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If Shane were anyone else in the world, Ilya probably would’ve done a good job at hiding it. He seemed fine, for the most part. But Shane knows his husband better than he knows himself. He knows when something is wrong, and he knows when Ilya is hiding something.
And sometimes, he’ll let it slide. Ilya knows he can tell Shane anything, so if he’s hiding something, it likely means he’s not ready to share, yet. Shane can handle that. If it's bad enough, the truth will inevitably come out. And if Ilya has taught Shane anything, it’s to practice patience.
But sometimes, whatever Ilya is hiding will come out in the worst ways possible, and there are some things Shane can’t help but get upset about. The one thing they do not hide from each other is injuries — or at least, they aren’t supposed to hide them from each other. Shane can admit he forgets to mention some sore ribs here and there. They’re hockey players. If they mentioned every injury sustained, they’d have nothing else to talk about. But the big ones, they aren’t supposed to hide.
And Ilya knows that.
And if Shane weren’t Shane, he might’ve never caught the slight wince on his husband’s face as he stripped off his hoodie.
“You okay?” he asks, dropping his t-shirt into the hamper.
Ilya doesn’t glance over. “Yes.” It’s firm and final. An obvious demand to drop it. And Shane might’ve… if Ilya wasn’t currently climbing into bed in a long-sleeved shirt. Shane stands by his side of the bed, watching Ilya like he’s never seen him before. In all of their years together, he’s never once seen Ilya sleep in a long-sleeved shirt aside from that night their heating unit broke, and they’d had to bundle up until it could be fixed in the morning. But that was three years ago, and it’s the beginning of spring right now. And Ilya runs warm.
“What?” Ilya asks, finally realizing that Shane isn’t getting into bed.
“Why are you wearing that?”
Ilya looks down. “Is just a shirt, Hollander,” he says, but he rolls over to face away from Shane. “I am cold.”
Shane doesn’t get into bed. An injury doesn’t even occur to him yet, because he’s just so baffled that his mind is blank of any explanation. Ilya huffs, glancing over his shoulder. “Is no big deal,” he says, obviously irritated. “Get in bed.”
“You’re cold,” Shane repeats, obviously detecting that it's bullshit. But he finally, slowly gets into bed. He inches closer, placing a hand on Ilya’s waist. “If you’re cold, why don’t you turn over? I’ll warm you up.”
“I don’t want to have sex tonight, Shane.”
Shane’s head cocks back as he flinches. He hadn’t even been talking about sex. He’d just meant that he’d wrap Ilya in his arms until they fell asleep. He says as much, but Ilya remains motionless.
“Am not in a good mood,” he says softly. Shane almost laughs. That much was fucking obvious. But even in most of his bad moods, he still doesn’t mind cuddling. He knows Shane would never expect it to turn into more. But if Ilya doesn’t want it, he can’t force it.
“Okay,” Shane whispers, forcing himself not to sound too disappointed. Maybe by morning, he can coax Ilya to talk about whatever is bothering him. “Can I just have a goodnight kiss, then?”
Even on his worst days, Ilya always manages a kiss. His body relaxes slightly, and he nods once, rolling back a bit so that he can tilt his head in Shane’s direction. Shane doesn’t think twice as he shifts forward to meet his husband, but in doing so, Shane’s knee bumps hard into Ilya’s elbow, and a pained gasp escapes Ilya before he can stop it.
Shane freezes. Ilya freezes. There’s a look in his eye that is half-defeated, half-defiant. Shane’s eyes flick to Ilya’s elbow, which is conveniently covered by fabric. Everything makes sense all at once.
“Take off your shirt.”
It’s not a request, and Ilya knows it, but he tries to fight it anyway. “Shane—”
“Ilya,” Shane says firmly. “How bad is it? Are you bruised? Let me at least ice it.”
“Is fine, Shane.”
“Then let me see it.”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because is nothing,” he snaps.
“Oh, clearly,” Shane argues. “I barely touched it, and you flinched. Let me see.”
Ilya’s jaw clenches, and for a second, Shane thinks he’s going to keep fighting. But he sits up and slowly pulls his shirt off. Now that he’s not fighting it, the pain is clear on Ilya’s face. Once the fabric clears Ilya’s elbow, the gasp that falls off of Shane’s lips is completely involuntary.
“Holy shit, Ilya,” he cries, immediately helping him strip off the shirt. Ilya’s entire elbow is battered a deep purple, some spots almost black, the bruise wrapping all the way around his arm. The edges of the injury are nasty shades of yellow, pink, green, and nearly blue. “What the fuck— when did this happen?” he asks, trying hard to replay their last few games.
The answer comes to him before Ilya even gets the chance to speak. “Is this from last night when Connors tripped you?” he asks. “I knew you went down on your side, but you didn’t— why the fuck didn’t you say anything? Did you go to the team doctor?”
“Jesus Christ, Shane,” Ilya rips his arm away from Shane’s grasp, where he’s holding it with care, examining the bruise. “Is fucking fine.”
“Fine?” Shane asks in disbelief. “You can barely move it without it hurting. It looks like someone took a fucking baseball bat to it.”
“Is not that fucking bad,” Ilya rolls his eyes.
“Not that— why wouldn’t you say something?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Shane spits. “You need to ice it. Hell, you should make sure it’s not fractured or something.”
“Fuck, Shane, you are not my fucking father,” Ilya spits, his eyes wild. “Can you just drop it?”
Shane’s words die in his throat. He’s never, ever been compared to Ilya’s father. He never met the man, obviously, but he knows the horror stories. He knows how horrible a man he was to Ilya. His voice is softer, weaker, when he says, “I’m not trying to be like your father. I’m just—”
“No,” Ilya says, some of the anger vanishing from his voice as he shakes his head, his eyes shutting. “I mean it like… like an expression. You are acting like a father. Nothing like mine.” He scoffs softly. “My father would not care if I was hurt. He would want me to play anyway.”
Shane swallows, some of the immediate panic relieved. The last thing he ever wants is to be anything like that man.
“I’m not trying to act like a dad,” Shane says, his voice softening. “But this looks serious, Ilya. You’re hurt. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ilya’s jaw clenches, and he takes a moment to respond. “Because you are not allowed to tell me to sit out of games,” he says, his voice flat. “But you will try anyway.”
Shane hesitates. Admittedly, yeah. That is what Shane wants to say. He wants to have the power to bench Ilya until this bruise is all cleared up and he’s no longer wincing every time he moves his arm. He knows that’s not his call to make, but he wants to say it anyway.
“I mean… yeah,” Shane says, unable to lie. “You should at least see the doctor. Because they’ll probably say the same thing.”
“You would not want to be benched over a bruise.”
“That’s not the same thing—” Shane starts to say, but Ilya scoffs.
Technically, yes, it is the same thing. They’re both the top players on their team, and they both know that one of them being benched affects the gameplay as a whole. But the game itself means something different to Shane, and they both know it. Ilya loves the game, but his identity isn’t tied to it like Shane’s. If Ilya is injured badly enough, he usually will allow the time to rest and heal. He loves the game, but he can survive without it.
For Shane, it’s different. When he’s on medical rest, he feels stir crazy. He lives and breathes hockey until he’s allowed on the ice again. Hockey is such a core part of Shane; he has no idea who he is without it.
It’s just a fact of who they both are, and they both know this.
“Of course it is the same thing,” Ilya spits. “I know hockey is the most important thing in the world to you, but we are six points away from a playoff spot. We cannot rely on wild card this year.”
“Playing injured isn’t going to help anything,” Shane shoots back. “You’re just going to make it worse by playing on it. Especially if you aren’t even icing it between games.”
“But you don’t get to decide this!” Ilya says. “I am grown fucking man.”
“A grown fucking man who doesn’t know when to stop.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ilya mutters. “You are being fucking ridiculous.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Shane nods once, throwing the blankets off of him and standing up. This anger feels so irrational, but he doesn’t care. They don’t hide shit like this from each other. Because even if Shane can’t prevent Ilya from playing, he still should’ve told Shane that he was hurt. They still could’ve been taking measures between games together.
“Oh, where are you going?” Ilya asks.
“The guest room,” Shane says. “I’m just— I’m mad. So I’m sleeping alone. Okay?”
“Hollander—”
Shane looks at Ilya, almost at the doorway. “When you said hockey is the most important thing to me, do you still think that I put it over you?”
Some of the anger dissipates from Ilya’s gaze as he blinks. And he hesitates. Long enough for Shane to hear an answer in the silence. He nods slowly.
“After everything…” he says softly, suddenly too upset to really be angry. “You really think I’d choose hockey over you.”
“Shane,” Ilya says, his voice much softer than before.
“Goodnight, Ilya.” He leaves then, ignoring it when Ilya calls his name again.
The guest bed is cold and hard. The mattress wasn’t even half as expensive as the one they had in their room. And the walls were unfamiliar in the dark, because they’ve never fought badly enough for Shane to sleep separately. He already regrets it, actually. He wants to be back in his own bed, with his husband, even if they don’t talk.
His husband, who still believes he prioritizes hockey over him. Even though he left the team that drafted him — for good reason, of course, but still. Even though he’d all but told Commissioner Crowell to go fuck himself. Even though he’d transferred to what was once the worst team in the league, so that he could live and play alongside his husband.
Hockey has always been his entire life, but from the moment he met Ilya, it’s slowly become a very close second place on his list of priorities. And since they got together, officially, it wasn’t even a question what came first. Sure, there had been moments of stress and heartache where Shane had lost sight of what he was doing all of this for, but even then, part of him always knew. He always knew that at the end of his life, Ilya would be the thing he was most proud of.
Playing with Ilya has been the dream of a lifetime. He loves getting on the ice more than ever. Has he somehow managed to make Ilya think that was purely for the love of the game, and not the man he was playing with?
Shane rolls over, staring at the ceiling. He thinks about their pre-game rituals, how they kiss in the tunnels right before they take to the ice. He thinks about their handshake they always do right before the first face off, Shane always kissing Ilya’s glove before he sends him out. He thinks about how they look for each other first every single time they celebrate a goal, no matter who made the shot.
Everything Shane does now on the ice involves Ilya.
But is it enough?
Ilya mentions Shane in interviews more often, whereas Shane is as strictly professional as possible. Ilya also posts more online about them. Shane rarely posts anything that isn’t brand or hockey related. He bites his lip as he picks up his phone and opens his Instagram. The last time he posted something that was strictly about his husband was Ilya’s birthday, almost seven months ago.
Without thinking or even caring about the time, Shane makes a new post and selects one from their final days at the cottage last summer. They had been on the sofa together, Ilya sitting between Shane’s legs and leaning back against his chest. In the photo, Shane’s chin is resting on Ilya’s curls, and they’re both smiling, one of Shane’s arms slung over Ilya’s collarbones. He posts it with the simple caption, My favorite.
Instantly, despite the late hour, comments roll in about how cute they are. Shane reads over a few of them, liking a handful, before he clicks his phone off and tosses it aside. It’s not an immediate fix, but he’ll just have to do it more often. Whatever he needs to do so that Ilya is reminded that Shane loves him more than life itself.
He’s still blinking at the ceiling when the door handle turns, and the door creaks open. Ilya’s shirtless this time, no longer trying to hide anything. And even in the dim nightlight that plugged into the wall, Shane can see that he’s miserable.
“You are awake?” Ilya asks needlessly.
“Yeah,” Shane whispers. The floor barely makes any noise as Ilya crosses the room and crawls into the bed, grunting softly when he puts pressure on his elbow. He glues himself to Shane’s side, laying his injured arm over Shane’s stomach.
They’re both quiet for a moment.
“You post on Instagram,” Ilya whispers. Not phrased like a question, but it’s a plea for an explanation, anyway.
“Yeah,” Shane whispers. “Wanted to remind people that I love you. Wanted to remind you.”
Ilya sighs softly, turning his head so that his face presses against Shane’s shoulder. “I am sorry,” he says, the words muffled slightly. “I did not mean it like that.”
“But you still think I love hockey more than you?” Shane asks, scared to hear the confirmation again.
He feels Ilya swallow. “It is not… maybe, sometimes, yes. But is all in my head. Is not you.”
Shane waits, but when it’s clear Ilya needs more prompting, he asks, “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I think, maybe… I am not worth everything. I think maybe you will see that, and you will remember that you loved hockey more. You will, um… hate me, kind of. For choosing me.”
Shane shifts so that he can pull back and look at Ilya’s face. “You think I would resent you for choosing you?”
“Ah. Resent,” he says softly. “That is the word Galina used. But maybe. Sometimes.”
Carefully, so that Shane doesn’t jostle him too much, he cups Ilya’s face with both hands. “I could never,” he says firmly. “Never, do you hear me? I could never hate you or resent you. You are worth fucking everything to me.”
Ilya studies him. “You love hockey so much,” he whispers.
“I love you more,” Shane says without missing a beat. “And you don’t seem to realize that, since getting into the league, you are one of the reasons I love it so much. Before, you were one of the only people who challenged me. You made the game so much fucking fun when we played against each other. But even that is nothing compared to how much fun we have playing together. You are tied to every single part of me. Even the part that loves hockey.”
Ilya deflates, his lips twitching into a small frown as he takes in Shane’s words. “Okay?” Shane whispers. “You have to know that I would give up everything in the world for you. Without hesitation.”
“I know,” Ilya finally whispers. “I am sorry that I did not tell you I was hurt. I thought if we started losing, you would be upset. That you would miss your winning team and resent me.”
Shane’s heart breaks in his chest. “Oh, my baby,” he murmurs, carefully pulling Ilya closer and wrapping his arms around him. “Never. Never, never, never. Winning or losing, I am so fucking happy to be on this team. I am so happy that I get to play with you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ilya mumbles into Shane’s chest. “I will see team doctor tomorrow.”
Shane feels relief flood through him. “Good, baby,” he says. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” Ilya says. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no more sorries,” Shane says. “We’re okay. It’s okay.”
Ilya nods against him, and they both relax. Shane focuses on the steady rise and fall of Ilya’s shoulders. He thinks Ilya is just about asleep when suddenly, he mumbles, “This mattress fucking sucks.”
Shane laughs. “Yeah. It does,” he agrees. But with his husband pressed to his chest, he can’t find it in him to care all that much.