Chapter Text
The ballroom glittered gold beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface reflecting light so brightly that Shane had needed a moment in the entrance hallway to adjust before stepping inside, one hand still loosely curled around the knot of his tie as he tried not to feel overwhelmed by the sheer amount of noise, perfume, camera flashes, laughter and expensive fabric surrounding him all at once.
Fundraisers were strange.
Hockey arenas made sense to him because arenas were loud in predictable ways, structured ways, where everyone understood the rules and where Shane always knew exactly where to stand, what to do with his hands, how to move, how to breathe, but events like this always made him feel as if he had accidentally wandered into a movie halfway through filming.
“Jesus Christ,” Hayden Pike muttered beside him, staring around the ballroom with exhausted eyes, “these people got more diamonds in here than my wife’s Pinterest board.”
Shane smiled faintly.
“You sound traumatized.”
“I have four kids under ten,” Hayden replied immediately. “I am traumatized.”
That made Shane laugh softly under his breath, and Hayden grinned at him in triumph before grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing waiter despite hating champagne.
“You nervous?” Hayden asked.
“A little.”
“You always nervous.”
“That’s true.”
Hayden nudged his shoulder affectionately. “You look good, though. Like offensively good. Half the room already staring at you.”
Shane felt heat crawl immediately into his face.
“Hayden.”
“What? Is true.”
Shane took the champagne just to have something to hold even though he didn’t particularly want it, his fingers cold against the glass stem as he scanned the ballroom automatically, searching for familiar faces because familiar faces meant stability, stability meant less chance of accidentally embarrassing himself in front of actors or billionaires or politicians.
He spotted Rose first.
Of course he did.
Rose Landry practically glowed wherever she stood, her dark gold dress catching the light as she laughed at something an older producer beside her said, one hand brushing elegantly against his arm while cameras subtly drifted toward her from every direction like flowers turning toward sunlight.
She looked up suddenly and saw Shane.
Her face lit immediately.
“There’s my favourite hockey player,” she declared when she reached him seconds later, kissing his cheek warmly. “You clean up beautifully.”
“So do you.” Shane said honestly.
“I know.”
Hayden barked out a laugh.
Rose squeezed Shane’s arm. “You nervous?”
“A little.”
“You hate crowds.”
“I don’t hate crowds.”
“You absolutely hate crowds.”
Shane looked away awkwardly while Hayden snorted into his champagne.
Rose’s expression softened immediately because she understood him too well sometimes, understood the way his brain tangled itself into knots during events like this, the way he needed a few extra seconds to process things before responding.
“You’re okay,” she said quietly. “Just stay near people you like.”
People you like.
It should have been simple advice.
Instead, Shane’s gaze lifted automatically across the ballroom toward the entrance just as a small burst of camera flashes exploded near the doors.
And there he was.
Ilya Rozanov entered the ballroom like he belonged in expensive places.
Tall enough that he seemed to tower above everyone around him, broad shoulders stretching perfectly beneath a dark charcoal suit, light brown curls slightly messy in a way that probably took an hour to achieve intentionally, blue eyes sharp and amused as reporters immediately descended on him.
Svetlana Vetrova walked beside him wearing deep emerald silk that clung elegantly to her figure, her long brown curls draped over one shoulder as she smiled calmly at the cameras, completely at ease beneath the attention.
Together they looked devastating.
Like one of those absurdly attractive celebrity couples people obsessed over online.
Shane’s stomach twisted unpleasantly.
Which was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.
Because he barely knew Ilya Rozanov outside of games and brief award-show conversations, outside of postgame handshakes and occasional chirped insults shouted across the ice in packed arenas, outside of carefully controlled interactions in front of cameras where Ilya always grinned like he knew something nobody else did.
Still.
Shane watched him anyway.
Watched the way Ilya leaned closer to say something to Svetlana that made her laugh.
Watched the confident way he moved through the room.
Watched his mouth curve into that stupid beautiful smirk.
And then, horrifyingly, Ilya looked directly at him.
Their eyes met across the ballroom.
Shane froze.
For one strange suspended second the noise around him seemed to blur into static, the entire room disappearing beneath the intensity of Ilya’s gaze, because there was something openly appreciative in it, something warm and surprised and distinctly focused.
Then Ilya smiled.
Not the cocky media smile.
A smaller one.
Private-looking somehow.
Shane immediately looked away.
“Oh my God.” Rose whispered beside him.
“What?”
“You have a crush.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Hayden nearly choked on champagne. “On who?”
“Nobody.” Shane said quickly.
Rose looked delighted. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me all week.”
“I hate both of you.”
“You’re blushing.” Hayden informed him.
Shane wanted to disappear into the floor.
Across the room, Scott Hunter stepped onto the stage near the enormous charity banners, tapping the microphone until the ballroom gradually quieted.
Scott looked elegant in a navy suit, silver beginning to show slightly at his temples now, though his posture remained straight and confident in the way veteran athletes carried themselves long after retirement should have softened them.
“Good evening, everyone,” Scott said warmly. “Thank you all for being here tonight to support children who deserve safety, support and opportunity…”
Shane listened carefully because Scott deserved that much.
Scott had survived hell after coming out publicly years ago, survived reporters dissecting his entire life while fans burned jerseys online and executives quietly discussed whether he was bad for the sport, and somehow he had still remained kind afterward.
Brave, too.
Braver than Shane could ever imagine being.
Sometimes Shane wondered what it would feel like to exist openly.
To stop monitoring every glance and gesture and word.
To stop feeling afraid every second.
His gaze drifted again despite himself.
Ilya stood near the stage now beside Svetlana and Cliff Marlow, though unlike Cliff, who was openly scanning the room for beautiful women already, Ilya seemed distracted.
By Shane.
Again.
Their eyes caught once more.
This time Ilya lifted his champagne slightly in silent greeting.
Shane stared for half a second before awkwardly doing the same.
Ilya’s grin widened immediately.
Oh no.
“Oh,” Rose murmured beside him with terrifying satisfaction, “he’s flirting with you.”
“He is not.”
“Sweetheart, I was an actress before you learned multiplication tables. He’s flirting.”
Shane’s pulse felt strange.
Too fast.
Scott finished the speech to loud applause, and immediately the ballroom dissolved back into movement and conversation, waiters weaving elegantly between clusters of guests carrying trays of champagne and tiny appetizers Shane could never identify properly.
“Come say hi to actual human beings.” Hayden said, dragging Shane gently toward a nearby group of athletes and sponsors before Shane could protest.
For the next twenty minutes Shane survived mostly through polite nodding.
He answered questions about the Metros.
Smiled for photographs.
Discussed charity initiatives.
Pretended not to notice Ilya across the room.
Failed completely.
Every few minutes Shane became painfully aware of him again somehow, like his brain had developed a magnetic pull specifically toward tall Russian hockey captains with unfairly beautiful faces.
At one point he looked over and saw Ilya listening distractedly while some socialite spoke to him, though his eyes had wandered directly back toward Shane.
And then Svetlana noticed.
Shane saw her glance between them once.
Twice.
Then she leaned upward and murmured something into Ilya’s ear.
Ilya immediately laughed.
Shane looked away so quickly he nearly walked directly into a waiter.
“Careful there, Hollander,” a familiar accented voice drawled behind him. “You trying to die before season starts?”
Shane turned too quickly.
Ilya stood there close enough now that Shane could see the lighter gold flecks inside his blue eyes.
Close enough to smell expensive cologne mixed faintly with whiskey.
Close enough that Shane’s brain stopped functioning entirely for one horrible second.
“Hi.” Shane managed intelligently.
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
“Hi.”
Svetlana stood beside him looking deeply entertained already.
“Shane Hollander,” she said warmly, extending her hand. “We’ve technically met before, but Roz only talks about hockey when you’re around, so I don’t think we properly introduced.”
Shane blinked.
“Roz?”
Ilya groaned dramatically. “Do not encourage.”
“It suits you.” Shane said before thinking.
Ilya stared at him with visible delight.
“Well,” Svetlana announced, “this is already most fun conversation I’ve had tonight.”
Shane felt himself blush again.
Traitorous body.
Cliff appeared suddenly from nowhere holding two drinks and looking offended. “Roz, why you abandon me? I been talking to senator’s daughter for fifteen minutes.”
“You hate politicians.”
“Yes, but she was hot.”
Svetlana rolled her eyes. “Cliff has the emotional depth of a teaspoon.”
“Still deeper than Roz.”
“Impossible.”
The ease between them fascinated Shane slightly.
Ilya and Cliff chirped each other constantly on the ice, but seeing it up close felt different somehow, warmer and lived-in.
Then Ilya looked back at Shane.
“You having good time?”
“A little overwhelming.”
“Too many rich people?”
“Too many people.”
Understanding flickered unexpectedly across Ilya’s face.
Not mockery. Not judgment.
Understanding.
“Yeah,” he said more quietly. “Room loud.”
Shane looked at him in surprise.
Nobody usually noticed things like that.
Before he could respond, Rose appeared beside him carrying fresh drinks.
“There you are,” she said. “I thought you got kidnapped.”
Then she noticed Ilya.
And smiled slowly.
“Ah.”
“Rose.” Shane said weakly.
“Rozanov.” Rose greeted pleasantly.
“Landry.”
The air suddenly felt charged somehow.
Not hostile exactly. Observant.
Rose glanced between them with the expression of someone watching extremely interesting television.
Then she extended a hand toward Svetlana immediately. “You’re Svetlana Vetrova, right? I loved your interview in Forbes.”
Svetlana brightened instantly and the two women fell into effortless conversation, leaving Shane stranded beside Ilya while Cliff wandered off after spotting another attractive woman near the bar.
For several awkward seconds neither spoke.
Then Ilya leaned slightly closer.
“You and actress not together anymore?”
Shane nearly inhaled champagne wrong.
“No.”
Ilya looked almost absurdly pleased by that answer before smoothing his expression back into something casual.
“Tabloids lie then.”
“They usually do.”
“Hm.”
Silence again.
Not uncomfortable exactly.
Just intense.
Shane became painfully aware of every tiny detail - the roughness in Ilya’s voice, the shape of his hands around the champagne glass, the warmth radiating from him even in the aggressively air-conditioned ballroom.
“You look…” Ilya began, then stopped.
Shane looked up nervously.
Ilya smiled crookedly.
“Very beautiful tonight, Hollander.”
Shane’s entire brain short-circuited.
Beautiful.
Not handsome.
Beautiful.
Nobody had ever said that to him before.
“Oh.” Shane said helplessly.
Ilya’s eyes softened immediately at his expression.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Shane said faintly. “Just… nobody usually says things like that.”
“Idiots then.”
The sincerity in his voice hit Shane somewhere deep and vulnerable.
Before he could think of any response whatsoever, Hayden suddenly materialized beside them holding three desserts somehow.
“There you are,” Hayden said to Shane. “I been looking everywhere - oh.”
His eyes moved between them once.
Then his eyebrows shot upward almost into his hairline.
“Interesting.” Hayden muttered.
“Go away.” Shane whispered.
Hayden looked delighted.
Ilya grinned openly now. “Your friend likes me.”
“My friend likes causing problems.”
“Also true.”
Hayden handed Shane a tiny chocolate dessert. “Jackie says if I come home from Texas without bringing gossip, she’ll divorce me.”
“She says that every road trip.”
“And one day she’ll mean it.”
Rose reappeared then, rescuing Shane from further humiliation.
“Scott’s looking for you,” she told Shane gently. “Something about donor photos.”
Shane nodded immediately, grateful for the excuse to breathe normally again.
But as he stepped away, Ilya touched his wrist lightly.
Just for a second.
Still enough to send electricity straight through Shane’s chest.
“You come back after?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane stared at him.
The ballroom noise blurred again.
“Yes.” he heard himself say.
Ilya smiled slowly.
“Good.”
Scott’s photo session took nearly forty minutes.
By the end Shane’s social battery felt dangerously low, every camera flash sharper than the last, every conversation requiring more effort to process properly, and he kept catching himself scanning automatically for Ilya between groups of guests.
Which was insane.
He barely knew him.
Yet somehow tonight felt different from every brief interaction they had ever shared before, stripped of arenas and rivalries and reporters, revealing something underneath Shane had never allowed himself to examine too closely.
At one point he spotted Ilya across the ballroom laughing at something Cliff said, head tilted back slightly, curls falling into his eyes.
Beautiful.
The thought arrived instantly and violently.
Shane looked away immediately afterward, heart pounding.
“You’re doomed.” Rose informed him casually from beside the dessert table.
Shane nearly jumped. “You keep appearing out of nowhere.”
“I’m an actress. It’s one of my skills.”
“I’m not doomed.”
Rose sipped champagne. “He looks at you like he wants to eat you alive.”
Shane choked on air.
“Rose.”
“What? I’m being supportive.”
“That is not supportive.”
She laughed softly before her expression gentled.
“You deserve something good, Shane.”
The words settled heavily in his chest.
Dangerously heavily.
Because wanting things was complicated.
Wanting men was dangerous.
Wanting Ilya Rozanov specifically felt catastrophic.
And yet.
Later, after another hour of speeches and auctions and polite conversations, Shane stepped outside onto the quiet hotel balcony just to breathe cool night air for a moment.
Dallas glittered below him.
The ballroom noise faded behind thick glass doors.
Finally silence.
“Well,” Ilya’s voice drawled behind him a moment later, “either you also hiding from rich people or you stalking me now.”
Shane turned.
Ilya stood there alone this time, hands tucked loosely into his pockets, city lights reflecting softly in his blue eyes.
“Svetlana abandon you?” Shane asked quietly.
“She left with investors. Very boring people.”
Shane smiled faintly.
For a few seconds they simply stood there together beneath the warm Texas night sky.
Then Ilya spoke again, softer this time.
“You always look at me like you trying solve puzzle.”
Shane froze.
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Ilya stepped closer slowly.
“And I look at you same way.”
Shane’s pulse thundered painfully.
“You don’t even know me.” he whispered.
Ilya’s expression shifted strangely at that.
“Maybe I want.”
The honesty of it nearly stole the air from Shane’s lungs.
Inside the ballroom people laughed and glasses clinked and cameras flashed endlessly, but out here everything felt suspended somehow, quiet and fragile and terrifyingly intimate.
Shane looked at him.
Really looked.
At the warmth hidden beneath the arrogance.
At the amusement constantly dancing in his eyes.
At the carefulness threaded unexpectedly through his voice now.
And suddenly Shane understood the strange unbearable jealousy he had felt earlier watching Ilya enter with Svetlana.
It had never been about her.
It had been about wanting.
Wanting someone he believed he could never possibly have.
The gala had transformed gradually over the course of the evening from something stiff and formal into something softer and stranger, the sharp edges of networking and speeches dissolving beneath live jazz music and expensive wine and the kind of warm dim lighting that made people forget cameras existed for a little while, and Shane had finally started relaxing enough to breathe normally again.
Not fully.
Probably not even close.
But enough.
Enough that when Rose had dragged him toward the dance floor with an exasperated, “If you spend one more hour standing beside walls looking nervous, I’m legally required to fight you,” he had actually gone with her instead of inventing an excuse.
“You dance like a hockey player.” Rose informed him while they moved slowly beneath the golden ballroom lights.
“I am a hockey player.”
“Yes, but must you move like you’re preparing for a faceoff?”
Shane laughed quietly.
Rose smiled immediately, triumphant. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That laugh. You’ve barely done it tonight.”
Shane looked away slightly.
The ballroom still felt overwhelming in waves - too many voices overlapping, too much perfume and movement and music layered together until his brain struggled to separate any of it properly - but dancing with Rose helped because she was familiar, predictable, safe in the way old friends became safe after years of understanding each other without effort.
And maybe, Shane admitted privately, another reason he felt calmer now was because every time he accidentally looked across the room, he found Ilya already looking back at him.
Which was ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous.
Still.
Even now, while Rose talked about some director she hated working with last year, Shane could feel Ilya’s eyes on him from somewhere near the bar.
Warm. Focused. Interested.
It made his stomach feel strange.
“You’re doing it again.” Rose said.
“What?”
“Looking for him.”
“I’m not…”
“You absolutely are.”
Shane opened his mouth to deny it again when his phone suddenly vibrated inside his pocket.
He frowned slightly.
“Sorry.”
Rose waved him off immediately. “Take it.”
Shane stepped away from the dance floor, pulling his phone from his pocket.
Mom.
A strange cold feeling settled immediately into his chest.
His mother almost never called late at night unless something was wrong.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Shane.” Yuna Hollander sounded tense immediately. “Where are you right now?”
“At the gala.”
“Still there?”
“Yes.”
There was movement on the other end of the line, then his father’s voice appeared too, louder and more urgent.
“Shane, listen carefully. They just interrupted the hockey broadcast with emergency weather coverage. There’s a tornado warning heading directly toward Dallas.”
Shane stopped moving.
“What?”
“A tornado,” his mother repeated quickly. “A serious one. They’re saying people need to find shelter immediately.”
The ballroom noise around him suddenly felt distant and distorted.
“Tornadoes happen often there, right?” Shane asked uncertainly, because he was Canadian and tornadoes belonged mostly to television documentaries in his mind.
“Not like this,” David said sharply. “The news said it’s dangerous.”
His pulse spiked instantly.
Dangerous.
Too many people. Too much noise.
Unknown situation.
“We’re trying to leave.” Shane said automatically, though he had no idea if that was true.
“Don’t wait,” Yuna said immediately. “Please, sweetheart.”
Shane swallowed hard. “Okay.”
He hung up and immediately began scanning the ballroom for Hayden, heart already beating too fast.
Everything suddenly felt wrong.
The music was too loud. The lights too bright. The crowd too dense.
A tornado.
Jesus Christ.
He spotted Hayden near one of the food tables staring down at his own phone with a deeply serious expression.
Hayden looked up as Shane approached.
“You heard?”
“My parents called.”
“Jackie called me two minutes ago,” Hayden said grimly. “Apparently the weather’s getting bad fast.”
Shane rubbed his palms anxiously against his suit pants. “Should we leave?”
Before Hayden could answer, a loud screech of microphone feedback cut through the ballroom.
Every conversation stopped.
One of the event organizers stood onstage looking visibly strained.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.”
Instantly Shane’s stomach dropped.
“We have received an official tornado emergency warning for the Dallas area. For everyone’s safety, the hotel emergency shelter protocols are now being activated.”
The ballroom erupted immediately into noise.
Questions. Voices. Nervous laughter.
Phone alerts buzzing everywhere simultaneously.
The organizer raised his voice.
“Please remain calm. Nobody is permitted to leave the building individually. Hotel security and emergency staff will escort all guests safely to the underground shelter area together.”
Shane’s breathing became uneven immediately.
Underground. Crowded. Hours.
Too many unknown people.
He hated this.
God, he hated this.
“Hey.” Hayden touched his arm gently. “Look at me.”
Shane forced himself to focus.
“We’re okay,” Hayden said steadily. “We stay together, alright?”
Shane nodded quickly even though the panic already buzzing beneath his skin refused to settle.
The ballroom dissolved into organized chaos over the next fifteen minutes as staff members guided hundreds of guests toward elevators and stairwells, everyone clutching phones and shoes and drinks while trying to maintain some level of dignity despite the obvious fear spreading through the crowd.
Shane hated every second of it.
Too close. Too loud. Too much movement.
People kept bumping into him accidentally and every touch felt electric against his skin.
Hayden stayed beside him the entire time, talking steadily about random things - his kids, hockey schedules, literally anything to distract Shane’s spiralling thoughts - but it still wasn’t enough.
The deeper underground they went, the tighter Shane’s chest became.
Then suddenly a familiar accented voice cut through the noise behind him.
“Hollander.”
Shane turned too quickly.
Ilya stood there beside Cliff, tie already loosened slightly, looking almost bizarrely relaxed considering the circumstances.
“You look like someone told you hockey cancelled forever.” Ilya said lightly.
Shane stared at him. “There’s a tornado.”
“Yes. Big windy thing. I understand concept.”
“How are you not scared?”
Ilya shrugged. “Russian.”
Cliff snorted. “This idiot once tried wrestle bear when drunk.”
“It was small bear.”
“It was not small bear.”
Somehow, against all logic, Shane laughed.
Just a little.
But enough.
Ilya’s eyes softened immediately when he heard it.
“There,” he said quietly. “Better.”
Shane did not understand why Ilya kept paying attention to him specifically tonight.
He should have been with Svetlana.
Or surrounded by socialites.
Or joking with Cliff.
Instead he kept appearing beside Shane every time the panic became hardest to manage.
It felt dangerous. And comforting.
Which was maybe more dangerous.
Eventually the guests were escorted into an enormous underground conference hall converted into an emergency shelter, a huge windowless space already lined with bottled water, blankets and rows upon rows of thin mattresses spread across the floor.
The reality of staying there overnight hit Shane instantly.
Too many people.
No privacy. No escape.
His skin prickled unpleasantly.
An organizer raised her voice over the crowd.
“Men will stay on the left side of the hall, women on the right. Married couples may remain together. Please choose a mattress and settle in while we continue monitoring the storm.”
Immediately the room split into movement again.
Rose hugged him quickly before crossing toward the women’s side where Svetlana already stood waiting.
“We survive tornado together.” Svetlana announced dramatically.
Rose laughed. “If we die, I’m haunting Hollywood executives first.”
Shane smiled faintly despite himself.
Nearby, Ilya paused beside Svetlana briefly before she squeezed his arm.
“Try not flirt with disaster response workers.” she told him.
“No promises.”
“Roz.”
“I joke.”
“You always joke.”
She kissed his cheek affectionately before heading off with Rose.
Shane hated how relieved he felt watching her leave without Ilya.
That probably made him a terrible person.
“You good?” Hayden asked quietly.
“No.”
“Fair.”
They chose mattresses near the far wall where the lighting seemed slightly dimmer and fewer people crowded nearby, Shane immediately sitting down with visible relief once his back pressed against the solid surface behind him.
Wall.
Good. Predictable. Safe.
Hayden dropped onto the mattress beside him with a tired sigh.
Above them, one row back, Ilya and Cliff claimed two mattresses nearby.
Interesting coincidence.
Probably coincidence.
Definitely coincidence.
Then the room began changing rapidly as people surrendered any remaining formality for comfort.
Suit jackets disappeared.
Bow ties loosened.
Women removed heels with exhausted groans.
Shane slipped off his own suit jacket carefully before rolling his sleeves upward slightly, trying not to feel exposed sitting on a mattress in the middle of a crowded underground hall beside half the most famous people in North America.
Hayden immediately sprawled onto his mattress wearing only an undershirt and dress pants.
“How are you calm?” Shane asked weakly.
“I have four kids,” Hayden replied. “My nervous system died years ago.”
That earned another startled laugh from Shane.
Across from them, Cliff had somehow acquired three sandwiches already.
“Emergency survival instincts.” he explained proudly when Ilya looked horrified.
“You loot charity event during tornado.”
“Yes.”
“You are raccoon in human form.”
Organizers moved through the hall distributing food and drinks rescued from the gala upstairs - little containers of pasta, sandwiches, fancy desserts awkwardly balanced on paper plates - while volunteers tried desperately to maintain an optimistic atmosphere.
Someone even turned quiet music on through portable speakers.
It did not help Shane much.
The deeper night became, the louder the storm sounded above them.
At first it was only distant thunder.
Then heavier. Closer.
The walls occasionally vibrated faintly.
Each sound made Shane tense harder.
His brain kept trying to imagine what existed above them right now - wind ripping through buildings, glass exploding, people trapped somewhere outside.
Too many possibilities. Too many horrible images.
He curled slightly closer toward the wall unconsciously.
“Hey.”
Shane looked up.
Ilya sat cross-legged on the mattress above him holding two tiny cheesecakes stolen from somewhere.
“For emotional support.” he announced.
Shane blinked. “What?”
“Scientific fact. Dessert improves disaster.”
“That’s not science.”
“You Canadian. What you know about science?”
Shane stared at him for one second before laughing helplessly.
“There he is.” Ilya said quietly again.
That look returned then.
That warm focused expression that made Shane feel strangely visible.
Not as a hockey player. Not as a celebrity.
Just Shane.
It unsettled him deeply.
And made him feel safer at the exact same time.
Hours passed slowly.
People gradually settled into quieter conversations or attempted sleep while the storm intensified overhead, and every now and then the sound above them shifted into something deeper and more frightening, a low distant roar that made the entire shelter tense collectively.
Each time it happened Shane’s pulse spiked violently.
At one point the lights flickered briefly.
Someone screamed softly.
Shane’s hands began shaking almost immediately afterward.
Too much. Too much noise.
Too many people breathing and whispering and moving around him.
Hayden noticed instantly.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured softly. “You’re alright.”
But Shane wasn’t.
Not really.
And somehow Ilya noticed too. Of course he did.
He climbed down from his mattress without hesitation and sat cross-legged on the floor beside Shane’s mattress, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
“You know,” Ilya said conversationally, “in Russia we had storm once so bad my uncle lost entire roof.”
Shane swallowed hard. “That’s not comforting.”
“No, wait, best part coming.”
“There’s a best part?”
“He rebuilt roof completely wrong. Rain flooded kitchen for six months.”
Despite himself, Shane snorted quietly.
Ilya grinned immediately.
“Then he blamed government.”
“Of course he did.”
“Obviously.”
The tension in Shane’s chest loosened just slightly.
Not enough, but slightly.
And every time panic started climbing again afterward, Ilya somehow redirected his attention before it could fully spiral - telling ridiculous stories about Cliff getting banned from a casino in Prague, mocking Hayden’s terrifying number of children, complaining dramatically about Texas weather.
“You know what country should not have?” Ilya demanded quietly at one point. “Tornadoes.”
“That’s… not how weather works.” Shane murmured.
“Still unacceptable.”
“You sound personally offended.”
“I am personally offended.”
Hayden had fallen asleep sometime around two in the morning, dead to the world almost instantly once he laid down properly beneath a blanket.
Cliff followed not long after, snoring loudly enough that three nearby businessmen complained.
The shelter grew dimmer and quieter as exhaustion overtook most people.
But Shane still couldn’t sleep.
Not with the storm roaring louder now.
Not with every deep vibration through the walls making adrenaline spike violently through his body again.
He lay stiffly on his mattress staring upward at the industrial ceiling while fear curled tightly inside his chest.
Above them, the tornado sounded impossibly close now.
Not thunder anymore. Something worse.
A deep monstrous roar that seemed to vibrate through concrete itself.
Shane’s breathing turned shallow.
Beside him Hayden slept peacefully.
Across the aisle Rose and Svetlana whispered quietly beneath blankets.
And one row above, Ilya shifted suddenly on his mattress before leaning over the edge slightly.
“Hollander.” he whispered softly.
Shane looked up immediately.
Blue eyes watched him carefully through the dim emergency lighting.
“You okay?”
No, Shane thought instantly.
Not even remotely.
But something about the concern in Ilya’s voice loosened the answer free before he could hide it.
“I’m scared.”
The words felt embarrassingly childish.
Ilya’s expression changed immediately.
Softened.
Without another word he climbed quietly down from his mattress again and crossed the small distance between them.
Then he sat carefully beside Shane’s mattress against the wall.
Close. Very close.
Near enough that their shoulders touched lightly now.
“You hear me?” Ilya asked quietly while the storm roared above them.
Shane nodded.
“We safe here.”
Another violent sound shook faintly through the ceiling.
Shane flinched instinctively.
Ilya’s arm pressed gently against his.
Not holding him. Not trapping him.
Just there.
Grounding.
“We safe,” Ilya repeated calmly. “Concrete walls. No windows. Emergency shelter built exactly for this.”
Shane focused on his voice instead of the storm.
Deep. Steady. Warm.
“You trust me?” Ilya asked softly after a moment.
The question settled heavily between them.
Dangerously heavily.
Shane looked sideways toward him in the dim light.
At the messy curls falling into blue eyes.
At the strange gentleness hidden beneath all the teasing and confidence.
At the man who had spent the entire night making Shane laugh every time panic threatened swallowing him whole.
And somehow the answer came easily.
“Yes.” Shane whispered.
Something unreadable flickered briefly across Ilya’s face then.
Outside, the tornado roared through Dallas.
Inside the shelter, surrounded by hundreds of sleeping strangers and the distant smell of gala food and damp concrete, Shane felt Ilya’s shoulder remain pressed quietly against his own.
And for the first time all night, his breathing finally began to slow.
The electricity died without warning.
One second the underground shelter glowed dimly beneath harsh emergency lights, filled with exhausted people sleeping beneath blankets and murmuring quietly in their dreams while the storm screamed above Dallas, and the next second everything vanished into complete and absolute darkness.
Someone gasped loudly across the room.
A child started crying.
The storm outside roared again, deep enough that the concrete walls seemed to tremble around them.
And Shane’s entire body locked in panic instantly.
Too dark. Too loud. Too trapped.
His breathing turned sharp and uneven immediately as adrenaline surged violently through him, every sound inside the shelter suddenly magnified in the absence of light - shifting blankets, nervous whispers, the distant groan of the building somewhere above them.
He hated darkness.
Not in a childish way.
Not because of monsters or irrational fears.
He hated darkness because it removed orientation, removed predictability, removed the ability to prepare for movement and expression and space, and suddenly his brain could no longer map the room properly around him.
Everything felt wrong.
His pulse hammered painfully.
Beside him Hayden shifted slightly in sleep but did not wake, still somehow unconscious through both the tornado and the power outage because apparently parenthood granted supernatural exhaustion.
Another violent sound echoed overhead.
Shane curled tighter instinctively against the wall, trying desperately to regulate his breathing before he spiralled fully into panic.
Then he felt movement behind him.
Slow. Careful.
Someone climbing gently onto his mattress.
For one terrified second Shane nearly jerked away automatically.
But then a low familiar voice whispered close to his ear.
“Relax, Hollander. Is me.”
Ilya.
The tension inside Shane’s chest cracked immediately with relief so sharp it almost hurt.
“Ilya?” he whispered back.
“Yeah.”
The mattress shifted slightly beneath their combined weight as Ilya settled carefully behind him in the darkness.
Close. Very close.
Shane could feel warmth radiating from his body immediately even through the thin layers of clothing between them.
“I figured darkness maybe not helping.” Ilya murmured softly.
Outside the tornado roared again.
Shane flinched instinctively.
Ilya stayed still behind him afterward, clearly waiting.
Waiting for Shane to object.
Waiting for him to move away.
Waiting for permission.
And Shane realized suddenly that he didn’t want him to leave.
Not even slightly.
So instead of pulling away, he stayed exactly where he was, breathing unevenly in the darkness while Ilya remained close enough that Shane could feel every slow breath against the back of his neck.
A few quiet seconds passed.
Then Ilya moved carefully.
One arm slid slowly around Shane’s waist.
Gentle. Tentative.
Like he was handling something fragile.
Shane melted immediately.
There was no other word for it.
All the fear and tension coiled painfully through his body suddenly loosened beneath the warmth of another person holding him carefully in the dark, and before Shane could even process what he was doing properly, he leaned backward instinctively into Ilya’s chest.
Behind him, Ilya exhaled softly.
“There,” he whispered. “Better?”
Shane nodded once against the darkness.
“Yeah.”
The storm growled again overhead.
This time, instead of panic spiking violently through him, Shane felt Ilya’s arm tighten slightly around his waist.
Grounding him. Holding him steady.
It felt terrifyingly good.
Shane had never been held like this before.
Not by a man. Not by anyone, really.
Not with this kind of quiet carefulness that seemed entirely focused on making him feel safe.
The darkness wrapped around them completely while hundreds of people slept nearby, and somehow that made everything feel more intimate instead of less intimate, because Shane could no longer see the room around them or remember properly where the shelter ended and Ilya began.
All he knew was warmth.
And the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s breathing behind him.
And the way his own body kept relaxing further every time Ilya’s thumb brushed absentmindedly against his side through the fabric of his shirt.
“You okay?” Ilya whispered after a while.
Shane swallowed hard.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“No.” Shane admitted quietly.
Behind him Ilya hummed softly in understanding.
“Still scared?”
“A little.”
“Storm almost passed.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t,” Ilya admitted easily. “But sounds less angry now.”
That made Shane laugh quietly beneath his breath.
“You make things up constantly.”
“Yes.”
“Does it usually work?”
“Shockingly often.”
The mattress shifted slightly as Ilya adjusted behind him.
His chest pressed closer against Shane’s back now.
Outside, thunder cracked somewhere overhead so loudly that several people startled awake nearby with muffled sounds of alarm.
Shane tensed automatically.
Immediately Ilya’s arms tightened around him more firmly.
“It’s okay.” he murmured close to Shane’s ear.
The deep roughness of his voice sent warmth straight down Shane’s spine.
God.
This felt dangerous.
And perfect.
Shane closed his eyes in the darkness even though it made no difference.
“You’re really calm.” he whispered.
“No point panicking.”
“I panic enough for both of us.”
Ilya laughed softly against the back of his neck.
“True.”
The sound vibrated warmly through Shane’s body.
For several quiet minutes afterward neither spoke much.
They just stayed there together while the storm continued raging somewhere above Dallas, Shane slowly growing more aware of every tiny detail surrounding him now that the initial panic had faded - the warmth of Ilya’s body wrapped around his own, the roughness of his hands, the faint smell of expensive cologne mixed with detergent and something distinctly male underneath it all.
And underneath all of that awareness, something else slowly began unfolding too.
Want.
Dangerous want.
Because every time Ilya pulled him slightly closer after another loud crash of thunder, Shane’s entire body reacted instinctively.
Heat spread through him slowly.
His breathing changed.
And maybe Ilya noticed because eventually the embrace around him shifted subtly from comforting into something heavier.
More intimate.
Then, during another distant roar from outside, Ilya’s lips brushed lightly against the skin just behind Shane’s ear.
Only for a second.
Tiny. Soft.
But the effect was immediate and catastrophic.
Shane inhaled sharply.
Behind him Ilya went still.
“Sorry,” he whispered instantly, voice rougher now. “I should not…”
“No.” Shane interrupted softly before he could stop himself.
Silence.
The kind that felt electrically alive.
“You sure?” Ilya asked quietly.
Shane’s heart hammered painfully hard.
He should say no.
He absolutely should say no.
There were hundreds of people around them.
Teammates. Friends.
Other NHL players.
If anyone noticed…
But instead Shane tilted his head back slightly in the darkness without thinking.
A silent answer.
Ilya made a low sound in his throat that nearly destroyed what remained of Shane’s self-control.
Then his hand moved slowly downward.
Not rushed. Not demanding.
Just careful fingertips brushing lightly over Shane’s stomach first, giving him time to stop this if he wanted to.
Shane didn’t stop him.
God help him, he didn’t stop anything.
The hand slid lower gradually until it rested carefully against the growing hardness trapped beneath Shane’s sweatpants.
“So responsive.” Ilya murmured roughly.
Shane’s breath caught instantly.
“Oh…” he whispered helplessly.
Shane could barely think.
Nobody had ever touched him like this before.
Not with patience.
Not like they were paying attention to every tiny reaction.
Ilya cursed softly in Russian behind him.
Outside the tornado screamed somewhere in the distance.
Inside the darkness of the shelter, Shane felt Ilya’s hand move slowly against him through the fabric, careful at first but increasingly confident every time Shane pressed back instinctively for more.
His breathing became embarrassingly uneven almost immediately.
“Ilya…”
“Quiet,” Ilya whispered softly against his neck. “People sleeping.”
Which would have been much more effective if Ilya himself did not sound equally wrecked.
Shane turned slightly in his arms then, needing somehow to see him even though the room remained almost completely dark.
Apparently Ilya wanted the same thing because suddenly strong hands were guiding him carefully onto his back across the mattress.
The movement tangled their legs together instantly.
Then Ilya was above him.
Close enough that Shane could feel his breath against his mouth.
For one suspended second neither moved.
And Shane realized suddenly that he was about to kiss Ilya Rozanov.
His rival.
The man he had secretly wanted almost from the moment they met.
The man currently looking for permission even now despite everything.
Shane reached upward first.
Just enough to touch Ilya’s jaw carefully in the darkness.
That was apparently all the permission Ilya needed.
The kiss hit Shane hard.
Warm and deep and desperate in a way that immediately erased every coherent thought left inside his head, because Ilya kissed like he did everything else in life - intensely, confidently, like he had been restraining himself for too long already.
Shane made a soft involuntary sound against his mouth.
Ilya swallowed it instantly.
Their bodies pressed together fully now on the narrow mattress, legs tangled awkwardly beneath blankets while the storm roared faintly overhead, and Shane could feel how hard Ilya already was against his hip.
The realization nearly destroyed him.
This was real.
This was actually happening.
Ilya kissed him again and again, rougher each time, one hand sliding beneath Shane’s shirt now to touch warm skin directly.
Shane’s fingers tangled instinctively into the front of Ilya’s t-shirt.
“Ilya.” he whispered breathlessly.
“Fuck, Shane.”
Hearing his name spoken like that sent heat violently through his entire body.
Their movements became messy quickly after that.
Desperate.
Grinding together instinctively beneath the blankets while trying unsuccessfully to stay quiet.
Shane had completely forgotten the storm.
Forgotten the shelter.
Forgotten literally everything except the overwhelming feeling of Ilya’s body against his own.
Another muffled sound escaped him when Ilya kissed down his throat.
Then suddenly someone nearby cleared their throat loudly.
Both of them froze instantly.
Cliff.
Absolutely Cliff.
A long deeply meaningful silence followed.
Then Cliff’s exhausted whisper drifted through the darkness from the mattress above them.
“If you two start tornado romance beside me, I jump into storm voluntarily.”
Shane wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.
Beside him Ilya buried his face briefly against Shane’s shoulder while silently laughing.
“Oh my God.” Shane whispered in horror.
“You were not complaining two minutes ago.” Ilya whispered back, still laughing quietly.
“Shut up.”
“Impossible.”
But they stopped.
Reality slowly returned afterward in pieces - the sleeping people surrounding them, the dangerous impossibility of what they were doing, the fact that morning would eventually come.
Still, neither moved away.
Instead Ilya settled beside Shane properly this time beneath the blanket, one arm wrapped securely around his waist while Shane curled instinctively closer against his chest.
Safe.
God, he felt safe.
The storm continued growling outside for a while longer, but Shane barely noticed anymore.
Every time thunder cracked nearby, Ilya’s hand smoothed slowly across his side.
Every time anxiety threatened returning, Ilya pressed a quiet kiss against his hair.
And somewhere during those long dark hours underground, Shane realized something terrifying.
He trusted him completely.
Not just with tonight.
With himself.
With the parts nobody else ever seemed to understand properly.
Eventually exhaustion finally pulled at Shane’s body heavily enough that his eyes began drifting shut despite everything.
“You should sleep.” Ilya murmured softly above him.
“I don’t want this to disappear.”
The confession slipped out before Shane could stop it.
Silence followed.
Then Ilya’s arms tightened around him carefully.
“It won’t.” he whispered.
And somehow Shane believed him instantly.
The next thing he fully registered was a distant voice echoing through the shelter hours later.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the tornado warning has officially passed. Emergency crews have confirmed that it is now safe to leave the shelter.”
Shane blinked awake slowly.
Still dark. Still warm.
Still wrapped tightly in Ilya’s arms.
For one peaceful sleepy second he forgot where they were entirely.
Then reality returned all at once.
The shelter. The storm.
The fact that he was curled against Ilya Rozanov in front of half the hockey world.
Oh God.
Around them people stirred awake immediately, blankets rustling while exhausted conversations spread throughout the room.
A few moments later the enormous shelter doors opened somewhere across the hall.
Soft morning light flooded gradually into the underground space.
Shane sat up quickly beside Ilya.
So did Ilya.
Neither spoke at first.
They just looked at each other.
And smiled.
Small private smiles filled with too many things neither of them could possibly say aloud here.
Nearby Hayden stretched sleepily beside his mattress while Cliff sat up already smirking like the devil himself.
Rose and Svetlana exchanged one deeply knowing look from across the aisle.
Traitors.
Absolute traitors.
People all around them began packing blankets and gathering formal clothes while volunteers directed guests toward the exits.
Shane stood slowly, smoothing nervous hands through his messy dark hair.
Beside him Ilya stood too.
Close enough that their shoulders almost brushed again.
The morning light caught softly against his curls and blue eyes and tired smile, and suddenly Shane understood with startling impossible clarity that nothing about tonight had been temporary.
This was not some disaster-induced mistake.
Not panic. Not loneliness. Not curiosity.
This was the beginning of something.
Something terrifying.
Something life-changing.
Something worth every ounce of fear.
Neither of them said it aloud.
They didn’t need to.
Because when Shane looked at Ilya one last time before the crowd carried them gradually toward the shelter doors, he saw the exact same certainty reflected back at him.
This was only the start.