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Shane and Rose had been dating for almost a month when the bouquet of lilies arrived at his door.
He knew immediately who they were from. His body reacted before his brain could: his heart jumped into his throat and his stomach dropped to his knees. He physically shook his head, trying to clear it. The smell of the flowers should have been overpowering but he kind of liked the way they overwhelmed his senses. They were also gorgeous–objectively speaking. He placed them gently on his kitchen island and stared at them for a solid five minutes before he texted Rozanov. He thought through several options (what the fuck is this? These are so beautiful they took my breath away. What do you want from me, Rozanov? What does this mean? Do you miss me? I can’t. I can’t. I can’t) before he settled on a simple and direct “flowers are nice.” After all, it was only polite to let him know that his generous gift had arrived safely, even if Shane was thoroughly confused by the gesture.
He did not feel less confused after their brief back and forth.
He had wondered if anything would happen after that. He half expected more gifts to show up at his door, though he wasn't sure he understood what Rozanov's plan was. No more flower deliveries arrived but Rozanov did start texting him after the Metros played. Shane could write those off as normal, two players discussing their respective performances on the ice. He wouldn’t say they were friends exactly but they could be friendly. They had known each other a long time, after all. He didn’t think too much about how long or about all the ways in which they knew each other.
This is all to say, the post-game texts were normal, expected even. He understood them at least. What he did not understand was why Rozanov suddenly asked about the black t-shirt that Shane had accidentally worn out of his house in November. He could have mailed it back, he supposes; he had the address. He was going to, in fact, he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. When he got back to the hotel that night he had stuffed it into his bag and forgotten about it until he went home to unpack. Holding it in his hands made him feel… too much. So he had hidden it in the back of a drawer until he was ready to deal with it.
He was surprised to hear that Rozanov had even noticed its absence. Shane assumed he owned a dozen identical black t-shirts. He didn’t know what was so special about this one. He was left even more confused when Rozanov didn't want it back. The other man even said he liked the idea of Shane having it. That almost sounded romantic.
Then Rozanov asked to talk on the phone. Several days from now.
Shane didn’t mind talking on the phone exactly. He was happy enough to talk to his parents when he was on the road, reviewing his team's performance and talking hockey in general. He and Rose also enjoyed hours-long chats when he was away. He could talk to Rose about anything. He really liked her. She was sweet and funny and interesting. Perfect, in other words. His teammates were achingly jealous of him.
Talking on the phone to Rozanov wouldn’t be like talking to his parents or his girlfriend. First because they had never done that in all the years they’d known each other. They texted–sexted mostly, Rozanov being the horniest person Shane had ever encountered. They talked in person sometimes, after sex, which Shane thought was normal for a situation like theirs. (The word situationship made him feel weird. He didn’t think it accurately described what they did. Or what they used to do). Talking on the phone suddenly seemed more intimate than kissing or having sex. Talking on the phone was serious, somehow.
Maybe it was then that Shane realized he had a problem.
He had thought, until that moment–maybe until the lilies arrived, actually, if he’s being honest–that he could make himself fall in love with Rose. Beautiful, sparkling, perfect Rose, the kind of woman he could marry maybe, and live a magazine cover kind of life with. He had hoped that their so far failed sexual connection was fixable, that maybe they just needed to get to know each other more. Then Rozanov sent him the fucking flowers and wanted to talk on the phone and Shane found himself suffering the most heartbreaking realization of his life: he couldn’t fall in love with Rose Landry because he was already in love with Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya. Saying his name out loud that day in Boston had been like finally getting air after holding his breath for a long time. For one single second after that, Shane had let himself believe that they could maintain their whatever-it-was forever. He decided he didn’t care about getting married or having kids or a so-called normal life. In that moment, he found he didn’t care about anything except having Ilya. It was the most destabilizing thought he had ever had. So instead of thinking about it any longer, he got up and ran. Wearing Ilya’s shirt. Which he didn’t want back.
Oh, he was fucked.
Also, he had to break up with Rose. The thought of losing her was painful but he couldn't very well keep lying to her (and to himself). Shane had never thought of himself as a bad person before. Awkward, sure. Single-minded at times, namely about hockey. But not bad. Not the kind of guy to lead a girl on only to dump her out of nowhere for someone else. He couldn't tell her about the someone else, though he fervently wished he could. You couldn't ask your soon-to-be ex-girlfriend for romantic advice, which was decidedly unfair because he'd bet she would be helpful. It was killing him, keeping the Ilya thing to himself. He resolved to carry it alone though. He had been doing that for seven years. One more week was nothing.
He walked into the restaurant without a very good plan, except to tell her they shouldn't see each other anymore. He had tried a number of ways to say it that made it clear it wasn't her fault but also not explaining too much. He didn't really know how to go about breaking up with someone. His only real relationship prior was with his high school girlfriend, who actually had been the one to suggest they call it quits. It occurred to him suddenly, sitting down across from Rose, that he had no idea how to break up with someone. Sometimes he wondered if he was even an adult.
Since he didn’t know how to start, he found himself blurting out the first thing that popped into his head, which was unfortunately, “My ex sent me flowers.”
Rose raised a single eyebrow at him. “...Okay.”
He felt the blush spread across his face and cursed his social awkwardness. “Sorry. Sorry, that was a weird way to start dinner.”
Rose, bless her forever, laughed. “You’re always surprising me, Shane. I like that about you.”
He smiled. “Well, thanks.” He looked down at the table, trying to figure out what to say next.
“Shane.” He looked up to see Rose looking at him fondly and warmly, which was way more than he deserved. “I want to ask you something but I don’t want you to feel… you don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”
He swallowed. “Okay.”
Rose reached across the table to take his hand in hers and then took a deep breath. “This ex, with the flowers. I just have a feeling–is there any chance your ex is a he?”
Shane stopped breathing for a minute. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears so he knew he was still alive. He just couldn’t breathe. His eyes felt wet, his hand was suddenly clammy in Rose’s gentle grip. He didn’t want to answer, he was panicked, but also she was looking at him with so much compassion and warmth, he found himself nodding. “Um, yeah,” he managed to whisper.
She squeezed his hand once before pulling hers away. “Listen. You don’t have to say anything else about it if you don’t want to. But Shane… I don’t think this is working with us. Right? We’re not compatible, romantically. And now I think we both know why.”
He quickly wiped at his eyes, sending silent demands to his brain to KNOCK IT OFF with the crying. He nodded, still too ashamed to look her in the eye when he answered, “I’m sorry, Rose. I really like you, I really tried to–”
“I like you too. But you shouldn’t have to try, Shane. With the right person,” here she lowered her voice a bit, “with the right guy. It should be easy.”
He huffed a laugh at that. “I fucking wish,” he said, before he could censor himself.
She raised an eyebrow again but she was grinning this time. “Shane Hollander, do you have gossip that you’ve been keeping from me?”
He hesitated. “Does it count as gossip if it’s about me?”
“Obviously! Spill.” He paused, trying to think of a way out of this line of conversation, even though he was flush with relief at the idea of telling Rose everything. “Come on, if we’re gonna break up we have to at least stay friends, right? Friends tell each other about their messy exes who send them flowers while they’re publicly dating someone else.” Shane grimaced but Rose was giggling. “Honestly, I admire him. That’s a gutsy move. He must really want you back.”
He looked at her shyly. “You think?”
“Oh my God, you are hopeless at this. It’s a good thing you have a new best friend to help you.”
He put his head in his hands, a kind of strange grief flooding through him. “I wish it could have been you. I really do.”
Rose’s voice was soft when she answered. “We both deserve more, Shane. You know that.”
He nodded and risked looking up at her again. She was still smiling. “You’re way too good for me anyway,” he admitted.
She laughed. “I seem to be way too good for many a gay man but here we are.”
“Wait, what’s many?”
“Shane. I went to theater school. I live in Los Angeles. Most of my boyfriends have turned out to be gay.”
“Most?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, most. I am a magnet for men who are trying to figure out if they’re actually gay. I’m like a pre-requisite they all have to take before they can graduate to Grindr.”
Shane laughed and then frowned. “What’s Grindr?” Rose’s eyes widened for a second before Shane grinned at her. “Kidding.”
She snort laughed. “You are the worst. Stop trying to distract me! Tell me about the ex. Most importantly, what kind of flowers?”
Shane blushed again. “Lilies. It’s kind of an inside joke.”
“Well that’s cute as hell. Why’d you break up?”
“Um. It’s really embarrassing, actually.”
“More embarrassing than me dating mostly gay men?”
He smiled. “We just… we had just hooked up and he said something that freaked me out and I left. Like barely said goodbye. And I guess I kind of ghosted him after that?”
Rose winced. “Ouch.”
“Yeah, not my finest moment. I just panicked. I realized all of a sudden that it wasn’t just sex, it was…”
“Something more?”
Shane nodded, looking down at the table. “I couldn’t handle it. So I just left.”
“When was this?”
He can’t bear to look her in the eye when he tells her, “Just before we met. You and me.”
“Shane. It’s okay. I’m okay. Look at me, please.” He looked up, his traitorous eyes wet again. “I get it. Everyone does weird shit after a breakup.”
He smiled. “Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Like when my high school boyfriend and I broke up I dyed my hair purple and got a nose ring.” Shane laughed. “It actually looked pretty good but my brothers made fun of me for years afterward. Every time I started dating someone they’d pretend to worry that I was going to get a tattoo on my face or something if we broke up.” They laughed about that together. “So. What are you going to do now?”
“He asked to talk on the phone. Before the holiday break.”
“That’s soon!”
“Yeah. That’s actually why I wanted to have dinner tonight, I thought… I didn’t want to be an asshole and start talking to someone when we were still–”
“You’re entirely off the hook,” she promised. “I’m already over it.”
“Ouch.”
Rose giggled. “Don’t worry, you’re not getting rid of me, I’ll be texting you constantly for updates. I’ll be in Michigan with my crazy family anyway, I’ll need a lifeline to reality.” She stood and gestured for him to follow her outside. “Anyway, I meant it about being best friends. You’ll get tired of talking to me.”
“Not a chance,” he promised.
They hugged outside and Shane went to his car feeling a hundred pounds lighter. It was only when he got home and stared at his blank phone that he started to feel the weight of waiting to hear from Ilya.
***
Shane always liked All Star weekend. He liked showing off at the skills competition, especially if it meant beating Rozanov. Ilya. Actually, Shane had started thinking of him as two different people after their phone call: he was Rozanov on the ice but Ilya when they were alone together. He was Ilya when he sent the flowers. He was Ilya when he decided to be brave and talk about his real feelings (a shock to the system; he didn’t think Rozanov–Ilya had it in him). He was Ilya in the hotel room in Tampa, when he took Shane in his arms and they cried together and it didn’t feel embarrassing; instead it felt like coming home. He was Ilya when he fucked Shane tenderly but also hard into the mattress last night. And he was Ilya when he woke up and blew Shane good morning.
Having Ilya and not just Rozanov was an embarrassment of riches.
They both rescheduled their flights home for early evening so they could spend the day in bed, a thing Shane never does except when he’s sick, and even then only begrudgingly. This was a completely different experience. They showered together and ordered room service and returned directly to bed. They were sharing a lovely afterglow when Shane remembered Ilya’s promise from the night before.
“Hey,” he said in between lazy kisses.
“Hey yourself,” Ilya answered, his accent curling around the words in a way that made Shane want to bite his lips.
Shane smiled. “You sound like someone’s dad.”
“Yes, Vic’s dad. Nice guy. Always saying strange things like this.”
“Cute,” Shane answered. Ilya tightened his arms around Shane and kissed him on his forehead. “You were supposed to tell me what you said last night. In Russian.” Ilya’s body tensed for a moment. Shane suppressed a smile. “What, is it bad? That's why you don't want to tell me?”
“Who said I don't want to tell you?”
“Quit stalling, Rozanov.”
Ilya kissed him again, which Shane went along with for a minute before pulling back and attempting a stern glare. Ilya laughed. “Okay, okay. Maybe you guess though. Is more fun that way.”
“Say it again.”
Ilya took a deep, steadying breath before he smiled and quietly said, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Shane hummed. “Russian is hard.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Not like English, which makes so much sense, ah?”
Shane grinned. “Your English is excellent.” His face turned more serious, though no less fond. “It's so much better than it used to be.” He pulled back a bit to raise himself up on one elbow. “You've never taught me any Russian words.”
“You never asked.”
Shane blushed. “I never asked a lot of things I should have.” He cleared his throat. “I feel like I barely know anything about you, even after all this time.”
Ilya shrugged. “What is there to know?”
“Like, about your family, I guess. What you do when in Russia during the summers.” Besides pick up beautiful women and smoke cigarettes, he thought but willed himself not to say out loud. He didn’t want to actually know, especially about the women. “Wait, what did you do for Christmas?”
“Saint Vicky had me and the other, what do you call, misfit toys.” Shane looked bewildered, which made Ilya laugh. “From old Christmas movie, one of his aunts told me. Made me laugh. Anyway Russians celebrate Christmas in January.”
“Oh. When?”
“Passed already.”
“Tell me anyway. For next year,” he whispered, a little embarrassed to refer to any future plans but unable to stop himself.
Ilya looked at him fondly, placing a hand on his cheek. Shane leaned into the touch. “You will make me too happy, Hollander.”
“Would that be so bad? To be happy?”
Ilya shook his head. “This is already more than I thought I would get after… When we were not talking. I thought I would not get to see you again, like this, in my bed. In my arms.”
Shane hid his face in the crook of Ilya's neck, briefly overcome by Ilya’s honesty. He wonders when he’ll get used to this Ilya, who tells him the truth in plain words. It makes his heart swell in his chest. “What changed your mind?”
“Hmm?”
“You sent me flowers, you were texting… it was like this whole campaign to get me back.” He pulled his head back to look at Ilya again. “What changed?”
“My team.” Shane's eyes went wide with panic. Ilya rushed to reassure him. “No, no, Shane, is okay, they don't know who you are. They knew something was wrong, that's all. I was… not myself those weeks. They were worried.”
Shane deflated a little at that, guilt rising in his throat like bile. “Wow.”
Ilya shrugged. “They overreacted probably. Just a few of them, Vicky and Marly and Connors. They came to my house, very serious faces. Dramatic,” he finished, unable to hide the fondness in his voice.
“Sorry, I don't– They came to your house and so you sent me flowers?”
“Marlow asked if something had happened with Montreal Jane. And I was so tired, I hadn't slept.” He looked away from Shane, shaking his head, remembering maybe how bad it had been. Shane tightened his arms around Ilya, trying to squeeze the memory away. “I told them I had been seeing a man and it had ended.”
“Wow. What did they… how did they…”
Ilya shrugged. “They were fine. Good, even. Did not ask questions except what had happened between us.” He snorted. “Connors had stupid questions but that is nothing new. Vicky is the brain of them, I think.”
Shane turned over to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling. “So you told them you’re bisexual and they were just… fine?”
“Mm. I was surprised too. But also, they know me a long time. They love me. I am lucky.”
Shane turned this over in his mind for a few minutes, wondering if there was anyone on his team he could come out to. Hayden, sure. Maybe JJ. He ran through the roster and could think of no one else who would easily, happily accept him for who he was. He was jealous, just for a minute. Then curious. Then worried.
“You are thinking loud again,” Ilya said, running a hand down Shane’s chest.
Shane cleared his throat, trying to focus again. “Tell me the rest.”
Ilya smiled. “So many questions.”
“Please?” He widened his eyes innocently, which he had recently discovered worked every time he wanted something from Ilya.
“Okay, okay. Vicky and Celeste–his wife–broke up once, he told me. He started with flowers.” Ilya shrugged. “I did not know if it would work but the three of them were very encouraging.” He snorted. “Connors thought I should send you candy.”
“I don’t eat candy.”
“I know you are a robot, they do not.”
Shane shoved him playfully and turned so they faced each other again. “Why didn’t you… if you came out to them and it was fine, why not tell them who I am?”
Ilya shook his head. “That is not my story to tell. I would not do that to you.”
Shane nodded, mulling this over. “I feel like I owe them, kind of.”
Ilya snorted. “I did all the work, Hollander!”
“Oh, so it was all your idea, huh?”
“Mostly. My idea to send lilies.” Shane blushed. “My idea to ask about the t-shirt.” Ilya hesitated. “Vicky’s idea to give you some time to think. I did not want to do this.”
“No?”
Ilya shook his head. “I wanted to know that minute. If you wanted me. If you thought we could do this.”
Shane’s voice went soft. “I always wanted you. From the first time I saw you, I think.”
“Me too, probably.” Shane raised an eyebrow. “Okay, yes, first time for me too.”
“I wanted to kiss you after the draft that night.”
Ilya grinned. “You were so angry that night, like a little kitten.”
“Fuck off.” They laughed. Shane continued, “It scared me, how much I wanted you. I had never felt that way before.”
“Same,” Ilya whispered.
“What are we going to do?”
They lay in silence for several minutes, both of them calculating the risk/benefit of what they were agreeing to try. The risks were big: their careers, of course; Ilya’s family and home country, though he hadn’t admitted that in so many words just yet; their teammates, though that was more of a risk for Shane, they both thought. The benefits, though. The benefits were uncountable.
Maybe it was that internal math that made Shane brave enough to say out loud, “What if you stayed here this summer?” Ilya frowned, looking at him. “I mean, what if you didn’t go to Russia?” Shane sat up, emboldened by his plan. “I don’t know if you have to or whatever but if you don’t have to, if you could stay, I have this cottage. It’s really private. The two of us could spend however much time there, just you and me and we could… we could figure this thing out maybe. I think we could, anyway. We just need time, you know?”
Ilya’s face was unreadable for a minute. Shane felt his heart rate begin to speed up. Maybe he had said too much. This thing between them was precarious, new. Maybe he had pushed too far. He opened his mouth to take the words back, to take the pressure off, when finally Ilya spoke.
“Okay.”
Shane’s whole body relaxed as if he had been given a sedative. He nearly collapsed into Ilya, laying his head on the other man’s chest to hear his heartbeat, which was also a little faster than it should be. “Okay,” he whispered.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya said and paused for a second. Shane waited, holding his breath. “It means I love you.”
Shane picked up his head so he could look Ilya in the eye when he answered, “I love you too, Ilya. I love you so much, I feel like I’m dying.”
Ilya shook his head, his eyes wet. “Not dying. I think this is what happy feels like.”
***
Shane thought that three of the Boston Raiders knowing about Ilya would make him sick to his stomach but instead it had the opposite effect: he felt a kind of physical bubble of hope grow inside his chest that got a little bigger each time he thought about it. Ilya loved them and they clearly loved him back. Shane felt that he loved them a little too for that, even if they were kind of the enemy. Only on the ice, though. In real life, they and Rose were the only four people who knew some version of this delicious, scary, incredible secret. The thought of more people knowing was not exactly appealing but Shane also found he suddenly hated keeping it to himself. He understood now why Hayden had been so insufferable the first few weeks after he met Jackie. When you fall in love with someone you want everyone to know. It made him wonder what it would be like if some of Ilya's teammates knew it was Shane that they had helped Ilya win back. He thought about what it would be like, to hang out with his boyfriend's friends, like a normal couple.
He shook it off and tried to focus on making it to the playoffs instead.
Boston and Montreal played each other twice during the end of the regular season. Montreal only made it to the first round of the playoffs, which bothered Shane more than he wanted to admit. They had too many injuries this season, bad luck piling up on them, so it was understandable that they didn’t have a longer run. Still, it was hard for Shane not to take the loss personally.
Maybe it was partly the disappointing end of the season that made him start wondering about whether he wanted to stay with the Metros. He didn’t want to make any rash decisions. The season had just ended, after all, and his feelings were still raw about the loss. He had always planned to retire with his team, playing until his knees gave out and he was forced off the ice. But now that he was with Ilya for real, the thought of staying in Montreal was less and less appealing. The Raiders (or three of them at least) had taken Ilya’s sexual identity in stride. Would the Metros be the same?
The more he considered coming out to his team, the more he wondered how they would react. He was willing to give them a chance but he didn’t have high hopes. He’d always kept a lid on slurs of any kind in the room, unfortunately having to use his own ethnicity as a talking point in the beginning, which he had hated even though it worked. Maybe his teammates didn’t use slurs around him but they certainly were quick to call each other cocksucker or princess without batting an eye. He wasn’t sure they would roll with it easily if he told them all he was gay. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to add a second “other” to his identity.
He put those thoughts away for now. It could be another thing to talk through this summer with Ilya, whose opinion he now cared about more than anyone else’s. Ilya was excellent at reading people, especially Shane. It seemed that in all the years they’ve been sleeping together, when Shane assumed he was just one hookup in a rotation of many, Ilya has been studying him. This more than anything made him feel beloved. He doesn’t think anyone has ever understood him so well in his life.
Boston entered the second round of playoffs but Ilya was out with a couple of broken ribs and their goalie was injured, a terrible combination. Shane texted him after the game to say he was sorry but Ilya didn’t want to talk about it. They made plans instead, about when Ilya could come to Ottawa and what they would do in the cottage (besides the obvious). Ilya said he would send his flight details when he booked it in the morning. He was on his way out with his team, to put the season behind them with too many shots. No girls though ;))) Ilya promised him, which made Shane blush. They will be so disappointed to hear I am a taken man now.
Fuck off, Shane had texted back, grinning.
He was still asleep when the phone rang in the darkest hours of the early morning, but he shot up in bed the moment he saw who was calling. “Ilya,” he breathed into the phone. He knew something was wrong, he could tell even through the phone. They were so connected now.
“Shane.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I am going to Moscow.”
“What? Now? What–”
“My father is dead.”
The words were delivered almost without intonation. Shane couldn’t tell from the sound of Ilya’s voice how he was feeling. He wondered if Ilya himself had words to describe his feelings at the moment. Shane certainly didn’t know how to respond to such a complicated loss. He may not know the whole story of Ilya’s family but he had gleaned enough to know it was not a happy one. “Oh, shit. Ilya. I’m sorry.”
There was a pause. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Do you want–should I come with you? I can look into flights–”
“No,” Ilya said, not unkindly but firmly. “Too dangerous for you. For me, too.” He exhaled a long breath. “Thank you for offering. That is… you do not have to do things like that.”
Shane frowned. “Yes, I do, Ilya. I’m your boyfriend, not just some guy. Of course I would go with you.” I would go with you anywhere. Please let me help. I love you so much, it hurts.
“I know you would, moy lyubov. Thank you.”
“When do you–do you have a flight already?”
“Yes, I am at the airport now. Svetlana will come with me.”
Shane winced at the mention of her name but held his tongue. It was not the time to play the part of the jealous boyfriend, only the supportive one. “Okay. Good. You won’t be alone, that’s good. How long…?”
“Three days maybe. A week. I do not know yet.”
“You should stay as long as you need, Ilya.” He could almost picture Ilya shaking his head, unwilling to stay in his home country any longer than was strictly necessary. “I know he wasn’t–but he was still your father.” There was no answer to that so Shane tried a different tactic. “Let me know when you get there, please.” And when you’ll come back. And what I can do to fix this for you.
“Yes. I will.” He lowered his voice and whispered into the phone. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“Ya tebya lyublyu.”
“Work on your accent while I am gone.”
“Fuck you,” Shane answered, smiling.
“When I get back.”
Shane stared at the ceiling for a long time after they hung up, trying to think of what he could do for Ilya. He could send something to the funeral home maybe. He got into a weird internet hole trying to figure out Russian funeral customs before he gave up and decided he would do something else. Something better. Something for after. He opened his Instagram messages.
He was taking a ridiculous chance, he knew that. He mitigated the risk as much as he could: he made the message intentionally vague, a very simple request for Victor St. Simon to call him if he could. Please, he added before he hit send. It’s about Ilya.
It shouldn’t have surprised him when his phone rang a little while later. After all, Boston’s season was over. Vic and his wife didn’t have kids, as far as Shane knew, and he was from the area so he didn't have to travel home for the summer. Maybe there was a bit of luck involved too, that Vic’s DMs were open, that he was curious enough to call as soon as he saw the message from Shane’s verified account. Either way, they were connected now. Too late to turn back.
“Uh, hi, St. Simon.”
“Hollander? Hey.” Vic laughed a little on the other end of the line. “Sorry, this is so random. What’s going on? Is Ilya okay?”
“Oh yeah, he’s fine, I think, sorry–I know this is weird, I just–” He paused and took a steadying breath. “Thanks for calling.”
“Sure, man. What’s up?”
“I know you and Ilya are really close. You know he’s in Moscow, I guess.”
“Yeah, he texted Marly before he left. Sucks about his dad.”
“Yeah. The thing is… Fuck, I didn’t really think about how to do this. Sorry.”
“Take your time, Hollander.”
Shane smiled in spite of his nerves. He got it suddenly, why Ilya had confessed to Saint Vicky. He was aptly nicknamed. “I want to tell you something but I need you to promise you’ll keep it to yourself. I know that’s–I know we don’t know each other but Ilya trusts you. So I do too.” He took another breath and squared his shoulders. He didn't have to wait for Vic's assurances and if he paused for too long, he would surely chicken out. “Ilya and I are together. Partly because of you, I guess, so thanks for that, ha. I couldn’t go to Russia with him, obviously, so I’ve been trying to figure out what to do for him and I just thought, since you and Connors and Marlow know about him having a boyfriend and you’re all cool about it, I thought we could all watch the Cup game or something. Show him he has family here, even if he doesn’t really have any in Russia anymore.” The words came out in a rush. Shane wasn’t even sure if he had made any sense.
To Vic’s credit, the pause that came after his little speech was not painfully long. “Okay,” he said finally. “Okay. Where?”
Shane sighed with relief. He collapsed onto his couch. He had been pacing apparently. “At his house maybe? I’ll tell him when he gets back. Or ask, I guess.” He laughed a little maniacally. “Sorry, this is kind of a crazy idea, I guess. I didn’t think–I don’t know if there’s anyone else we could tell but you guys have been cool and I just… I hate that I can’t be with him now. I want him to come home to something.”
“That’s really sweet, Hollander.” Vic barked out a laugh. “It is fucking crazy though, I have to say. You and Roz together is... It’s fucking hilarious, actually. Like, what the fuck, you know?”
“I know,” Shane agreed, sighing. “It wasn’t on purpose.”
“No, I guess it wouldn’t be.” Vic hesitated and Shane braced himself for questions or recriminations: how did it happen? And when? Does anyone else know? What the fuck are you two going to do? He was relieved when Vicky only asked, “You want all three of us?”
Shane hesitated. “Do you think–will Connors and Marly…?”
“They’ll be fine. They’re not the brightest stars in the sky but they’re good guys. They can keep a secret, especially for their captain. We all love Roz, Hollander. We’d do anything for him.”
Shane grinned. “I know the feeling.”
***
Shane decided to wait until Ilya was back in the same timezone to tell him about his idea. They had spoken while Ilya was in Moscow, of course, even engaging in phone sex, though Shane wondered in the back of his mind if it was kind of inappropriate given the circumstances. He didn’t think about it for too long, though; he was trained to do whatever Ilya asked of him.
The longer he waited to tell Ilya his brilliant plan, the less brilliant it seemed. After all that travel and having to deal with his asshole brother and burying his only surviving parent, maybe socializing with his boyfriend and teammates would sound awful. Maybe Ilya wanted to be left alone, or go right to the cottage, or worse, would hate the idea of people knowing that Ilya's secret boyfriend was Shane Hollander. Shane’s thoughts swirled in that panicked spiral for some time before he gave up on worrying about it. The plan was made. Vic said it would be okay. Shane trusted Vic because Ilya trusted him.
He repeated this to himself about one thousand times between his phone call with Vic and Ilya finally returning to Boston.
“How was your flight?” Shane asked when he got Ilya on the phone at last.
“Fucking long,” Ilya answered. He looked exhausted on the FaceTime call; there were circles under his eyes and his hair looked like he had been tugging on it for hours. “I think… I think it was my last time there.” Shane didn’t answer, waiting for Ilya to elaborate. “There is nothing for me there now. I don’t know if I even want to have Russian passport anymore.” He sighed. “More to figure out, probably.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane said uselessly.
Ilya snorted. “You are always sorry for things that are not your fault. So Canadian.”
“Shut up.” Shane smiled, mostly relieved to hear that Ilya would be in North America for a long time. The idea of an ocean separating them again made his chest hurt. “I had an idea while you were away. I hope it’s okay.”
“Depends on what it is, Hollander,” Ilya teased. “Does it involve my dick in your mouth? Those are your best ideas.”
“Fuck off. Listen.” He hesitated for a second before plunging in. “I talked to Vic the other day. I told him I'm your boyfriend now.” Silence from Ilya. Shane searched his face through the screen, trying to gauge his reaction. “I hope that’s okay, I know we didn’t talk about whether we were telling people about us but–I was worried about you. I wanted you to come home and feel like, supported? So I kind of suggested that Vic and Marlow and Connors come over and watch the final Cup game at your house in a couple of weeks. With me. And you, obviously.”
Ilya said nothing at first. His expression remained carefully neutral, as it often did. Shane didn’t know if this was a Slavic thing or an Ilya thing. Regardless, he waited to see if there would be some micro change in Ilya’s face, anything to indicate his feelings, good, bad, or indifferent. Finally, Ilya spoke. “You talked to Vicky?”
“Yeah.”
“You did this for me?”
“Yeah. I felt really bad I couldn’t be with you this past week. I know all the reasons, I just… I know this isn’t going to be like, a normal relationship, but maybe we can make it feel normal sometimes. You know what I mean? Like in little pockets.” Ilya’s expression was still blank. Shane started to backtrack. “We can forget it. It’s a stupid idea. I’m sorry, I should have asked before I–”
“No, no, Shane,” Ilya said, his eyes looking wet suddenly, his voice a little choked. “This is–are you sure about this?”
Shane laughed mirthlessly. “It’s done now. But yes. I want you to see how many people love you, Ilya. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Ilya whispered back. He ran a hand over his face. “When can you come to Boston?”
***
Shane took an Uber from the airport to Ilya’s house, insisting that it was too risky for Ilya to pick him up at Logan. The house was private, set back from the street enough so that when Ilya met him outside the door and enveloped him before he even has a chance to set his bag down, Shane didn’t protest. They didn’t bother speaking once inside the house, communicating only physically: yanking each other’s clothes off in between kisses, Ilya pulling Shane through the house and up the stairs and throwing him on the bed without so much as a hello.
Afterward, tangled up in each other, skin stuck to skin with sweat and come and spit, Ilya kissed Shane on the nose and asked, “How was your flight?”
Shane giggled. “Fine. I kind of can’t believe I’m here. I missed you so much.”
“Mmm, yes, this is better than FaceTime.”
Shane hummed his agreement. He would like to stay in this bed forever but the stickiness between them was grossing him out. “Shower?”
Ilya nodded and pulled him into the en suite. In the shower they had time to kiss slowly and deliberately instead of hungrily like before. There was time to run their hands over each other and whisper I love you. It was like a preview of the summer stretched before them: almost three whole months before preseason to shower together and swim and talk and fuck and hike and pretend to be a normal couple. Enough time, Shane hoped, to figure the rest out together.
They spent the days in between Shane’s arrival and the Cup game barely keeping track of the time. They slept and fucked and ate and worked out in Ilya’s gym (Shane was too nervous to run outside, even though Ilya claimed his neighborhood was quiet and no one would bother them). Things between them were easy and fun. For the first time he could remember, Shane did not feel anxious. He only felt good.
The morning of the game, his anxiety returned, settling deep in his stomach in a familiar way. It was almost a relief, welcoming it back like an old injury flaring up: yes, this is how it feels. This is what you should expect.
Ilya, who seemed to be able to read his mind, rested two hands on his waist and looked deep into his eyes. “We can cancel,” he offered softly.
Shane shook his head stubbornly. “It was my idea. I don’t know why I’m being so…”
“Because you are Shane Hollander. You do not know how to relax.”
“Fuck off, I’ve been relaxed since I got here.”
Ilya grinned, his eyes turning dark. “Ah yes, relaxed with my dick in your mouth.” Shane blushed, resting his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder. “Would that help you now, moy lyubov?” He whispered something in Russian that Shane didn’t understand but made his knees weaken. He let himself be led to the couch (curse that couch, curse that day, maybe this could be a rewrite of it). Ilya pulled him onto his lap and kissed him breathless. He pulled a bottle of lube out from nowhere, which made Shane dissolve into giggles until Ilya pulled out both their cocks and dribbled the lube over them, turning the giggles into moans. They rubbed and stroked themselves against each other until they were both coming, one after another, just like that day in the fall. Shane whispered I love you over and over, trying to erase the memory of the last time. Every misstep they had made on the path to this could be forgiven. This was a cure.
They had just enough time to clean up and dress before a tentative knock came at the door.
Ilya smiled. “They usually just barrel in here like animals. They are nervous, too.”
Shane nodded, willing his shoulders to lower away from his ears and his breathing to slow. He shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Ilya to the door. Ilya pulled it open and accepted bro hugs from the men who entered. Shane tried to make his expression appear normal, though he wasn’t sure he knew what normal was in this situation.
“Hey, Hollander,” Vic said, holding out his hand for Shane to shake. Marlow and Connors followed right behind him, Marly grabbing him in a bear hug that took the breath out of him for a second. Connors appeared shyly behind, clearly unsure if he should shake or hug, settling on an awkward little wave that made Shane smile.
“Sit down, assholes, you act like you have never been here before,” Ilya said lightly. He went to the kitchen and returned with beers. He raised an eyebrow at Shane, wordlessly asking if he wanted something different but Shane shook his head minutely. Beer was good. Beer would help.
“So, Hollander,” Marlow started. Shane tensed, wondering what would come out of his mouth next. He didn’t know Marlow at all beyond Ilya’s stories about him, which were mostly about them partying together. Shane had to imagine there were other, more colorful stories he didn't know about but he didn't plan on asking. “Roz hasn’t given us like, a single detail.” St. Simon lightly kicked him from his place on the couch but Marlow was undeterred. “All this time I thought he had a girl in Montreal and it turns out it’s you! It’s crazy, man.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “Yes, Marly, we have been through this, remember? So many concussions, you have no memory now?”
“Fuck off,” Marlow answered easily. He turned to Shane again. “I just need to know how the fuck you got Roz of all people to stop sleeping around.” St. Simon groaned aloud and Marlow shrugged. “We're all thinking it, don’t lie.”
Now Connors looked shyly at Shane. “I mean… kind of.”
Shane laughed, surprising himself and the other men in the room. He found it was hard to stop once he started, which was kind of embarrassing. “Sorry, sorry. I just… This is crazy.” Ilya and his friends laughed along with him, which only prolonged the giggle fit. Ilya took the opportunity to slide his free hand into Shane’s and interlace their fingers, which steadied him. When he could breathe again, he turned to Marlow and said, “Okay. What do you want to know, Cliff.”
Marlow grinned. “Everything.”
Ilya scoffed. “You are like old woman with gossip, Marly.”
Marlow shrugged. “Sue me, I like to know shit about my best friend who kept this crazy fucking secret from me for like, years.”
“To be fair,” Shane started, “we were sort of keeping it from each other, too.” Marlow and Connors looked confused but Vic nodded at him. Encouraged that at least one of them was following, he continued, “I mean, we both pretended it didn’t mean anything for a long time. It was–hard.”
Ilya snorted and Shane shot him a look. He took a sip of his beer and smiled at his boyfriend. “Sorry, Hollander, I will not make my hilarious jokes about things being hard between us.” He looked at his friends and tilted his head at Shane. “My boyfriend is very boring.”
Shane blushed. The word boyfriend still got to him. “Fuck off.”
"I knew the fuck off was positive!" Marly crowed.
Vic smiled at Shane and Ilya, ignoring Marlow. “I get it now, I think. You two were made for each other in some kind of hockey lab or something.”
They all laughed again. Marlow kept pressing for details but luckily the game was starting and there was pizza to order. After that it was a fairly normal visit, exactly what Shane had hoped it would be. They drank beer and ate junk and talked shit about the Admirals even as it became clear they were about to be Stanley Cup champions for the first time in years. (Shane knew the exact number of years but kept it to himself; he didn’t want to be weird hockey robot guy tonight). They cheersed each other when Hunter held up the Cup and teased each other about next season. Connors looked legitimately nervous when he asked, “Wait, what if you two have to play against each other in a playoff game?” Ilya and Shane looked at each other and laughed.
“We have been playing against each other since we were teenagers, Connie,” Ilya explained. “He is the only one worth competing against.”
Shane smiled fondly at his boyfriend. He forgot, for just a second, that there were other people in the room. He leaned over and kissed Ilya’s shoulder. “Same,” he whispered.
“Well if that isn’t the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Marly said. St. Simon kicked him again. “What the fuck, Vicky!”
“Wait, you’ve known each other that long?” Connors said, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a complicated math problem.
“Yeah, since juniors,” Shane supplied.
“Shane could not stay away from me, even then,” Ilya said proudly while Shane rolled his eyes. “He came up to me to shake my hand.”
“Because I’m a good fucking sport,” Shane retorted.
“And because you wanted me to know who you were.”
“Wait, is that when–wait.” Connors shook his head, still trying to work something out.
St. Simon took pity on him, sighing. “Connie is trying to figure out when you started hooking up, I think. Which is none of our business, obviously.”
“Unless you want to share,” Marly added, earning a third kick. “Vic, I will kick your ass, get the fuck off me.” Vic only rolled his eyes in response. Shane was trying to decide whether he wanted to answer when he realized Ilya was staring at the television with wide eyes and his jaw near the floor. Shane turned to see what had caught his attention so thoroughly. It was a normal Cup celebration as far as he could tell: confetti on the ice, families slipping and sliding to meet their players, the Admiral's captain… kissing a man on the ice?
“Holy shit,” Marlow crowed. “How many gay guys are in this league?” He moved before Vic could kick him again. “I didn’t know Hunter had it in him, damn.” He lifted his beer in a toast. “To Scott fucking Hunter, Stanley Cup champion and boyfriend to whoever that guy is.”
Shane could not speak. He could not breathe. He dimly realized he was watching history happen, that he was watching it happen with his boyfriend and three professional hockey players from his team's biggest rival club and no one was saying anything shitty. No one was saying anything at all, actually, but that was understandable. Ilya had turned the sound back on so they could listen to the cheers of the crowd and the announcers saying inane things like, “You don’t see that every day!” Shane stole a glance at Ilya, who was still staring slack-mouthed at the television. He wished the other three would disappear so he and Ilya could talk about this for the next several hours.
“This might change things for you guys,” Vic said quietly. Shane looked at the other man to see he was smiling softly, encouragingly. Shane’s chest swelled. Saint Vicky indeed.
Ilya nodded, still staring at the television. “Yes,” he whispered. “It might.” He turned to Shane and grinned. “Kiss me, Hollander.” So Shane did.