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Shane used to think he was good at knowing Ilya.

Not in an arrogant way. He just had years of practice. He knew the exact face Ilya made when he was about to say something awful in a press scrum. He knew when Ilya’s shoulder was bothering him because he started rolling it like he was trying to annoy the pain out of his body. He knew when Ilya was hungry, when he was bored, when he was pretending not to be nervous, and when he was only pretending to listen because he was actually planning his next terrible joke.

But after Shane found out how bad things had been for Ilya, he realized there were things he had never known how to see.

That was the part that sat heavy in him. It was not that he had not cared. He had cared so much it had felt unbearable sometimes. He had loved Ilya through airports, hotel rooms, secret calls, old fear, bad timing, and the kind of longing that made his whole body feel like it was trying to leave without him. But caring was not the same as knowing.

Ilya had been hurting, and Shane had not known.

Not fully.

Not when Ilya was alone in Ottawa, carrying things Shane had never been allowed to see. Not when he was smiling into FaceTime calls, making jokes, asking Shane about Montreal, about hockey, about whatever safe, ordinary things they could talk about while everything important sat underneath the conversation like a crack in the ice.

Shane had cared. He had loved him. He had loved him so much it had scared him sometimes.

But he had not known.

That was the part that still made something sharp and ugly move through his chest if he thought about it too long.

He knew it was not useful to keep hating himself over it. Dr. Galina had told him that once, in a tone that was kind but firm enough that Shane had felt like he was being corrected by a very calm referee. She said guilt could be useful if it helped him change his behavior, but it was not useful if it only made him punish himself. Shane had written that down after the call because it sounded important and because he did not always trust himself to remember the wording properly.

Ilya had found the note later.

Shane had left the notebook open on the kitchen island because he had gotten distracted by Anya trying to steal one of Ilya’s socks from the laundry basket. He came back from the hallway to find Ilya standing at the counter, reading the page with one eyebrow raised.

Shane stopped at the doorway.

Ilya looked up at him. “You are taking notes about my mental health now?”

Shane felt his face get hot immediately. That was another thing he hated: he could not control when his freckles got darker. Ilya always noticed. Ilya noticed everything when it gave him a chance to be unbearable.

“It’s not about your mental health,” Shane said, then frowned because that was obviously not true. “I mean, it is. But it’s for me. It’s not like I’m keeping a file on you.”

Ilya looked back down at the notebook. “This says ‘warning signs.’”

“That sounds worse out loud.”

“It sounds very serial killer, yes.”

Shane walked into the kitchen and tried to close the notebook, but Ilya put his hand on top of the page first. Not hard. Just enough to stop him. His face had softened, even if his mouth was still trying to hold on to the joke.

“You really wrote all this?” Ilya asked.

Shane leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, mostly so he would stop moving his hands. “I don’t want to miss it again. If you get bad, I don’t want to just believe you when you say you’re fine. Not if you’re saying it because you don’t want to bother me.”

Ilya looked down.

For a few seconds, the kitchen was quiet except for Anya chewing something in the hallway that was probably not hers.

Then Ilya said, “I did not want you to worry.”

Shane’s jaw tightened. He had heard that before. He understood it, but understanding it did not make it easier to hear.

“I know.”

“You had a lot already.”

“I know.”

“Montreal. Your parents. Us being secret. Everything.”

Shane nodded once, because all of that was true, but none of it changed the thing sitting between them.

Ilya rubbed the edge of the paper with his thumb. “I thought I was helping.”

“You weren’t.”

Ilya looked at him then.

Shane swallowed, but he did not take it back. “I don’t mean that in a cruel way. I know why you did it. But you weren’t helping me by leaving yourself alone. I would rather worry than not know.”

Ilya’s mouth moved a little, like he wanted to make a joke but could not find one that fit.

Shane stepped closer, enough to touch his wrist but not enough to crowd him. “I’m not saying you have to tell me everything perfectly. I know it’s not that simple. But if there are people who help, I want to know who they are. If there are things I should not say, I want to know that too. If you need Galina, we call Galina. If you need Sveta, we call Sveta. If you need me to sit with you and shut up, I can do that.”

Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.

Shane sighed. “I can try to do that.”

That got him a small smile.

“Better,” Ilya said, voice quieter now. “I did not believe the first version.”

Shane looked down at the notebook because looking at Ilya was suddenly too much.

Ilya touched his arm. “Shane.”

He looked up.

“I am not going to be good at this,” Ilya said. “Telling you. Asking. Whatever. I know you want a plan because plans make you less crazy, but I am probably going to be bad at following the plan.”

“That’s okay.”

“You say this now.”

“I mean it now.”

Ilya gave him a look.

Shane corrected himself. “I’ll try to mean it later too.”

Ilya nodded, like that was an answer he could believe. Then he closed the notebook himself, gently, and slid it back toward Shane.

“Okay,” he said.

Shane waited because the word felt too small, and because he was never sure when Ilya was finished saying something important.

Ilya gave him a tired little smile. “Do not make that face. I said okay.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You are making three faces.”

Shane touched his own cheek without thinking, and Ilya’s smile got worse.

“And now freckles,” Ilya said. “Very dramatic.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

No, Shane did not. That was the problem and the answer to almost everything.

The first real bad day after that came quietly.

It was not dramatic. There was no fight, no big warning, no obvious thing Shane could point to and say, There, that caused it. They had practice in the morning with the Centaurs, a normal one. Ilya was himself on the ice. Loud, sharp, annoying the rookies, taking a pass from Shane during a drill and saying, “Finally, decent service,” like Shane had not spent half his life being one of the best passers in the league.

After practice, though, Ilya got quiet.

Not silent. That would have been easier to spot. He still answered when people talked to him. He still made a few comments in the locker room. He still slapped one of the younger guys on the shoulder and told him not to look so proud of a shot that missed the net by two feet.

But something in him had gone flat.

Shane saw it in the way Ilya sat at his stall too long after most of the guys had left. He saw it in the way Ilya checked his phone without really looking at it. He saw it when Ilya said he was not hungry after practice, which was almost never true.

On the drive home, Ilya talked enough that someone who did not know him might have thought he was fine. He complained about traffic. He complained about a bad call in a game they had watched the night before. He asked Shane if he wanted pasta for dinner, then said Shane would probably want chicken and rice because Shane had no joy in his soul.

Shane let him talk. He did not push in the car.

At home, Anya met them at the door, tail wagging so hard her whole back end moved with it. Ilya crouched down and let her shove her face against his neck.

“Hello, baby,” Ilya murmured, scratching behind her ears. “At least someone in this house is excited to see me.”

Shane took off his shoes. “I’m excited to see you.”

Ilya looked up from the floor. “You show it by asking if I drank enough water.”

“You don’t drink enough water.”

“Romance is dead.”

Shane almost smiled, but Ilya’s voice was too tired for the joke to land properly.

Dinner was the next sign. Shane made pasta because Ilya had mentioned it, and because it was easy enough that Shane could not mess it up too badly. Ilya ate some of it. Not enough. He pushed the food around with his fork and talked to Anya more than to Shane.

Shane waited until they were on the couch later, the TV on but low, before he asked.

“Is today bad?”

Ilya did not answer right away. He was sitting with one leg tucked under him, one hand resting on Anya’s back where she had wedged herself between them. His eyes stayed on the TV, but Shane knew he was not watching.

“Not bad bad,” Ilya said eventually.

Shane nodded. “Okay.”

Ilya made a small sound. “You hate this answer.”

“I don’t hate it. I just don’t know what it means.”

Ilya looked at him then, and the tiredness on his face made Shane’s chest hurt. Not because Ilya looked weak. He did not. It was because Ilya looked like holding himself together was taking more effort than it should have.

“It means I am not in danger,” Ilya said. “I am not thinking terrible things. I just feel heavy. Everything feels stupid. Talking feels like work. Eating feels like work. Being awake feels like work.”

Shane absorbed that carefully.

He had learned not to rush in with too much reassurance. The first few times, he had tried too hard. He had told Ilya he was loved, he was wanted, he was not a burden, he was not alone. All of those things were true, but too many words at the wrong time made Ilya look trapped. Like he had to respond correctly to make Shane feel better.

So Shane kept it simple.

“Do you want quiet company or do you want space?”

Ilya blinked.

“Those are my choices?”

“No. You can pick something else.”

Ilya looked back at the TV. His fingers moved slowly through Anya’s fur.

“Quiet company,” he said. “But not quiet in a weird way. If you sit there looking worried, I will get worse.”

“I can put the game on.”

“Not Montreal.”

“Not Montreal.”

“And maybe you can make toast.”

Shane stood up immediately.

Ilya looked up. “Not like house is on fire. Just toast.”

“Right.”

“And butter. Real butter, Shane. Not the sad thing you use.”

“It’s not sad.”

“It tastes like giving up.”

That one sounded more like him. Not fully, but enough that Shane could breathe a little easier.

He made toast with real butter. He brought it back on a plate and sat beside Ilya, close enough that their legs touched. Ilya ate half a slice, then the other half, then reached for a second piece without looking at Shane.

Shane did not say anything.

Ilya noticed anyway.

“Do not look pleased about toast,” he said.

Shane looked at the TV. “I’m not.”

“You are. You are sitting there like toast solved depression.”

“I know it didn’t.”

Ilya’s shoulder pressed against his. “I know you know.”

Shane kept his eyes forward.

After a while, Ilya’s head came down on his shoulder. It was careful at first, like he was giving Shane a chance to move away, which was ridiculous and sad enough that Shane had to take a breath before he could put his arm around him.

“I’m here,” Shane said.

Ilya’s eyes closed. “I know.”

The next morning, Ilya asked Shane to text Galina.

He did it from bed, face half-hidden in the pillow, voice rough with sleep and embarrassment. “Ask if she has time this week. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. And do not write long message.”

Shane was already reaching for his phone.

“I won’t.”

“You will. You write texts like police report.”

“I’ll keep it short.”

“Show me before you send.”

He showed Ilya.

Ilya squinted at it. “Acceptable.”

Shane sent it.

Ilya rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is embarrassing.”

Shane put the phone down. “I know.”

“You are supposed to say it is not.”

“Would you believe me?”

Ilya was quiet for a second.

“No.”

“Then I know. But I don’t think less of you.”

Ilya turned his head on the pillow and looked at him.

Shane continued before he could lose the thread. “I don’t like that it hurts you. I don’t like that you feel embarrassed. But needing help doesn’t make me love you less. It just tells me what to do.”

Ilya looked at him for a long time.

Then he said, “You are very serious before coffee.”

Shane let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “You started it.”

“I was vulnerable. You should be nicer.”

“I’ll make coffee.”

“And breakfast.”

“Yes.”

“And maybe you tell Anya I am brave.”

Shane leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You can tell her yourself.”

“She believes you more.”

Shane smiled against his skin. “She loves me more.”

Ilya gasped, offended enough to sound alive. “Take that back.”

Not every bad day became something that needed Galina. Sometimes it was just a day where Shane made sure there was food, water, quiet, and no pressure for Ilya to be funny. Sometimes it was a day where Ilya came to practice and played hard and then came home and slept for three hours with Anya pressed against his legs. Sometimes it was nothing Shane could help with except by not making it worse.

But some days were bigger.

The first time Shane called Sveta, he sat in the kitchen for five minutes with her contact open and did not press the button.

He was not proud of that.

It was not that he disliked her. Sveta had been good to Ilya. She was loud and blunt and too comfortable in their house, but she loved him in the way people loved someone they had known before the world got to them. Shane respected that. He was grateful for it, even.

He was also aware that she had slept with his husband many, many times before Shane and Ilya became serious. Ilya had once considered marrying her for citizenship, which Shane understood as a practical thing but did not enjoy thinking about for longer than half a second.

Anya sat beside his chair and put her chin on his knee.

“I’m doing it,” Shane told her quietly.

Anya blinked.

“You don’t know. It’s awkward.”

Anya wagged her tail once.

Shane pressed call.

Sveta answered with music in the background and her usual complete lack of hesitation. “Shane Hollander. Either something is wrong or Ilya finally annoyed you into calling for advice.”

“Hi,” Shane said, then immediately hated himself. “It’s Shane.”

“Yes, I have caller ID.”

“Right.”

The music lowered. Her voice changed.

“Is he okay?”

Shane looked toward the living room. Ilya was on the couch, pretending to watch TV. He had been off since the morning. Not unsafe, he had said. Just bad. Then he had said, Maybe Sveta would understand, and Shane had not waited for him to take it back.

“He says he’s safe,” Shane said. “But it’s a hard day. He said maybe you would understand what he means. Or he almost said that. He said your name.”

Sveta was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “That is a lot, for him.”

“I know.”

“You want me to come?”

Shane exhaled slowly. He had expected to have to explain more. Maybe convince her. Maybe be awkward for longer.

“If you can. Or call him. Whatever you think is better.”

“I can come.”

“Thank you.”

There was a pause.

“Are you okay with me coming?” Sveta asked.

Shane looked down at Anya. Her head was still on his knee, warm and heavy.

“I care more that he needs you.”

Sveta did not answer right away.

Shane wished she would make a joke. It would make the moment less uncomfortable.

Finally, she said, “That was a good answer.”

“It’s true.”

“I know. That is why it is good.”

Shane rubbed a hand over his face. “It is awkward for me. I’m not going to pretend it isn’t. But it doesn’t matter more than him.”

“Good,” Sveta said. “I do not want to make your marriage harder.”

“You don’t.”

“Sometimes Ilya makes everything harder by existing.”

Shane looked toward the living room again. Ilya had not moved.

“Yes,” Shane said softly. “But I like that he exists.”

Sveta was quiet for another second. Then she laughed, not teasing this time, just warm.

“I will be there in an hour.”

When Shane went back to the living room, Ilya looked up at him.

“You called her.”

“Yes.”

“Was it terrible?”

Shane sat on the coffee table across from him. “A little.”

Ilya’s mouth twitched. “Because I used to sleep with her?”

“Yes.”

For some reason, that got a real laugh out of him. Not big, not bright, but real enough that Anya lifted her head like she had been waiting for it.

“You are very honest,” Ilya said.

“You already know.”

“Still nice to hear.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but his chest loosened.

Ilya looked down at his hands. His smile faded as quickly as it had come.

“I am sorry,” he said.

Shane frowned. “For what?”

“For making you call my former fuck buddy because I am sad.”

Shane stared at him.

Ilya looked up, and the shame on his face was so clear that Shane forgot to be embarrassed.

“Don’t do that,” Shane said.

Ilya’s face closed a little. “Do what?”

“Make it sound cheap. You needed someone who knows you. I called her. That’s it.”

“It is not that simple.”

“It can be.”

Ilya looked at him for a long time.

Shane leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m not saying I love thinking about your history with her. I don’t. But she matters to you. She stayed in your life. If she helps, I want her here.”

Ilya’s eyes went shiny for half a second before he looked away.

“You are making it very difficult to be ashamed.”

“Good.”

Sveta arrived with soup, bread, and enough opinions to fill the whole house.

She hugged Ilya first. He acted annoyed, but he held on longer than he needed to. Shane stood near the kitchen and pretended to be busy with the groceries she had shoved into his arms the second she walked in.

“You look tired,” she told Ilya after pulling back.

“Thank you. You look loud.”

“Good. Then you can hear me when I tell you to eat.”

Ilya groaned. “This house is full of bullies.”

Sveta looked over at Shane. “He ate today?”

Shane hesitated.

Ilya pointed at him. “Do not answer like I am a child.”

Shane looked at Sveta. “Toast. Some soup. Coffee.”

“Traitor,” Ilya said.

Sveta nodded. “Better than nothing. Still bad.”

“I am right here.”

“Yes, and you are annoying here also.”

Shane watched them from the kitchen, feeling strange and grateful and a little out of place. Sveta did not fix things. She did not come in and make Ilya suddenly okay. But she knew how to sit beside him without treating him like glass. She told him when he was being stupid. She switched into Russian when English seemed too much. She made him eat more soup by insulting his pride until he picked up the spoon.

At one point, Ilya looked over at Shane with an expression that was tired but clearer than before.

“You are hovering,” he said. Shane stepped back immediately.

Sveta glanced at him. “You are hovering badly.”

“Sorry.”

Ilya sighed. “Do not look sad. Just sit down.”

Shane sat.

Ilya shifted on the couch, making room beside him. It was not a grand invitation, but Shane understood it. He sat close enough that their knees touched, and Ilya leaned into him a minute later while still arguing with Sveta about whether the soup had too much dill.

That night, after Sveta left, Ilya stood in their bedroom and changed into one of Shane’s old shirts. He moved slowly, like the day had tired him out, but his face was less empty.

Shane sat on the edge of the bed and watched him.

Ilya caught him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That is never true.”

Shane looked down at his hands. “I’m glad she came.”

Ilya pulled the shirt down and leaned against the dresser.

“Even though it was weird?”

“Yes.”

“You were jealous.”

“A little.”

Ilya’s smile was small. “I like when you admit this.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much.”

“Too late.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but the moment did not feel sharp. It felt like them.

Ilya crossed the room and stood between Shane’s knees. His hands came to Shane’s shoulders, light at first.

“Thank you,” Ilya said.

Shane rested his hands on Ilya’s hips.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know. I am being polite. Like a true Canadian. Very rare. Enjoy.”

Shane smiled despite himself.

Ilya’s hands moved up to the sides of his neck. “I mean it. I know that was not easy for you.”

“It doesn’t have to be easy.”

Ilya’s expression changed.

Shane looked up at him and tried to say it properly. “I don’t need everything about loving you to be easy. I just need you here.”

For a second, Ilya looked like he might make a joke because that was what he did when something went too deep.

Instead, he bent down and kissed Shane.

It was soft. Not trying to lead anywhere. Just a thank you, or an I’m here, or maybe both.

When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb over Shane’s cheek.

“Freckles,” he said, but quietly this time.

Shane closed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“I like them.”

“You like making fun of them.”

“Yes. And I like them.”

Shane let him pull him down into bed after that. Ilya tucked himself against Shane’s side, and Anya jumped up five minutes later even though she knew she was not supposed to. Neither of them made her get down.

The Montreal game came later that month, and Shane started feeling bad three days before they left Ottawa.

He did not say it at first, which was hypocritical of him, but he knew Ilya noticed anyway. Shane got quieter. He checked the schedule more than once even though he knew exactly when they were flying out. He spent too long taping his stick after practice, redoing the same section because the edge was not right. He answered questions from reporters with the clean, empty professionalism he had learned as a teenager, but his jaw hurt afterward from holding everything in place.

Montreal was still hard.

He hated admitting that. He hated that one city, one building, one team could still get under his skin after everything. He had thought he would retire in a Voyagers jersey.

That was the part people did not understand. Or maybe they understood and just did not care. It was not only that Montreal had traded him. It was not only the way everything had happened after Hayden’s video, after their private life had been ripped open for everyone to stare at. It was that Shane had given that team everything. His discipline, his body, his prime years, his name. He had built part of himself around being a Voyager.

Then they made it very clear how little that meant.

So yes, facing them was difficult.

More than difficult.

Ottawa had given him a place to land. The Centaurs had given him a room that did not flinch when he walked in beside Ilya. He was grateful for that every day.

But gratitude did not erase grief.

In their hotel room in Montreal, Shane stood by the window and looked out at the city. It looked the same, which irritated him in a way he knew was irrational. Of course the city looked the same. Buildings did not change because one person’s life fell apart.

Ilya came up behind him and handed him a bottle of water.

Shane took it.

Ilya stood beside him for a while before saying, “You have been quiet since we landed.”

Shane looked down at the bottle. “I’m fine.”

“No,” Ilya said. “We do not do that. You want to talk or you want me to talk?”

That made Shane glance at him.

Ilya shrugged. “I can do both. I am very talented.”

Shane breathed out and looked away. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“I hate this,” he said.

His thoughts were moving too fast, all tangled together. Montreal. The media. The fans. The Voyagers locker room. The way people had looked at him after the video, like his life had become a story they were allowed to have opinions about. The way some of them had acted like he had betrayed the team by being hurt. By being human. By loving Ilya.

Ilya’s face stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened.

“I know.”

“I hate that I hate it.”

“Also normal.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

Shane looked back out the window.

The city lights blurred a little because he was tired, not because he was going to cry. Probably.

“I don’t want them to boo me,” he said. “I know they will. I know it’s stupid to care, but I do.”

Ilya turned toward him fully.

“It is not stupid.”

Shane shook his head once. “It feels stupid. They’re fans. They can boo whoever they want.”

“And you can care.”

Shane swallowed.

Ilya stepped closer, voice low now. “They boo because they know. They know what they lost. They know you gave them everything, and now you wear our jersey. They do not like seeing proof that you survived them.”

“I’m going to play badly.”

“No.” Ilya looked almost offended.

Shane frowned. “You don’t know that.”

“I know.”

“You can’t know.”

Ilya leaned closer, eyes sharp now. Captain eyes, Shane thought. The ones he used in the room when everyone needed to listen.

“I know because you are Shane Hollander. You are annoyingly polite, disciplined, and very hard to shake. You will be nervous, yes. You will maybe look like you want to throw up. But then puck drops, and you will play. And we will crush them.”

Shane’s throat worked. "Ilya."

“No, listen. Tomorrow they will be loud. Let them. You do not owe them your face. You do not owe them a reaction. You play. You make them watch. You remind them they were idiots.”

Shane’s chest tightened in a way that was almost painful.

“Listen to me. They are nothing without you. They know this. This is why they talk. This is why they chirp. Because they know they lost you, and now they have to pretend it was a choice and not a mistake.”

Shane looked at him then.

Ilya’s face was fierce. Not joking. Not hiding.

“They cast you out?” Ilya said. “Good. Now they watch you win in our jersey. They watch you play for team that knows what you are worth. They regret it.”

Shane’s eyes burned, which was embarrassing and badly timed.

The boos started during warmups.

Shane had expected them. He really had. He told himself it did not matter. He told himself he had been booed before. He told himself they were just fans, just noise, just people who did not know him.

The Bell Centre was loud in a way Shane still knew too well. It had once made him feel ten feet tall. Now it made his shoulders tighten before the puck even dropped. There were signs. Some old jerseys. Some people cheering, which almost hurt worse because it reminded him the whole city had not turned into one cruel thing. But the boos were louder.

Shane kept skating.

Ilya passed close to him during a drill.

“Eyes on ice,” Ilya said.

Shane did not look at the glass.

“I know.”

“Good.”

A few seconds later, Ilya added, “Your tape job is ugly.”

Shane turned his head before he could stop himself. “It is not.”

“Very ugly. Maybe it's the Montreal air.”

“You tape like a kid.”

Ilya grinned and skated away.

It helped. Shane hated that it helped, but it did.

The game itself was rough from the start. Montreal came at them hard, and Ottawa answered. Shane expected the hits. He expected the noise. He expected the chirping, too, though expecting it did not make it pleasant.

He kept his head down and played.

Ilya was different.

Not reckless. He was too smart for that, and being captain mattered to him even when he pretended it did not. But he was everywhere. He finished every check. He got in faces after whistles. He made sure Montreal felt him every time they got too comfortable near Shane.

When a Montreal defenseman leaned too close after a whistle and muttered something Shane could not fully hear but understood from the way Ilya’s head snapped around, Ilya smiled.

That smile was dangerous.

On the next shift, Ilya caught the same defenseman along the boards with a clean hit that shook the glass. It was hard enough that the crowd roared and the defenseman got up angry, shoving at Ilya’s chest.

Ilya smiled at him.

Not his funny smile. Not the press conference one. This one had no humor in it.

Shane skated in fast.

“Ilya,” Shane said, low.

Ilya did not take his eyes off the defenseman. “I am fine.”

“You look fine in a way that will get someone hurt.”

“Then they should stop insulting my husband.”

Shane’s chest hurt.

“I can handle it.”

Ilya turned then, eyes bright with anger and something softer underneath.

“I know you can. I am still allowed to hate it.”

Shane would have argued, but the linesman moved between them, and the game pulled them apart again.

On the bench, later, Shane was breathing too fast. He hated that. He hated knowing Ilya could tell. He stared down at his gloves and tried to slow it down before the next shift.

Ilya sat beside him.

For once, he did not chirp.

“In for four. Out for four,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane closed his eyes for half a second and did it.

In. Out.

The crowd was still loud. His chest still hurt. But the next breath came easier.

“Good,” Ilya said. “Next shift, simple. Win the puck. Move the puck. Shoot the puck.”

Shane looked at him.

“That was almost good advice.”

“I am captain. Sometimes it happens.”

The next shift was better. Not perfect. Better. Shane won a puck battle near the boards, took a hit, stayed on his skates, and got the puck out cleanly. Ottawa did not score, but the play settled him. Hockey was still hockey. His body still knew what to do.

In the third, Shane scored off a rebound in front.

It happened fast. Shot from the point, traffic, puck loose for half a second. Shane got his stick on it and pushed it past the goalie before anyone could tie him up.

For one second, the building went strange.

Then the boos came back, louder than before.

But Ottawa’s bench exploded, and Ilya reached him first. He slammed into Shane hard enough to make him laugh, arms around him, helmet pressed against his.

“Yes,” Ilya shouted. “Yes, Hollander. Fuck them.”

Shane laughed because he could not help it, because Ilya’s joy was enormous. His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking. He felt terrible and incredible at the same time.

“You’re insane,” Shane said.

“Yes. Keep up.”

Ottawa won.

Winning helped, but it did not erase the sound of the crowd or the feeling of being back in that building wearing a different jersey. It did not erase how much he had once loved being there. 

In the locker room, the guys were loud, happy, careful around him without being obvious about it. One of the younger players yelled something about Shane owning Montreal now. Shane managed to smile, but it pulled at something sore.

Ilya saw.

After the game, after Ilya gave the media a quote so smug it would probably get replayed online for three days, they went back to the team hotel. Shane barely remembered the ride there. He remembered the noise, the questions, Ilya’s shoulder pressed against his in the elevator, and then the quiet of their room closing around them.

At the hotel, Shane sat on the edge of the bed with wet hair and tired legs, staring at the carpet. He had showered. He had answered media questions. He had said the right things about focusing on the team, getting the two points, moving forward. He was so tired of moving forward.

Ilya came out of the bathroom in sweatpants and no shirt, rubbing a towel over his hair.

He took one look at Shane and dropped the towel onto the chair.

“Come here,” he said.

Shane looked up. “What?”

“Come here.”

There was no joke in his voice.

Shane stood, and Ilya pulled him in immediately, arms going around him tight. Shane let himself lean into it. For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then Shane said, quietly, “I thought I would feel better.”

Ilya’s hand moved slowly up and down his back.

“You scored. We won. And it still hurts.”

Shane closed his eyes.

“I miss what I thought it was.”

Ilya held him tighter.

Shane hated how small his voice sounded, but he kept going because Ilya had asked him to stay with him, not with the noise.

“Not now. Not how they treated me. But before. I loved it there.”

“I know.”

“They made me feel stupid for loving it.”

Ilya pulled back enough to look at him. His face was serious in a way Shane still was not used to, even after all these years. It was not softness without strength. It was the kind of care that felt steady enough to lean on.

“You were not stupid,” Ilya said. “They were lucky. Then they were cowards.”

Shane’s face twisted before he could stop it.

Ilya cupped the back of his neck.

“You do not have to pretend it did not hurt because you are happy now,” Ilya said. “Both can be true.”

Shane let out a breath that shook a little.

“Galina tell you that?”

“No. I am married to you. I learn things.”

That almost made Shane smile.

Ilya kissed him then, slow and careful.

When they pulled apart, Shane touched Ilya’s wrist.

“You got mad on the ice.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t take penalties for me.”

Ilya gave him a look.

“I did not take penalty.”

“You almost did.”

“Almost is not penalty.”

Shane sighed.

Ilya’s thumb moved over the back of his neck.

“I know you can handle it,” Ilya said. “I know you do not need me to fight every idiot. But I hate when people hurt you. I will try not to be stupid. I cannot promise I will be calm.”

That was fair enough that Shane could not argue.

“Okay.” Shane kissed him again.

They flew back to Ottawa the next morning.

Anya nearly knocked Ilya over when they came home. Shane had barely opened the door before she shoved her way between them, tail whipping back and forth, making the little whining noise she made when she was too excited to decide who to greet first.

Ilya dropped his bag and crouched down.

“Hello, my girl,” he said, letting her lick his face. “You missed me most, yes?”

Shane closed the door behind them. “She missed me too.”

Ilya looked up, Anya’s paws on his chest. “She has good taste, so maybe not.”

The house felt warm after Montreal. Quiet. The good kind of quiet. Shane carried their bags upstairs while Ilya stayed on the floor with Anya for too long, talking to her in Russian and English.

Later, they ended up on the couch. Ilya had his legs across Shane’s lap, Anya asleep near their feet. The TV was on, but neither of them was paying attention.

Shane was tired, but his head was calmer than it had been in days. 

“I’m glad you told me. About how bad it was before.”

Ilya went still.

Shane felt it immediately and rubbed his thumb once over Ilya’s ankle, not to calm him exactly, just to let him know he was there.

“I hate that you had to tell me,” Shane said. “I hate that you went through it. But I’m glad I know now.”

Shane shifted so he was facing him more. “I’m not saying that to punish you. I just don’t want to lie about it. It hurt that I didn’t know. But I’m still glad I know now.”

For a while, Ilya did not answer.

Then he said, “I thought if you knew, you would look at me differently.”

Shane’s chest tightened.

“I do.”

Ilya’s face changed so quickly that Shane reached for him before thinking. He caught Ilya’s hand.

“Not like that,” Shane said quickly. “I mean I know more now. So yes, I look at you differently because I see more of you. But it doesn’t make me want less of you.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane forced himself to keep going, even though his face was hot and the words were not coming out as neatly as he wanted.

“Before, I thought you were hiding because it was easier for you. Now I know sometimes you were hiding because you thought you had to. That changes how I see it. It makes me angry for you. It makes me sad. It makes me want to be better. But it doesn’t make you less you.”

Ilya looked away, blinking once.

Shane held his hand tighter.

“You’re still annoying.”

That got a rough laugh.

“Still dramatic. Still a menace. Still terrible at loading the dishwasher.”

Ilya looked offended.

“You put a pan on top of a glass.”

“It fit.”

“It did not.”

The corner of Ilya’s mouth lifted, but his eyes were wet now. He tried to look down again, but Shane reached up and touched his cheek.

Ilya let him.

“You’re still the love of my life,” Shane said.

Ilya closed his eyes, leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Shane’s.

“You are mine too,” Ilya said quietly. “Even when you are very intense."

Shane let out a shaky laugh. Ilya smiled and kissed him.

A few days later, Ilya had another bad morning.

That was how it worked sometimes. A good day did not guarantee the next one. Shane had learned not to feel betrayed by that. It was not Ilya’s fault, and it was not proof that they had done something wrong. It was just the thing, returning because it returned.

This time, Ilya came downstairs late and stood in the kitchen for a minute like he had forgotten why he was there. His hair was a mess, his shirt inside out, his face blank in a way that made Shane’s stomach drop.

He set down his coffee.

“Bad?”

Ilya leaned against the counter and closed his eyes.

“Yes.”

The honesty hit Shane harder than any joke would have.

“Safe?”

Ilya nodded. “Yes. Just bad.”

Shane stepped closer, slow enough that Ilya could move away if he wanted. He did not.

“Practice?” Shane asked.

Ilya made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I am captain.”

“Captains can call in sick too.”

“This again.”

“Yes.”

Ilya opened his eyes and looked at him. “You would call?”

“Yes.”

“For both of us?”

“If you don’t want to be alone.”

Ilya looked down at the floor. Anya came into the kitchen then, nails clicking, and pressed herself against Ilya’s leg. He put a hand on her head automatically.

“I don’t know what I want,” he said.

Shane nodded. “Okay. We can start with breakfast and decide in twenty minutes.”

“You and your twenty minutes.”

“It helps me not to panic.”

Ilya looked at him then, really looked.

“You are scared?”

Shane did not want to say yes. He also did not want to lie.

“A little.”

Ilya’s face twisted. “Because of me?”

“Because I love you.”

Ilya hated that answer. Shane could see it. He hated it because it made the fear harder to reject, harder to turn into guilt and throw back at himself.

Shane took his hand.

“I’m not scared of you,” he said. “I’m scared of missing it. There’s a difference.”

Ilya looked at their hands.

“You did not miss it today.”

Shane’s throat tightened.

“No.”

Ilya nodded slowly. “Okay. Breakfast first. Then maybe call. Not coach yet.”

“Okay.”

“Do not make eggs like last time.”

Shane frowned. “What was wrong with them?”

“They were dry. I was depressed, not dead.”

The laugh came out of Shane before he could stop it.

Ilya looked pleased, which made Shane feel both relieved and fond enough that his chest hurt.

They ate toast and eggs that Ilya supervised from a chair at the kitchen table like an old man judging construction work. After twenty minutes, Ilya said he wanted to try going to practice. Shane did not love it, but he listened. They agreed that if it got worse, Ilya would tell him or Galina or the team doctor. Ilya rolled his eyes through most of the agreement, but he agreed.

At practice, Ilya was quieter than usual but present. Shane stayed close without hovering. He did not stare when Ilya sat on the bench longer than normal. 

After practice, Shane drove them home.

“I’m proud of you.”

Ilya groaned. “Do not say this like I am toddler.”

“I’m still proud.”

Ilya looked out the window, but his hand slid over the console and found Shane’s.

Shane held it all the way home.

That became their life, in a way.

Not all of it. Most of their life was still hockey, Anya, laundry, Ilya leaving cups everywhere, Shane pretending not to laugh when Ilya chirped people on TV, road trips, kisses in the kitchen, and arguments about whether Shane’s food was too boring. But this was part of it too. Galina appointments. Quiet check-ins. Bad days that did not become secrets. Sveta coming over with food and leaving with too much confidence that she knew how their dishwasher should be loaded.

One evening, after a home game, Shane found Ilya in the kitchen feeding Anya a piece of chicken.

“She’s not supposed to have that,” Shane said.

Ilya did not look guilty at all. “She earned it.”

“By doing what?”

“Being beautiful.”

Shane rolled his eyes and opened the fridge.

Ilya leaned back against the counter. He looked good that night. Tired from the game, but good. His hair was still damp, his cheeks a little flushed, his body loose in a way Shane loved seeing because it meant he was comfortable.

“You were watching me today,” Ilya said.

Shane froze for half a second.

“Was it too much?”

Ilya shook his head. “No. I just noticed.”

Shane closed the fridge without taking anything.

“You were quiet after second period.”

“I was pissed about my turnover.”

“I know.”

“And you did not ask if I was depressed?”

“No.”

“Growth.”

Shane sighed. “I hate you.”

Ilya grinned. “No, you don’t.”

Shane leaned back against the opposite counter.

“I’m trying to learn the difference.”

The grin softened.

“Between hockey pissed and brain bad?”

“Yes.”

Ilya nodded once, like that meant something to him.

“You are learning.”

“Slowly.”

Shane smiled despite himself.

Ilya crossed the kitchen and stopped in front of him, close enough that Shane could smell his soap and the faint cold-air scent that still clung to him from outside.

“I like that you try,” Ilya said.

Shane looked at him.

“Even when I complain,” Ilya added.

“You always complain.”

“Da. Do not be distracted.”

Shane’s mouth twitched.

Ilya touched his chest, right over his heart.

“I like that you do not pretend it is easy,” Ilya said. “I like that you are awkward with Sveta and call anyway. I like that you ask me the hard question even though you hate asking. I like that when you are scared, you are still here.”

Shane looked down because his face was definitely red now, and Ilya would never let him live.

Ilya touched his chin and made him look up.

“Freckles,” he said softly.

“Don’t start.”

“I'm not. I am appreciating.”

“That sounds worse.”

Ilya laughed and kissed him.

Shane put his hands on Ilya’s waist and kissed him back, slow and familiar. Anya barked once because they were ignoring her. Ilya pulled away just enough to look down at her.

“Rude,” he told the dog. “This was private moment.”

Anya barked again.

Shane laughed into Ilya’s shoulder.

Later that night, in bed, Ilya lay with his head on Shane’s chest and one arm thrown across his stomach. Anya was at their feet, taking up too much room and sighing like her life was difficult.

The room was dark except for the thin line of light under the door.

Ilya had been quiet for a while. Shane thought he was asleep until he spoke.

“When I was alone before,” Ilya said, voice low, “I sometimes wanted to call you.”

Shane went still.

Ilya’s fingers moved against his shirt, slow and restless.

“I would look at your name and think, no. He has enough. He is in Montreal. He is tired. He will worry. So I did not call.”

Shane closed his eyes.

There was no fixing that. Not now. Not backward.

“I wish you had,” Shane said.

“I know.”

Ilya shifted, but Shane held him tighter, not letting him move away completely.

“I was wrong,” Ilya said.

Shane’s throat tightened. Shane ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m not mad at you for being wrong.”

Ilya lifted his head and looked at him in the dark.

“Next time, I will try to call,” he said. “Or tell you. Or send very dramatic text that says my brain is being an asshole.”

Shane nodded.

“That would work.”

“You would come home?”

“Yes.”

“Call Galina?”

“If you wanted me to.”

“Call Sveta?”

Shane made a face before he could stop himself.

Ilya smiled.

“Ah. Still awkward.”

“Yes.”

“But you would.”

Shane looked at him.

“Yes.”

Ilya’s smile faded into something quiet.

“I know,” he said.

That felt like the important part. Not that Shane had proved something once, not that one phone call had fixed anything, but that Ilya knew now. He knew Shane would be uncomfortable and still do it. He knew Shane would ask the scary questions and stay for the answers. He knew Shane would not love him only when he was easy to love.

Ilya put his head back down on Shane’s chest. Shane smiled into the dark and held him closer.

There were still things love could not fix. Shane knew that now. Love could not undo Irina’s death, or what Ilya’s father had done, or the years Ilya had spent learning to make pain look like a joke. Love could not make Montreal simple again. It could not make the boos disappear, or the old hurt vanish just because Shane had a new jersey and a new home.

But it could pay attention. It could ask, “Are you safe?” and wait for the answer. It could make toast, send the short text to Galina, call Sveta with sweaty hands, and sit on the couch without demanding Ilya turn his pain into something easy to understand.

It could stand in a hotel room in Montreal and say, “Stay with me tomorrow,” then mean it on the ice, on the bench, in the tunnel, and afterward, when the win still did not make everything stop hurting.

It could be awkward and scared and still show up.

Shane stayed awake longer than Ilya did, listening to his breathing even out. Anya snored at their feet. The house in Ottawa was quiet around them, warm and ordinary, with dishes in the sink and laundry waiting and a notebook in the kitchen drawer that Shane hoped they would not need tomorrow.

But if they did, he knew where it was.

He knew more now.

And this time, he was staying.