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“Sorry, you said room 19? Sixth floor?”
“No, honey, seventh floor.” When the lady behind the desk, the one he spoke with only minutes ago, looks up at him, her mouth pinches in concern. “You need someone to show you the way?”
“No. Is okay. Seventh floor. Thank you.”
The seventh floor hallway is dark and, mercifully, empty. Through the window pane, he sees Hollander, propped up in a hospital bed, awash in sunlight. What he doesn’t see—not until he presses through the door—are Hollander's parents, sitting together by the window. He pushes the door closed behind him, pushes his shoulders back.
Shane smiles. “Ilya.”
“Hello,” says Yuna Hollander, eyeing him warily.
“Hi.” Ilya clears his throat. “I came to represent the team. I just wanted to…” His gaze flicks back to Shane, who is watching him, smiling, the skin of his face wan and bruised. “Are you okay?”
Cautiously, Yuna says, “Now might not be—”
“I’m out till next season,” Shane says. “Concussion and a fractured collarbone.”
Relief rushes through Ilya, but it is still too soon for it to still the tremor in his hands, to ease the tension in his shoulders. He nods—for a moment, all he can do is nod—until he is sure his voice will come out steady and says, “Marleau feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.”
“Should’ve been watching where I was going.”
When Ilya hedges a glance at his parents, he finds their eyes trained on the two of them. Can they see? “Is good to hear you are okay. I will, uh—”
“Ilya,” Shane mumbles. “Hey, Ilya. Hey.”
He glances at the Hollanders again and offers them a tight smile. To Shane he says, “Hello.”
“Come here.”
“We have flight now. I do not—”
“Ilya, come here. You’re upset. Come here, I can…”
Is he so obviously shaken that Shane can tell, even in this state? Deciding the only way he can ensure the situation doesn’t get out of hand is to remain a part of it, he moves across the room and stands over Shane.
“Good.” Hollander shifts in the bed. “I have to ask you something.”
“Ah. Maybe now is not the best time.” It is the worst time. He never should have come. It was stupid. It was selfish. Of course Hollander is drugged up after a fall like that. Of course his doting parents are at his bedside. What was Ilya thinking, coming here and risking outing him like this?
“We won’t have any other time,” Hollander complains. “Not until next season, not unless—”
“Hollander,” Ilya says firmly. “Your parents—”
“Yeah, I know. Come here.”
“I am… here.”
“Shane, honey…” Yuna starts.
“I’m—” Shane ignores her, but is at least cognizant enough of what his parents being in the room means to say, “I’m gonna whisper it.” He beckons with his good hand for Ilya to lean over the bed, and Ilya does, certain that, whatever Hollander has to say, he needs to ensure he says it too quietly for anyone else to hear.
“Don’t go to Russia this summer,” Shane whispers, breath fanning over Ilya’s cheek. “Come to my cottage instead. It’s private—”
Ilya jolts upright. “Hollander, no.”
“No?” Shane’s voice falters. “No one will know. We—”
“No. Not now. You are not…” He turns towards Yuna and David. “Hollander would not talk like this if he had his whole mind, I think. I will go so he does not regret later.”
“Ilya, wait—”
Ilya cuts him off. “Do you trust me?”
“Ilya…”
“Do you trust I have your—your well-being in mind?”
Hollander manages a nod.
“No more of this today, then, okay?” Ilya says, hoping the urgency in his tone and expression conveys all he can’t risk saying aloud. “If you want to talk with me when you are not like this, we can.”
Yuna stands, and, in obvious agreement, says, “Thank you for stopping by. That was very thoughtful of you.”
Ilya answers with a single, curt nod. “I will go now. Get well soon, Hollander.”
His hand is already on the doorknob when Shane’s voice calls after him. “The cottage… It wouldn’t just be sex. I mean—”
Ilya whips around.
“Obviously, we’d have sex. But we could just be together. Without having to leave after. We—”
“Hollander, stop talking. Your parents are here now.” But it’s too late. Ilya turns and finds David now standing next to Yuna, dismay blatant on both of their faces.
The terror that’s been rising inside him since he entered the room reaches a fever pitch. It’s out. People other than him and Shane know, and those people are Shane’s parents. Fuck. After getting away with it for so long, he’s grown naive enough to believe it would never get out. That they could keep this up forever if they wanted to.
Hollander’s too-cheerful voice draws him from the horrors racing through his mind—all the things this mistake will cost them—into the horror directly in front of him. “I’m an adult. They know I have sex.”
“Not with men,” Ilya says gravely. “Not with me.”
David puts a hand on the small of Yuna’s back. “Maybe we should give you two a moment.”
Terrified, suddenly, of the situation no longer being contained to this room, Ilya steps between them and the door and tells them, “This was my fault.”
David and Yuna share a glance.
“I started this, between us,” Ilya says quickly. “And I should not have come here today. I am sorry. He would not want you to find out like this. It was my fault you did. Please, do not be angry with him.”
“We aren’t angry. Confused, definitely, but—”
“No one can know. You know how important hockey is to Shane, please.” Please. What is he asking for exactly? Please don’t tell anyone? Please don’t stop loving him? “Please consider what might happen if people knew.”
“We aren’t telling anyone anything. He’s our son, for God’s sake,” Yuna says sharply. “God, I’m not sure I even understand what there is to tell.”
“Are you two… together?” David asks.
“No, not—” Ilya snaps his mouth shut. Hasn’t he done enough damage already? “I should not speak for Hollander. Or explain further without his input. I am sorry.”
“Ilya?”
All three of them turn to Shane.
“What are you guys talking about?”
They glance at each other. Carefully, Yuna says, “You and Rozanov, honey.”
“Me and Rozanov? You mean like—” Terror strikes Shane at last. His body goes completely still. He meets Ilya’s gaze, and, when Ilya gives him a quick nod, whispers, “No.”
“I am so sorry, Hollander.”
“Ilya, how do they know?”
“You just told them, Shane. Or I did. I—”
“Fuck. No. No, no, no, no, no. Fuck. Fuck.” Shane’s breath hitches, then comes in quick, rapid pulls. “They can’t—they can’t, Ilya. Please, no. Oh my God.”
“Honey, it’s okay,” Yuna says, but her face is horrified. “You’re okay.”
“It’s not okay. It’s not… Ilya, please, I need—” His heart monitor starts shrieking.
On impulse, Ilya crosses the room and clutches Shane’s free hand in both of his. “What do you need, Shane?”
“I—fuck—”
“Breathe.”
Hesitantly, Yuna says, “Shane, I know that you’re scared, I can see that, but we love you. Nothing is ever going to change that.”
“Especially not something like this,” David adds.
Shane’s eyes flick wildly between his parents and Ilya.
Ilya hovers over him, blocking Yuna and David from his view. Quietly, hoping only Shane can hear, he says, “Breathe, Shane. Deeper. Good.”
“I—I—”
“You are okay. Your parents are not upset.” That might not be completely true, but, behind him, they each murmur a quiet agreement. “They will not tell anyone. It will be okay.”
The door’s hinges creak. “Everything all right in here?” Asks a nurse, brushing past Ilya.
“The drugs are making him emotional,” Yuna explains, “that’s all.”
“It happens,” the nurse says. “You sure you’re alright?”
Shane steels himself, sliding his hand free of Ilya’s and balling it into a fist, unshed tears clumping his lashes together. He draws in a few deep, shaky breaths, croaks, “Yes. Sorry. I’m fine.” Shane’s panicked eyes meet Ilya’s over her shoulder and, for once, Ilya has no idea what he might be thinking. One thing is certain: after everything his parents have seen, everything the nurse just saw, Shane may very well never forgive him, never trust him again.
Hollander’s panic doesn’t return after the nurse leaves, but he seems to have sobered a little. He stares at the wall, jaw clenched. “I don’t remember what…”
“Shane, I don’t know what it was that made you keep this from us,” Yuna says, “but there is nothing to be afraid of. Not with Dad and I.”
“I really tried, Mom, but I can’t help it.” Shane’s voice cracks. “I can’t fix this.”
“Oh, honey, no.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut.
Should Ilya leave the room? He steps back and stares out the window. This is too private. Hollander wouldn’t want him here for this.
“Shane, look at me,” Yuna says. “Shane.”
“I am sorry”—She turns to David—“we are sorry—we made you feel like you couldn’t tell us.”
David says, “We are so proud of you, Shane.”
“Even if it’s Ilya?” Shane asks weakly.
He can feel Yuna and David’s eyes on him.
“What is Ilya?” asks David. “To you?”
“It’s complicated.”
Ilya’s throat is tight.
“He’s really important to me.”
“And that’s mutual?” Yuna asks, the question directed at Ilya.
Ilya meets her eyes, deep brown, like Shane’s, and tells her, “I care for Shane very much.”
“Enough to come to my cottage?” Shane can’t be as in control of himself as Ilya hoped, then, bringing up a thing like that in a moment like this, his parents witness to it all.
“You know I cannot, Hollander.”
“It’s really private. I even bought the house next door, so no neighbors.” He holds Ilya’s gaze for a long moment, then adds, “Please?”
What would a summer with Shane be like? Training and swimming and fucking? And all of it, together. Every day, together. It seems so sweet and simple and wonderful. Too perfect for Ilya to dream up, let alone have. He’d probably scare Shane off—for good this time—in the first week, and if he somehow managed not to fuck everything up, God, that’d be even worse, wouldn’t it? What would he do with himself after?
He doesn’t want to find out what it will do to him, going back to the way things are now after weeks of more, but, because he can’t admit that in front of Shane’s parents, he says in a murmur, “Maybe.”
“You can think about it if you have to, but… what I want isn’t going to change.”
Ilya looks to Yuna and David, frantic. “Shane—”
“We’ll give you a moment,” David says, understanding. Yuna doesn’t look nearly as inclined to, but allows David to guide her out the door.
The second the door clicks shut, Ilya says, “I am so sorry, Shane. I did not know they would be here. I should never have come.”
Shane nods. After a pause he says, “I… don’t know how I feel about them knowing yet, but I’m glad you’re here. It wasn’t your fault—”
“If I did not come here—”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I had to see you. It was the only thing in my mind. I wasn’t thinking enough about consequences.”
“I get it.”
“You scared me,” Ilya says quietly, stepping closer so he’s right next to the bed. “Very much.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call last night,” Shane mumbles, and continues on before Ilya can tell him how ridiculous an apology for that is. “I knew you’d be worried. Hayden was here and he brought all my stuff. I should have made him text you.”
“Is okay. Do not apologize for that.” Ilya’s fingers brush a rogue strand of hair out of Shane’s eyes, then caress his cheek as softly, as gently as he can manage. “And one scary night is nothing if other option is Hayden Pike having my number forever.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“Pike is the asshole. Tried to beat up Marly.”
“I heard. Coach said it was a clean hit, though.”
“Mhm. He really does feel bad. He asked me to tell you sorry.”
“That’s nice. They don’t usually apologize.”
Ilya’s fingers brush Shane’s battered cheek again. “They don’t usually hurt you this bad.”
“My mom told me you played like shit.”
“She said this?” Ilya gasps, making a show of turning toward the door. “Mrs. Hollander,” he calls. “Mrs. Hollander, I am top scoring player in the league—”
“Shut up,” Shane says with a roll of his eyes. They’re quiet for a moment, until Shane says, “You never gave me an answer. About summer.”
It would be so easy to just say yes. Just go. Especially since Shane, somehow, still wants him to despite what just happened. It’s brave of him, asking. Hoping. Ilya could use some of that. “It is not that I do not like the idea.” He hesitates. “But I am afraid.”
“It wouldn’t mean anything has to change with us, just…”
Ilya laughs grimly. “This is not what I am scared of.”
“So what, then?”
He draws a deep breath. “I am afraid that after I have had you like that, for so long”—he swallows—“I will not be able to leave.”
Hollander smiles, just barely. “Would that be so bad?”
Ilya laughs, disbelieving. How can this be the same person who fled from his house last November? “Yes, I think so.”
Shane reaches for Ilya’s hand, the hand closest to him, and Ilya stares at their fingers, laced together atop the pale blue sheet.
“I cannot give you something easy. Something you deserve.”
“That isn’t what I’m asking for.”
“You are not sober right now.”
“I was going to ask before, too,” Shane tells him. “After the game. I planned for it. Asking you. Getting you to say yes.”
“I think I would not have. Said yes.” It’s the truth, and it makes Shane’s eyes gleam. Ilya can’t have that. “But now,” he says, “after seeing you on the ice like that, after being that afraid… Maybe I am tired.”
“Of us?” Shane asks, voice tight.
Ilya shakes his head. “Of being scared. Of keeping away.”
“So stop.”
“Is not that easy.”
“You won’t know until you try.”
“Okay.”
Shane grins, broad and bright. “Okay?”
Ilya nods. “Okay.”