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Ilya could feel the bass thumping in his chest. His vision was full of lights, ever-changing, and he could feel the sweat on his back, smell the sweet mix of perfumes and alcohol around him. The dance floor was his. He owned it, leaving every trace of his heartbreak in it. Bodies around him jumped up and down, in the same rhythm. Someone was screaming something, and vodka was streaming in his veins, making everything a little bit more bearable.
On this dance floor, he didn’t need to think about Hollander. He could grind and kiss and have fun, and those damned freckles, and the brown eyes, and the small, almost shy grin wouldn’t even enter his mind.
Well, that plan wasn’t a total success. Fuck.
No matter how hard he danced, who he kissed, what he did, all he did was think about Hollander. How, just a week prior, in a club similar to this, he had seen Hollander with that actress, all lovey-dovey and touchy, and how it had nearly broken him. Hollander had stared at him, the world had all but stopped, and then everything had returned, full force. Hollander had returned to his girlfriend, he had gone home alone, and he hadn’t been able to escape his heartbreak anymore.
It had been clear that he was not mildly jealous, or that Hollander running away from him had been an end to just a casual hook-up. Ilya had realized he was in love, and had done everything he could to bury those feelings since then. But no matter how many women he fucked, how many games he won or clubs he attended, there was no escape.
Fuck his life. He was just so damn angry all the time, and hurt beyond words.
He finally gave up when the song changed. He didn’t feel like dancing to slow music right now, not with this much energy under his skin. He made his way to the tables. Most of his teammates were dancing or talking with some girls, but Marly and the young rookie, Salminen, were playing cards. Salminen was officially too young to drink (and to be here, but the doorman was a huge Raiders fan), and Marly had had his wisdom teeth pulled out and was still on strong painkillers. No alcohol for him, but he had told everyone he was done being miserable at home and wanted to join them anyway.
“Blyat, I need a drink,” Ilya said when he sat down and watched his teammates for a few seconds. “Go fish, seryozno?”
“Do we deal for you, too, Cap?” Salminen asked.
“We have high stakes, though,” Marly mumbled, half of his face hurting. “We play with secrets. You wouldn’t believe what this young motherfucker has been hiding.”
“Yeah, come on, I can’t wait to know your secrets!” Salminen exclaimed.
“I am open book,” Ilya muttered and rolled his eyes. He needed a moment to sit and regroup, and then he would go and order himself a new drink. Something that would make him forget Hollander for a second. He couldn’t be bothered with the queue in the bar now, though.
He took his phone from his pocket and raised his eyebrows when he realized he had eleven missed calls and six voicemails. All from ‘Jane’. His heart jumped into his throat. He had given up hope of seeing Hollander’s fake name on his phone. He had almost blocked his number, but even after everything, he hadn’t been able to do that. He checked his messages first, but they were all just normal bullshit from the team. No new messages from Hollander. Why wouldn’t he text?
“What’s gotten into you?” Marly asked when he noticed how still Ilya was, staring at his phone. “Bad news?”
“No idea,” Ilya said truthfully. “Voicemails. Need to listen.”
“Good luck with that,” Marly laughed, and he was right, of course. They were yelling and could barely hear each other in the club. Ilya slid off his chair and made his way outside, to the alley behind the establishment. It was raining, and everyone out there smoking had gathered close to each other under the canopy. Ilya walked further away, not giving a damn about the rain. He needed to hear what Hollander had to say for himself and he didn’t need anyone listening in.
Did he actually want to know, though? Probably not, if he were more sober. He should just delete every voicemail. However, he found himself unable to do that. So he pressed the phone to his ear, took a steadying breath, and started listening.
The first two messages were clearly recorded in a club. Apparently, Shane dating-a-movie-star Hollander went to them regularly all of a sudden. Ilya could barely hear Hollander’s voice. At first, he seemed to be talking to someone else, and then slowly realized that the phone was recording.
“I’m having so much fun,” Hollander slurred, clearly drunk. “See, I’m not boring at all! There are all kinds of celb.. celebrt… celebrities here, and I just love it! I love the colors of the music and rhythm of the lights… no, wait…”
Ilya was hit by two strong emotions: he found Hollander endlessly endearing with his drunk mumbling and shit alcohol tolerance, and he also missed him terribly. He realized that if Hollander was sober, he would never leave these messages to Ilya. But something had made him think about Ilya tonight. If Ilya pretended he didn’t hear a woman’s laughter in the background, he could imagine that Hollander actually wanted to talk to him. He couldn’t help smiling softly.
His smile faded, though, when he listened to more messages.
After insisting a couple of times more that he is having a great time, Hollander’s voice dropped and he mumbled:
“Actually, I called to say that I… Fuck… I miss you, you idiot. I know I shouldn’t and it’s killing me, but…” The voicemail ended, and Ilya tapped his phone to get to the next message as quickly as possible. His hands were shaking, his heart pounding. Hollander missed him.
The next message was clearly recorded somewhere else. Ilya couldn’t hear anything in the background, and for a long while, all that was on the line was Hollander’s breathing. It was too shallow and too quick. Ilya desperately wanted to reach out to the other man, no matter their distance.
“I guess I… well, I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Hollander’s voice whispered. “For calling you, you know. Calling Lily, haha. You’re probably having fun, hooking up with a gorgeous woman. Good for you.” He sounded sad and shaky. “The clubs are your scene, I know. I lied. They’re not mine. Never. I hate them.” There was a little break, and then Hollander very audibly gulped and continued: “I… I hate everything nowadays. You know? Nothing feels right. It’s all empty.”
Ilya felt cold and it had nothing to do with the rain. He held the phone so tightly his knuckles were turning white. Hollander kept talking:
“That’s why I took them, I think. Miles said they would make me feel great. But I could barely feel it… So I took some more. I wanted to forget everything… I feel so stupid…”
Ilya forgot how to breathe. Hollander’s words rang in his head, and he could almost see the empty pill bottle next to his mother’s corpse. He felt like he had ice in his veins, like he was suddenly torn in two. The other part of him now in Moscow, desperately shaking his mama, trying to wake her up.
What had Hollander taken? How many? Was he in danger? He still had three more messages to listen to, and he quickly moved on to the next, but at the same time he was walking back towards the club. He needed to get to Montreal, no matter how ridiculous it was. He needed to make sure Hollander had taken one mild Xanax and was sleeping it off. That his girlfriend would take care of him.
The next messages didn’t ease his mind, though. He checked the timestamp and they were pretty recent, sent hours after the first ones. Why the fuck hadn’t he checked his phone before?
Hollander sounded off:
“Ilya…” he slurred in the last one, having spent two previous ones talking about how much he missed Ilya’s abs, lips, and thighs, his pecs and his cock. In any other situation, Ilya would have reveled in those words, they would have healed something that Hollander had broken that day in his house, but now he just wanted to get hints about Hollander’s state. Was he alright? High, sure, but safe?
“I feel sick,” Hollander said slowly, like it was a surprise even for him. “I… my head is not right. I can’t think… I… Ilya, it’s not right, I feel…” Ilya had reached the club and he pressed the phone to his ear to be able to hear anything, but all there was left was Hollander’s ragged breathing. He practically ran to Marly and Salminen’s table and shook his friend by his shoulders.
“Come on, let’s go, you’re driving,” he said and dragged him upright. Both of his teammates were full of questions, clearly confused, but Ilya didn’t have time to explain. He looked down at his phone in desperation and realized that the last voicemail had finished playing. He called Shane back immediately, but nobody answered. Ilya gritted his teeth.
“I need to get somewhere, and I can’t drive, I’m way too drunk. Let’s go!”
Ilya was used to handing out commands. He was an excellent captain, and he knew his team followed his orders. It turns out that Marly didn’t have his car with him, but Salminen did, so Ilya crammed into the backseat of a boring Toyota while dialing Hollander’s number again and again. Fuck, he wasn’t answering.
“Okay, Cap, where do you need to go?” Salminen asked.
“Montreal,” Ilya said immediately, like his body had known all along, even before he consciously made the decision. In any other situation, he would have found it hilarious how both Salminen and Marly’s jaws dropped identically in the front seats of the car. Now he couldn’t care less.
“Please,” he just said, and it shut them up. Ilya wasn’t the one to beg.
“Is it Jane?” Marly asked, sympathy in his voice. “She’s in trouble?”
Ilya didn’t answer, because at that exact moment, the call finally connected and he could hear a weak “Ilya?” over the line.
“Yes!” Ilya almost shouted at the receiver, and then lowered his voice. “Hol… I mean, there you are. I got your messages. How are you feeling?” Ilya was acutely aware of his teammates listening, but when Shane opened his mouth, he forgot they even existed.
“Why are you calling me? What messages?” He sounded confused and dazed.
“You don’t remember?” Ilya asked, alarmed. “You remember what you took? How many?”
He barely recognized that Marly and Salminen exchanged a worried look in the front seat. Ilya was gripping his phone hard, heart pounding.
“I don’t… I don’t remember,” Shane said slowly, as if fighting to get out every word. “I guess I’ve been sleeping. I’m still… tired…” He yawned very audibly. Then Ilya could almost hear gears turning in his brain.
“Took? You mean I… I took something?” Shane asked, all small.
“That’s what you tell me,” Ilya answered. “Miles gave them to you? And you took too many?”
“Why would I…?”
Ilya heard noise, like someone getting up, and suddenly a thump and a curse.
“Hollander! Are you okay?”
“What did you say?” he heard Salminen ask, but it was background noise to him, now. He prayed Shane was alright.
“Just fell down,” Shane said, and fucking laughed. Manically. The type of laugh Ilya had never heard from him before. “How is the floor… how is it here?” Shane said and laughed some more.
“Look, you need to call for help. You took something, and clearly it’s too much for you, and…”
Shane’s laugh ended abruptly.
“I can’t! You said I did drugs, Ilya!” he explained like it was Ilya who was out of his mind. “People… they always care too much. I… I hate it. I don’t want to be in tabl… tablets… tabloids! I would lose my deals, and mum would be so mad, and… and… I would be benched, and if it’s bad, I will be in jail…”
His speech was quick, like he forgot to breathe between words. Ilya was annoyed to admit that this was the first time tonight that Shane actually made any sense.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Marly said from the front seat, “but are we travelling to Montreal to check on a high Shane Hollander?”
“Yes,” Ilya quipped, and then he said to the phone: “Breathe, Hollander. In, out. Slowly. I won’t call any tabloids.”
“Okay. Okay,” Marly muttered. Then: “I need to get my passport. Can you swing by my apartment? It’s on our way to I-93.”
“Sure,” Salminen said, almost in a daze. “Roz, you have everything with you?”
“Yeah,” Ilya answered, and he quickly shared a look with Salminen through the rear-view mirror. They were both here on work visas, and though Salminen didn’t have an accent as thick as Ilya’s, they both knew that carrying IDs and proof of their visas was smart in America, especially because of the recent political climate.
Shane’s breathing had slowed down, but panic was still obvious in his voice:
“What do I do, Ilya? How… I mean… I’m scared… What do you do if you take drugs?”
“I don’t fucking know!” Ilya snapped, and then tried to speak through his fear, be calmer for Shane. “Try vomiting? But don’t drown in your own spew!”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” And then, confused: “Why… can you tell me why I am in this predicament again?” Shane asked, and Ilya cursed that even a high and panicked Shane Hollander had a vocabulary so extensive. Ilya had no idea what a predicament was, but he explained based on a guess:
“I’ve never taken anything other than alcohol,” he admitted and could almost hear Shane’s surprise. Ilya knew his own reputation, but he also knew how his mother had died, and he refused the temptation. He was scared he would follow the same path at some point. He didn’t need to make it any easier for himself.
“Okay, okay. Try throwing up, and we’ll see how it goes,” he continued as they made a stop in front of Marly’s place. Ilya had half a mind to tell Salminen to just continue driving, but an idea was starting to form in his head and he thought he might need Marly for that. He needed two phone lines open for that, definitely, and someone he could trust.
Shane didn’t answer him, though, and Ilya called his name a few times until he realized he had said ‘Shane’, not ‘Hollander’. It had no effect on Shane: Ilya got no reply.
“Hollander!” he said, now panicking, and finally he heard a voice. “You there?”
“Sorry, I… I think I fell asleep?” Shane said, sounding extremely drowsy, and then all Ilya could hear was even breathing, like he dozed off again.
Okay. This was bad. Really bad. It could be just some sleep meds and Hollander could be fine in a few moments, but flashes of his mama kept replaying in Ilya’s mind, and he knew he would not take any chances. He needed to help Shane, but it was true that an ambulance and a public trip to the ER was probably not what he needed. If it turned out to be something stronger or illegal, it could effectively ruin Hollander’s whole career. Still, it was more than six hours to Montreal, less than five and a half if Salminen drove like Ilya did. A lot could happen in that time.
Where the fuck was Shane’s precious girlfriend? How could she have let this happen? Why wasn’t she there to take care of him? (Why was Shane calling him, when he had Rose fucking Landry probably on speed dial?)
Marly returned, and before he even got his seatbelt on, Ilya said:
“Do you have Pike’s number? Hayden Pike, number 35, Montreal Metros? Annoying, big teeth, big hair?”
“No, why would I?” Marly asked. “And now that we are on the subject of questions, what…?”
“Not now,” Ilya said harshly. “I can’t end this call. I need your phone. Salminen, start driving. Marly, ask anyone.”
“It’s almost one am,” Marly grumbled. “People will think I want to booty call him or some gay shit.”
“I don’t fucking care!” Ilya exploded, he heard Shane moaning in pain for the harsh noise, and then the even breathing continued. “I will not end this call. It’s a fucking emergency, you are sober, and you can help.”
Salminen accelerated away, not willing to fight his captain, but Marly was another story. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ilya said:
“I promise you an explanation once you get his number, okay?” He must have sounded so tired that Marly gave in. For the next fifteen minutes, they drove through Boston and onto the highway. There was still some traffic, but nowhere near enough to slow them down. Ilya was glad that Salminen seemed to have grasped their need for speed, since his Toyota was practically flying down the highway. It was no Bentley or Ferrari, but Salminen knew how to drive.
For a while, Ilya concentrated on Shane’s breathing. As long as Shane was breathing, it was okay. He counted to one hundred and started again, the world’s most anxious imitation of mindfulness. Then he realized that he should probably count Shane’s breaths for a minute to know if Shane was okay. Ten. Okay. He had no idea if that was bad or not.
“Can you google how many breaths a minute is normal?” he asked Marly, who cursed and checked his phone.
“About fifteen to twenty,” Marly answered soon, “according to some guy on Reddit, though, so I don’t really fucking know. Should we call 911, Roz?”
“Shh!”
Ilya counted again. Ten. Then nine. Too slow. Too fucking slow.
He was afraid to count again, in case the number kept dropping.
“Hollander!” he yelled but got no response.
“Roz…” Marly said, and Ilya gave in. It was an easy decision, despite everything. He couldn’t take any risks with Hollander’s life.
“Fine. We call Poison Control first, ask for advice.”
Ilya quickly took Marly’s phone and talked with someone very professional and calming for a few minutes. No, he didn’t know what his friend had taken and when. Yes, he was alone, but they could hear him through the phone. Yes, he was mostly responsive but also sleepy.
He was told to keep monitoring Shane and call 911 immediately if Shane’s level of consciousness changed dramatically. Actually, the kind person on the line recommended immediate medical evaluation anyway, and that had Salminen almost reach for his own phone. He only stopped when Ilya used captain’s orders.
Ilya felt terrible. Bile rose up to his throat and he felt his hands shaking, looking for a cigarette. He was torn. He knew that he should call an ambulance for Shane, and he knew Shane himself didn’t want it. He was terrified of what would happen if he called, and what would happen if he didn’t. Eventually, he made a pact with himself: if Shane’s breathing slowed down too drastically, he would reach for medical help, consequences be damned. He couldn’t lose Shane like he had lost his mother.
All this time, Shane had stayed quiet, but when Ilya hung up, he said something about being thirsty but too tired to get up. Ilya kept him talking for a minute, asking idiotic questions about the best ginger ale brand and whether Shane drank water from tall glasses or mugs. Not his brightest moment, but he didn’t have that much brain power left, okay? The panic had sobered him up a little, but most of his brain was left at the club, he was sure. He would harness the rest for Shane, he swore. At least he was usually able to function in a state of panic, even though he really wanted to curl up and wail in the back seat.
The car was now speeding through New Hampshire, the highway mostly dark except for some trucks. Mountains loomed far in the distance, not really visible in the glow of the streetlights. Shane kept making noises so Ilya knew he was still alive, but his own heart was hammering in his chest and he felt his hands shaking. His knee was bouncing up and down, and every so often he would snap at Salminen to drive faster. To his teammates’ credit, they seemed to save their questions for later, but obviously they had a whispered, heated conversation going on in the front seat. Ilya didn’t care. He knew he had to explain something to them, but his brain couldn’t come up with anything. At least Marly and Salminen were good guys. They were here, helping. He hoped he could trust their discretion.
Every now and then Shane would mumble something and complain about feeling like shit. He didn’t make much sense and wasn’t able to answer any questions coherently. Still, his voice was the most beautiful thing Ilya could have imagined. A voice meant that Shane was still alive. And the silence, when Shane occasionally drifted off, scared him all the more.
Once, Shane got really mushy, mumbling about how much he missed Ilya and how much he liked just being with him. Just his stupid texts, even, and his even stupider accent. How Ilya should take care of him and keep him safe. Before Ilya had time to answer anything, though, Shane seemed to realize what he had said and giggled quietly:
“Shhh… I’m not shhhupposed to shay that… Don’t tell…”
And Ilya was once again reminded of Rose Landry, and of all the reasons why loving Shane was the worst possible idea. And yet, hearing Shane pour his heart out, lit something in him. He would never forget his words.
It was almost three am, they were flying through Vermont now, the only car on the road. Ilya was painfully aware that even though they were more than halfway through, it would still be hours until they reached Montreal.
Suddenly, Marly shouted:
“I got it! Pike’s number! Kane got it from Barrow, who got it from Henriksson, who got it from Stedlund.”
“Fucking finally,” Ilya quipped. “Call him, let him know he needs to go to Shan… to Hollander’s place, now, to check on him.”
“Why don’t you talk?” Marly asked.
“Pike wouldn’t talk to me,” Ilya said. He was certain of that. “You need to make him believe it’s urgent.”
“How can I make him believe that when I don’t know what the fuck is going on in the first place?” Marly asked.
“Why is Hollander calling you?” Salminen asked. “Is he really in danger? Why do you care, anyway? Isn’t he your biggest rival or something?”
“Call Pike now,” Ilya snarled, and Marly, understanding the urgency, did as he was told. First, nobody answered.
“Again,” Ilya said, gritting his teeth.
Pike answered on the fourth ring, sleepy and annoyed.
“Who the fuck is this?” he said. “Don’t you get how fucking rare it is that all the kids are sleeping and I could finally…”
“Listen, Pike,” Marly said, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Ilya almost rolled his eyes. Marly sounded like a Boston mafia boss. He quickly explained Shane’s condition. Pike was on speakerphone, so Ilya could hear how he shook off his blanket and got up.
“This isn’t a prank? How do you know this?” he asked, understandably. However, his concern for Shane seemed to overpower his skepticism.
Suddenly, Shane seemed more talkative: he had heard Pike through the speakerphone and shouted so loudly that Ilya actually dropped his phone. He dove after it, scared that the call would be cut off and he couldn’t reach Shane anymore, but luckily the line was still open. Pike had heard Shane’s loud “Hayd!” and demanded to speak with Shane.
“He’s on the other line,” Marly explained. “Look, he’s not doing too good. We’re monitoring him, but you should go there as fast as you can.”
“Shane, buddy, what’s going on? You never do this kind of shit?” Hayden asked, worry evident in his tone. Ilya breathed out in relief. Pike would take this seriously. Good.
Shane didn’t answer Pike, but he did laugh out loud as he told everyone that his ass was hurting from falling to the floor.
“What’s your door code?” Pike interrupted, but inexplicably, that only made Shane giggle all the harder.
“Ilya knows…” he gasped between his fits of laughter. Marly’s eyes were as wide as saucers and Ilya rubbed his face, annoyed and endeared at the same time. This was not good. This was way too revealing, for both the Raiders and Pike. But the idea that not even Pike knew the code, the one that Ilya had memorized ages ago, did funny things to his heart.
“Ilya? Who’s Ilya?” Pike asked. “Look, buddy, I’m on way to the garage now. Just tell me the code. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“I’m not worried,” Shane said and sounded delighted. “So many people looking after me today.”
“The code?” Pike reminded him, but Shane had drifted off again. His breathing remained normal, but his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. He was humming a song that Ilya didn’t recognize.
Ilya gritted his teeth. Should he talk and let Pike know he was in the car as well? Initially, he had thought to stay hidden, afraid that Pike wouldn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth. However, Shane had already blabbed his name, and though his panicking friend had not connected the dots yet, it wasn’t a huge leap from Marly on the phone with someone named Ilya to his rival Rozanov. Even Pike couldn’t be that stupid.
“122121,” Ilya said quietly, trying not to sound too Russian, too recognizable.
“What a stupid code,” Marly commented. “I expected more from Hollander, he seems smarter than that. Just ones and twos?”
“Shut up,” Ilya quipped.
Luckily, Pike was too busy starting his car to register anything other than the door code.
“I’ll let you know how it goes,” he said, a man on a mission, and Ilya, for the first time in his life, thanked god for Hayden Pike. Someone would take care of Shane.
He didn’t have a long time to feel relieved, though. Immediately after the call ended, both Salminen and Marly started to demand answers.
“Okay, okay,” Ilya said. He muted his phone but made sure he could still hear Shane, even though the Canadian could not hear him. He knew he couldn’t escape explaining forever, but he also knew there was no universe where he would out Shane. His vodka-and-panic-filled brain came up with an excuse. Not his brightest moment, but it should play into their rivalry and his reputation and explain why involving the authorities was a bad idea. He couldn’t trust these two to care about Shane’s reputation, but maybe they cared about his.
“We can’t call 911 because I gave Hollander that stuff,” he informed his two stunned teammates. “The last time we played. I wanted to mess with him. I was pissed off we lost and I thought it would be funny to destroy his reputation. But I changed my mind, okay? I didn’t think he would actually take it.”
“What is it?” Salminen asked timidly, like he didn’t want to know. “Wait, does knowing make me a culprit, too?”
“Let’s just say it could mess with his career,” Ilya supplied. He shuddered at his lie. “And if he tells anyone, it could mess with mine.”
Silence stretched. Ilya could feel the weight of his words, the cruel intention of hurting someone radiating from him. He couldn’t face Marly, so he unmuted his phone and focused on babbling to Shane. He spoke Russian, enjoying Shane’s confused whining of “please, Ilya” and “you need to teach me, Ilya”. He didn’t say anything meaningful; he just talked about the car he was in, the dark trees on the side of the highway. His main goal was to drown the reaction of his teammates, but he couldn’t block it completely.
“What the fuck, man,” Salminen spat. Marly stayed dangerously quiet. Ilya couldn’t help himself: he glanced up.
Salminen looked really disappointed in him. He kept glaring at Ilya for ten minutes before he had to stop for gas. The minute he exited the car, Marly opened his mouth.
“He will talk, you know,” Marly said. “Stupid fucking thing, lying to him like that. You will be in trouble when he gets traded and wants to impress his new team. And that is assuming he doesn’t have a working moral compass and call the cops now.”
“Who says I don’t deserve it?” Ilya muttered, but Marly wasn’t having any of his bullshit.
“Look, I know you’re a good guy, Roz. Deep down, sometimes, sure. But there’s no doubt about that. I’ve known you for many years. There’s no way in hell you would do this level of shit. So come on, what’s really happening?”
Ilya didn’t answer for a while. He listened to Shane’s breathing, talking to him so that he would have Ilya’s voice to latch on to, switching to English and talking about their last game, how poorly the Metros had played. Even that didn’t get a reaction from Shane, though.
Ilya was aware that Marly was looking at him. Damn. Why was Marly sober tonight? And suddenly so perceptive?
“He’s your Montreal girl?” Marly asked after it seemed clear Ilya wouldn’t say anything. Ilya’s breath hitched for a second. He froze. Then Shane was back on the phone, all confused about why he was on the floor, and Ilya wanted to forget about Marly. But he knew Salminen would be back any minute now, and this admission could never reach the rookie.
“Da,” Ilya said, not meeting Marly’s eyes. The silence in the car was deafening, but through it all, Shane mumbled something almost incomprehensible about hardwood floors and contractors. Then Marly coughed and said awkwardly:
“Okay.”
Ilya exhaled slowly and rubbed his brows. Okay. That was the reaction for his most guarded secret. Okay.
He should buy Marly a whole shelf full of vodka when they eventually returned to Boston.
From the gas station, it wasn’t a long drive to the border. At four in the morning, there was no queue, and the border officer sounded bored when he demanded to see their passports. Salminen answered his routine questions a bit nervously, which the officer might have picked up, but his answers as such shouldn’t be that weird (they were American, Finnish, and Russian citizens, they were going to Montreal for a day to see a friend). Ilya tried to look as sober as he could in the back seat, and he muted Shane’s rambling on the phone for a while, though it killed him not to hear Shane’s voice and make sure he was okay.
“Just for a day? An awful long trip for that? And at this hour?” the officer asked. Salminen didn’t seem to know what to say, so Marly supplied:
“Yeah, it’s our day off. And we need to be back soon, so no time to waste.”
“Must be an important friend,” the officer mused, and Ilya gulped. He wouldn’t admit anything, but Marly was quick to reply:
“Very.”
His reply warmed Ilya’s heart.
“And where are you staying? Do you have your friend’s address, or at least the neighborhood?”
Salminen and Marly looked at each other, clearly not knowing what to say, which caught the interest of the officer, but Ilya quickly gave Shane’s address from the back seat. He had it memorized. Only after did he wonder if it was smart, if the border crossing could somehow be connected to Shane later. Well, at least the officer hadn’t asked for Shane’s name. And the time for acting like he didn’t know Shane in front of his teammates was gone, anyway.
The officer looked like he might want to inquire more, but then he yawned and checked the watch.
“You’re all set,” he said instead. “Have a good trip.”
They drove on. It wasn’t long now till Montreal. Salminen looked like he wanted to give Ilya the silent treatment, to be mad at him for wanting to hurt another player, but his curiosity took the better of him.
“How do you know Hollander’s address? And his entry code, for that matter?”
Ilya met Marly’s eyes through the rearview mirror. He didn’t know what to say. Marly was right, he couldn’t trust Salminen the same way he trusted the other player. But his drug dealer excuse wouldn’t cover this.
He was silent for a long time, and then Marly said:
“Didn’t Hollander tell you that right at the beginning of your phone call? When he asked you to come?”
Of course. Simple. Ilya nodded. Salminen didn’t look very convinced, though, but at that moment there was a noise from Shane’s line. Someone was clearly moving in the apartment, and they heard Pike’s voice calling for Shane. Shane’s breathing didn’t change, though, and Ilya became worried he had misjudged the situation. What if Shane wasn’t simply sleeping, but… Talking to the border officer and Salminen had made him sloppy. Had he counted Shane’s breaths? What if… Shane didn’t react to Pike at first, which made cold dread envelop Ilya instantly.
“Shane, buddy, come on!” he heard Pike’s panicked voice. It suddenly felt like all the air was sucked out of the car. Ilya couldn’t breathe. He listened intently, his vision blurring. He prayed for any sort of sound. He prayed that his gamble didn’t result in them losing everything.
And then, miraculously, a gasp, and a very confused “Hayd?”
Ilya let out his breath so loudly that Marly turned to look at him, worry dancing in his eyes.
“Pike’s there,” Ilya mouthed, and Marly nodded.
“What’s going on, Shane? This is so unlike you! What the hell happened to you tonight?” Pike could be heard moving around, but Ilya couldn’t make out Shane’s response.
“Hey, eyes open!” he heard Pike’s command next, and Ilya repeated that silently: Yes, Shane, just open your eyes.
The sounds continued the same for a while, and then Ilya could hear a quiet whisper from Shane: his own name, again and again. Ilya. Ilya. It sounded like a plea, and if Ilya could have teleported to that voice, if it was in any way physically possible, he would have done it. Even after everything, all the heartbreak and Rose Landry and impossible situations, he would follow that voice.
Pike, however, was not as thrilled to hear his name.
“Rozanov?” Pike yelled at the phone. Ilya sighed. So, Pike had figured it out. However, it wasn’t his main concern now. The cat’s out of the chest, or whatever the stupid idiom is. He could finally use his own voice and demand some answers.
“How is he?” he growled at the phone.
“Like hell I will tell you anything,” Pike answered. “I have no idea why he’s on the phone with you, but I swear to god, if you go to press about this…”
“Listen, I don’t have time for your bullshit right now. Just tell me how he is! I’ve had him on the line for hours, I’ve been monitoring him, but he has been quiet for the last five minutes. His breathing…”
“Ilyaaa!” Shane clearly slurred from the background, and both Ilya and Pike fell silent. Shane didn’t continue, though.
“How is he?” Ilya asked again.
“Fuck,” Pike exhaled. “What kind of a nightmare is this? Why do you care? And why does Shane call you Ilya?”
“Look, I’ll be there in about an hour, and then I’ll explain. Or Hollander will. But now…”
“Sorry, buddy, not gonna happen,” Pike said cruelly and ended the call from Shane’s phone. Ilya swore loudly, and then some more. He tried calling again, but unsurprisingly, no one answered.
At least Shane had called his name. He was alive. But he felt so fucking tired and alone in the car without Shane’s breathing or babbling. Only then did he realize that he had missed Shane’s voice so much during these months. Of course he knew he missed Shane, felt his absence in his bones, but he just now realized how all-encompassing the feeling was. He didn’t think he could survive another minute without talking to Shane, and the idea that after tonight, it would again be Rose Landry who would listen to him, killed him more than previously. He literally felt his heart breaking, which he had always thought was a figure of speech. He pushed a hand against his chest, but the pain didn’t ease.
“Hurry up,” he choked out and fought the tears.
…
Finally, after what felt like an eternity in hell, Salminen’s Toyota turned around the corner and stopped outside Shane’s building. Ilya flew up the stairs, tapping the code so fast he got it wrong the first time. He cursed. Marly followed him, Salminen didn’t. Ilya had ordered him to stay, not trusting him, and he had agreed. Maybe he had thought that the less he knew, the better it would be for him if this all went south.
Ilya crashed into Shane’s apartment and took in the scene. Shane was lying on the sofa, his hair an adorable mess. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but Pike had tucked him in with a blanket. His eyes were closed, but based on the fact that Pike was looking at his phone on the armchair, Shane wasn’t in a critical condition.
Pike startled when they entered and jumped up, looking at them.
“Lily?” Pike asked, his eyes bugging. Right. He would have seen who was on the call with Shane, who had kept calling him through the last hour, and had somehow managed to give his two brain cells some exercise. However, it wasn’t Pike that interested Ilya right now. He immediately strode to Shane’s side and took his hand in his own.
“Shane?” he said softly. “Can you hear me? I came like I promised. Sorry it took so long. Shitty car, shitty distance.”
“Shut the fuck up for now,” Marly said pre-emptively and grabbed Pike’s arm. Together, they watched the scene unfolding in front of them.
Ilya was kneeling by the sofa before he even noticed what he was doing. He couldn’t believe he was finally here. With Shane. He kissed Shane’s knuckles, and then he touched his freckles, and only then did his heartbeat calm down a bit.
“I missed you,” he said in Russian, “please be okay.”
Hearing Russian seemed to do something to Shane, and he stirred. If Ilya had been looking at Marly and Pike, he would have noticed that they both leaned in, almost identically, to catch what was about to happen. Ilya had eyes for only Shane, though.
“Ilya,” Shane breathed, and then, without opening his eyes: “You’re here…”
“Of course,” Ilya answered. “You called.”
It was really as simple as that.
“I did?” Shane asked, frowning, eyes still closed. “I don’t… it’s all a blur. I remember the club… missing you…”
“Yeah,” Ilya laughed softly, “you told me you missed me.”
“So you… but you… in Boston! You drove six hours…?” Shane asked, and now he opened his eyes a little and stared at Ilya. Ilya knew how rare the eye contact with Shane was and reveled in it.
“Yes,” Ilya simply said. Shane’s lips curled upward and formed a small, sweet smile.
“’m glad,” he mumbled and closed his eyes again. “Wanted you. Don’t go.”
“I’m here as long as you want me,” Ilya promised in Russian. He couldn’t make the promise in English, though. He didn’t want to remind Shane that his sober self would probably be horrified that Ilya was here. When Shane would wake up, he would tell Ilya never to contact him again, Ilya knew that.
But right now, Shane was within his touch, and Ilya was a weak, weak man.
Shane slowly drifted off to sleep and Ilya, for the first time, turned to look at Pike.
“Is he safe, or…?” He hated how he sounded. Gone was his bravado and persona. He was pleading.
Pike seemed transfixed by Ilya and Shane, and it took him a while to focus enough to say something. This time, he didn’t deny Ilya the answer.
“He was down pretty bad when I came, he didn’t wake up easily, and he couldn’t focus his gaze, so I called someone here. To help,” he said.
Ilya nodded slowly.
“Mark came quickly and said you were idiots for not calling 911, but what else is new,” Pike said bitingly. “He ran a few tests with the equipment he had with him. He didn’t think Shane was in immediate danger. Oxygen levels were normal. Blood pressure elevated but not dangerously so, he said. Mark did recommend a full toxicology report at the hospital, though, and said Shane should get an EKG just in case, but I wanted Shane’s opinion before subjecting him to it.”
“Mark?” Marly asked. For Ilya, that name was the least interesting fact in Pike’s information. Nothing seemed to be seriously wrong with Shane. Thank god.
“Jackie’s brother-in-law. My wife’s. He’s a doctor and he lives nearby, I called him to come the minute I saw the state Shane was in.”
“Smart,” Marly said, and Ilya silently agreed. He would never tell Pike that, though.
“So…?” Ilya prompted.
“Mark said Shane should improve once it wears off, but he needs monitoring. And he said the worst is probably over, since Shane’s breathing returned close to normal when he was here. He did emphasize that if Shane gets worse in any way, we should call an ambulance immediately. Then Mark managed to rouse him, I don’t know what he did, and Shane came to.”
“Did he have any idea what he could have taken, or…?” Marly asked, and Pike answered, still dumping information, probably to stop him from actually addressing Ilya still holding Shane’s hand:
“He thought it was probably some sort of sedative or relaxant, maybe a bit stronger than what you would get from the pharmacy. And, you know, Shane’s not used to those kinds of pills, so…”
“But he should be fine after it stops affecting his system?” Marly checked.
“Yeah, basically,” Pike said. “Man, I was so worried for a minute.”
Ilya exhaled and let his head fall to Shane’s ribcage. He sobbed.
…
They were sitting in Shane’s living room. Ilya cradled Shane’s head in his lap on the sofa. Shane seemed to be breathing fine. He was sleeping. The sun was rising, visible through the giant windows. Ilya felt exhausted, too, but he would keep monitoring Shane even if it was the last thing he did before collapsing.
Marly and Pike sat on armchairs, cups of coffee in their hands. There was a weird peace hanging around the room. The Metros and the Raiders didn’t usually get along, and this was an odd combination even by their standards. Seeing Ilya gently caress Shane’s hair must have made the situation even more surreal for Marly and Pike.
Ilya liked this quiet, though. For once, he didn’t have to pretend Shane meant nothing to him. Marly was a good man, and Pike had proven himself a good friend for Shane tonight. There was definitely a conflict to be had here, but he was grateful that Pike seemed to wait a while before addressing this. None of them had strength for that confrontation just now.
And Shane, on his lap, was the best guy of them all. Ilya knew this might be the last time he had the right to touch Shane like this, show his devotion, until Shane went back to Rose Landry. He would take every minute and cherish them.
“Shit! Salminen,” Marly suddenly said and laughed. “I will text him to get some breakfast and a hotel room to sleep in for himself. I’m guessing we don’t want him here?”
No one actually answered Marly, but he did what he had suggested anyway.
“Why did you bring him?” Pike asked, interested.
“He had a car,” Marly shrugged. “And our Romeo here was in a hurry.”
Pike shuddered a bit at the image of love-struck Ilya Rozanov, still disbelieving, even though the evidence was right there in the room with him. He shook his head.
“Come on, man, give us something,” Marly said after a while. “How the fuck did this start?”
Ilya didn’t answer him. He had done enough damage, outing Shane to at least two people. Shane, who valued his privacy and his shameful secrets, Ilya thought begrudgingly. Even though he was here now, in the light of the morning, he knew that his time was up, soon. He belonged to the secrecy of dark nights and bad decisions.
“Shane’s been texting Lily for ages,” Pike mused. “Except he stopped last year… Shit! What about Rose? Are you guys cheating on her? Or is she a beard? Or…?”
“Shane can answer later,” was the only answer Ilya gave him, but Marly supplied more with an incredulous laugh:
“Well, our Cap has been messaging his Montreal girl since rookie season, so…”
“Fucking hell. What have you been doing, dude?” Pike asked Shane like he didn’t know his best friend at all. Ilya grimaced but stayed silent, just running his fingers gently through Shane’s hair.
“Hey, love is love,” Cliff said like some poster boy for equality, determined to prove he was an ally, and also clearly reacting to Pike’s tone.
This time, Ilya had to say something.
“No love,” he snapped. “We’re not together.”
“Sure, man, that’s what this looks like. You drive through the country for just anyone. Get yourself all freaked out. Know their door code and caress their hair like…”
“Look,” Ilya said, really fucking tired, “we are nothing. Hollander has made it very clear.”
There was a cutting silence after this.
“He just…” Ilya continued, so quietly he didn’t know if the others heard, “he just forgot that for a while.”
…
Shane woke up to drumming inside his head and auroras behind his eyes. He grimaced, his whole face feeling like putty. It took him a minute to understand where he was and what was happening. This wasn’t his bed: the surface under his back was far too hard and the texture against his bare skin felt all weird. His mouth tasted like… he didn’t even know. There was a weird metallic taste, like a memory of something stronger.
Someone was holding his hand. And as opposed to all the off things about his body right now, it felt surprisingly nice. Grounding.
“Good morning,” a deep voice said quietly, as if knowing that the words bounced around in his head, vibrating. “Are you with us already?”
That voice. It’s like he’d just been dreaming about that voice. Like every other night, sure, but this time the dream had felt more vivid.
It couldn’t be…?
“Ilya?” he whispered and heard a quiet chuckle.
“That is my name, I’ve heard,” Ilya answered, and Shane risked opening his eyes for a bit. The sunlight was almost blinding, even though it came into the room through the curtains. Shane quickly closed his eyes again, but not before a silhouette was burnt into his retinas. Ilya. Really here.
“I like your name,” he slurred, because it was the first thing that came to his mind.
Suddenly, a wave of memories came back. Not about last night, but about that October day weeks ago. How Ilya had called him Shane and how he had felt like his heart would burst out of his chest. It all felt less intense now, like he had settled into it. He wanted to hear Ilya call him Shane again, and he had a distinct memory that he had, just recently. He wished he could just…
It was all too much. He couldn’t handle it. Not now. He both wanted to yank his hand away from Ilya’s and hide somewhere, and give into him, feel the familiar and strong arms around him once again. He had missed Ilya so much. Why was it a forbidden thought, again? He was sure he had a reason, but he couldn’t remember it right now.
And if he couldn’t remember, there was no reason why he shouldn’t reach for Ilya, right? Eyes still closed, he fumbled and finally touched Ilya’s hair. He had amazing curls. He stroked them, and he could have sworn Ilya let out a small groan. It was so soft it was barely there, but Ilya’s face had moved closer to his, apparently, because he could feel the exhale on his cheek.
For a while, they kept breathing in the same rhythm, Shane stroking Ilya’s hair, Ilya’s thumb drawing circles on Shane’s hand. He felt connected. He had Ilya, and…
Shane could hear some noise, dishes being moved, and talking. Definite talking. It felt like someone threw cold water over him. He quickly opened his eyes and assessed the situation. He was lying on his sofa. The noises were coming from the kitchen. So it meant that…
“Someone’s here,” he stated, eyes wide, and withdrew himself from Ilya.
“Ah, yes,” Ilya said, looking slightly guilty. “That’s Pike and Marly. They helped you, too, yesterday.”
“Helped me?” Shane had to repeat. Nothing registered for a few seconds. His heart was beating faster, faster, faster.
“I was worried you… you know, overdosed,” Ilya explained quietly, pain evident in his voice. “I needed their help, I didn’t want to send you to the local hospital, the press would…” He sounded almost pleading now.
“But if they are here, they…” Shane stumbled on words, not even listening to the rest of Ilya’s explanation. Dread grabbed his insides, twisted.
“Yes, they know.”
Shane felt like he was falling. He wanted to argue, wanted to scream, wanted to curl up and die on the spot. This couldn’t be happening.
“I put your safety first, and I would do it again,” Ilya said with a finality. His voice had lost its softness. In the back of Shane’s panicking mind, he realized it reminded him of Las Vegas years ago. Ilya was protecting himself. From Shane? Maybe, but Shane couldn’t think about it right now. He was shaking.
“You had no right to tell them!” Shane whispered. Suddenly, he was no longer groggy or only half-aware of everything. He couldn’t breathe. Someone knew. They were found out. Every catastrophic scenario was playing in his otherwise empty mind. His parents looking at him like they didn’t know him at all. Theriault stripping him of his C in front of his sneering teammates, who pointed and laughed. Being kicked out of the Metros, forced to play in some AHL team until he quietly retired, ashamed and forgotten. Hundreds and thousands of tweets and comments from people he would never know, dissecting his life. People being disappointed that he wasn’t what he had claimed to be. And the name calling… he would be called a liar, a betrayer, and a bunch of inventive slurs he didn’t want to think about. Losing his friends, never being allowed close to their kids again.
“You… you promised…” Shane hated how weak his voice sounded, how betrayed. He still remembered their first night, years ago in Toronto, when he had realized that Ilya had the power to destroy him, and begged him not to tell anyone what they had just done. He had been laid bare in front of him, both literally and figuratively. And Ilya, though sarcastic at first, had sworn it, and Shane had believed him. He had never questioned it, until now. Which hurt.
“I can’t believe you would…” he choked out. Then, a bit stronger, without the soft edge these words usually carried when he spoke to Ilya: “Fuck you.”
He risked looking at Ilya, even if it meant that the other man could probably see the tears starting to form in his eyes. Ilya had a hand covering his face, and he looked exasperated and angry.
“Fuck you, Hollander. I’m not sorry I wanted to help you.” He took a steadying breath and continued: “Pike’s still here, you’ve got your little friend. He doesn’t care. And I’ll handle Marly. We won’t be bothering you anymore.”
Ilya stood up and walked quickly towards the door, like he couldn’t stand watching Shane anymore, shouting in the direction of the kitchen:
“Come on, Marly, we go now!”
And before Shane had time to process anything, he heard the door. Not an angry bang, more like a resigned click, like something that should have been expected. Suddenly Shane felt really cold. This departure felt even more final than the time he had left Ilya on the sofa, still covered in come, his arm outstretched, pleading.
He tried to get up, but as soon as he did that, he felt dizzy and almost threw up. He had to struggle to get his bearing again, and he slumped back onto the sofa.
Hayden entered the room. Shane couldn’t look at him, his face reddening. Hayden knew now. Knew his best-kept secret.
“’m sorry,” he mumbled before Hayden had time to start scolding him. “I guess I need to…”
“Dude, I think you need to get him back here,” Hayden said, and seemed very surprised by his own words. So was Shane. Out of everything that Hayden could have said, this was one of the last things he had expected.
“…What?”
“Rozanov. You can’t let him leave like this.”
Shane was sure he was hallucinating. He was shocked out of his panic attack. However, Hayden wasn’t done:
“That man just counted your breathing the whole night through just to make sure you’re okay. You didn’t see the devotion he had when he monitored you here. Me and Marlow, I’m sorry to say, Shane, but we fell asleep at some point. It was a long night and an even longer morning. A very long one. He didn’t. He just kept looking at you like you were made of diamonds or some other deep shit. Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.”
Shane’s brain didn’t comprehend everything.
“You hate him,” Shane whispered, trying to make sense of it all.
“Oh, I hate him,” Hayden acknowledged. “But I still think you owe him a thanks if nothing else. And when you are feeling better, you definitely owe me a long explanation.”
Hayden waited a while, apparently ready to carry Shane down the stairs in a piggyback in order to pursue Ilya, but Shane felt paralyzed. Thoughts moved slowly in his brain, and he couldn’t make sense of anything. He was trying to understand what Hayden was telling him. That Ilya apparently cared about him so much that it had even convinced Hayden Pike to respect him.
When he thought about Ilya too much, he felt the familiar pain in his chest. For weeks now, all he had done was try not to think about Ilya, but it hadn’t always worked. Apparently, it hadn’t worked at all yesterday, when he was first high and then scared and needy. God, he had been so needy and pathetic on the phone that Ilya had driven from Boston just to make sure he hadn’t killed himself. He groaned. He was a fool.
Memories popped up now. Ilya. And then, suddenly, the existential loneliness he had felt yesterday. He had sat in a booth with Rose, Miles, and her other friends, trying to accept that these regular club nights were his life now. Everyone was having a good time except him. Rose sat on his lap, arms draped around his neck, and all he could think about was that he needed to get out. His whole body felt shut down. It barely managed to follow Rose to the dance floor, and there, all his concentration went into not running away. He barely heard what Rose said, barely felt the beautiful woman in his arms. He kept steeling glances around the club, making sure Ilya was somehow not here, not again, and at the same time hoping to see him.
So when Miles had suggested he should loosen up a little, it hadn’t seemed like a bad idea. He had wanted to forget about Ilya and concentrate on what was real. On what he could actually have. He needed to make this work with Rose, and then he would get to fulfill his dreams of someone being there for him, and of a family and kids, eventually. Normally, taking anything intoxicating wasn’t something he would consider doing, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he was pretty sure he had never felt further from Rose than that night. His body all clammed up, his mind focused on someone else, someone impossible. If he was a bit more relaxed, he could surely enjoy Rose like she deserved. Like any normal man would.
He had looked at the small pills for a while, contemplating, and checking again with Miles that they were definitely safe. Then he took one, the final push being a couple of Russian tourists, talking loudly in the booth next to theirs. Their vowels reminded him of… No.
But one pill hadn’t really done anything. After three, he had forgotten why he was doing this. He had slipped away from Rose and called the one person he needed. Again. And again. At some point Rose had told him she was going home and offered him a ride. He had refused, had barely acknowledged her. After that, he had no more memories, not clear ones anyway. He remembered actually talking to Ilya on the phone. Oh my god, had he talked to him about his thighs? Shane blushed deep red.
“So,” he said, still expecting Hayden to start yelling at him, all disgusted. When Hayden didn’t do anything, he continued: “What the fuck happened tonight?”
Hayden went through all the details he knew but said they should definitely consult Rozanov and Marlow for more information. He also told Shane what Mark had found when he had examined him (Shane felt mortified that he couldn’t remember that at all).
“You should really go to a doctor today, though,” Hayden said, looking concerned. “I can come with. Now you’re you again, and we don’t have to rush to the ER, so it probably won’t be in every fucking gossip magazine. We can just silently go to the team doctor or to a private clinic today.”
Shane didn’t like the idea, but he hated the idea of something being wrong with his body even more. He took meticulous care of himself, normally. So he just nodded and let Hayden do the planning. His still limited mental capacity was occupied with embarrassment about what he had done, the warmth of being taken care of, and regret of letting Ilya leave, probably thinking that Shane hated him.
Hayden had prepared him a hangover smoothie, complaining about all the healthy ingredients that could be found in Shane’s kitchen (“Come on, man, there’s nothing worth eating here!”). While Shane slowly drank it, he listened to Hayden’s monologue about how shocking this all was. He let it drift around him and refused to give him any more clues about Ilya. However, Hayden could pretty much recreate the timeline and the main events alone, now that he knew Lily was really Ilya. He kept rambling:
“And the guys on the team think you can’t pull anyone! I can’t believe you’ve got two superstars fighting over you.” He was silent for a minute and then he added, thinking: “But the thing is, Shane, you only called one of them tonight.”
Shane groaned but he had to admit Hayden was right.
“So what’s up with that? With Rose?”
“She’s great,” Shane was in a hurry to explain. “She is. She is funny, and I love talking to her, and she knows her hockey, and she takes me out of my shell sometimes…”
“And she’s smoking hot, right?” Hayden winked.
“Sure, I mean yeah, of course,” Shane said quickly, which made Hayden raise his eyebrows.
“It’s just… She’s not…” Shane tried and failed to explain. He couldn’t say “He’s not Rozanov”, or he would have to accept that reality himself, too. Was he really done trying? Was this the best he could do with Rose? He felt his dream of a picture-perfect, heterosexual family move further and further away.
However, at the same time, another picture was starting to form, for the first time ever. A real future with Ilya, him grasping Shane’s hands here in front of Hayden, taking care of him when he was at his most vulnerable. Maybe waking up next to him again, like that one time in Boston when he had felt so safe, so happy for the shortest of times? Before, it had been a stupid fantasy he had sometimes indulged in right after mind-blowing sex and gentle aftercare, but it had always evaporated in the light of day. Now, it seemed to stick around.
The picture made him smile a little.
“That one!” Hayden exclaimed. “That’s your Lily smile! Or, urgh, I guess your Rozanov smile.” Hayden looked like he was rethinking their entire history together. Shane still couldn’t believe he was this fine with all of it, he kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Hayden just grimaced and said:
“I think you need to speak to Rose. And to Rozanov.”
Hayden didn’t seem too happy about it, and neither was Shane, really. His head was still pounding, and he felt embarrassed about what had happened yesterday. All his muscles seemed weak, which frightened him, but, luckily, they didn’t have a game tonight.
“I guess so,” he mumbled and groaned.
What Shane wanted to do was sleep. He was disoriented and tired. He felt a strange heaviness in every muscle and a fogginess in every thought. However, he knew he didn’t have much time if he wanted to talk to Ilya in person. He might already be in a car back to Boston, crossing the border. But Hayden had said they’d been up all night… So maybe all three Raiders were sleeping in a hotel somewhere close by. Shane just had to figure out which hotel.
And what to say to Ilya if he caught him. The second one proved to be trickier, since Hayden immediately told him he could text Marlow and ask for Ilya’s whereabouts, no problem there.
Shane knew what he wanted to say. In an ideal world, he would apologize for everything, and thank Ilya, and maybe they could talk. But the thing is, they never talked. Whenever they met, they were drawn to each other immediately, and it was all about touching every inch of each other’s bodies, carving a space inside each other and, at least for Shane, never wanting to let go. When the time came, though, they would quickly separate, mumble a goodnight, and go their separate ways. They didn’t talk.
And okay, Shane knew he wanted to touch Ilya today, too, even when his body still didn’t feel like his own. But he couldn’t do that. He was with Rose, and Rose didn’t deserve a boyfriend who would cheat on her. Shane definitely didn’t want to be a boyfriend who cheated. So he would have to get through a whole conversation with Ilya without jumping his bones. Assuming that Ilya even wanted to do that after everything Shane had put him through.
He had very briefly explained to Hayden what had happened between him and Ilya in Boston, which had led him to Rose, all the while blushing embarrassingly. Hayden had had a sad look in his eyes, which had made the situation almost unbearable to Shane. In which world was Hayden sad that Shane had run away from Ilya Rozanov, probably destroying everything they had between them? What he had done must have been truly terrible to cause this reaction in Hayden (like he didn’t already feel it in his bones, the wrongness of it all).
What Shane needed was a chance to make things right, or at least better. He could do it. Really.
Really?
…
Ilya had never wanted a vodka shot at ten in the morning more. He was in a terrible mood, snapping at his poor teammates, who had crossed an international border just because he had asked them to. He wanted to punch someone, and he guessed Marly and Salminen knew that, because they stayed a few meters away from him all the time.
They had booked two hotel rooms in the city center, just to sleep for a while before heading back to Boston and their next game. Salminen came to see them when they arrived at the hotel, asked for details, and when he didn’t get any, went back to sleep. Marly shared a room with Ilya, and Ilya hated how worried he looked. Ilya, no matter how much he hurt, was not going to start popping pills he knew nothing about. Marly should relax.
“You want to talk about it?” Marly had asked, and Ilya had literally bared his teeth in anger, making the other man take a few steps back, muttering “okay, okay”, like he was talking to a wild animal. Marly had chosen the bed closer to the door and closed his eyes, but Ilya could see him opening them every now and then and checking on him. Infuriating.
Ilya should sleep, if for nothing else, then for Marly’s sake. But he couldn’t stand the idea of closing his eyes and seeing how absolutely devastated Shane had looked this morning. Somehow, the look of utter betrayal was even worse than the almost unconscious, empty expression from last night, or even the panicked one from October. It filled Ilya with self-hatred, sadness, and anger. He was sorry Shane felt this way, that he had made Shane feel this way, but also, finally, really angry. He had not yelled at Shane for leaving, for breaking his heart. This morning he felt that it was overdue, especially after everything he had been put through. He had been scared shitless, living one of the worst nights of his life, and after everything he had tried to do to help Shane, he had somehow done everything wrong, at least according to the Canadian himself.
Ilya wanted to throw the TV down from the balcony or pull some other crazy rock star shit, but he knew they shouldn’t draw any attention to themselves while in Canada. He wanted to smoke, desperately, but he had left his cigarettes at the club or lost them somewhere during the night, and couldn’t be bothered to go looking for a new pack.
So a vodka shot it was.
Somewhere between his second and third, there was a knock on the door.
Marly jumped out of bed so quickly that he forgot to pretend he was sleeping, almost ran to the door, and opened it to a very pale Shane Hollander.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Marly said, grabbed his jacket and basically jogged out of the room, leaving a panicked-looking Shane and a stunned Ilya behind. Shane stood by the door for a minute, staring mostly at his Reeboks, and only when Ilya placed the glass on the table with an audible “thump” did he wake up from his trance and quickly enter the room.
Neither of them said anything for a while. Then Shane opened his mouth and a string of words came out quickly:
“Sorry, and thank you, I mean…”
“You’re quite welcome, Hollander,” Ilya said, his voice cold, even though his heart was hammering. Shane was here. Shane was upright, okay, and came looking for him. Ilya wanted to stride over to him and take him in his arms, a physical proof that Shane was still warm, still alive. He wanted to kiss his freckles and taste his dry lips, and he wanted wanted wanted. His whole body was alight. However, he also wanted to yell out his frustration and pain and slam the door to Shane’s face. He didn’t need any more painful encounters. He didn’t know how many more times Shane could hurt him in a way that he could survive.
“I really mean it,” Shane said again and took a tentative step forward. “Hayden told me what you did. Thank you.”
Ilya didn’t respond. He tried to force a cruel smile onto his face, but his cheek muscles didn’t obey him.
“Why?” Shane asked, very quietly, staring somewhere left of Ilya. “Why did you come all the way? You could’ve just called Hayden.”
“I know, stupid,” Ilya said, because that was the truth. This whole thing had been completely unnecessary. What had he actually done? Outed Shane to two hockey players, held his hand through one morning? He was no doctor, he knew that. He hated that he had tried to act like some sort of romantic hero. And at the same time, he knew he hadn’t really had a choice. The second he had heard Shane’s panicked voice, he had known he would come. And he would probably do it again, too.
“Why’d you call me and not your girlfriend?” Ilya asked, cursing himself. He should have kept quiet, but he desperately wanted to know. Or get confirmation, because he thought he had understood enough from Shane’s drunken mumblings. It was self-destructive, but he needed to hear Shane tell him once that he mattered. Sober. Maybe it would help him to get over this. To know that not all of this had been in his head, that it had been real, no matter how impossible.
Shane gulped audibly and sat down on Marly’s bed.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I… I don’t think I even considered calling anyone else. Rose, or even Hayden.” He was silent for a moment, then seemed to muster his courage and looked straight at Ilya. “I knew you would come.”
“And I thought you were the easy one,” Ilya muttered, but he hated his joke as soon as he said it. It was so clear to both of them that Ilya was the one who was way too invested now. Shane had left him, hurt him, and yet he came crawling back the minute Shane called.
“I am. For you,” Shane said quietly. Before Ilya could comprehend the words, Shane continued louder: “Look, I am sorry, I truly am. For everything. I panicked before, and I guess I panicked yesterday, and I am not good with panic.”
Ilya sniffed and touched his nose.
“It was nothing,” he said, going for nonchalance and failing.
“Yeah, it was,” Shane corrected and sounded annoyed for the first time. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you this morning. I know you took a personal risk as well. And I… I shouldn’t have left things the way I did, before.”
Ilya nodded grimly. He agreed. And he had been pissed about it ten minutes earlier. But now, looking at Shane in his hotel room, all serious but nervous and earnest, he couldn’t stay mad.
“I needed help helping you,” he said. “And I promise you, Marly won’t tell anyone anything. And I don’t think Pike will either.” He didn’t address Shane’s second apology. There was nothing he could say that would make that October afternoon hurt any less.
“Oh, Hayden will not out us,” Shane said with a certainty in his voice. “Believe it or not, he is actually rooting for us.”
Ilya must have heard wrong.
“What?” he choked out. Shane just shrugged his shoulders. Finally, Ilya said:
“Marly, too, I think.”
They were quiet for a long time. Finally, Ilya stood up from his chair and moved to sit beside Shane on the bed. Even though they weren’t touching, he could somehow feel Shane’s warm body next to him.
“Do you think…” Shane started, “Do you think we should stop rooting against us, too?”
Ilya’s head snapped up and he turned his head towards Shane so fast he could hear his neck muscles crack. Shane was initially staring at the carpet, but he moved his face to look directly at Ilya. His eyes, his beautiful brown eyes, were simmering with unfallen tears but he looked determined.
“What do you mean?” Ilya asked so that he would not immediately crash his lips against Shane’s. They were too close, and if this wasn’t what he thought it was… He had to let Shane take the lead for once, because this time, he needed Shane to choose him.
Shane kept his eyes on Ilya’s face as he rambled:
“Maybe I’m reading you all wrong now, I don’t know. I guess this will be the most mortifying conversation of my life if that’s the case. Including whatever the heck I mumbled on the phone yesterday, but… I… you… Do you even… I mean, would you want to be something? With me?”
The last two words were nothing more than a whisper. Shane’s eyes searched Ilya’s, and Ilya wanted to turn away, to hide, but he didn’t think he could move. Not with Shane right here, saying all these things.
“What do you want, Hollander?” he asked, voice tight.
“I asked first,” Shane said quickly.
“I travelled to Montreal to make sure you’re alive,” Ilya countered.
“Oh my god, you are never going to let that go, are you?” Shane sputtered with a hint of a real smile. “Are you going to hold that one over me forever?”
If you’ll let me, Ilya thought. Aloud, he said:
“Probably yes.” Then he got more serious again, took a deep breath, and said:
“I’m not the one who ran away. I’m not the one who is dating someone else. So, Hollander, is this what you want?” He gestured between them, his fingers accidentally touching Shane’s chest. Electricity ran through him.
“Yes,” Shane said quickly, like he wanted to get it out before he chickened out. “I like you, Ilya. More than I should, I guess, and definitely more than I have let myself realize. I… if you forgive me, I would like to try. To be… something. More.”
Ilya held his breath as he searched for Shane’s face. It looked sincere. His own heart had skipped a beat, probably more, and he could feel tears starting to pool in his eyes. Russians didn’t cry. He needed to handle this better.
“You are sober now?” he made sure, and Shane nodded firmly.
“I am,” Shane said. “I know what I’m doing. Believe me, I know what’s at stake. And it’s scary and I’m a coward, but I don’t want to run anymore. I want to be brave. For… you. For us.”
Ilya had to turn his head away to hide the tears. Shane didn’t let him, though. Gently, he cupped Ilya’s face and turned it back towards him. He hesitated for a moment and then wiped away a tear from his cheek.
“Is it what you want?” Shane whispered. Ilya nodded and let his walls crumble. He slumped against Shane, his face in the crook of Shane’s neck, and cried.
“Da, yes, yes,” he kept whispering, and Shane held him close, drew small circles on his back and whispered, “Shhh, it’s okay,” in his ear. When Ilya had finally regained some of his composure, he lifted his head in an attempt to kiss Shane. He stared at his lips, heard Shane’s breathing hitch, and moved slowly closer. Before he could reach the other man’s mouth, Shane quickly but gently placed a finger against his lips, holding him at bay.
“I need to break up with Rose first,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do this to her. Or to us. I don’t want this to start as… something dirty, or wrong. It’s… worth more.”
At first, Ilya stared at him, confused, and moved to sit further away. Hurt was beginning to engulf him again, but Shane didn’t let it. Shane didn’t let him go.
“Please,” Shane said, and his voice was shaking. “Ilya, please. Believe me, I want this. So much.”
And, against everything Ilya thought he knew about life and people and especially about his own worth, he believed Shane. Something cracked open inside of him.
“Okay,” he said, his voice still hoarse. Shane smiled at him, and he smiled back, and then he hugged Shane some more. He couldn’t get close enough. They stayed that way for a long time, and Ilya wanted to stop the clock as much as he wanted to fast forward it to a time when Shane Hollander had actually ended things with a movie star to be with him.
Finally, Shane asked:
“When do you have to leave?”
Ilya didn’t want to think about Boston far away in a different country, or Marly with his questions, or Salminen with his disapproval, or anyone else except for Shane. He had to gather his thoughts and focus before answering:
“We have a game tomorrow afternoon. Salminen said he would head back to Boston in a few hours, though.”
Shane was quiet for a while and then, timidly, asked:
“Would you… do you want to come to the doctor’s with me? I’m told that I should go, and I… I don’t want to go alone.”
Ilya was surprised. He studied Shane’s face for a long time.
“Is a risk, no? To go together?”
“Yeah,” Shane gulped, “but I think it’s a manageable one. We can choose a private practice, and there’s always doctor-patient confidentiality, I think, and we can make them sign NDAs anyway.”
Ilya kept on staring at Shane, who was starting to look nervous again. Suddenly Ilya realized that Shane was waiting for him to say something.
“Of course I’ll come,” he said quickly, and could see a small, happy smile appear on Shane’s face. “I really want to make sure you’re alright. That’s kind of the reason I am here. I will let the guys know I’m flying back before our next game.”
“Really?” Shane smiled, and Ilya nodded, mirroring Shane’s happy expression.
“Really,” he said. There was no place else he would rather be.