage is such a huge business in Las Vegas, I’m not surprised that they perform fake marriages for gay couples, either so that gay couples can get the same experience, or hoping that they’re so drunk that they don’t notice they’re being overcharged for what is, essentially, just a piece of paper.”

Shane laughs, a bit hysterically.

“The good news is that you don’t need a divorce or an annulment, since this isn’t legally binding. It also won’t be a matter of public record because it’s not a legal marriage. Now, there is still some risk of exposure — there was the officiant, an Elvis impersonator, I presume? — plus anyone else who might have been in the chapel at,” Shane’s mom squints at the paper, “two twenty-one in the morning, or people who may have seen you entering or leaving the building. So, there is the risk of a leak, but a much, much lower one.”

“Yuna, maybe you should give him a minute to process.”

Shane isn’t sure what his face is doing, but he tries to smile. “No, it’s okay, we should probably talk through this. I need to call Ilya back.”

“We need to talk through the different possible scenarios and come up with a plan.”

Shane nods. “Okay. I’m ready.”

— 

Shane has never felt stupider than he does while explaining to Ilya that they are not, in fact, married.

“Huh,” Ilya says finally. “This is good, no?”

“Yeah, it’s great.”

Shane doesn’t mention the small kernel lodged deep in his ribs that’s almost disappointed that they’re not really married. To have gotten married could ruin both of their lives, and yet… but no. Realistically, that’s not something he should want. Not now, and not like this. 

“I did not know the laws are different there,” Ilya says. “I know is legal in Boston.”

“Yeah, apparently it’s been legal in Massachusetts since 2004, which is actually even longer than it’s been legal in Canada.”

“Yes, I know. I looked this up after the draft.”

Shane thinks about the gym that night, their lingering glances, Ilya’s shared water bottle.

“Really?”

“I wanted to know better the place I would be living.”

Shane nods, even though Ilya can’t see him. “Yeah, no, that makes sense.”

“What does your mother say? What do we need to do?”

“We have two real options. The first is to try to convince the people who work at the chapel to sign an NDA, and hope that none of them decide to leak the story, which… I don’t really want to do, because they might not even know we’re famous right now. Not everyone knows hockey players. If we go to them looking for an NDA, they might realize that they have a story on their hands, and it might be worth more to TMZ than we would offer.”

“And they could sign the form and then leak it later anyway. We could sue, but… damage would be done.”

“Right.”

“So option two is… do nothing?”

“More or less? Don’t draw any attention to it and hope that no one that might have seen us knows who we are. If it does one day leak, we need a cover story for why we did that. My mom suggested pretending it was a prank. It would be hard to convince anyone that we really got married as a prank, but since it’s just a commitment vow and isn’t legally binding, it’s believable that a couple of drunk hockey bros would do something stupid.”

“Drunk hockey bros,” Ilya repeats, mockingly. “But no, is a good idea. We are very competitive and we are both assholes. We would make bet on who wins MVP.”

“We did,” Shane says, even though they didn’t really. They didn’t have real terms, but they technically did discuss a bet in the bathroom before the award. And lying is always easier when there’s a kernel of truth to it. 

“Yes, but we cannot say that the bet was about sucking and fucking. And I won, which means that getting married in Vegas was my bet. So what is your bet? What would Shane Hollander have made me do, if he had won?”

“Uhhh….” Shane really has no idea what he would bet, in this hypothetical world where he bet Ilya Rozanov that he would win MVP and the terms of the bet were not sexual. “I don’t know, maybe make a stupid post on social media?”

Ilya snorts. “No, no, it must be equal bet. If I say we marry in Vegas and you say I post a dumb tweet they are not… balanced.”

“You’re right. How about…” a thought occurs to Shane, then. “...if I had won, you would need to post a picture of yourself wearing a Hollander jersey on social media, congratulating me on my well-deserved win, and you wouldn’t be allowed to delete the post. Ever. Maybe I’d even make you come to a Montreal game in my jersey.”

Ilya mock gasps. “Me? In a Hollander jersey? Disgusting.”

“I don’t know that getting married in Vegas makes sense with that though.”

“Makes perfect sense. I say, if I win then Hollander must declare his undying love for me, the best player in the league, in front of fake Elvis, wearing ugly sparkly hat. He must say ‘Ilya Rozanov is the best, fastest, most beautiful player in the entire history of the MLH’ and swear under the oath of fake Elvis that this is true.”

“I’m pretty sure that an Elvis impersonator has nothing to do with being under oath.”

“Yes, exactly, you say that. And then I say, Hollander, you don’t think I will win? You will be embarrassed of fake Elvis knowing that you say I am better hockey player?”

“Fuck you, I would say that in front of fake Elvis.”

“Yes, and this is how this happened.”

Shane can easily picture it, which is how he knows that it's a good enough cover. Both of them fairly drunk; Ilya insisting that, if Elvis has the legal authority to marry people, swearing in front of Elvis isn't that different than swearing in front of a court; Shane, also drunk, rolling his eyes, but dutifully reciting Ilya's terms of the bet. The two of them, swaying into one another, signing the paper as proof that it happened. 

Since Shane doesn't really remember what did happen that night, the vivid image slots into his memory as almost believable. Like if Ilya had just told him that this is truly what happened, Shane would have been able to fit that knowledge into his worldview as truth. It could have happened that way. It might as well have happened that way. As far as the world is concerned, it did happen that way. 

"We should put it in writing," Shane says. One final piece of ‘proof.’

"What?"

"Your terms of the bet," Shane clarifies. "We can claim that that's what we said to Elvis, but we can't exactly prove it. I can write it out on a piece of paper, sign it, and date it for the night of the awards. Oh, and I actually have a notepad and pen from the hotel. I can use those for, um—" Shane laughs a little, knowing that he's about to piss Ilya off, "—for verisimilitude."

"What," Ilya says flatly. "You are making that up, is not a real word."

"It is a real word. I'm surprised you haven't come across it reading the New Yorker. It means to make something fake look more real."

"I think you are fucking with me. I think you are telling lies so that I try to use stupid fake word in front of reporters."

"It is a real word!”

"So you say,” Ilya replies. “This proves it how? If the whole... thing leaks in a couple of months, there is no proof that it was from that night."

"It being written on a notepad from the JW Marriott Las Vegas will help. And I can overnight it to you," Shane says, thinking quickly, a spark of excitement lighting him up. This really would work. "As soon as you get it, take a picture of it with your phone. That way the metadata will show that you've had it since the awards. It's believable that you would bring it home and then only think to take a picture of it a couple of days later. But if the story leaks in a couple of weeks or months, it would be proof that we really did have the bet."

"Metadata? What is this?"

"Oh, sorry. It's the information that's included when you take a picture. Like the date, or if you have location turned on, where you were when you took the photo. If you take a picture today, ten years from now someone would be able to tell the exact day and time the photo was taken. So if the story leaks in six months, if you share the photo, everyone will be able to see that it was from the weekend of the awards."

"I think that would work, yes." Ilya pauses, but Shane can tell it's because he's thinking, or trying to figure out how to best put what he wants to say into English. "I think that maybe we... I do not know how to say this. Hint this story? Talk about it, but without saying anything directly, yes?"

"Allude to it? Like we mention to our teammates, or to the press, that we had some kind of dumb bet after the awards? But without directly giving them the details of what the bet was about."

"Yes, this."

"Wouldn't that draw more attention to it, though? Like someone might go looking for it."

"Yes, but... if we say we have fun at the awards together, we make dumb bet, maybe go drinking together... then if there is leak, it will not be so surprising. And maybe, if we are friends, the story is not so big."

"We change the narrative," Shane says slowly. "The, uh, story. We presented together at the awards, which is maybe the first time we really spent much time together one-on-one. After, we ran into each other in the bathroom, made the bet. Then after the awards we went drinking together. I can say, hey, actually, Rozanov isn't that bad. He's a jerk, but also kind of fun. We had a good time hanging out together after the awards."

"And I say, yes, Hollander is very boring, but not so boring that he does not get very drunk on Russian vodka and lose stupid bets."

"That would work, I think."

"You think?"

"I mean, I guess we won't know for sure unless we try it. But... we could be friends in public. Friendly. Maybe we’ll get a beer after a game sometime."

Ilya makes a sound of agreement. 

“It would be nice, wouldn’t it? To be able to see each other off the ice, and outside of the bedroom?”

“I like you in the bedroom,” Ilya says, “but yes, would be nice.”

“I was thinking, too… well. I know that this is crazy, but,” Shane pauses. What he wants to suggest is far from the most nerve-wracking thing he’s said today, and he’s pretty sure that his body has run out of whatever chemicals dump into your bloodstream that make you run from bears and pick up cars or whatever. Still, he shoves the string of his hoodie into his mouth and bites down on the knot for good measure. 

“...But…?”

“I just. Next time we see each other, I don’t think I’m going to be able to pretend that this is casual. Anymore.”

“Oh.” 

Ilya’s tone can be hard to parse at the best of times, and this is certainly not the best of times. Shane doesn’t have it in him to dance around. 

“I like you. And you like me. And next time I see you, I’m going to want to sit in your lap and hold your hand or whatever.”

“You know we cannot do this.”

“I know we can’t do it in public. Obviously. The MLH is still homophobic and Russia is still Russia. But. I don’t think either of us are going to be able to pretend that we don’t like each other anymore.”

Ilya stays silent for a long time, his measured breathing the only thing that lets Shane know the call hasn’t disconnected. 

“Maybe we should stop seeing each other,” Ilya says finally. 

“Or maybe we should start. Seeing each other. Properly, I mean. I know that long distance is going to be hard, but… I want to try. With you.”

Ilya says nothing, which either means he doesn’t know what to say, or he doesn’t know how to say it in English. So, Shane continues. “We can be discreet. I can be your long-distance girlfriend in Canada, and you can be my long-distance girlfriend in Boston. And we can try, you know? Like really try to see if we can make this work. Neither of our contracts are up for years, and I highly doubt either of us will be traded, but maybe after our contracts are up, if we’re still together, we can try to be closer to each other.”

“I would like a different passport. Canadian passport would be better, I think. Friendlier, better politics.”

Shane smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt. “When your contract is up, we can try to get you onto a Canadian team.”

“Not Montreal.”

“Fine, not Montreal. But there are a couple others in the division, so you have options. Or if you ended up going to the west coast, I could try to move to a nearby team, too.”

“You would leave Montreal?”

“You would leave Boston?”

“Maybe, I think. Yes.”

“I think if we’ve been dating for like four years I would be willing to leave Montreal, if I needed to. But we don’t need to worry about that right now. Right now, we just need to agree to try.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “We can try.”