Chapter Text
Montreal
“Shane, I need you to talk to me.”
“There is nothing to fucking talk about!”
The argument had been going on for an hour, or really, it had been going on for months. Nico hung his head, his arms clasped in front on him on the dining table. He was handsome even in anger, which Shane hated because he always felt so goddamn ugly when he lost control.
“We can’t keep doing this,” Nico said reasonably to the table.
“You don’t understand. It isn’t like at the hospital where you can just be out and everyone’s fine with it,” Shane said, the same sort of words he’d said when he first explained to Nico that they couldn’t be open.
“I know that, Shane.” Nico raised his head, eyes kind and patient. “I know that I’ll never understand how hockey culture works, not completely, but Shane,” he begged. “This isn’t sustainable. Something’s gotta give.”
Something’s gotta give.
Shane was terrified it had to be him.
Providence
“Hello sweetheart,” Ilya said in Russian to Anya as she bounded to greet him at the door. The house behind her was quiet in the afternoon. “How was your day? Mine was good. Team was good.” After giving her more than enough cuddles, more than his bad knees allowed, he stood, wincing at the pain, and made his way into his kitchen with his supplies.
His phone rang as he put things away in the fridge, the word wife lighting up.
“Yes?”
“Have you seen the news?”
“Be specific, Sveta, please.”
“Hollander.”
Ilya froze, milk halfway to the fridge door. Svetlana had paused as well, but when he did not respond, she continued, “He is finally leaving Montreal. The bastards let him go.”
“To where?”
“No one knows yet. It’s all just rumours. Everyone probably signed an NDA. It is all fucking bullshit. His complaint to the players’ association will probably be withdrawn or hushed up. It’s all a cover up,” she spat the words, anger rolling off her. Ilya put the milk away and leaned over the kitchen counter, squeezing his eyes shut as Svetlana continued her rant. “We will probably never know the full extent of the abuse, but he’s out, Ilya, he’s free.”
He’s free.
“Good for him.”
“That’s all you have to say, really?”
“What the fuck do you want me to say? The bastards found a way to fuck him over while he gets what he wants? That’s the story of every fucking NHL player.” Me included, he did not say.
“You should call him.”
“And say what?” Ilya scoffed. “Congrats on escaping your shitty homophobic team, sorry for not speaking to you since 2015, and oh, yes, I am still married.”
“Not for long.”
“Not the point.”
“Ilya.”
“Please, leave it alone.”
Svetlana was merciful and allowed him to change the subject to her job, his job, how was Anya and all the little mundane things they spoke about. He promised to come to Boston on Sunday and have brunch.
When he finally hung up, he went online and read every speculative article about Shane’s sudden departure from the team that drafted him, the team that had ultimately betrayed him.
Shane Hollander will not be back on the ice for Montreal – what we know about his accusations against his team and where he might go next. Exclusive scoop!
Ilya, like the rest of the hockey world, had been following the scandal about the “accusations”, the icing out, the homophobia, the downright unsafe work conditions. What the public knew probably barely scratched the surface. Montreal had gone from winning cups to leaving Shane alone and struggling on the ice. Then, Shane had come out, admitted he was gay, even told the world he was in a long-term relationship with a doctor, a surgeon, someone nice and stable and probably supportive.
The result? Finally, after months of obvious abuse from the team, visible for the world to see on the jumbotron, Shane had finally filed a formal complaint. Some details had been leaked, which included accusations of unsafe working conditions and harassment. Suddenly, management had been all about reviewing internal procedures and keeping things civil. Shane had stopped playing altogether, refusing to comment publicly.
Ilya wondered if Doctor Kim had supported Shane’s decision.
Three weeks after Shane was free from Montreal, Ilya got a very unexpected text.
Jane: I’m sorry for texting you out of the blue. I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I have to ask you something. If you ignore me I’ll take it as a no.
Ilya waited, not knowing what he was hoping for. I forgive you, fuck me again, I hate you, I need you still. All of the above perhaps. His eyes scanned upwards to the last text Shane had sent, which Ilya had not looked at since it reached him.
Jane: I’m sorry I keep texting, but please just let me know you’re ok?
He felt a stab of the old shame when he saw the unanswered text. This time, he would be answering, no matter what. Finally, a new message arrived, but it was not what Ilya had expected.
Jane: Are you ok with me playing for Boston?
The air went out of Ilya’s lungs in a woosh. He was on the ice, but close enough to the boards to grip. He was sure he would collapse without the support.
“Hey coach, I thought there’s no phone during practice?” Greene, left winger first line, shouted at him.
“Do as I say, not as I do!” someone else replied, but Ilya wasn’t paying attention. There were a few laughs, but then quiet. “Shit, did something happen, coach?”
“No,” Ilya forced his eyes up to his guys. He tried to smile, his eyes seeking out head coach Wilhelmson and giving him a nod.
“Everything ok?” Wilhelmson asked later when he skated close. “If you need to leave early…”
“I’m fine.”
Ilya did not write back until he was home.
Lily: It’s fine with me, I don’t play for them anymore.
It was a pointless statement, as if Shane wasn’t intimately familiar with Ilya’s injury, forced retirement and banishment to Providence. His home was only an hour from Boston, though he spent just as much time in Sveta’s apartment, but he was never at the Garden for a game. He watched his team play at the Pavillion now, where his life was good. His therapist told him how well he was handling it all the time. Sveta was so proud of him, she said often. The AHL wasn’t the NHL, but he had worked hard to find a place, and his team had won the cup last year.
So what if Hollander took his old place in Boston? Shane could have it all. He always got it all.
Except supportive teammates, Ilya reminded himself. Soon, he would have that too.
Ilya might not visit the Garden anymore, but he still hung out with Cliff and the guys, and Ilya knew exactly what sort of gossip they said about Montreal. He had come out to them himself years ago.
“How the fuck do you let homophobia lose you Shane fucking Hollander?”
“Do they just not want to win cups anymore?”
“Fuck it, I’ll go gay for Hollander if he wants to come here.”
“I thought Canada was supposed to be better than us on that shit?”
“They all want to be him and get confused and think they’re gay, trust me.”
“They say let’s just play hockey, but they’re clearly not playing hockey with him? Fucking pussies.”
Ilya knew they would welcome Hollander. If Hollander could ever enter Canada again without an assassination attempt, that was a different question.
The team had the cap space. They had yet to rebuild after Ilya’s departure, which had come at the same time as a series of other setbacks they were still not recovered from.
Shane didn’t reply to Ilya’s text.
A week later and it was official: Shane Hollander was coming to Boston.
Montreal put out a generic statement about wishing him luck in his future endeavours. The entire nation of Canada was in a civil war. People had seen how the team had treated Shane on the ice before and after his official coming out, and they suspected a lot about how they treated him in the locker room. Those people wished him luck, even in Boston. But of course, there were those who sat on the fence, who said he still should have stayed loyal.
Ilya hated those people almost more than those who just called Shane a fag. Theirs was a fake allyship, conditional, less important than hockey.
Ilya tried not to read the news. He didn’t watch Boston play. He didn’t even check the results.
About a month after the start of the next season, Shane knocked on his door.
He looked stupidly handsome of course; his freckles still perfect. He wore nice clothes, probably picked out by his Dr. Kim. Had the boyfriend moved with him? Did he put Shane over his own job?
“Hi,” Shane said. He looked Ilya up and down. What did he see? Ilya was still fit, he worked out as much as his knee allowed, but surely, he was looking a little worse for wear since they had last seen each other?
“How did you get my address?”
“I-…” Shane looked away. “Cliff told me.” You call him Cliff. Of course you do, Ilya thought. “I told him I wanted to thank you. Send you a gift.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes, which I do want to do. I told him about asking you if it was ok that I came to Boston. He seemed to think it was, like, noble.” Shane shrugged with one shoulder.
“Marlow used the word noble?”
A small smile appeared, and Ilya almost stumbled down his front steps to kiss it away. He was holding onto his doorframe for dear life.
“Can I come in?”
Ilya gestured. Shane approached, and yet Ilya did not move more than to shift sideways so Shane could pass by him into the house. Regret filled him a moment later when Shane was close enough to smell, close enough for Ilya to count the freckles.
Shane took off his shoes, hung up his coat, and then looked at Ilya, who forced himself to move forward into the living room. It was a pretty decent house, nothing like where he lived before, but he still had investments from his NHL days that treated him well, in addition to his ever-growing salary with his current team.
“This is nice,” Shane said, polite.
“Good enough for Mr. Real Estate?”
Shane made a soft “haha” sound, but he was clearly too nervous to take the joke. His thumbs were in his pockets, and his eyes were taking in the décor. Was he wondering where Ilya’s old trophies where? Why they weren’t displayed prominently, so everyone who visited would know he had once been the great Ilya Rozanov?
The pictures on the mantle drew him in. The most prominent was of Ilya’s new team, with their Calder cup, but he was not truly among them. He was at the side, with the other staff, in fleeces instead of jerseys. He was smiling at least. There was another group photo next to it, of Ilya’s first post-Boston team, a college team. He wasn’t smiling as brightly in that one, and the picture had only been put up when he had finally put up the cup-photo.
“Congratulations,” Shane said, turning back to Ilya. He gestured with his head to the photo. “On the cup.”
Ilya bit back a retort about Shane’s undignified exit from last year’s playoffs. He wasn’t angry at Shane for that, obviously, he just didn’t want to feel Shane’s pity, so he reached for anger and resentment instead.
“Can I get you something? Drink?”
“Oh, no, that’s ok. Can we sit?”
Ilya wanted to snap at Shane to get out and go back to his perfect boyfriend and his new team, Ilya’s team, but instead he just nodded numbly and sat on the couch.
“So,” Shane began, his hands rubbing his knees in nervousness. “I wanted to thank you, like I said-“
“There is nothing to thank me for,” Ilya interrupted. “You can do what you want, Hollander, is not my team.”
“It is, though,” Shane insisted. “The guys say you hang out with them all the time, and they love you. Even before I knew that I didn’t want to make things awkward for you in your city.”
“My city.” Ilya tried not to scoff.
“Yeah, I mean, it was between Boston and Ottawa,” Shane explained.
“Ottawa?” Ilya asked incredulously.
“I was looking at teams who seemed to actually want me, not just,” Shane made a gesture at the concept of “Hollander, Hocky genius”, and Ilya understood. “Boston was obviously the better team, and management seemed really convinced the team would accept me, so we made a deal. I play one year, with the possibility of extending the contract if I feel the room’s good. Ottawa basically told me they’d wait for me if I changed my mind, so this seemed like a good solution.”
“Any team would be stupid not to wait for you,” Ilya said without meaning to. Shane gave him a look. “So, you are testing out Boston?”
“I think it might work out. It’s been good so far. Really good.”
“They are good men.”
“They are.”
“So,” Ilya clapped his knees. “You have thanked me. Good luck.” He moved to rise.
“Can we be friends?” Shane blurted. Ilya froze before collapsing back into the couch. He took a deep breath, but before he could answer, Shane continued. “I don’t want you to stop coming out to see the guys just because I’m there, and I think I’d like it… being friends, I mean.”
“Yes, fine, Hollander. We can be friends. I’m a friendly guy, you know.” It didn’t seem like the right answer. Shane was clearly disappointed because he nodded and forced a smile. “I am busy so…”
“Right. I should have called.”
Shane got up and walked back towards the door. Ilya watched every detail of him, committing it to memory. He had put on more muscle over the years, Ilya noted. He was probably a good deal stronger than Ilya now. The thought made something strange settle into the pit of his stomach. He suddenly ached to trace Shane’s broad back with his tongue. He was so distracted he almost walked into Shane when the man turned suddenly, looking intense.
“See you around,” Shane said, extending his hand. Ilya couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. Strangely, he felt his eyes sting slightly a moment later as he grabbed Shane’s hand and shook it firmly.
When they let go, Shane took a beat to just look at Ilya. His eyes were at Ilya’s mouth for a second, the bastard. It made Ilya’s reckless side come out.
“I assume you have not told your boyfriend we used to hook up?”
“What?” Shane looked truly shocked. So, he hadn’t.
“He would be ok with us being friends? He will not be jealous?”
“We broke up.”
Ilya opened his mouth to retort, but then the words registered. “He… did not want to move to Boston?”
“No, I broke up with him. He was a good guy, and without him I wouldn’t have been able to file the complaint, but I just knew it wasn’t going to work out. We weren’t compatible.”
“Compatible?”
“We weren't right for each other.”
“Ok,” Ilya nodded. “Well, Boston has a good gay scene. They’ll love you.”
“Will your wife mind that we’re friends?” Shane blurted, the words coming out harsh and angry, but the man reeled back a little, surprised at his own outburst.
“Why would she mind?” Ilya asked, feigning casualness. “Are you trying to be a homewrecker, Hollander?” He regretted the comment immediately when he saw how Shane shut down. It was a ridiculous idea, anyway. Shane Hollander only ever cared about Ilya Rozanov, generational talent, the one who could match him on the ice and fuck him in a penthouse, not Ilya, assistant coach in a suburb of Providence, Rhode Island.
“Right,” Shane said, nodding. “I should go. It was nice seeing you.”
“We are getting divorced.”
“What?”
“It is only paperwork left now,” Ilya barrelled on. “But it is… friendly,” he struggled to find the word Sveta had used, “amiable,” he sounded it out, “we are still friends, always we were friends, the marriage was not romantic.” It was to save him, he wanted to say, not just his visa, but his sanity. She had needed to watch over him, sometimes literally, when he almost lost the battle.
But he now had citizenship and immigration had never doubted they loved each other. That part had been easy. He had been a citizen for over a year, but they were still waiting to do the final paperwork. It hadn’t seemed important to either of them to rush it. Svetlana still held some anxiety around the idea of not being Ilya’s spouse for emergency reasons.
“You married for…”
“You can not tell anyone.”
“Of course not.”
Ilya nodded, suddenly at a loss at what more there was to say. Have a nice evening, Shane, see you next time you win for Boston and realise you are too good for everyone, including me.
“So, it's open?”
“What?”
“Your marriage,” Shane explained. “You and Svetlana. You see other people?”
“We never…” Ilya huffed and felt his cheeks go a little pink, but a part of him needed Shane to know. “We never fucked while we were married. I was not- She took care of me.” He spoke to his feet, hating how soft his voice went.
“I’m glad she was there for you.”
Ilya nodded, not looking up.
“So, when the paperwork is finalized… could I ask you out?”
Ilya’s head snapped up. Shane held his gaze with a determined stance. Ilya wasn’t sure what he had expected when Shane showed up at his doorstep. Pity, most likely, a fuck for old time’s sake, maybe, but this? No, Ilya did not get “asked out”. Propositioned, at least once every time he went out, yes, even now, but politely asked? He did not think anyone had ever asked that of him.
“Out?”
“On a date,” Shane clarified, as if Ilya didn’t know the expression.
“What sort of dates does Shane Hollander go on?”
“Just regular dates,” Shane said, a smile forming. “What sort of dates do you like?”
“I have not been on many.”
“Well, we’ll figure out what we like together.”
“Together.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
“Why wait, Hollander? We can go to bedroom and have date right now.” Ilya stepped forward, perhaps to prove to himself that he could still have the same effect on Shane.
The effect was still there, and Shane’s eyes flickered to Ilya’s mouth again, breath stuttering.
“I think we should wait,” he said breathlessly.
“Why? I told you, Sveta and me were not romantic.”
“It’s the principle,” Shane said stubbornly. “And also, I think maybe it’s a good idea to just be friends first. I can’t guarantee I’ll be staying in Boston yet. And besides, we might not like each other once we get to know each other.”
Ilya smiled, staring at Shane’s face, cataloguing the freckles up close, the perfect brown eyes, and the lips that Shane had just subconsciously licked.
“I do not know when divorce will be final,” he said softly, shrugging, “it might be over a year. I do not think you can wait that long.”
“Well…” Shane hesitated. Ilya delighted in being right. “We can see how things go, until March at least. Then we can try a date, and see.”
“March,” Ilya whispered, moving even closer. “You have game plan for dating life, like everything else.”
“I like being clear,” Shane said, something a little harder entering his expression. “It helps avoid miscommunication.”
“Dr. Kim teach you that?”
“Partly, yes, but also my therapist. I’m not always good without-“
“Clear instructions,” Ilya finished.
“I just want to know what you want,” Shane said, frustrated.
“What do you want?”
“You,” Shane swallowed. “As a friend, which is what I hoped for when I came here, or as something more, if we can be.”
Ilya swallowed too, overwhelmed by the knowledge that this thing between them might actually be something. Shane appeared completely sincere. Ilya knew he wasn’t capable of lying about this. After everything, after rebuilding his life from the ground up and almost failing so many times, could he really get to have this?
Shane’s eyes were flickering over Ilya’s features, probably trying to figure him out. When he spoke, it was soft but sure, “Can you tell me what you want?”
Ilya leaned in slowly, letting Shane move away if he wanted. Their lips met softly, just a press of lips without any other part of them touching. It felt easy and momentous at the same time.
“Clear enough?” Ilya whispered when they parted. Shane nodded. “Good. We will become friends. Then in March, you can ask me out. Maybe meet Svetlana, get her blessing. She will give it.”
“Good. I’d like that.”
“Good.”
“Good,” Shane repeated, his smile full of relief.
“Then we will date, and if you make it to the playoffs, we can go steady.”
“Steady?” Shane laughed.
“Yes, is old expression-“
“I know what it means. I don’t think the team’s ready for the playoffs.”
“They have Shane Hollander now. They better get to the fucking playoffs.”
“Well, when the stakes are this high, I guess I better get to work.”
“You should.”
They fell silent for a moment. Shane looked like he really wanted Ilya to kiss him again, but the man had set the game plan, so now Ilya wanted to see if he followed through.
“I should go,” Shane said eventually. They stepped away so that Shane could put on his coat and shoes. Outside his new car stood waiting, a sensible, boring one, of course.
“See you, Hollander,” Ilya said as the man stepped down from the porch. Shane turned.
“Maybe you could call me Shane, if we’re going to be friends.”
“See you soon, Shane.”
“Bye, Ilya.”
Ilya stayed put until Shane’s car was backed out and off down the road, feeling every time Shane caught his eye until there was nothing left to watch for.
When Ilya was finally alone again, he collapsed on the couch, feeling like he would wake up from a dream at any moment. He went through the motions of the day in a daze. When he was seated for his dinner, his phone chimed, and he smiled when he saw the text.
Jane: I changed your contact name, I hope that’s ok.
Ilya: That’s fine, Shane.
Shane: I hope we can see other soon. Cliff said you usually come out with the guys before the first roadie?
Ilya: Yes, usually. I will se you there.
Shane: Can’t wait.
Ilya sighed, and allowed himself to imagine for a moment how he would feel having Shane. A part of him expected it to feel like a reward. Ilya had stumbled and clawed his way into a bearable life post-injury, and now Shane was here, and Ilya was alive. Instead of feeling that, however, Ilya looked around his house, eyes catching on the pictures of his team and the objects that told the story of his life in Providence and realised he was just happy at the thought of including Shane in this.
He picked up the phone and called his wife. She would be delighted.