Chapter Text
At the end of the day, the existence of the video had been a genuine accident. This is the only comfort he can offer himself himself months later, when it's far too late to matter, as he tries to fall asleep. He whispers the half-truth to himself in the quiet moments when he finds he can no longer outrun his guilt and shame.
Hayden hadn't meant to capture Shane, arms wrapped around Rozanov's waist, kissing him slowly, tenderly, in a way that would be impossible to explain away, while Hayden rambled on in the foreground about Brad and his birthday.
Of course he hadn't meant to record them. He had no idea they were even there.
Hayden always watches his fanmails back before he sends them— he learned that lesson months ago, after he'd sent off a video only for Jackie to point out several minutes later that he had a smear of mustard on his jawline, somehow— at least, he had told himself with grim determination that it was mustard, even though he hadn't eaten anything with mustard that day, because the only alternative was that it was baby poop, and Amber's diapers were rancid enough to be considered some sort of biological weapon prohibited by the Geneva Convention.
So, when he watched back over the video and saw his friend and his friend's shitty boyfriend making out, he obviously didn't send it. He rerecorded the video, in an empty room with no mirrors and the curtains firmly shut. He watched it twice to make sure it was safe to send out, because Hayden is a good friend to Shane.
Really! He is a good friend! Hayden took Shane under his wing during rookie season, when the rest of the team was happy to treat him like a finely tuned hockey machine that got trotted out for games, and stashed neatly away in a closet somewhere once the media appearances were done.
A closet— heh. Maybe the team had been onto something there, after all.
Hayden has kept up the friendship over years, inviting Shane into his life, his home, his family, basically! His kids call him Uncle Shane, for fuck's sake.
He'd tried to set Shane up with girls— hot girls, Jackie's friends from outside the WAG circle. And finally, when Shane came out to the team, Hayden wasn't even pissed that Shane hadn't told him sooner. Did he wish Shane had felt comfortable enough to tell him first? Of course, but it's fine! It's totally fine. Hayden is an ally, and Shane is his best friend.
He's such a good fucking friend that he doesn't even complain that much about Rozanov. He mostly keeps his mouth shut, keeps the worst of it inside his head— or at least, out of Shane's earshot.
It's just… this is what Shane does; Hayden has watched him do it over and over again for almost nine years. He lets people take too much while giving him too little, lets people take him for granted while he thanks them for the opportunity. As if he weren't the greatest player in the league. As if he weren't the one guy on the team that could always be counted on, for anything. As if he weren't the best fucking friend a guy could have, his unflinching stubbornness translating effortlessly into loyalty.
And now Rozanov was just another name on that list— another greedy, manipulative asshole, looking to get something out of Shane, looking to use him for his own benefit or entertainment. Hayden was sure he'd take and take and take until he had his fill, and then he'd move on.
If anyone could take, it was Rozanov. The man was insatiable. He partied too much, he fucked too much, ran his mouth too much, fought too much. He was too good at hockey, and too loud about it. He bought obnoxious cars and wore obnoxious clothes and he lived as if he were collecting a debt owed to him by life itself. When he wanted anything, he just took it— sex, hockey, violence, alcohol, luxury, status, controversy. He sought it out and flaunted it for the world to see as he consumed it, before discarding the leftovers thoughtlessly when they were no longer shiny and interesting.
So, yeah, of course Hayden didn't like the guy. He didn't trust him. He was terrified of the disaster Rozanov would leave in his wake one of these days, sure that the mangled corpse of his best friend would be just one more bit of the wreckage.
And yes, when he watched the video— one that showed Rozanov undeniably kissing another man, who was undeniably Shane Hollander, maybe he saw some potential value in that. Leverage. A way to protect Shane. And maybe that's why his thumb slipped, somehow saving the video to a locked folder instead of deleting it like he meant to.
"Shit," Hayden mutters under his breath as his phone clatters to the floor with a noise that makes him wince. It had, until a moment ago, been wedged precariously between his shoulder and left ear, because Hayden's hands are full. On his right hip is Amber, chewing on a teething bisuit and leaving a smear of drool and soggy crumbs across the shoulder of his t-shirt. Jade stands in front of him expectantly, having just shoved a malfunctioning iPad into his hands for assistance, while Arthur repeatedly drives a toy truck into the side of Hayden's foot. Ruby, bless her, is sprawled upside down on the sofa, uncombed hair pooling on the floor beneath her, while she sings along to Disney's Moana with the kind of heartfelt passion and volume rarely seen outside of team karaoke nights, when Miitka has had one too many and starts getting homesick.
He awkwardly transfers the iPad into his left hand and bends to scoop up his phone, glancing towards the stairs as he straightens. It's 8:37 AM, and Jackie, bless her, is enjoying a rare opportunity to sleep in.
"Sorry, man, I've got the whole crew with me right now, things are a little crazy," he says apologetically into the phone. "I don't know how the hell Jacks manages this chaos every day."
"Swear jar," says the amused voice through the phone, and Hayden rolls his eyes.
"Come on, Shane, how bad of a swear can it be if they say it in church?" he protests.
"Fine, you only have to put in a loonie for that one," laughs Shane as Hayden wanders into the kitchen and sets the misbehaving iPad on the counter. He sets his phone down next to it, hits the speaker button, and begins troubleshooting as Jade hovers behind him impatiently.
"Yeah, yeah. So what's up, man? You're on speaker, by the way," he says, frowning at the settings menu.
"Just checking in, seeing how you're doing. I'll be back in Montreal on Monday for an ad shoot but I was thinking I'd stay an extra day or two."
Shane continues talking, and Hayden loves the guy but he can't help but let his attention drift as he tries to figure out what Jade's problem is. He turns to her, and she stage whispers, "It won't let me play the game!"
Very helpful. Hayden taps various submenus at random, looking for anything with big giant red exclamation marks or lightning bolts or anything else that might signal an obvious problem. Shane continues to talk, and Hayden continues to encourage him with the occasional "mhm" or "oh, yeah?"
After a few minutes, he realizes, completely by accident, that the iPad storage is at 99%, which makes sense, considering that he'd scrolled through what felt like 10 or 15 pages of apps at one point in his odyssey this morning. With the slightest roll of his eyes, he begins deleting children's games from the tablet.
"That's awesome man," he says, tuning back into the conversation as he taps, deletes, repeats. "So you'll be back in town! Come over for dinner, yeah? Jackie and the kids have been asking after you."
"Is Uncle Shane coming for dinner?" asks Jade, somehow appearing only a few inches from his ear, loud enough to make Hayden flinch.
Hayden has never stood on a beach and watched helplessly as a tsunami rushes towards the shore, deadly and inevitable, but as all four of his children stop what they're doing to turn their full attention on him, he thinks he has an idea of what sort of dread one might feel in such a moment.
"Uh," he says, before being struck with inspiration, "Yes, he is! And the house is a mess! Quick, kids, go clean up your toys so we'll be ready for him!"
The ploy works, as the three older kids excitedly spring into action. Even Amber struggles to join in the fun, and Hayden sets her down to toddle off excitedly after her siblings. Later, after Jackie has woken up and can back him up, he'll explain that he didn't mean Uncle Shane was visiting today.
"Nice," he hears, as he picks up the phone and turns the speaker off, bringing it back to his ear. "You're bribing your kids to clean up by promising them a visit from me?"
"Well, now you'll just have to follow through, or else you'll make both of us look bad," quips Hayden. There's a laugh on the other end.
"Daddy?" asks Ruby, dancing into the kitchen, "Is Uncle Ilya coming too?"
Hayden makes a face that he hopes is an acceptable approximation of a smile. "I don't know, hun, I'll ask." Into the phone, he says unenthusiastically, "Will Ilya be tagging along?"
"Oh, no, not this time," says Shane awkwardly. Hayden knows he shouldn't, but he can't help but feel relief at that. He keeps most of his attention on the iPad, in a groove now, as he half-listens to Shane talk about Rozanov.
Fucking Rozanov.
Lately, it feels like all Shane thinks about, all he talks about, is Rozanov. Everything all the time is Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. Even right now, over the phone, Shane is more animated, more enthusastic when talking about Rozanov than he's been the entire conversation. It's like he's obsessed, or something, it's disgusting. Not the gay thing! Of course not the gay thing. Hayden knows gay people— Jackie's cousin is gay, they see him and his husband at family gatherings, they're cool! Jackie watches Queer Eye and those guys seem great! Why couldn't Shane date someone like that?
That's not a bad idea, actually. Maybe he should try to get him on the show? Hell, considering Shane's haircut looks like it costs $12 and his entire wardrobe is sponsored by Reebok and Under Armor, Shane could probably stand to be on Queer Eye, even if he doesn't get a new boyfriend out of it.
"Hayd?" Hayden blinks, realizes that he's completely zoned out. He only manages to feel a little guilty— it's not like he cares about what's going on with Rozanov. Shane will probably tell him again when he sees him next week, anyway.
"Hey, sorry, man. Just the kids, I'm kind of distracted, you know?" he offers as an excuse. Shane seems to accept it.
"No problem, I'm about to start my workout anyway. I'll text you about next week though, yeah?"
"Sure thing," Hayden promises, and hangs up the phone. Well, at least he knows he'll get a few Rozanov-free hours with Shane soon, just like the good old times.
"How long will you be in town for?" asks Jackie on Monday evening as she passes Shane a generously filled platter of grilled chicken and veggie kabobs. He accepts it with a grateful nod and serves himself.
"I'll probably head back Wednesday morning," he says as he places two kabobs on his plate, hesitating before adding a third. "These shoots go long sometimes, and I might not be up for the drive back afterwards."
"Do you have to go back so soon?" asks Hayden, hating the slight whine he hears in his own voice. He takes a quick sip of beer and tries again. "I mean, you're like a ghost during the offseason! It's the only time of year when we can actually relax and you're never around." Jackie shoots him a look, and he takes a big bite of chicken to avoid meeting her eyes.
Guilt crosses Shane's face and Hayden could kick himself. He's not trying to make Shane feel bad— fuck, he's bad with his words sometimes.
"What Hayden means is that we're always so happy to see you," supplies Jackie, following the remark up with a look of mild exasperation in his direction.
Shane gives him an embarassed smile. "Yeah— yeah, sorry about that. I guess I just kind of like to unplug over the summer, you know? And—" he shrugs, letting his gaze fall to his plate as he pokes idly at a piece of chicken, "it's not like Ilya and I can be seen together around here. The cottage is really the only place in the world where we can just be a normal couple, you know?"
Hayden chews the bite of chicken that has become suddenly dry in his mouth. Another swig of beer helps to wash it down, and saves him from having to come up with some sort of sympathetic response. Jackie, wonderful woman that she is, swoops in to save him again.
"Of course," she murmurs, "I can understand how you'd want to get as much time together as possible during the offseason."
"Yeah, exactly," says Shane, and Hayden might be imagining things, but he's pretty sure Shane is avoiding his eyes.
"Well, let's go out tonight then, yeah?" Hayden suggests hopefully. The proposal, inelegant as it was, had actually been part of his plan for the evening all along. JJ's birthday was on Friday, and Hayden had managed to convince a handful of the guys to meet up later.
"Oh, I don't know—"
"Shane! Come on, buddy, it's JJ's birthday," implores Hayden, no longer caring if he sounds desperate. "You've literally never been to one of his birthdays. Don't you think you owe him?"
If Shane had looked guilty before, now he looks downright abashed, and Hayden knows he has won.
Shane sighs. "Alright, fine, but I can't be out late. I have to be out the door by 7:30 tomorrow morning."
"Yes! Awesome, that's great, buddy," says Hayden with a smile. "He'll be psyched to see you."
Shane smiles reluctantly. "I'm serious, Hayd, I'll have, like, two drinks and then I'm heading home. Rolex isn't going to appreciate it if I show up looking like shi—" Shane catches himself with a sideways glance at Arthur, who sits next to him, looking up at Shane with patient curiosity, "—uh, like I didn't sleep well," he finishes awkwardly.
"No need to worry," reassures Hayden. "Hey, you come out tonight, and I'll kick you out myself after two drinks, deal?"
"Deal," grins Shane.
The bar is loud; the staccato of voices tripping over each other layered over the undercurrent of some pop single Shane is pretty sure he's heard before. It's a nice enough bar, all things considered; his shoes don't stick to the floor with every step, the two pool tables at the back are in good condition, and the menu boasts a selection of small plates that look, frankly, delicious while still mostly fitting the criteria of Shane's diet plan, but Shane can't quite bring himself to appreciate any of that at the moment.
"Come on, man, it's not even midnight," complains Hayden, already halfway drunk. "You never come out, and it's the off season! One late night isn't going to kill you!"
"Hayden, I told you. I've got an early start tomorrow," Shane says, his patience fraying. He's been having this conversation for the better part of twenty minutes. Probably, he should have just snuck out and texted a goodbye from the safety of his own apartment.
"Hey, Hollander!" JJ's voice cuts through the background noise of the bar, as he approaches, giving Shane a playful clap on the shoulder. "Your drink is looking empty! Time for another round?"
Shane smiles stiffly. "Sorry, JJ, I was just telling Hayden— I have a shoot tomorrow, early. I really need to head home."
Hayden looks at JJ imploringly. "Help me convince him!"
JJ laughs. "Ah, you're on your own, man! I know better than to stand between Hollander and his bedtime routine."
"Happy Birthday JJ, it was good seeing you." Shane is grateful to not find himself outnumbered, and his shoulders release some of their tension. "I'll let you know when I'm back in town, okay?"
Hayden rolls his eyes, and maybe it's the two Moscow mules Shane had over the course of the evening, but he snaps. "Dude, what the fuck is your problem tonight?"
The jovial smile falls off JJ's face as he turns to look at Hayden, who now is glaring at Shane, affronted.
"My problem? Jeez, I'm so sorry I wanted to hang out with my best friend for a few hours," Hayden sputters. "You're never around anymore, maybe I miss spending time with you, asshole."
"Hayden, we spend, like, nine months of the year together," Shane counters. "And I was here for over a week at the beginning of the month for the camp—"
"Oh fuck off, don't act like it's not different now," Hayden says, before looking embarrassed.
Shane scoffs, properly confused now. "Different?"
"Hey, guys, lets—" starts JJ awkwardly as his eyes dart back and forth between them.
"Yeah, different, now that Lily is always around," snapped Hayden, ignoring JJ, "And even when you're finally here by yourself, you're being weird and distant, like you don't even want to be here."
"Wow." Shane's temper flares so suddenly that it almost knocks him off balance. "Are you fucking serious right now, Hayden?"
JJ steps between them now, speaking in a placating tone. In some distant part of his mind, Shane knows he should take a deep breath, apologize to JJ for causing a scene at his party.
"Hayden, buddy, let's take a break, get some water, yeah? No reason to be talking about, uh, anyone, right?" He wraps an arm around Hayden's shoulders, determined not to let the mood of the evening be fully soured by Hayden's rudeness, and steers him towards the bar. As they retreat, JJ casts Shane an apologetic look over his shoulder. Shane nods curtly, and turns towards the door without another word.
The bar isn't far from Shane's apartment, and the night is pleasant, so he decides to walk rather than wait around for a car. He needs the movement anyway. The confrontation with Hayden runs through his head again as a confusing mix of emotions curdle in his stomach.
He feels hot, tense, shaky, embarrassed. Shane's heart beats uncomfortably fast, and he exhales a shaky breath, trying to calm himself.
He knows Hayden and Ilya don't get along, and while he hates it, he can't exactly force them to like each other. He has tried to be patient and understanding. After that first disastrous dinner he had recalibrated, changed his strategy, rebuilt the walls between these parts of his life, feeling stupid for thinking he could lower them in the first place.
It hadn't helped, not really. He'd made the most important person in his life as small and unobtrusive as he could, making himself smaller in the process too, and it still wasn't enough.
Shane starts to feel something else, something cold and heavy that makes him slightly nauseous, and he forces himself to think about something else.
Shane reaches his apartment building with his fists still clenched and a sharp stinging in the back of his throat that he's determined to push down until it disappears.
Fuck, he wants Ilya. He pulls out his phone, ready to call him, but he doesn't. Not now. Ilya's got enough to think about right now, he doesn't need to hear Shane complain about his asshole friend.
Instead, he opens their text conversation and sends off a quick text: Home from the bar. Heading to bed. I miss you.
Almost immediately he gets a response: I missing you. Was a good night?
It was fine. Can I call you in the morning?
Of course. Go get your beauty sleep so you earn one million dollars selling fancy watches so you can buy your wonderful boyfriend a Porsche.
Shane smiles, already feeling the tension begin to melt away from a few brief messages. Asshole.
You love me.
Yeah, I really do.
I love you too <3. Sleep well.
Somehow, in a haze of alcohol and stormy feelings, Hayden had stumbled his way into the back room that functioned superficially as a home office sometime after 1:00 am.
He sits slumped in front of his laptop now, scowling as that video plays on a soundless loop. He watches his own stupid face, sending manufactured well wishes to a complete stranger as his best friend lets himself be manhandled in the background.
Why the fuck had he saved it, anyway? Blackmail, he supposes; some naive fantasy that he'd be able to corner Rozanov alone, show him the video, and demand that he end things permanently with Shane. It's a preposterous idea, really, to think that Rozanov wouldn't just wrestle the laptop away from him, delete the video, and punch out a few of Hayden's teeth for good measure. And Shane— poor gullible, lovesick Shane, would probably take the bastard's side.
An idea floats to the surface from somewhere deep in the murky depths of his mind. On instinct, he starts to brush it away without even examining it… but.
But.
He remembers Shane's face, earlier. All night, really, avoiding Hayden's gaze, getting weird anytime Rozanov came up in conversation, until he got properly angry. Hayden knew he'd pushed too far, he definitely shouldn't have started things in public, although he hadn't started it, not really, Shane was the one—
Shane, who never used to start fights, who never lost his temper. Not until now, not until Rozanov.
That right there was the problem: Rozanov had changed Shane. He'd burrowed under Shane's skin, slowly, imperceptibly at first, festering and spreading over years, apparently, until he had his roots coiled around Shane's heart. And Shane, desperate to be seen, loved, understood, had let him.
In a split second, the decision is made. Hayden opens a new browser window.
Shane can't, or won't, see the danger he is in. He won't listen to reason. Well, Hayden is no stranger to that. He has four kids, after all; he's used to playing the part of bad cop when Arthur doesn't want to wash his hair or Jade refuses to eat her broccoli.
He navigates to Reddit. Creates a throwaway account.
If Shane won't do what's good for him, Hayden will.
The r/MLHunofficial subreddit is open in front of him. 171K weekly visitors.
He can still stop. He can click away from the window. He can delete the video, go to sleep, pretend none of this ever happened. But Shane is his best friend, and Hayden is going to do what it takes to keep him safe.
Three clicks, a handful of words typed, and it's done. The alcohol numbs whatever he thinks he might be feeling as he closes the laptop and drags himself to the bedroom.
As he brushes his teeth, he thinks, it'll just be like a fever killing off an infection. It'll suck, and it'll pass, and he'll be okay. I'll help him through it.
He pushes down his jeans and boxers, letting them pool around his ankles as he pisses.
Rozanov will deny it all. He'll have to. He'll end things. Shane will be heartbroken, but JJ and I will help him through it. By the time training camp starts, he'll be back to his normal self.
He climbs into bed next to Jackie, careful not to wake her as he settles into the mattress. His last thought before sleep takes him is, not many friends would be willing to do this.
Ilya walks down the sidewalk, heart full of emotions that he'll try to disentangle later. Grief, gratitude, longing, homecoming, the sweetness of finding something he thought he'd lost, or maybe had never had before. He grips the strap of the backpack he's wearing as he considers its contents. He's almost afraid to open the bag again until he's back in the safety of Shane's steadying presence, not sure he's strong enough to be confronted with everything inside on his own.
It's only just after lunch; he'd begged off for a short break, overwhelmed by the morning but claiming the jet lag as his excuse. Yelena had let him go, after making him promise he'd return for dinner, and despite everything, Ilya can't bring himself to turn down the rare opportunity for a delicious home cooked meal.
He walks the street as if he's in a dream; everything is so familiar, and it's only been a few years since he was last here, but the slow march of time has been steady in his absence. The details in front of his eyes don't quite match up to his memory, and that is another kind of loss in itself.
He won't be back. This is the last time. Tomorrow he will visit Mama's grave, clean it, bring her fresh cut flowers, for the last time. He hasn't decided, but he thinks he might visit Papa, too.
His hotel is up ahead, at the end of the next block, and Ilya is grateful. He needs to lay down. He does the math— it's still too early in Canada to call Shane, who only fell asleep about 5 hours ago, and anyway, he'll have a busy day ahead of him. He glances at his phone anyway— he's had his phone on Do Not Disturb since he woke up this morning, programmed so that only Shane, his parents, or Sveta could get through in case of emergency, and it has been thankfully silent, allowing him to focus fully on the reason for his trip.
Ilya is suddenly aware of a presence behind him. A shadow catches up to his where it stretches across the ground in front of him; in his head a familiar instinct calls out a warning, too late. He half turns before the grip tightens around his arm just above his elbow, and he finds himself shoved off his path, down a narrow alleyway, his traitorous feet allowing it to happen as his brain tries to catch up to what's happening.
"Walk. Don't make a scene. Don't make this worse for yourself."
Fuck.
He tries to think, to figure out where he'd gone wrong. He'd been careful, he thought— had kept a low profile during his travel, hadn't talked to anyone, he hasn't thought he'd been recognized. Here in Moscow he had always been able to blend right in, becoming just another anonymous body making its way through the city. Had he become complacent, after nearly a decade of being stopped for autographs and photos several times per week? He should have checked social media before he left the hotel this morning, or before he left Yelena's apartment, to see if he'd been posted online.
His brain finally catches up with the situation, and he wrenches his arm out of the stranger's grip, turning and shoving him back. For a second, he freezes and takes in the sight of— his brother? Yes, the man in front of him is undeniably Alexei, but hollowed out, half lifeless.
Ilya has never seen his brother so empty. He has always been vibrant, alive, full— usually of poisonous things like greed, rage, cowardice, resentment, yes, but full to the brim nonetheless.
This Alexei looks like the field long after the harvest, nothing left but the corpses of plants once the useful bits have been ripped from their stems or dug out of the earth. What's left is only fit for the worms.
His hesitation is a mistake; Alexei surges forward again, proof of life somewhere deep under the surface. He fists his hands in Ilya's shirt and pushes him back against the concrete wall of the building.
Ilya shoves back at him; Alexei had the advantage of surprise, but Ilya knows they both know he doesn't stand a chance if it comes to a fist fight.
"How?" he spits at Alexei, managing to spin them around so that he has Alexei pinned against the wall with his forearm. "What the fuck do you want, Alexei?"
He sneers at Ilya, lets out an ugly, scornful laugh. "I want you to come for a drive with me. My car is just up ahead."
"Fuck you."
Alexei laughs again, and lets his head drop back against the wall. "Fuck you too, then. Good luck at the airport, if you even make it that far."
Alarm bells echo across the inside of Ilya's skull. He presses his forearm harder across Alexei's chest. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Oh," says Alexei, mockingly, "you haven't heard? Haven't looked online today?"
"Fucking tell me, Alexei!"
The smile drops from Alexei's face, leaving behind a look of pure disgust. "There's a video, Ilya. It's everywhere. You and that other one. The one you're supposed to hate. Kissing."
Ilya can almost feel the blood as it drains from his face, from his limbs. His hands drop uselessly to his sides. Distantly he's aware that Alexei is still talking, that he's stepped forward and grabbed Ilya's shoulder in an unforgiving grip. "…Fucking disgusting, what would Papa say if he knew…"
Ilya's feet carry him on autopilot wherever Alexei steers him, until he finds himself being shoved roughly into the backseat of a car.
So. This is how it ends.
I'm sorry, Shane. I love you, forever.