Chapter Text
The day after the press conference is not that bad.
Well.
It could’ve been worse.
Shane’s body feels like lead as he sorely gains consciousness, reaching for one of the many pillows to cover his head and ears due to the low, constant hum of the electricity in the walls makes him feel like he's in a nightclub with strobe lights.
Beside him in bed, the sheet is cold, and although in any other occasion he’d have preferred to have Ilya still asleep by his side softly breathing, now Shane appreciates the refreshing sensation of slightly cool sheets against his sensitive skin and that he is alone.
He spends some time, though he has no idea how much, just breathing with his eyes closed in the dark room, the automatic blackout curtains hiding whether it's day or night.
When Shane finally feels rather than hears the bedroom door slowly opening, he doesn't startle, his body doesn't tense like a small, cornered animal, and distantly it sounds like a small victory.
“Shane?” Ilya calls out in a soft voice, careful with his steps and slowly shutting the door behind him.
Shane just keeps breathing, but his fingers tighten around the pillowcase hiding his face.
"Do you want to take a bath and take off clothes from yesterday so you can be comfortable?" The Russian asks, sitting lightly on the bed, not touching him, his voice gentle but not pitying.
The mention of the previous night, however, makes Shane at the memory and clench his jaw, even though he doesn't need confirmation to know it wasn't just another nightmare.
It happened.
Everything he feared most happened.
And once again, the anguish of knowing that nothing he did and sacrificed for the Metros was enough feels like a punch to the gut.
His eyes burn intensely, but tears don't well up.
It's as if all the anxiety he felt about pursuing a relationship with Ilya had proven justified, since after all, it had always been true. The fear Shane felt was real, deep down he had always known his teammates wouldn't support him.
And the anxiety inside him screamed yesterday with all its might, a cruel and petty chorus of I knew it, I told you so.
The minute drags on, his chest rises and falls slowly, in controlled breaths as Ilya patiently waits, the warmth of their closeness something that anchors Shane instead of bothering him.
Although it feels like someone ripped his heart out of his chest, Shane doesn't regret loving Ilya for even a millisecond.
And that is enough.
Slowly releasing a long breath through his mouth, Shane finally turns in bed towards his fiancé. Wearing old sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, Ilya looks so comfortably homely, the curls framing the face of the man who could have been sculpted from marble and worshipped as divine.
While Ilya's looks are something to be admired, Shane lives for the glint in his blue eyes and the little wrinkles around them from laughing so much, the dimples in his cheeks when the Russian smiles openly, but also when he frowns, clicks his tongue in annoyance or wrinkles his nose and — even if Ilya won't admit to doing it — when he pouts. “Russians do not pout, Hollander! You're a lying liar who lies.”
He also loves it when Ilya looks at him as if Shane were the most precious thing in the world, with so much love, affection, and reverent care, as if Shane were sacred. Even when that look is one of concern like now, Shane loves every part of Ilya.
Shane breathes Ilya in completely as if it were the first time he'd seen him behind a rink at the Junior World Championships.
And that helps him to get out of his mind a little.
"Yeah," he croaks, so low that for a moment Shane isn't sure if he didn't actually just grunt.
But Ilya seems to understand enough, and he extends a hand to Shane to help him sit up on the mattress. Even so, it takes Shane a few more minutes to convince his own body to move, all his limbs weighing a ton.
Now that he's moved a little, he's all too aware of the fabric against his body, restricting his movements and trapping the unwashed sweat and the smell of the post-game locker room.
His nose twitches and he furrows his brow as he shudders in discomfort at the sensation he managed to ignore last night when he felt just numb.
"Come on, we take these clothes off and get you cleaned, da?"
Ilya says as Shane finally gets up, and they both walk to the ensuite bathroom — or rather Ilya walks ahead and Shane drags his feet across the floor like a zombie.
On a normal day, Shane would have refused the idea of a bath without first taking a shower to wash off the sweat instead of wallowing in the dirt in the tub.
But, alas, this is not a normal day.
Just the thought of feeling the jets of water hitting his skin is enough for Shane to feel ants crawling under his skin.
So he doesn't fight when, even after Ilya has already filled the tub and Shane remains standing in front of the sink, his fiancé, without Shane saying anything since he got out of bed, helps him take off his clothes with a gentleness that the rest of the world doesn't even suspect he possesses.
Minutes later, already in the tub and with his tense muscles gradually relaxing due to the cozy heat of the water, Ilya seems satisfied to see him looking a little more comfortable.
"I will go and change the sheets, okey?” The Russian informs him, drying his hands on a towel. “I'll be right back."
With his eyes closed, Shane just nods.
The minutes stretch on as Shane remains motionless in the bathtub, trying to focus on the sound of his breathing and simply existing; the world outside could burn down, and he wouldn't even notice.
When Ilya finally returns to the bathroom, Shane only realizes it when he sits on the edge of the tub and Shane’s eyes open to meet a concerned gaze.
"I changed the sheets, moy lyubimyy, and your dad called to see how you are." When Shane just blinks silently, Ilya continues as if this were a common occurrence in their lives. "I tell him we will stay in bed all day on a silent retreat."
He jokes, referencing the excuse Shane had used years ago when they spent their first summer together at the cottage.
"I do not think he will come pick up phone charger this time. Poor David still has trauma from back then."
Shane wishes he had the strength to respond, to accuse Ilya of not warning him back then about all the missed calls on his phone — like he had done so many other times, leading to them ending up naked in bed, breathing heavily but thoroughly satisfied.
Instead, Shane manages only the ghost of a smile, one he can't hold for more than a few seconds.
It’s exhausting, being like this.
Not being able to articulate words — when he is fluent in two languages and understands a third well enough — because his brain is too jumbled to form a sentence.
The lack of a response doesn’t stop Ilya, though. He still looks at Shane with the same devotion as always.
"Can I bathe you?" he asks, his eyes softening and his voice gentle.
That question would have irritated Shane on a normal day — he isn’t a child anymore, he’s a functioning adult, for God’s sake. Shane should bathe himself.
That isn’t the case today, though, his body feels like a sack of lead, and even nodding his head is a struggle.
But Ilya doesn't seem bothered by it for even a moment, and the way he bathes Shane is gentle and full of love.
He speaks softly — about everything and nothing: the weather, a new shop he saw opening in Ottawa, Svetlana sending him hockey-themed hair clips and laughing at his expense, the pictures Harris sent him of Anya playing with the other puppies at his parents' farm, and that Yuna recommended a series of breathing and concentration exercises a few days ago and how much it was actually helpful, and David’s promise to teach him that chocolate brownie recipe that always turns out perfectly during the summer.
If it were anyone else, Shane would feel overwhelmed trying to stay focused on the conversation without contributing anything beyond the occasional nod or hum of acknowledgment.
Yet, with Ilya, there is no rush or pressure — not when he so gently massages Shane’s scalp and rinses his hair, shielding his eyes with a tenderness and care that would leave anyone astonished that Ilya Rozanov is nothing like the aggressive figure he is on the ice.
“Now we get out of the tub, Shane. Open your arms, I support you now —that’s it, just like that sweetheart. On three, we stand up, okey? One, two—three.”
With practiced ease, Ilya reaches for a towel and covers Shane, then carefully helps him out of the tub and sits him down on the toilet lid, which is covered by another towel.
Not for the first time, Shane’s heart warms in his chest as he notices how his fiancé’s attention to ensuring Shane is comfortable never crosses the line into being overzealous.
When Shane finally returns to bed, wearing his favorite sweats and shirt, the fresh, soft sheets and pillowcases feel cool against his skin — without the sensation of a thousand needles pricking him — and his muscles are finally relaxed as the noise in his head fades, he finally feels he has enough words again.
"I love you, Ilya. So much." His voice comes out hoarse.
To finally be able to say those three words means the world to Shane, and he knows that hearing them carries the same weight for Ilya.
So, it doesn't surprise him when the Russian pauses for a few seconds — eyes glistening, voice thick with emotion — as he sits on the bed and leans down to kiss the top of Shane's head.
"I love you too, Shane. You are the air I breathe."
Shane closes his eyes and sighs.
It’s not as if, by some magic trick, all the chaotic, negative feelings simply vanish, taking with them the exhaustion Shane feels deep in his bones.
But it is certainly comforting to know he doesn't have to face it all alone.
In the early morning next day before the sun had even risen, he wakes up first and is left alone with his raging thoughts while Ilya softly snores beside him in bed.
Shane doesn’t move. He barely blinks.
He doesn’t want Ilya to be awake for this. Doesn’t want him to worry.
Not when tears start sliding down his face as he tries to breathe as quietly as possible so as not to wake Ilya.
The day before, his brain had still felt like it was melting — too slow, still rebooting and processing.
But everything comes back. It always comes back.
And with that, he becomes hyper-aware of everything else— hair standing on end, eyes scanning every detail and shadow in the room and mapping out the apartment where he has lived for years.
Being here doesn't feel right.
He feels like a stranger in his own home.
However, he realizes with a leaden weight in his stomach and a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue, that the truth is something else entirely.
His Montreal apartment no longer felt like home.
In fact, from the beginning, Shane had always felt more comfortable in the privacy of his cottage.
And when he and Ilya finally became boyfriends, home meant spending as much time as possible together in the cottage during the summers before they had to separate for practice and traveling for games.
Swallowing the bitterness, he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his on lower lip, trying not to choke on the sob rising in his throat. He can barely hold it back.
For years, Montreal hasn't felt like home to him.
If it ever was.
Still, letting go, leaving knowing he'll never return, was — and honestly still is and will always be — a difficult issue for Shane, who has always struggled with sudden changes.
Shane also felt bad for making Ilya miss practice, and the self loathing made an even deeper pit in his stomach for feeling so miserable and not enough once again.
Not good enough to handle his feelings alone and embarrassed for having to burden Ilya with them.
For not being good enough to ignore and silently endure the pain on his own.
Never good enough to be respected by the team to which he had dedicated himself so fully, nor by all those who made him feel guilty for loving Ilya Rozanov.
He’s just so damn frustrated and angry and sad all the fucking time.
With a heavy heart, Shane lets more tears fall as he stares at a fixed point on the ceiling, thinking about the Game Changers camp this summer — one he isn't sure he wants to attend, not if crowds are going to gather to shout about what a disappointment and what a traitor he is. He thinks about all the children and teenagers who would be affected if Ilya and Shane stopped hosting camps in Montreal, and about how many of them might possibly relate with the two of them in more ways than anyone expected.
Shane doesn't know what to expect from the future. But in the present, he knows one thing:
He does not want to stay here, in an apartment that harbors all the ghosts of the team for which he sacrificed so much of himself — only to be scorned in the end anyway.
So he won't be staying, especially since there's nothing left for Shane here in Montreal anymore.
Ilya wished he didn't have to leave Shane’s side so soon after the last game against the league’s worst team, but — alas — when he’s in love with a guy obsessed with hockey, it’s hard enough to convince him he’s worth it for Ilya to skip even a single optional practice just to cuddle with him and their pup.
Anya is such a sweet, well behaved girl!
And when that fiancé happens to be none other than Shane Hollander?
Well, Ilya Rozanov failed to convince him that it was okay for Ilya to miss even one more day of practice. Apparently, his "But they’re optional, Shane," argument is a weak one.
The only silver lining was that, although they had settled into staying at Shane’s Montreal apartment the day after the press conference, on the second day Ilya woke up to the sound of Shane packing his bags.
"Shane? What is happening?" Ilya asked, his voice thick with his accent as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
Hollander didn't let the question distract him from the task at hand, meticulously folding clothes and arranging them according to a system Rozanov had long since mastered himself.
"It's nothing. I'm fine." That’s all Shane offered, his shoulders steady even as his hands moved with practiced ease.
Ilya frowned, a knot formed in his stomach, and he jumped out of bed in seconds.
Shane clearly was not fine.
He had dark circles under his eyes which were red rimmed and slightly swollen, and he looked paler than usual, despite having slept practically all day the day before.
After the following day of the press conference from hell and with how quiet Shane had been for the rest of the day once they’d gotten out of the bathroom despite saying they loved each other — Ilya hadn't expected him to want to leave the bed, or even the safety of the apartment, so soon.
"Shane, talk to me. What is going on? You are packing bags like you are leaving."
Like you’re leaving me, he didn’t dare to voice out loud.
Ilya’s heart raced as an irrational fear took hold, weighed down by the thought that, while he’d spent the night sleeping instead of checking on Shane, Shane might have decided he needed some space.
Yes, a classic symptom of the fear of abandonment and not being enough — Rozanov knew it all too well that he still had a lot of work to do on this particular issue in his therapy sessions with Galina.
Shane must have picked up on something in Ilya’s tone, because his expression fell and shifted into sadness.
"No, Ilya. That’s not it. I just..." Hollander closed his eyes while he struggled for words, his fingers bunching the T-shirt in his hands. "Montreal isn't— it’s just that staying here after everything — ugh.”
He inhaled, shaking his head clearly frustrated, and when his eyes opened again they were mist with tears. “I just want to go home. To Ottawa. With you."
The relief Ilya felt was overwhelming.
Shane didn’t want a break, nor did he regret declaring to the world that he has loved Ilya since they were teenagers. He just wanted to go home, and home means Ilya.
And that is something Ilya could do for him.
“Da, moye solnyshko. Let’s go home.”
And so, just four hours later with most of Shane’s clothes packed in bags, the perishable food from the fridge tossed in the building’s dumpster, and Shane’s iPad, laptop, chargers, documents, and reading glasses and their toys safely stowed in the car trunk — they arrived at Ilya’s house in Ottawa.
They are finally home.
That was five days ago.
And Ilya is growing relentless with worry.
Shane is still quiet, withdrawn.
And Ilya doesn't know what to do. How to help him.
Without preamble, before the sun had come up he had texted Svetlana.
Ilya:
sveta
my shane is strange
Sveta💋 :
how so?
also, good morning to you too
Ilya:
Sorry
good morning
shane worries me
Sveta💋 :
Ilya,
explain
I can't read minds yet.
Ilya:
he is quiet
too quiet even for Shane standards
not necessarily sad but
detached i think
like he will stop trying
I do not know what to do
Sveta💋
okay calm down
you always told me hollander was quiet and “boring”
Ilya
no, not BORING boring
not like this
im really worried
Sveta💋
Ilyusha, I know you’re worried
But Hollander is dealing with too many things at once
and you mentioned to me before that he doesn’t deal well with sudden changes or a lack of routine
Ilya
yes
but this feels different
heavier
he tries to act like everything is normal
but its not
i see he is getting tired of trying
im worried he is a bit like my mama
Sveta💋
Ilyusha
There’s no easy way
you’ll need to talk to him
reassure him he’s not alone
Hollander has you by his side, he doesn’t have to deal with this on his own
Ilya
he wants me to go to practice
im afraid to leave him alone
Sveta💋
well, the centaurs certainly need your help
and since you told me hollander is obsessed with hockey
It doesn’t surprise me
Ilya
what do i do
???
Sveta💋
talk
to
him
the worst thing right now is to leave hollander dealing with his anxiety on his own
Ilya
you think so?
Sveta💋
am i ever wrong?
Ilya
...
no
Sveta💋
Exactly
;)
I gotta go to work
you know, for the best team in the league right now
Ilya
fuck you
it was best team when i was there
Sveta💋
LOL you better get those centaurs into shape then
now
Stop stalling and go talk to him.
Ilya
okay
Svetlana was right, of course, and Ilya needed to try talking to Shane and get him off his mind a bit.
Perhaps he could convince him that it’s okay to miss another day of training and use the morning to talk about their press conferences — since Ilya doesn't think Shane knows about what happened after he left the Metros conference room — and about Shane’s withdrawn silence the last few days.
Harris drove Anya back to Ilya’s their house last morning before heading down to the rink, and she had trembled all over with excitement as she saw her human dads welcoming her.
And now, Ilya finds himself forced to leave his future husband, their pup, and the genuine sense of domesticity he had finally found, yet Shane refuses to let him miss even a single more practice.
“You’ve already missed the first game of the second round, Ilya. You can’t afford to lose practice right now.” Shane had said last night.
Rozanov, of course, in the morning tried to use all the tricks in the book — starting the moment he woke Shane up with kisses on his neck and playful nips at his jaw, before trailing kisses and love bites down his body, delighting in the sound of Shane’s moans.
But even a steamy make-out session in the early hours of the morning which led to incredible, breathless sex as always wasn't enough to distract Shane from the fact that Ilya needs to go to practice, regardless of whether it’s optional or not.
“You have to go, Ilya. You worked hard with your teammates to make the playoffs and I don’t want to affect team morale by taking their captain away at such a crucial moment.”
Shane explains patiently as he marks his place in the book he’s reading, The Meaning of Puck, and sets it back on the coffee table.
“And I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about me.”
Ilya bites his tongue, wanting to argue that this is complete bullshit on Shane's part.
After all, Ilya didn't miss the fact that the first book his fiancé intended to read that day was Hollander’s favorite, which was written by a former Montreal Metros’ goalie from the 70s — and how Shane’s entire body tensed up as he reached for it.
Instead, Hollander had put the book back on the shelf as if pushing away a poisonous spider and picked up the one next to it.
Rather than pointing that out because he doesn't want to poke at the fresh wound, Ilya admits in a hesitant voice, after tying his sneakers.
"I just do not want you to feel alone."
Shane’s gaze meets his, softening. “I know. But you can go, Ilya, I’ll be okay. I’ve got Anya here to lick me back into good spirits.”
His attempt at humor falls a bit flat, but Ilya knows this is Shane trying to regain some sense of normalcy before he spirals amidst so many changes.
The truth is, he doesn't want Shane to feel smothered by his excessive worry, but he also knows how much Shane has been hiding his suffering since he doesn't want to worry Ilya during the playoffs.
But that only makes Ilya worry more.
Anya, lying comfortably at Shane's feet on the sofa, softly snores while completely oblivious to the heavy silence in the living room.
Ilya is biting and tugging at the skin on his lips when Shane frowns in concern. “Ilya, you’ll make your lips bleed if you keep doing that. Come here.”
In three long strides he reaches the sofa, one knee resting on the cushion as Shane hugs him, one hand around Ilya's waist and the other nestled in his curls.
Despite the uncomfortable position, their chests are pressed against each other, and Ilya can feel their hearts beating in unison.
“I’m not going anywhere you can’t follow me, Ilya. I’ll be here when you get back,” Shane says softly, his forehead resting against Ilya’s collarbone.
With a lump in his throat, Ilya doesn't mention he’s afraid to leave Shane and come home from practice to a scene like the one he witnessed when he was twelve.
He had never before seen Shane have a breakdown, nearly hurt himself, and become an empty shell of himself, to the point where he barely spoke the next day. Ilya tried his best not to show his fear at seeing him so quiet, and the weight on his chest only lifted when Shane started answering him, even if only in short sentences.
"Tell me. What's on your mind?" Shane asks quietly, after a moment of hesitation.
The lump in Ilya's throat tightens; he isn't sure he wants to say it, but at the same time, he doesn't want to hide how he feels from Shane.
"I worry. You are like this —so quiet. It reminds me of my bad days. Am scared, Shane." The Russian clutches the fabric of Shane’s shirt, his breathing heavy and his accent even more pronounced. "You’re trying to be strong, but you don’t have to be strong alone. I am here for you."
He feels the way Shane’s chest trembles as he breathes, his heart pulsing against Ilya’s fingers as his breathing grows shallower.
"Ilya, no, I, I wouldn't —I wouldn't do that," Shane stammers, his voice suddenly choking up while he shakes his head. "I’m just trying to adjust, and I don’t want to be needy."
"Shane, you are not being needy." Ilya sighs heavily, not for the first or last time waiting to punch the lights out of every single Montreal Metro with Pike being the only exception. "Everything you were afraid of happened. Your world is upside down."
Hollander tenses wrapped in his arms but says nothing, so Ilya continues carefully.
"It is a lot, I know, but you don’t have to pretend to be okay around me. I do not want you to hurt alone." Then, trying to keep his voice soft, he adds, “Moy lyubimyy, talk to me, please.”
It’s a toss-up whether Shane will open up to Ilya about the turmoil his mind has likely been in lately; he’s never been one to share his mental struggles, and Ilya isn’t exactly the best person to talk to about that either — but therapy with Galina has helped, which is why he knows how much talking about it could help Shane, too.
Maybe Galina could recommend a trusted therapist for him.
The only question is whether Shane would even consider it.
As the silence stretches on for minutes, Ilya counts the beats of Shane’s heart to ensure the sound is etched in his memory for when he inevitably has to walk out the door — having already promised the team he’d join practice today.
The Centaurs almost managed to hold their own during the first game against the Admirals, but ultimately lost 3-1, so they really need their captain to show up at practice and to the games.
He didn’t want to have to choose between the team and Shane, even if he would choose Shane every single time. This already had been one hell of a fight months ago he has no interest in repeating.
And just when Ilya was about to give up on hearing an answer, Shane draws a ragged breath.
"I hate what’s happening. I hate that we didn’t have control over how we came out, and I hate that everything I’ve done in my career was so quickly dismissed. I just wish I’d been good enough." The words hit Ilya like a punch to the gut, but Shane doesn’t stop there. "I hate that now I have to expose myself even more so I don’t lose everything I fought and clawed to achieve. My endorsement deals, my spot in the league, my worth."
By the time the words make sense — Ilya had to strain to understand given their position — Shane’s arms are locked tight around him.
"And I hate that I’m going to let everyone at camp down when summer rolls around, but I don’t know if I can be a coach there when it feels like Montreal wants the ground to swallow me whole."
Once again, there is a long silence. Anya yawns, waking from her short nap, and stretches her body before hopping off the sofa and crossing the room to drink water from her bowl.
His fingers tangle in Hollander’s dark hair, massaging the back of his neck, and little by little, he manages to help him relax and loosen his grip on Ilya’s waist. Pulling back just enough to see Shane’s face again, Ilya’s heart breaks once more at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes and his struggle to hold back tears.
"Shane, no one who really matters will be disappointed if you don't coach at the Montreal camp."
"The kids will be sad, Ilya." Shane looks away, upset. "I didn't want to let them down."
"I know, I don't want to either. But we can say we went on honeymoon. It won’t be lie, we are getting married in summer."
And, realizing time is running short — since Shane keeps glancing at the clock on the shelf — Ilya knows he doesn't have long to convince him.
"Look, we deal with one problem at a time, okey? Talk to Yuna and Farah, they know their way with the brands. Your mom probably already has a lawyer to make sure you still have your spot in the league. Probably a dozen lawyers, you know her."
Finally, Shane chuckles a bit. His brown eyes still shimmer with the tears he had firmly held back, but when he looks at Ilya again, his expression seems a little softer.
In moments like this, Ilya wished he had all the time in the world to count every single freckle on Shane Hollander’s face over and over and over again.
Ilya kisses Shane sweetly before raising an eyebrow and teasing him.
"And you are Shane fucking Hollander, the second-best player in the league, da? And you're going to marry me."
Shane feigns scorn, rolling his eyes. "I am the best player in the league, you mean."
The Russian shrugs, finally starting to walk away from the couch, and says mockingly, "Only because I let you, Hollander."
Shane glares at him, half in jest, half driven by his competitive spirit burning in his brown eyes. "Let's see if you're still saying that next season, Rozanov. I'm coming for the 'C' on your jersey."
He sounds like an angry kitten — so fucking cute.
Maybe Ilya can convince Shane to adopt an actual kitten soon, though. Shane seems to be a cat person.
"Sure, sure, moy kotenok.” Ilya says, and then can’t help but taunt his fiancé a bit more, “I would like to see you try—"
However, he can't finish his sentence because he doesn't expect the cushion thrown at his face; he freezes, looking from the cushion on the floor to Shane in surprise.
Hollander looks at him teasingly, a smile barely containing his laughter, and before Ilya can retaliate and throw the cushion back, Anya leaps onto the couch and into Shane's lap sensing a game she isn't part of, barking in defense of the human beneath her, seemingly realizing Ilya intends to throw the cushion back and ready to defend Shane.
And Ilya, of course, finds himself outmatched and forced to concede defeat.
He rolls his eyes, complaining in mock indignation, "I can't believe it! Anya Ilyinichna Rozanov, my own daughter, choosing you!"
The sound of Shane’s loud, genuine laughter warms his heart, and the sight of him hugging Anya while she licks him has to be the most beautiful thing Ilya could have seen today.
He feels a bit better about leaving Shane alone for most of the day today and over the coming days as the Centaurs prepare for the upcoming games against the Admirals.
"You're going to be late, Ilya," Shane reminds him, eyebrows arched as he glances at the clock once more, petting Anya’s belly.
Sighing, he looks at the time and sees he is indeed going to be at least five minutes late to practice, so Ilya nods and grabs his gear bag, heading for the door.
"Okey. I will go now. Ya tebya lyublyu."
“Love you too.” Shane calls back. “Drive safe!”
“Always do, moye solnyshko.”
Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, Ilya leaves the house feeling more relieved when he sees Shane smiling more than he has in days.
They still have a lot to deal with, and Shane will likely have to face more unpleasant decisions going forward.
Ilya checked social media over the last few days while Hollander was asleep, and although they are receiving a lot of support, some comments and most of the gossip headlines are cruel.
He doesn’t think either the league or the Metros will simply stop trying to interfere with Shane’s trade in July out of their own volition, but at least Shane does have multiple recordings that would help prove both Crowell’s and the Montreal Metros’ discrimination and their harassment.
Still, Rozanov worries it might not be enough just to pressure them like that.
So, while driving, Ilya uses voice-to-text to send a message to Cliff and when he finally reaches the rink, he tells his teammates his plans.
It’s time for them to start gathering more people — beyond just other queer players, that is. Maybe Ilya should start a group chat.
Which would not help his case, when everyone in the locker room laughs after Wyatt calls him a Pokemon Trainer for queer players and Troy teases him relentlessly all day.
The Centaurs agree it’s a good plan, though.
They need allies, and Cliff Marlow is about to do a whole lot of work helping Rozanov recruit them.
With a wicked smile, Ilya can hardly wait for what lies ahead. The first step is dealing with the commissioner, and then, annihilating Montreal next season.
After all, Shane isn't the only one who can make long-term plans.