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Shane swears he can feel each individual pore on his face pouring out sweat as he steps off the ice. The crowd is ecstatic as he makes his way through the tunnel; they won at home and people are smiling at him, telling him that he did a good job as he leaves the ice for the locker room. He prays his face looks normal as he walks, feeling his body start to numb over and his head swim as he just tries to make his way to his locker stall.
“Shane, buddy, you alright?” Hayden asks, watching him from the corner of his eye. Shane just nods, tight and fast as he sits down heavily to start to untie his skates.
Or try to at least.
His hands are shaking so bad it takes him at least five whole minutes to get them off. In that time Hayden has showered and come back, still looking down at Shane as he sucks in breaths, trying to act normal as he waves to the other guys as they start to leave. They thought it was just fatigue, that their captain was worn out after a hard game, but Hayden didn’t buy it for a second. He hung back in his locker stall while Shane finally went to take a shower.
He mimed cleaning the space, packing up dirty clothes to take home, checking his phone and texting Jackie; anything to make it not obvious that he was hanging back to make sure Shane was okay.
He came back a few minutes later, clean but still looking somewhat hazy. Hayden monitored him from the corner of his eye as he pulled on his clothes, making sure he didn’t lean over too far or look dizzy.
When he sat to put on his sneakers, he saw it clear as day that his hands were still trembling, and from the angle he could tell that his jaw was clenched so hard the line of muscle was visible through his cheek.
“Shane.” he crouches in front of him and takes his shoe out of his hand. The locker room had emptied out and there were no lingering players as even the staff started to make their way out for the night. “Shane, buddy. What’s up.” he asks quietly, gently.
Shane nods too fast. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. He drags in a breath that doesn’t seem to reach his lungs.
“I’m fine.” he says automatically. His hands are clenching and unclenching in his lap and he shakes his head once, then twice. Then, quieter: “I’m not fine.”
Hayden’s stomach drops. He’s seen Shane go quiet like this before. Go to a place where he couldn’t catch his breath when things got too big or too much. It wasn’t a bad thing, it just was.
Something that he knew as his best friend to keep an eye out for. He was too stubborn, too uncomfortable to ask for help when he couldn’t form words or find the right things to say, so Hayden was there to help him when he couldn’t ask for it himself.
“What do you need?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Tell me what to do. I got you, brother.”
Shane swallows hard. His chest feels like it’s collapsing inward.
The game replays behind his eyelids, the hard hit into the boards that left him laid out on the ice, the ref not calling it, the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras. The split second where he’d thought he couldn’t breathe.
“Call Ilya?” he manages, voice thin. “Please?”
His chest feels like it's shattering into a million pieces and like he’s floating out past where he can make it back. He doesn’t know when it kicked into full gear but all he does know is that he’s terrified and all he wants is to see Ilya, to hear his voice and be held close by him. He remembers being taken off the ice the last time he couldn’t get up.
Last time he hadn’t been able to see Ilya. Hadn’t been able to look to him for comfort or have his hand to hold, and even though he was okay this time, it was the first intense hit he’d taken since his collision last season and he was shaking way more than he ever thought he’d be.
He was Shane Hollander. He was used to falling and getting back up again, but he wasn’t used to the way his chest constricted when the back of his helmet smashed against the ice.
Hayden doesn’t hesitate. He nods and pats Shane’s knee comfortingly and steps out into the hallway, phone already in his hand. For as much as he griped about Ilya being an asshole, he was glad to have his number in his pocket when he could help his best friend. He was in Montreal to spend the weekend with Shane while Ottawa had a few days off, and Hayden only knows because Jackie was having them over for dinner so the kids could terrorize Ilya while simultaneously making Hayden spend more time with him.
Ilya picks up on the second ring.
“Hello, what is -”
“It’s Shane,” Hayden says, keeping his voice low. “He’s not okay.”
There’s a beat of silence and he can hear rustling on the phone. Then: “I’m coming.”
It takes fifteen minutes to get to the stadium from Shane’s apartment. Fifteen very long minutes.
In the meantime, Hayden finds him an ice pack to hold tight to his chest while they wait; something he’d seen Jackie do for the kids and for him on more than one occasion to feel the cold until it hurt it a way that wouldn’t be long term, to pull his brain out of the spiral he sometimes couldn’t get out of. He sits with Shane, and dims the lights in the locker room, the two of them still the only ones in there.
Shane is taking shallow breaths, but he’s breathing. His jaw still looks like it's working overtime and Hayden resists the urge to reach out to make him stop, knowing that would just make things worse.
He only moves when his phone buzzes with Ilya’s contact and he moves to sneak down the hallway and let him in the side staff entrance. When he opens the door, Rozanov is there with his hood pulled up and his hands in his pockets. Hayden just looks down the hallway to check that it’s clear before nodding him in and sneaking him back down and to the locker room. They move quickly, Hayden looking frantically over his shoulder as he sneaks in his best friend’s boyfriend into the rival arena.
If they got caught Hayden knows he’d be skinned alive, especially now that they were in the playoffs. The idea alone of catching Hayden with Shane’s arch nemesis in the arena, playing for Boston or not, could get them both in a, quite frankly, too-dramatic amount of trouble for what it was worth, but Hayden made sure to keep his head down and usher Ilya quickly behind him.
Shane is still on the bench when Ilya slips into the locker room through a side door that Hayden locks quietly behind them.
Shane looks up at the sound of his footsteps and his face crumples.
“Oh.” he breathes, like even relief is too sharp, too much. Like it hurts to let it in.
Ilya doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the room in three long strides and drops to his knees in front of him, solid and immediate, like something Shane can anchor to. His hands come up without question, warm and steady where they cup Shane’s jaw, thumbs brushing just under his ears.
“Hi.” Ilya says, low and soft, like the rest of the world has already been shut out. “I’m here.”
Shane nods, but his breathing is still uneven, catching in his chest. His eyes are glassy, unfocused at the edges.
“I’m sorry.” he says right away, shaking his head and words tripping over each other. “I don’t know why. I’m being dramatic, I’m fine, I just - ”
“You’re not dramatic,” Ilya interrupts, just as soft, but firmer now. Not shutting him down, steadying him. “You’re overwhelmed. There is difference.”
His thumbs keep moving, slow, grounding strokes along Shane’s jaw, his neck, like he’s reminding him where his body is.
Shane makes a small, broken sound and folds forward, pressing his forehead into Ilya’s shoulder like the weight of holding himself together has finally given out. Ilya takes it without shifting, one arm sliding around his back, broad palm spreading between his shoulder blades.
“I’m a mess,” Shane breathes, the words dissolving into a thin, trembling sob.
“No,” Ilya says, and there’s something unshakeable in it. “You are my Shane. My Shane is not a mess.” His hand moves, slow and deliberate, up and down Shane’s spine. “Breathe,” he murmurs, quieter now, closer to Shane’s ear. “With me. Slow.”
He doesn’t count out loud, doesn’t make it clinical. He just does it; deep, even inhales, steady exhales, letting Shane feel it where their bodies press together. After a second, Shane follows. Not perfectly, but enough that his chest expands and contracts with the air movement.
“That’s it,” Ilya says softly, like it matters. Like Shane is doing something right just by trying. “Good. Again.”
Hayden, a few feet away, doesn’t move.
He’s seen Ilya loud, sharp-edged, quick to bite. He’s seen him furious, protective in a way that borders on dangerous, but he’s never seen this. This quiet, careful version of him, like every single movement is chosen with intent and care just for Shane. There’s nothing patronizing in it. Nothing that says Shane is fragile in a way that makes him smaller.
If anything, it feels like the opposite. Like Ilya is meeting him exactly where he is and refusing to let him drown there.
Shane’s grip on the front of Ilya’s shirt tightens, then loosens. His breathing evens out in increments, still shaky but no longer breaking apart.
“I can’t. . . ” Shane starts, voice rough.
“You can.” Ilya says immediately, not letting the thought finish. He leans back just enough to look at him, one hand still firm at the back of his neck. “We go home. Yes?”
Shane hesitates, then nods. “Okay,” Ilya says, softer again. “We go home.”
He shifts carefully, not pulling away all at once. One hand stays at Shane’s jaw, guiding his gaze back when it drifts, the other braced at his side as he helps him stand. Shane wobbles slightly, and Ilya’s grip tightens, not alarmed, just ready in case.
“I’ve got you.” he murmurs, like it’s obvious.
Shane lets him. That’s the part that catches Hayden off guard the most. Shane, who is the picture of control, composure, precision, doesn’t fight it at all as Ilya holds him close. He leans in, trusting Ilya to take the extra weight, to make the small decisions.
“You are okay to walk?” Ilya asks, brushing his thumb once more under Shane’s eye, catching the last of the damp there. Shane nods, ice pack still clutched to his chest like a shield. “Good,” Ilya says, and reaches down for his bag, slinging it over his shoulder before his arm comes right back around Shane’s waist, secure and grounding.
Hayden grabs his own things and pushes the side door open again, keeping his movements quiet, unobtrusive. It feels like stepping into something he shouldn’t interrupt. They move through the garage for players where there are no cameras, the echo of their footsteps hollow against the concrete as they stay quiet and Shane stays tucked close to Ilya’s side.
Ilya already has Shane’s keys in his hand by the time they reach the parking lot. He unlocks Shane’s car, opens the back door, and tosses the bag inside in one smooth motion.
“Didn’t want anyone to wonder why his car was left,” he says, almost offhand, like it’s nothing.
“Smart,” Hayden says, because it is.
Because it’s also something else entirely. Because this immediate response to Shane isn’t improvised, this is practiced and thought through. Shane could easily brush off that Hayden had taken him home, that he didn’t feel well after the game and didn’t trust himself to drive. But the thought of someone getting a picture of Shane Hollander getting into Ilya Rozanov’s car after a game is a worst case scenario that they can’t imagine.
It makes Hayden so deeply sad to think that his best friend can’t even call the person he loves most when he’s scared. That he doesn’t get the luxury of having him in the stands watching the game or sitting with his family.
Ilya opens the passenger door and turns back to Shane, his entire demeanor softening again in an instant.
“Hey,” he says quietly, one hand coming back up to Shane’s jaw. “Sit for me, yeah?”
Shane nods and lets himself be guided down, movements slow, a little uncoordinated. Ilya keeps a hand on him the whole time, steady at his shoulder, then his arm, then his knee as he adjusts him into the seat.
“Easy,” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry,” Shane says again, voice smaller now, worn down. “You shouldn’t have had to come get me. I should be able to - ”
“Is okay.” Ilya says gently, but there’s an edge of insistence there now. He reaches in, pulling the seatbelt across Shane when his hands fumble with it, clicking it into place. “You would do the same for me.”
Shane nods, eyes closing briefly like he’s letting that settle somewhere deep. Ilya lingers for a second, his hand resting against the side of Shane’s neck, thumb brushing once, twice, checking, grounding, reassuring all at once. Then he leans in and presses a long, quiet kiss to his forehead.
Shane exhales, and Hayden can actually see the tension leave him, his shoulders dropping, his grip loosening somewhat around the ice pack.
It’s intimate in a way that feels almost too close to witness.
Hayden looks away. When he looks back, Ilya is already pushing the door shut gently, careful with the sound. He turns to Hayden, expression shifting, not losing the softness entirely, but tucking it away.
“I’ve got him,” he says.
Hayden studies him for a second, then nods. “I know,” he says. “Call if you need anything.”
They hold each other’s gaze for a beat longer, something understood, something passed between them, before Hayden turns, gets into his own car, and watches as Ilya circles around, gets in, and drives them out of the parking lot.
—
The engine hums low beneath them, steady and grounding.
Shane is curled toward Ilya, fingers knotted in his sleeves. His breathing isn’t spiraling anymore, but it’s fragile, like it could tip either way. Ilya watches him for a long second, then makes a decision.
“Okay,” he says gently. “I’m going to talk. You don’t have to answer, just listen, yes?”
A faint nod.
“Good. So first,” Ilya continues, deliberately light, “you left your black hoodie in my car last week. The black one? McGill? I have been wearing it. It smells like you and I wore it to the store and the lady at the register asked me if I went there, so I said yes.”
Shane’s mouth twitches almost imperceptibly. A tiny breath of something that isn’t quite a laugh leaves his chest. Ilya keeps going.
“When I left Ottawa this morning there was snow for the first time. Not enough to shovel but maybe by the time I am back? We will see. I had easy drive here. I got to the apartment when the game started so I was able to watch whole thing. I also had groceries delivered, your refrigerator looked too sad, very boring, and your sheets, I put the dark blue ones you like on the bed.”
Shane smiles. He’d always liked the dark blue sheets, and so did Ilya. He blamed it on the thread count and them being a luxury item he’d gotten as a gift, but what he didn’t know is that they were the same style and same brand as the sheets he’d first had on his bed the first time Ilya had come over to his house. That when he had to lay in bed alone while Ilya was in Ottawa, it made him feel a fraction closer to him, no matter how many miles and bad dreams apart they were.
“And tomorrow,” Ilya continues. “I am making breakfast. Not sad protein stuff. Real breakfast, like eggs and toast. I got your coffee and that milk that you drink. Who drinks milk made from oats I don’t understand, but, for Shane, I buy.”
“It’s just oatmilk.” Shane mutters automatically.
Ilya smiles and looks over at him. “It is gross.” he says softly, and for as cunning as it’s supposed to sound, it leans more heartfelt in a way that makes Shane start to feel warm from the inside out.
Shane shifts slightly, but his shoulders are still tight. “How long are you staying?” he whispers, not wanting to get his hopes up in case he has to leave the next day.
Ilya smiles and looks at him again. “The whole weekend.” Shane’s heart sings. It’s Thursday, and that means three days off from practice and three days to be st home with Ilya.
“Really?” Shane asks, shyly.
“Really. Unless you don’t want me to then I can -” Ilya jokes.
“No.” Shane shuts him down. “No. Stay. I missed you.” he adds. He doesn’t even pretend to not sound wistful.
Ilya smiles and moves his hand over to hold Shane’s thigh, applying light pressure and rubbing his thumb over his sweatpants in soothing and rhythmic circles. “I missed you too.” he says quietly before putting his eyes back on the road.
Ilya lowers his voice, slower now. “Okay. Tell me five things you can see.”
Shane sighs faintly but obeys. “Dashboard, your hands, streetlight, keys, blinker.” He looks around the interior of the car, not moving his head much but forcing his eyes to dart to different things and really look at them for a moment rather than just giving them a passing anxious glance, cataloging his surroundings for reality rather than his anxiety.
“Good. Four things you can feel.” Ilya prompts gently.
Shane swallows, thinking hard and taking stock of his surroundings. “Seatbelt, the car moving, my hoodie, your hand.”
Ilya squeezes his thigh in response. “Perfect. Three things you can hear.”
“The engine, your voice, the blinker.” he responds, exhaling hard out of his nose when he’s done like he was holding his breath through it like walking down a hallway at a haunted house.
“Good,” Ilya says, softer now. “Good job.” Shane nods slowly, eyes closing for a second. Ilya keeps talking, refusing to let the silence get too big so that Shane doesn’t get lost in his thoughts too much. “You remember that time we got lost on the hike?” he says, out of the blue, clearly still trying to distract Shane until they were home. “And you insisted you knew where you were going.”
Shane groans faintly, not able to help it. “We were not lost.”
“We were absolutely lost. You took us down that road that looked like where people are taken to be killed in the woods.”
“It looked right.”
Ilya just turns to look at him, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline in a ‘be so fucking for real’ kind of glance that he could read loud and clear without words; a byproduct of being together for a decoade. Shane’s breathing evens out another notch when he huffs out a laugh.
“You were so stubborn,” Ilya continues. “Wouldn’t admit it, wouldn’t turn around, just kept saying, ‘Trust me.’ And of course I listen to pretty boy with beautiful freckles. I wanted to be good Canadian boyfriend so I let you take me into the woods to my death.”
“Hey, I got us there eventually.” Shane says in a small voice, but there’s a hint of a smile on his mouth.
“Yes, and somehow I live to talk about it. But this is like that, yes?” he nods and looks to Shane. “You just have to follow me and know I will keep you safe, yes? You are safe here, and you will be safe at home.” he nods and Shane doesn’t feel his lingering panic ebb, but a rush of love for his boyfriend slides in right next to it in his chest.
“Thank you.” he says quietly after a moment. The grip he has on the ice pack on his chest is still tight, still clenched hard, but he breathes again and achingly, flexes the fingers of his left hand just enough to let go and drop them to his lap to hold Ilya’s hand where it’s on his leg. Ilya hums at the contact and brings his mouth up to kiss the back of Shane’s hand.
The juxtaposition of his warm mouth on his frigid hands was a distracting contradiction and Shane sighs at the contact. Ilya glances over, relief flickering across his face. “There you are.” he murmurs again.
The city shines around them as they get closer to Shane’s place. Ilya’s hand doesn’t move where Shane still has a tight grip on it, and while the talking helped, he was still clutching his ice pack close to his chest and letting out strong exhale puffs of air through his nose as he tried to even out his breathing.
The rest of the drive, Ilya keeps talking softly. About breakfast. About a show they need to finish. About the dog they keep saying they’ll get someday. Anything to keep Shane anchored, anything to keep him here.
When they finally make it back to the building, Ilya parks Shane’s car in his private garage and walks around the car to open the door and help him out of the car, kissing him gently before wrapping an arm around his waist and walking him into the elevator. Shane leans back against the mirrored wall, eyes half-lidded, Ilya realizing then that he was wearing his gray hoodie he’d left in Montreal, hanging off his frame like armor that’s finally allowed to sag.
Ilya keeps one hand on his hip the entire ride up.
When the doors open, it’s into polished floors, recessed lighting, the faint scent of whatever expensive diffuser the building insists on pumping into the air. Shane fumbles slightly with the door, but Ilya is already stepping forward, key in hand. Shane watches him unlock it.
That key still does something to him. It’s been months since he gave it to Ilya. No big speech. Just pressed it into his palm one night after dinner and said, “You should have one.”
Ilya had looked at him like it meant everything.
It did.
The door swings open to the wide, quiet expanse of Shane’s apartment, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glowing beyond them, soft neutral furniture, everything curated and intentional. But right now, it doesn’t feel like a showpiece; it feels like refuge.
Shane steps inside and exhales shakily. Ilya locks the door behind them without asking, like he belongs here; because he does.
“You good?” Ilya asks gently.
Shane nods, but it’s tired. “I like when you unlock it,” he says quietly.
Ilya glances at him with a shy smile, understanding his meaning. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Shane replies with a long exhale, trying to ground himself in the space. Ilya gets them out out of their coats and shoes and takes Shane’s hand, leading him towards his bedroom.
“Shower. Then bed. In our very overpriced mattress?” he suggests. Shane lets out a quiet, tired laugh and nods.
The bathroom in Shane’s apartment feels almost too pristine, marble counters, glass shower, soft under-cabinet lighting that makes everything glow. Ilya doesn’t turn on the bright overheads, just the softer lights at the sink.
Shane stands near the sink, hoodie still hanging off his frame, looking smaller than he did under arena lights. The water starts to run, steam rising slowly and fogging the mirror. Ilya tests the temperature with his hand, adjusts it slightly warmer.
When he turns back, Shane is watching him. Not panicked now, just worn out and depleted.
“Come here,” Ilya says softly. Shane steps forward, and Ilya hooks his fingers under the hem of the hoodie. “You good?”
Shane nods, lifting his arms automatically. Ilya pulls the hoodie up and off carefully, slower than necessary, like the moment deserves patience. He sets it folded on the counter instead of tossing it aside, and then does the same with his sweatpants and underwear. He stands back up when he’s naked and presses a kiss to where Shane’s skin on his chest is still cool from his ice pack.
Ilya runs his hands gently down his arms once, grounding, before guiding him into the shower. He kicks off his own clothes quickly behind them, following him in.
The warm water hits Shane’s shoulders and he exhales, long and shaky, but relieved. Ilya moves to stand in front of him so that he’s still under the warm water, and one hand settles at the back of Shane’s neck, and the other rests flat against his chest.
“Breathe,” Ilya murmurs near his ear. “Slow. I’ve got you.”
Shane’s forehead tips forward until it rests lightly against Ilya’s. “I’m so tired,” he whispers.
“I know.”
The water runs steadily over both of them. Ilya moves his hands in slow, predictable motions, over Shane’s shoulders, down his arms, back up again. Nothing rushed, nothing demanding.
Just care. “Still feel it in your chest?” Ilya asks quietly.
“A little.”
“Okay.” He shifts them slightly so the spray hits Shane’s back more directly. “Let the water do some of the work.” he says. “You don’t have to hold it all yourself.” Shane’s fingers curl loosely around Ilya’s forearm.
“I hate when you see me like this,” he admits again, voice small under the sound of the shower.
Ilya presses his lips to the damp skin behind Shane’s ear. “I don’t.” Shane swallows hard. “I just see you,” Ilya continues softly. “I see Shane that I love, who pushes himself hard; and sometimes it catches up.”
Shane’s breathing steadies gradually. The tightness leaves his shoulders inch by inch. After a while, Ilya reaches for the shampoo, working it gently into Shane’s hair, fingertips slow and careful. The repetitive motion seems to quiet something in him.
“Still here?” Ilya murmurs.
“Yeah,” Shane says, voice clearer now. “I’m here.”
“Good.”
When they’re done, Ilya turns off the water and immediately wraps a thick towel around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him close before he can even start shivering. He dries him carefully, shoulders, arms, hands, pressing warm kisses to his temple in between.
“You don’t have to do all this,” Shane mumbles, although he still feels like he’s still on edge.
“I know,” Ilya replies. “I want to.” he winks, getting a small smile from Shane.
In the bedroom, the city lights spill faintly through the window. The bed looks enormous, sheets perfectly made from earlier. Ilya pulls them back and guides Shane under, then moves to the other side and slides in beside him. Shane turns immediately and Ilya opens his arms without a second thought.
Its like his brain is in a loop. Ilya. Ilya. I just want, just need, Ilya. Like he was keeping him tethered to the earth.
He tucks his face against Ilya’s chest, one leg thrown over his hip, and takes a deep inhale of his scent and breathes it out against his chest. His breathing is finally deep, slow, exhaustion replacing anxiety.
“Better?” Ilya whispers, kissing his hairline.
“Yeah.” A pause. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
Ilya brushes his fingers through Shane’s damp hair. “You only scare me when you do not tell me what is wrong.”
Shane’s eyes are glassy again, but not panicked, when he replies. “I felt stupid,” he whispers. “I should be tougher.” he shakes his head. “It was the hit. When I went into the boards.”
Ilya hums and tightens his hold on Shane. “You got up fast.” he says carefully.
“I know.” Shane stares at his chest in front of him. “But for a second I couldn’t breathe. And the crowd was so loud. And I thought,” His voice wavers. “I thought, what if I can’t do this anymore? What if I’m one bad hit away from being done? And then I kept thinking about you. And home. And it just spiraled.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. “I will be there,” he says. “Like tonight. And the night after that. And every other night.”
Shane swallows hard. “I don’t want to lose this,” he admits quietly. “I can’t lose you. If something happens to one of us, and -” he stops and hates the way his voice breaks.
“You’re not losing anything,” Ilya says. “You just got scared. It got loud.” Ilya shuffles to lean back so he can gently brush his thumb along Shane’s jaw. “Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me again.”
Shane does.
“I love you,” Ilya says simply. “Nothing is going to take me away from you. Nothing. Do you hear me?” he asks, intensely, needing to know that Shane understood what he meant. That there was nothing that could hold him down from coming back to Shane time and time again.
Shane’s breathing steadies under the weight of it. He nods, small and sure. “I love you too,” he whispers.
“Good.” Ilya says, leaning in for a brief, grounding kiss. “You did good job today. Playing yes, but also calling for help when you need it. I am proud.” he adds before kissing his forehead and pulling him back in so that he can cozy up against his chest again and focus on the beating of his heart.
Shane nods, eyes drifting closed, exhausted as his body continues to come down little by little. Ilya’s strong hands are swiping up and down his back and gently pressing into his skin, helping him focus and stay close as he lets his mind shut off in the safe cocoon of Ilya’s arms.
Montreal is still buzzing with his win beyond the windows of his apartment, but inside he’s untethered and anchored all the same, secure and loved.