Archive of Our Own

When Ilya Rozanov saw the leaked pap photos of Scott Hunter locking lips with an unknown man in the Met Gala, he knew that Jane would not return his calls.

An hour later and countless attempts at calling him, and Ilya was almost ready to accept this.

Scott Hunter being outed was everything that his Jane had feared: the innocent outing with a ‘friend’ being seen as thing that they were trying to hide; a private moment intruded upon; a picture taken at the wrong time; and then the whole world waking up to the evidence of his secrets splashed across the first pages of tabloids and websites, with reactions from people who both did and didn’t give a fuck about hockey. It was a reminder that all the things that Ilya wanted could never be easy to have and easy to hide, the way that Jane wanted to.

And the thing was, Ilya couldn’t even blame his Jane for the way that he had reacted. He understood, instinctively, the way that his Jane was feeling - how could he not, when Ilya had looked at the pictures (sent to him by Marley, privately, and Sveta, and a hundred times over in the Bears 💪🐻 group chat) and felt his chest tighten like he was being forced through straw, and a cold sweat had broken over his skin, and he had felt as though the world was falling in around him?

If what had happened to Scott had happened to Ilya… he would never be able to go back to Russia. Andrei would spit on his name and raise his daughter to hate her absent uncle. The streets of Moscow would shun him. His father would die not remembering his name or his face or who he was at all

Still, it was getting harder and harder to keep all of this in mind when he was thinking about Jane - because it had been nice, the All Stars game, and the texts that they had shared since. It had been nice enough that Ilya had almost let himself pretend that it could be anything more than it was. That they could be happy.

But now his Jane was gone and Ilya was in a lonely Boston house in a city that couldn’t ever truly understood him, trying to hold onto the motivation of a life overseas that he couldn’t convince himself that he wanted to keep, seething with jealousy because Scott fucking Hunter of all people had just had the worst thing that could ever possibly happen to him and it was all that Ilya ever wanted and all that he could never have.

Ilya pressed Jane’s contact again, and listened as the call failed to connect.

Shane Hollander knew that he was panicking the same way that he had always known that he was panicking: by the fact that his breathing ran away from him, and his skin prickled painfully like there were electrical wires running underneath his flesh, and his thoughts wouldn’t calm down until they had spiralled so unforgivably away from him that he was helplessly being buffeted by the tides of his mood, which were terrible.

But he felt like he was a little bit justified in this instance. Actually, he felt like he was a lot justified.

Because Scott Hunter was the golden boy of hockey. He was the role model that Shane had been told to emulate, the image that he tried to project. Scott Hunter was universally beloved. And he did not look like Shane, or Shane’s mother, which was always helpful when it came to getting rid of barriers to overcome.

Then he’d be caught kissing a man, and sometime in the last few days, he had become public enemy number one. Shane, who did not usually use social media, had made an exception after the Voyageurs group chat had shared the news (and their unsolicited opinions). Maybe Shane had been hoping… hoping that it would be okay, ignored, glossed over. Maybe Shane had been hoping for proof that it was possible, for someone. Maybe he had wanted to see if anyone would still be thinking of Scott Hunter as the hockey player, captain of New York Admirals.

No one was. Shane was trying not to think about what the people were saying, but it was impossible to ignore - especially when his own teammates were a look into the most vitriolic corners of the internet.

So, he blocked Lily.

It seemed, at the time, heaving from exertion from a run that hadn’t burnt away the frantic energy living in his skin, like the only thing to do. It was the end of everything if they were caught - and they had agreed (both of them, both of them had agreed) that they were not anything worth ruining their careers over. They’d agreed. They had.

And so what if it had been nice last time? When they had spoken - actually spoken - at Tampa? And every text that they had sent after? So what if Shane had liked it? Felt like he and Ilya were - what, friends?

They wouldn’t be anything if they were outed.

And Ilya would never be able to go home.

And Shane could not be the reason that Ilya didn’t get to go home. Ilya would resent him for it, Shane was sure, just as Shane would maybe get resentful if he had hockey taken away from him, because Shane thought he would die if he did not have hockey.

Really, it was all that he could do to block Lily.

If someone had told twelve year old Scott Hunter that there would come a day where he got to keep hockey and kiss the man that he loved in front of the entire world and not regret it, he would not believe them. If someone had told Scott that he could have all of this and not lose hockey, he would not believe them. To have hockey, he had thought that he could have this; to have this, he would that he could not have hockey.

“Any regrets?” Kip asked, voice muffled where he face was resting against Scott’s chest.

They were in Scott’s apartment, lounging on his couch - and for the first time ever, Scott thought that he was perfectly and completely happy.

It hadn’t, of course, been an easy choice to get to this point. Scott had known what he had stood to lose walking into the Met with Kip, what it would mean to be photographed holding his hand, and what he was risking by kissing Kip in front of the artwork like they were any normal couple. But he’d also known that it would kill him to hide, and that it would kill Kip a little bit inside as well. And when he had thought about it, it had been an easier choice than he had thought: hockey, or the chance to have both Kip and hockey. To be happy. Scott did not think that he could have stayed happy, going on the way that he had been for his entire life.

“No regrets,” he assured Kip, running his hand idly over Kip’s hair. “It was worth it.”

“How are your team reacting?”

Scott fished out his phone from where it was on ‘do not disturb’ between the couch cushions, unlocking it to pull up the Admirals group chat and clearing all the other, thousands of notifications that he had been receiving since the news had broke. His teammates had been fine with him when he had first told them the news, aside for one or two who had gotten quiet, but it was different in practice than it was in reality. Maybe they would change their minds when they couldn’t pretend that Scott being gay was some elaborate practical joke.

It would maybe be different again, when Scott released the statement that he had in his social media drafts, because it would be official then. Undeniable.

“The guys are still cool,” Scott reported, scrolling up the deluge of messages (all supportive - maybe too enthusiastically so, but no one ever said that hockey players were at all level headed). He liked a few, and was going to put his phone away when it lit up with an incoming call.

Scott’s plan had been to ignore all phone calls, respond only to the messages sent by teammates and coaching staff. That had been before he had known that Ilya fucking Rozanov was an option for people trying to get in touch with him.

“What is it?” asked Kip, feeling the way that Scott’s body involuntarily tensed up underneath him.

“Ilya Rozanov,” said Scott, and even the sound of his name sounded like a portent of doom.

“The Russian asshole from Boston? Why do you have his number?”

“I… Maybe his first All-Stars? Or the awards in Vegas that year? He’s never used it though. Do you think I should answer?”

“Do you think he’s going to be a dick?”

“Probably,” Scott replied, but what he didn’t know was if Rozanov was going to be a regular dick (which he always was) or a homophobic dick (which… well, Scott should probably expect it, but he thought, maybe, though he didn’t spend much time thinking about Rozanov except sometimes hatefully when it came time to play Boston, that he would be disappointed).

“I’m going to take it,” he decided. The curiosity would kill him if he didn’t.

Kip sat up to let Scott swing himself off the couch, but he didn’t go far - just to the kitchen, where Kip could still see him from where he was now twisted to peer over the back of the couch.

Scott answered. “Rozanov?”

Rozanov did not say anything. For a moment, Scott wondered if it had been a butt dial or an accident, if Rozanov was even aware that he was on the phone. He didn’t seem to be - except for the fact that Scott could hear the deep sound of his breathing on the other side of the phone, which meant that Rozanov had it pressed up near his mouth, which meant that calling Scott was surely a conscious choice.

“Rozanov,” Scott repeated. “You got something to say or you just going lurk on the line with me?”

“Old man Hunter,” Rozanov said, a moment later - almost in his trademark drawl, except for the fact that there was something off about his voice, though Scott couldn’t tell if that was just because he was hearing Rozanov over the phone for the first time. “I did not think you would pick up my call.”

“Neither did I, and I’m prepared to hang up if you’re going to be a dick.”

Rozanov laughed. “Not this time,” he assured Scott. “I wanted to tell you that - what happened, at Met, was not cool -”

“Oh, fuck you,” hissed Scott. “I’m not going to answer to you about who I love, and I’m sure as fuck not sorry about it.”

“What? Hunter, no -”

“Oh, so you’re about to tell me that you’re not meaning to sound like a homophobic asshole, Rozanov? ‘Cause I don’t quite believe you.”

“I am saying things wrong. I meant, Hunter, that is not okay that you do not get to tell world these things yourself, yes? I do not care who you are dicking down in your free time - though I feel sorry for your man. Is much too cute for you.”

“What?” said Scott. He was honestly bewildered at this point. “Wait, Rozanov - I wasn’t, like, outed. Me and my boyfriend talked about what it would mean going to the Met together. We knew that it was likely that it would end up online. We made the choice together - ‘cause I love him, and I don’t want to pretend that he doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Oh,” said Rozanov.

“I… Thank you, for your concern. But we’re all good over here.”

Rozanov’s voice was doing a strange thing again. “Yes. I see this now.” He paused a moment, and then said, “what you did was very brave. And very important, for a lot of people. They will be watching you - maybe they see is not as scary as it feels. Maybe they see is worth it to be happy and in love. What you did is going to change things - for more people than you know.”

Scott clutched the phone closer. He shook his head at Kip, who was looking at him with a wordless question in his eyes - one that Sctt couldn’t answer, because he was just as confused as he had been when he had seen who was calling. “Thank you.”

“Was it scary?” Rozanov asked. He hesitated. “Was it worth it?”

Scott considered this. The answer came almost easily - instinctively. “I was terrified. But it was less scary with Kip.”

“Kip?”

“My boyfriend. He makes it all worth it.”

Rozanov made a sound of delight. “His name is adorable. Kip. Ha!”

“It’s short for Christopher.”

“Kip,” Rozanov repeated. He sounded like he was relishing it. “I am glad was not so scary for you. I hope that it will always be worth it - for many people who choose to be as brave as you.”

“Thank you,” Scott said, again, because there wasn’t really much else that he could say.

“Boston are looking forward to beating you again. We do not care who you fuck. We will destroy you regardless.”

Scott snorted. “Thanks, I think. Tell me, Roz, are you going to stop be cryptic anytime soon?”

“Probably not,” said Rozanov.

Which, fair - Scott had not expected any differently, except for the fact that he felt as though he was missing something. And the mor Roz said, the more the feeling grew - as well as the insidious, sneaky feeling of suspicion that grew in Scott’s mind.

It was an impulse (probably ill-thought) that compelled him to ask, “next time you find yourself near New York, how about you come to dinner? You can stop being cryptic then. Meet Kip, if you want.”

On the couch, Kip made a strangled noise of surprise.

Rozanov was silent for so long that Scott thought that he might have lost him. Then he said, “okay,” and hung up.

“What was that about?” Kip asked, staring across the room at Scott with wide, concerned eyes.

Scott blinked, bemused. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

Scott should have expected it - but Ilya Rozanov didn’t seem the sort of person who obeyed social niceties like prearranging plans and RSVPing.

address, read the message that Roz sent him. It was the first message that he had ever received from the Russian.

Why? he sent back, frowning at his phone. He was picking up groceries, trying to decide what type of cheese Kip would like best, and didn’t think that it was that productive to be distracted by Roz.

in ny, came the reply, almost instantly, as if Roz had been waiting. was promised dinner. 7?

It was four now.

Scott sent the address. Then he called Kip, already crafting an apology in his mind and hoped that his boyfriend would not be too upset about the very last minute change of plans. Kip was not yet familiar with the way that the very laws of the universe seemed to bend to suit Roz’s whims, but he probably would be soon. He’d understand, after that, why Scott had given in so easily.

At least, Scott supposed, he was already at the grocery store. He and Kip had been planning on having a hockey player approved meal - pasta, chicken, a shit ton of all the protein and stuff that an athlete could dream of. Scott would just have to buy a little extra; Roz would have to accept what he was given. But, unable to wholly abandon ideas of hospitality, he did obligingly add a bottle of vodka to the basket - he knew that Rozanov was partial to a glass.

Ilya Rozanov arrived half an hour after he said he would, which - considering he had been the one to name a time when he had invited himself over - would have been inconsiderate if not for the fact hat Kip and Scott had not started cooking as early as they would have liked to and were therefore running behind. This, of course, was Kip’s fault, who had looked so fucking sexy in the apron that he had stolen from his parents house to wear when he and Scott cooked together, and even fucking sexier considering the fact that the apron had not been enough to cover the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. This was, Kip claimed, to stop him from getting the nice shirt he planned to wear for their dinner dirty, but Scott believed that there were also ulterior motives at play.

All that said, they were much better prepared at half seven than they would have been on the hour, which meant that Scott was only a little bit stressed when he heard the knock on the door. He had briefed the doorman about Rozanov’s visit and instructed that no one else be allowed up, which meant that there was really only one person that it could be.

Scott answered the door. Rozanov was already smiling his familiar, shark-like grin, and Scott had the dawning feeling that he had made a mistake in organising this.

But it was clear that Roz had at least put in some effort, with his wild curls styled neatly back and a nice coat that he wore over a button down (emphasis on the down, because there was a truly horrifying number of buttons unfastened, which left the neckline plunging down Roz’s sternum) and nice pair of slacks. He had a bottle of wine in his hands - the cheap-ish sort of wine that you bought from a store wen you were trying to look fancy but only really cared about getting pissed.

Scott drew Kip forward by the hand. “This is Kip,” he said, “my boyfriend.”

Kip stuck his hand out for Ilya to shake. “You must be Ilya Rozanov. I saw you being an asshole to my boyfriend on television. I can’t say that it’s nice to me you yet.”

“Kip!” said Rozanov. “Ah, you are feisty. Too quick for old man Hunter. I like you. What are you doing here?”

“Insulting my boyfriend isn’t going to help your case much,” Kip remarked dryly.

Rozanov held both hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Peace,” he said. “I come in peace.”

“You can help set the table,” Scott decided, and sent Ilya for the place setting and cutlery. “There’s vodka in the cupboard.”

This, Roz examined, tilting the bottle this way and that way. Then he set it back with a frown and said, “I will buy you proper vodka. Russian vodka. Is not your fault that Americans cannot make good vodka, but I will educate you in these things. You will thank me.”

Scott rolled his eyes, moving to help Kip plate up the portions of pasta, ferrying them to the table which - to his credit - Roz had done a very neat job of setting up, though it wasn’t by any stretch a difficult task. They ended up all crammed around Scott’s table, which had never seen as much use as it had in the past couple months, with Scott and Kip beside each other and Roz on the other side. It made it slightly awkward - like Scott and Kip were facing off against Rozanov. Roz was looking back and forth between them, eyes light with amusement.

“So,” he drawled, twirling a forkful of spaghetti around and around, “Kip. Kip. What is is you do, besides support retiring hockey players?”

Kip rolled his eyes. “I work at a smoothie shop, at the moment, but I’ve actually applied for grad school at NYU. History, art history - I’d like to do curation or something at a museum. Anything, really, except work at a museum café.”

“My mama was an artist,” said Rozanov.

Scott frowned. He’d never really thought about where Roz came from. Really, he’d assumed that he’d been summoned in some demonic ritual and set loose from his pentagram to wreak havoc on the world. “Really?” he asked.

“Da. She liked many beautiful things and art was very beautiful to her. She wanted me to like beautiful things as well, but I cannot draw even stick figure. Was terribly sad for her that I can beat a guy unconscious but cannot draw a tree.”

“Did she paint?” Kip asked curiously.

“She did a lot of things. Paint, yes, but drawing and - er, what is word for clay? Sculpt? Yes. This she did also. She had a lot of time when me and my brother were born. She was stay-at-home mama. But… hm, she wanted to make mark upon world, so that she would not be forgotten.”

“Do you have some of her paintings?”

Roz paused, a series of complicated expressions crossing over his face. “No,” he said, eventually, with the sort of finality in his tone that suggested he did not want to talk about this anymore. “I do not know if any exists anymore.”

“What are your opinions on modern art?” Kip asked, deftly moving the conversation away. Roz took the offered olive branch with visible relief.

“I am much smarter in Russian,” Roz said, when he caught Scott’s slightly incredulous look at the very informed, very academic flow of conversation about art that Roz was able to keep up with. Scott had never been able to understand much of what his boyfriend spoke about, though he liked to listen to him and hoped that he was absorbing something by the process of osmosis, and so was happy to lean back and let them go at it. It was nice to see Kip getting to interact with another part of the hockey world that was not turning its back on them and Scott was determined to savour the sight of it.

And to tamp down on the curiosity broiling under his skin about why Ilya was there. He had his suspicions, but voicing them would be… humiliating, if he was wrong, and maybe dangerous if he was right.

And then, as if he was reading Scott’s mind, Ilya declared, “the lover that Hunter is desperate for me to talk about is also not art person.”

Scott joked on his bite of pasta. “What?”

“I know why you invite me to dinner, Hunter. You hear me being number one ally and assume that I am irresistible to many gay men. Is true - I am irresistible to all. But I do not have male lover to brag about in front of your Kip.”

“I really thought you were trying to tell me that you’re…” Scott trailed off, waving his hand about to try and encapsulate what he was thinking.

Roz shrugged. “Is true. I am little gay - the word is bisexual, however.”

“But you don’t have a…”

“I did have someone, but he is not ready to be out.” Roz’s voice… trembled a little, and Scott had never heard him sound like it. “Was nothing official - was not really serious. Just fucking, but is over now.”

“How long were you fucking?” Kip asked.

Roz’s smile was a brutal thing, all teeth. “You don’t want to know.”

Scott asked, “are you ready to be out?”

Roz immediately shook his head.

“Then why would he end it? Why not just keep it secret and be together?”

“He is, er, in the public eye like we are. He sees your museum date and thinks that you are outed against your will, which is his worst nightmare, I think. So, is easier to cut me out of his life. Nothing to find out then, yes?”

When Scott and Kip had talked about this, they had talked about how maybe Scott could be the first - the first, in that, people coming after him would see him and see their happiness and it would be proof that they would not have to live with the fear of it all for as long as Scott had. Looking across at Roz… he’d failed in that and not even known it.

“Fuck,” he said shakily. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Roz demanded. “Do not be stupid. I mean it when I say that what you do is important for many people. Is proof that - that people like you, like us, can exist and fuck everyone else who says different. Maybe is not working for me… but I feel less alone with this secret. And my love, I think one day this will give him the bravery to be himself, openly loved as he deserves. Maybe is not with me - is so complicated and I cannot blame him - but it will be with someone, and he will owe this happiness to you.”

Scott frowned. “I didn’t take you for a martyr, Roz. You ever thinking about you happiness in all of this?”

Like the thought of this was a terrible imposition, Rozanov rolled this eyes. “Is not about this. I tell you these things because want you to know that you are not alone. Publicly, maybe yes, but I think this will be different soon. Maybe I will join you, when my father dies I do not go back to Russia anymore.”

Scott exhaled shakily. “That’s a lot to put on a guy.” he informed Roz, unsure of where he should begin to unpack everything.

Roz grinned, stuffing a large mouthful of pasta into his mouth, practically distending his jaw to swallow. “You must get used to this, Hunter,” he said. “You are game changer, changing the game. Many people are going to be putting this on you.”

“An ordinary, light dinner with friends is going to be impossible for a while, isn’t it?” Kip observed idly. He topped up Ilya’s wine glass with a heavy hand. “But I think that we’re going to be good friends, Ilya. You aren’t alone either.”

Shane knew that the way he was behaving wasn’t normal, and he knew that his parents knew that something was up with him and that they were concerned. He saw it on their faces every time they saw him - when they visited his apartment, or went to lunch with him - and saw it in the way that they were making excuses to see him everyday, even when this was not their usual routine for when Shane was in Montréal.

Still, he couldn’t help it.

It had been twelve days since Scott Hunter had been outed, and therefore twelve days since Shane had blocked Lily on his phone and any platform that he could have used to get in touch with Shane. It had been eleven days since Scott Hunter had posted a statement that confirmed that his ‘outing’ had not been accidental - that it had planned, that he was happy, that he had chosen it and would choose it all again if he had the chance.

It had all been making Shane a little bit insane. Because fuck Scott Hunter, who was a thousand years old and got to be happy and in love with his boyfriend. Fuck Scott Hunter, who had not spent years terrified that his relationship could be found out any moment. Fuck Scott Hunter, who apparently did not carry the same weight that Shane was when it came to be a role model for the hockey, even when had Shane had assumed that this was the one thing that they would both be able to understand. Fuck Scott Hunter, because Shane was so devastatingly jealous of him that he wanted die - because he could have, or would have, what Hunter to got have. He could not ask for it, because asking for it would be the selfish thing that Shane could ever.

Ilya would never be able to go home. He could lose hockey. Lose everything. And Shane could not do this to him, because Ilya meant something to him. Because Ilya meant almost everything to him, and that thought was exhilarating and terrifying and the most terrible thing that Shane had ever thought. All the careful walls that Shane had constructed to keep this inside had crumbled away to almost nothing; he was falling to pieces and there was nothing to stop him from vanishing entirely.

He’d taken to watching the Admirals play whenever he got a chance, in his living room with the volume down low or hunched over his phone in a hotel room, either catching the game live or catching up with the highlights. The volume was low because no one was talking about hockey. Shane wanted to talk about hockey. But he listened, anyway, helpless to do anything but, even when he made the token gesture of turning down the volume. His breath caught, often, because the cameras would now and then turn to the stands and Scott’s boyfriend would be there, smiling and waving and laughing.

Everyone had opinions about it. If Scott and his boyfriend heard them, they didn’t seem to care.

It would be nice, Shane thought, to not care about these things.

He didn’t watch Boston’s games.

It was a cowardly move… and more cowardly because Shane couldn’t commit to keeping away. He always made sure to tune into the post-game press scrum.

He thought of this like he was an addict trying to quit - a smoker who had thrown away their last pack of cigarettes but spent their time hanging around in smoking areas, inhaling the aromas of other people’s cigarettes and half hoping that someone would offer to let them bum one. The pack of cigarettes, in this case, was Ilya Rozanov; Shane watched him avidly, all the hard, muscled lines of him, and the planes of his body, and knew him almost as well as he knew himself. It was hard to remember that this was not supposed to be the case anymore when Ilya wandered onto camera, shirtless and smirking, baring the skin that Shane had spent their entire careers marking up, and when the sound of Ilya’s voice made him feel like he was wine-drunk and giddy.

“Can you comment on the situation with Scott Hunter?” he was asked, often.

And Ilya would frown and tilt his head like he was thinking and ask, “what, that he is slow and old? Is not news to me.”

“No,” the reporters would clarify. “The situation with his… personal life. Is it a distraction?”

“I do not think much about who Hunter wants to fuck,” Ilya would reply, “except that his boyfriend is much too pretty for him. I think is good thing that Hunter shows you can find love at any stage in life - even when you spend weekends dusting out your crypt.”

Shane would watch these interviews and they would make him irrationally angry - because how fucking dare Ilya be so unbothered by the idea of being found that he did not hesitate to link himself to Scott Hunter. How dare Ilya be braver than Shane was letting himself be. How dare Ilya seem, at every juncture, to be proving to Shane just how stupid he was being, how Shane had given up the one thing that he thought might make him happier than hockey when he could have kept it.

Shane was done cutting himself down to suit the opinions of people who would never know him. He was done listening to the narrow-minded, judgemental remarks of teammates who had never really understood him but play-acted as his brothers. Shane had always been an only child anyway.

He called his parents.

When Shane had been little, Yuna had been full of all of the terrors that motherhood could possibly conjure. She’d been scared that she would emulate the only mother that she had known, who she had loved but who she never wanted to become, especially with her own child; she’d been scared that Shane would grow up lonely or bullied or sad, and there would be something that she could have done better that might have helped him but never tried; she had been scared that he would get sick or hurt, and that she’d lose him forever and it would be like she had never had him at all. Shane had been her baby - a rainbow baby, a gorgeous, perfect baby - and Yuna’s dreams had been dogged by visions of him slipping like sand from between her fingers.

Yuna had dealt with this the way that she dealt with most problems in life: she made a spreadsheet. Eventually, as the spreadsheet grew and as Shane grew, the spreadsheet turned into a manual, handwritten in a series of spiral bound notebooks that most people would call journals but Yuna considered to be too informational. For some of the more pressing issues that Yuna thought they would one day have to talk to Shane about (like peer pressure and safe sex), she included colourful leaflets and posters that she thought might be handy visual aids one day. She did the same thing for questions that she had, like raising a multicultural child or how to tell if your baby had autism.

David, thought used to her peculiar neuroses, had thought that ‘The Shane Bibles’, as he called them, were ridiculously over the top.

But she thought that he was grateful now, consulting the ‘What to do when your child comes out’ section of The Shane Bibles in the car as they drove over to Shane’s Montreal apartment to discuss something serious, as Shane had put it.

Yuna had pretty certain that Shane was gay when she had written that section, in spite of the first pieces of advices on the leaflets that she had pasted in warning her about pushing her assumptions onto Shane before he was ready and in spite of the fact that Shane had had a high school sweetheart at that point. Her conviction had been a little bit shaken in the wake of Rose Landry, which had been a wild few months of trying to understand her son, but not entirely. Besides, she had reasoned, all her work told her that sexuality was fluid.

She was certain again now, having seen how Shane was acting in the wake of Scott Hunter’s coming out. He’d been twitchy and anxious and always flinching at the sound of Scott Hunter’s name, like he was trying to make himself small and unnoticeable, like he thought that someone would be able to look at him and see something that he wanted to keep hidden at all costs.

The phone call - Shane, asking them, in a strange and strangled voice, if they would come to lunch because he needed to tell them something - was the last bit of proof that she needed. Now, David was cramming her Shane Bible, though he had also read the section entitled ‘What to do when you child gets someone pregnant’, because he had claimed that it was good to keep an open mind and plan for many things in life. This was why they were made for each other.

“Have you memorised the acceptance speech I wrote at the end?” Yuna announced, as they pulled up at the curb outside of Shane’s building.

David snapped The Shane Bible shut. “I kind of feel like this is the sort of thing that comes more from the heart.”

“It’s bullet pointed.”

“Yuna, baby,” he said softly, “it’s going to be okay.”

Yuna accepted The Shane Bible back from him, hugging it against her chest, one hand drumming idly on the steering wheel. “But what if it isn’t?”

“It’s going to be okay,” he repeated, firmly, “because we love him and we’re going to support him no matter what.”

Yuna nodded. Then nodded again, more to herself, in the hopes that repeating the gesture more emphatically would trick her body into believing it.

When they knocked on the door, Shane answered almost immediately. It was as if he had been waiting for them and - knowing her son - he probably had; Yuna could picture him pacing, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for them, stewing in his own anxieties and unable to settle, and the image stung her. She hated that his was something that they shared - the tendency to spiral - when it should have been her job as a mother to take this from him, to somehow fix it.

He ushered them in, and Yuna, on autopilot, toed her shoes off at the door, all the whilst demurring his offers of coffee and food. She accepted a water, but only because her stomach was roiling with nerves. David, seemingly more at ease, swanned through into the kitchen with the bag of groceries that he had bought.

“I’ll make us pasta in a bit,” he explained, when he joined her and Shane sat at the table.

David sat beside Yuna, resting one hand surreptitiously on her knee just out of sight. Shane sat by himself on the other side of the table and looked very, very small. He was wearing a blue linen shirt that she had bought him, wrinkled and creased, and she wanted to scold him for not taking better care of it but the words got stuck in her throat, even though they were part of what she would usually tease him about. She was already failing at her own advice - treating her baby like he was normal, not strange and a totally different person. Her saving grace was that she didn’t think that he had noticed her stiltedness, looking almost seasick green and examining his hands where he pressed them against the table.

“Mom, Dad,” he choked out, and it was nearly enough to have Yuna discard the next step (let him come out in his own words, on his own terms) just because she couldn’t bear the terrified waver of his voice. “I need - I need to tell you something. It’s a pretty big thing and I’ve kept it from you guys, and I understand if you’re upset with me but I couldn’t keep lying to guys. I’m gay. I’m gay, but I’m still the same person that I’ve always been and… and -”

When he cut off, Yuna reached across the table for him. Her hand brushed his forearm, careful not to overwhelm him, aware that sometimes the sensory input of touch could either be grounding or distressing to him depending on his head space, and said, “Shane, hey, it’s okay. I mean… we’ve always suspected, a little bit, that you might be gay.”

He looked up sharply, eyes narrowed. “Really?”

Yuna swallowed, glancing beside her at David for support. “Yeah, we thought it was a possibility. We didn’t want to assume but you didn’t seem too bothered when you broke up with your high school girlfriend and you never really seemed to have much interest in other girls either. When you started dating Rose Landry we thought maybe you’d just been a little shy, but it was always a possibility that we considered.”

David added, “you know we’ll always support you, kiddo.”

It was like watching in real time as the worry dropped away from Shane, as his shoulders caved in around him and all the tension (much more noticeable now that it was absent, and Shane’s posture was looser and less guarded, than it had been) sloughed from him like water over a rockface. With a shuddery breath, his head dropped forward and into hands, fingers combing agitatedly through his hair and then smoothing it down a moment later.

Yuna longed to reach out to him. She didn’t know yet what he needed.

“Can I ask why you’re telling us now?” she asked - and this was her own curiosity getting the best of her. It was just that Shane had never really shown any interest in anything like this whatsoever - it wasn’t the type of person that he was, or at least hadn’t been, and here he was diverging from the picture of her son that Yuna had in her mind. It didn’t before her, per se; she just wanted to understand him.

But Shane’s shoulders were hiking back up around his ears, and Yuna couldn’t help but feel as though she had made a misstep somewhere. Before she could walk it back, Shane replied, in one long expulsion of breath like he was having to force the words out, “I fell in love with a guy and I told myself that I could do it and it was fine, but I’ve fucked it all up just as I was realising what he meant to me. And - and I don’t know what to do and I need your help.”

“I’m sure you haven’t fucked it all up.”

Shane looked up at her and his eyes were full of despair. “I have,” he said. “I have. I saw Scott Hunter kissing his boyfriend at the Met and I got scared, because I thought he’d been outed, so I ended things with the guy I loved and blocked him. I’m just - I’m so scared everyday that someone’s going to find me out, and then I’ll lose hockey and… and everything. I don’t know who I am without hockey.”

“No,” Yuna said firmly. “Okay, that’s it - no. You’re our son, our Shane, and you’re funny and clever and kind and so, so loved. And you are all of these things with or without hockey. None of this changes any of that. You could - you could be living on our couch and not paying rent and drinking milk out of the carton, and we’d still love you.”

“I mean,” said David, “I’d be pretty upset if you were drinking the milk straight from the carton.”

“But we’d love you,” Yuna reiterated. “Nothing is ever going to change that.”

David nodded in agreement. “Exactly what your mom said. So, tell us, what do you need our help with?”

Yuna could see Shane visibly reorientating himself. He was struggling, as she had assumed he would, with the more intense emotional side of it - her boy was emotional, not the hockey robot everyone like to pretend he was so that they’d feel better about the way that they treated him or spoke about him, but sometimes Yuna thought he was too emotional. He felt every so deeply that it overwhelmed him entirely, left him dysregulated and confused and unable to parse through his feelings as instantaneously as people wanted him to. It didn’t mean, of course, that anything he felt was lesser in any way. It was just expressed differently, examined a little closer before being broadcast.

She’d sprung a lot on him and, knowing him, did not expect an immediate acknowledgment until he’d had the appropriate space to understand and examine everything. But he would understand, which meant it was her turn to step back so that it could all sink in. This was where planning came in - to give him something practical to focus on, a framework by which he could orientate himself. The key was striking the perfect balance between the two - which was, sometimes, admittedly tricky.

“I want him back,” Shane said, eventually, each word measured and considered. He tapped the rhythm of them onto the table with his fingers. “I can’t keep this a secret anymore. I don’t want this to be a secret anymore. I want to love him openly. I want to hold his hand walking down the street and take him on dates and introduce him as my partner the way that my teammates get to. I want to tell people that it’s always been him. I need to. I think it’s killing me.”

Yuna frowned. She had not expected it to be so… intense. So serious. She was wracking her brains trying to imagine what sort of guy it was that would be able to capture Shane’s attention in this way, to recall if she had seen any tabloid stories about him being out and about with friends she didn’t know or recognise.

“Do we know who it is?” she asked.

Shane froze.

Her frown deepened. “If he’s also in the public eye, it’ll be helpful to know who he is. We won’t be able to help as best we could if we don’t know who he is.”

As if Yuna had asked him to extract his own teeth from his gums and swallow them, Shane replied, “it’s Ilya. Ilya Rozanov is the man I’m in love with.”

Her first thought was: Ilya Rozanov, as in the captain of the Boston Bears?

Her second thought: of course it’s that Ilya Rozanov. Do you know any others?

“But you hate him,” she said, bewildered.

“No. No, actually, I love him.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since rookie season.”

Okay, now Yuna was pretty certain that she was being punked. “You’ve been in love since rookie season?”

“No!” said Shane immediately, but then paused and considered. “Or… maybe. I think probably I always felt something for him, but we couldn’t call it that. It was too risky.”

“And it’s love,” she said, and wasn’t certain whether this was meant to be a question or not.

Shane’s face crumpled in on itself, tears rising to cling to his dark eyelashes. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I tried so hard.”

“Hey,” she said, alarmed. “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you felt you had to hide this from us.” She looked at David, who looked just as taken aback and upset at the sight of their son’s anguish as she felt, and he reached out for her, hand squeezing her in her lap. “Baby, we’re on your side one hundred percent, okay? I meant it when I said that nothing about how we feel is going to change. We’re going help you and we love you.”

Irritably, as if upset that he had let himself lose that fine tuned control he had over his emotions, Shane swiped away his tears with more aggression than she thought was deserved. But he was nodding, and his face was set in a new cast of determination. “Okay. I love you too… and I really think that you’re going to love Ilya like I do.”

“He sounds like he’s worth it,” David said.

“He’s worth everything,” Shane replied and it was the surest that he had sounded about anything since their conversation had begun.

See, Shane had had a plan, and that plan had started with playing the best hockey of his career. Unlike Scott Hunter, Shane didn’t have the safety net of a supportive team. He was certain that the Voyageurs would be fine, ultimately, with him, but he was also pretty sure that it would take them a while longer than it had apparently taken the Admirals to get their heads around it. He was also pretty certain that Theriault and other members of upper management would appreciate the buzz that would inevitably erupt around his private life - he was pretty certain that they would consider it a distraction from hockey, and Shane did not disagree with them (all he wanted, really, was to focus on hockey and the media could be pretty distracting) but he was sure that they would mean it a different way to him. That they would decide that it was better for the Voyageurs if Shane kept his head down and kept quiet - and Shane couldn’t do that anymore.

He also knew that the media was often more critical with him than they were with Scott Hunter. He’d known since the beginning of his career that he would always be compensating for all the things that he couldn’t help - the way he looked, the way that people saw him, the way that his brain was wired - and that there would be a point where the standard that was good enough for others would be seen as a black mark against him.

So, step one was to play some good fucking hockey. To prove that he was invaluable. To remind everyone that he was Shane fucking Hollander and there was nothing in the world that was going to change that.

Step two was to Ilya the plan.

It was towards the end of March that Montréal were facing Boston again, and Shane had already rehearsed several different ways of telling Ilya. Sending him his hotel room number and telling Hayden to clear off, as they knelt down to face off, calling him the second that he arrived in the city, corralling him after the game. His speeches ranged from composed and mechanical, driven by the very logical plan that he and Mom had drafted up, to wild and raving, fuelled by the strange sort of desperation that he only felt when he was thinking about Ilya or playoffs.

He decided that it was better to wait until after.

Better at least, to fulfil step one.

Ilya was not a distraction to Shane playing really good hockey but this was what he was meant to be proving. They needed to play the way that they normally did - as in, horny for each other, probably in love, and definitely not talking about anything. After, Shane told himself, and felt the excitement curdle with dread in his stomach, and knew that this was probably an indication that he was doing something right. Shane usually felt terrible in the run up to making decisions that were good for him, all twisted up and anxious.

But after never came.

They played a text book game of hockey, as brutal and quick and skilled as games against Boston usually were, and maybe Ilya was a bit more distant when he faced off against Shane, and maybe that frisson of tension that was still there between them as underlined with something unspoken and deeper… but Shane was certain that it would be fine. He was convinced.

Except, when he waited at the exit of the stadium, Ilya did not appear. He watched as the rest of Boston trawled past, feeling their attention crawling on his skin like spiders, but Ilya did not.

Should he call? Should he wait?

It was J.J. who answered the question for him, as the Voyageurs, ready at last and caught up to him, trooped towards the team bus that would take them to the hotel. He caught Shane by the shoulders, slinging one arm around them, and pulled him in close. He was wafting his phone around with his other hand.

“Have you heard the news about Rozanov?” he asked, leaning in intently. “Word is that he is not getting on the plane with the rest of the team to go to Nashville later.”

“He wasn’t injured, was he?” Hayden asked.

J.J. shook his head. “No.”

“Was he sick?” asked Hayden.

“No,” said Shane, and when they both looked at him, rush to clarify, “he didn’t seem sick.”

Shrugging, J.J. said, “I don’t know. Just that they are saying that he is not going to Nashville.”

Later, the news broke: Ilya Rozanov’s father was dead.

Scott and Rozanov becoming something like friends had happened so naturally that Scott almost didn’t realise that it was happening. It had started with dinner, and then the drinks after, and then the fact that it had been too late for Roz to drive back to Boston or get a hotel room so he had ended up crashing on Scott’s couch. Breakfast the next day had been slightly awkward, a lot more domestic and vulnerable than a dinner party, but nice. And when Roz had left, the texts had begun. Mostly chirping, granted, but it did not feel as sharp as it once had. Scott chirped back. He also got to ask Roz about stuff, like his day and what kind of music he liked, and got mostly genuine answers. He was pretty assured of the fact that the layer of sarcasm that remained was just who Roz was - nothing personal.

But he’d only realised that they were friends when Kip - who also like Roz, called him Ilya, and had exchanged numbers with him - told Scott that it was nice that he could be friends with someone on another team and have it not all become about hockey. Scott had gone to argue back until he realised that he couldn’t. So, friends. He didn’t mind this as much as he thought he would.

Really, it meant that Scott did not blink twice when he was woken up by the sound of his phone ringing at one in the morning and saw Roz’s caller ID on his screen. Kip shifted where he was sprawled on Scott’s chest, drooling slightly, and lifted his head just enough to grumble something that was either ‘make it quiet’ or ‘man the choir’, one of which was probably more likely than the other.

Scott accepted the call, pressing it against his ear.

“Roz,” he said, voice husky with sleep. “Do you know what time it is?”

But Roz did not reply with the chirp that Scott would have expected. Instead, his breath hitched audibly over the phone line, and then hitched again, like he was desperately trying to keep himself silent. Scott was familiar enough with the sound of someone trying to stop themselves from crying, but he had never heard this with Roz before. Coldness, slick and fast, dripped down into his stomach, a building dread.

“Roz,” he said, “are you okay?”

“Izvinite. Sorry.”

Scott pushed himself up into a sitting position, apologising quietly to Kip as he dislodged him. Kip blinked sleepily up at him from the nest of pillows he had landed in; there was a crease of worry growing between his brows.

“Hey. No, don’t be sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. My father is dead.”

Scott sucked in a breath, exhaling carefully. “I heard. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Is probably best. He was very sick for long time.”

“Doesn’t make it any less difficult.” Scott glanced back at Kip, who was sat up now. “Hey, Roz, I’m with Kip at the moment. Is that cool, or would you like me to step into another room?”

“Is fine. You can put on speakerphone.”

“You sure?”

“Da. I like Kip.”

Scott put the phone on speaker, the sound instantly amplified, and Kip pressed close against Scott’s side, leaning closer to the phone slightly as he said, “hey, Ilya. You doing good, babe?”

“I am sorry for waking you,” said Ilya. His voice was stiff, almost rehearsed.

“Don’t be,” Kip assured him. “Scott’ll owe you a favour now - you stopped me drooling all over him.”

“Sexy.”

“Not really.”

“What time is it for you over there?” Scott asked, cutting in.

“I don’t know. Morning. Sun is out.”

Scott frowned, exchanging a worried look with Kip. “Where are you?”

“Walking.”

“Where?”

“What does it matter to you? I tell you street name, you do not know it, we are in same position as now.” When Scott did not reply and the silence dragged on, Ilya said, “I am near Moskva river. I am sat above it. Is nice. Clears my head.”

“What side of the railings are you on, babe?” Kip asked, softly.

“I would not call you to kill myself on call with you. Is very mean thing to do. I am just sitting. My legs are over the edge, is all. I am behind railings.”

“We going to keep it that way?”

“I will tell you if I begin to feel like I want a swim.”

“Thanks,” said Kip.

“You shouldn’t worry about me. I am always fine.”

Kip rolled his eyes, despite the fact that there was no way that Roz would be able to see him. “You’re our friend. Of course we worry.”

“Friend,” Roz repeated.

“Tell us what you’re thinking, Roz. We aren’t mind readers,” Scott urged. He did not like the way that Roz was sounding, the way that his voice was ringing flat and hollow, like metal all beaten out of shape. It was a very far cry from the Roz that Scott was most familiar with.

“I am thinking that my father is dead,” said Roz, “and that I do not really know what I am supposed to be doing now. He was sick for very long time.”

Scott asked, “what kind of sick?”

“Dementia.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was not very nice man - he was… hard, on everyone.” Roz sighed, and the sound was weighty with the kind of words that Scott was pretty sure that he was struggling to force himself to say. Already, Roz had revealed more than Scott had ever expected him to. “He had a lot of expectations. I was never good enough for him, except for when he forgot who I was. He liked me then - sometimes.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t hard,” Kip chimed in. “I mean, he was your dad. It’s okay to feel complicated about it all.”

“Even if I say that I am not that sad?”

“Even then?” Kip affirmed.

“Is just… Russia is my home. It has always been my home. But there is nothing here for me now. I came back in the summers to make sure my papa was not dead, and now he is. My brother hates me. His daughter, my niece, she does not remember that much. My mama… she is gone also. When I bury my papa, that is the last of my obligation done. I have no more. I don’t have to come back if I don’t want do.”

“Do you? Want to go back?” said Scott.

Scott thought -

Well, Scott’s experience was different - a lot different. He’d been fourteen when he’d lost his mom - cancer, which he had watched whittle her away until she’d be almost unrecognisable, barely lucid in those last few weeks, and which had taken her away when Scott had not been with her anymore, but in his first term of boarding school. His dad he hadn’t ever known, which was fine, because Scott would probably never know him.

And Scott missed his mom, everyday, but he got to walk down the street towards his childhood home is Rochester if he chose it, got to visit her grave or her old friends or the old places that she haunted. One day, after the season was over, Scott and Kip were going to go together, to introduce his mom to the guy he was going to spend the rest of his life with. Scott know if he would have been able to bear the pain of it all, if it had not been for these assurances - if he had been dealt the hand that Rozanov had been. He did not know how Roz could ever be able to be expected to give it up, how he would be able to bring himself to. He also did not know if Roz could carry on the way that he had been all this time. Scott didn’t think that living the way that Roz did was sustainable.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I can. This country, it is not kind to people like me.” The last words were said in whisper - quiet, as if not to be overheard, and as if Roz could not muster the strength to say them with any bravado. Like they were shameful words to say. Like he could not bear to utter it into existence. “I could get married - my friend, Svetlana, I love her. She would marry me, if I asked her. So, we could get married and we would have children. We could raise them here. I think I could be a good dad. I would love them, my children and my Sveta. But it would not be him - Sveta would not be him.”

Roz’s next breath was ragged, but he soldiered on regardless. “But if I gave this up for him - if I gave up Russia - what would be the point? He will not have me. I would not have him. I would not have anything at all.”

“I think the point is that you would be happy,” said Kip.

Scott cleared his throat. “When I came out, me and Kip talked a lot about what it would mean. He didn’t want me to come out just for him, which was what I was thinking I was doing. He wanted me to come out because it was right for me - because I wanted it. Roz, if you do this, you aren’t doing this for anyone but yourself. You gotta give yourself a chance. Give yourself some grace.”

“I do not know how to do this. Choose for myself.”

“Why don’t you start now?” Scott suggested. “Think - just think what the next thing you want to do is.”

There silence, for a very long moment.

“I think I am going to see my mama,” Roz said, at last. “If I do this, give this all up, I can never see her again - her grave. I would have to let her go, forever.”

Kip’s eyes were shining. He clung on tighter to Scott. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that you have to do this - that the world asks this of you.”

“Me too,” said Roz. “I just want -”

He broke off and couldn’t seem to finish, making a strange, choked noise that sounded painful, like it was caught at the back of his throat.

“I know,” said Scott, “I know.”

Roz sniffled, and audibly began the process of gathering himself back into a functional, put together person. "Thank you for picking up phone,” he said, voice and accent thick with emotion.

“I’ll pick anytime, Roz,” Scott assured him.

“Thank you for calling,” Kip added. “We’re really glad that you called.”

“I need to go. But - I call later?”

“Call later,” Scott confirmed, “and we’ll organise another dinner party or something.”

“I will bring real vodka.”

“Sure, Roz. Bring real vodka. Bring whatever you want.”

“Later?” Roz said, as if he needed to confirm that Scott would still be willing to pick up his calls, to make sure that he wasn’t going to change his mind.

“Later,” Scott promised, and listened as the line went dead.

Roz was not really one for goodbyes.

Scott set the phone back down on the nightstand, settling back down into bed. He did not think that he would be able to sleep again, even though common sense was telling him that he was going to be exhausted when morning came - but every nerve of his body was still jangling with anxiety, electrified. Kip curled up close against Scott’s side, pressing into him, and that was how Scott was certain that Kip was just as worried as Scott was, the way that he sought comfort in the circle of Scott’s arm and pressed himself against Scott as if the pressure and weight of him, the reminder that he was there and with Scott, could provide comfort. It could. Scott pulled him closer.

“It just makes me so sad for him - for everyone like him,” Kip said quietly.

“Yeah,” Scott said.

“Do you think - do you think his ex is thinking about him? Knows what he is going through?” Kip asked, and then, when Scott looked down at him in question, said, “I just wonder what he’s like sometimes. You know, Ilya is so guarded and standoffish. He’s rarely serious about anything - but he always seems serious about his ex. It’s the look on his face. And I feel bad for his ex, giving up on something so good because he can’t see a way that they can just be.”

“I think it’s going to be okay,” said Scott, and was seized by sudden wave of conviction so overwhelmingly large that he wasn’t entirely certain where it came from. “I just have a feeling that everything is going to work out.”

“Really?”

“It worked out for us.”

Kip laughed, a little breathlessly, as he rolled over to face Scott. “Smooth talker,” he teased, and cradled Scott’s face in his hands, brushing his thumb carefully over Scott’s lower lip.

“You just inspire it,” Scott murmured.

He leaned forward and Kip was already moving to meet him, his lips warm and gentle as they met. Scott did not think that he would ever get bored of kissing Kip, in whatever form it took; he deepened the kiss, arms wrapped around Kip and pulling him in so close that he could almost pretend that they would exist, joined as one, and that Scott could lose himself completely. He wouldn’t mind losing himself, he thought, if Kip was with him.

Ilya was dreaming of Shane and his mama. The dreams had been becoming more frequently - since November of last year, when Ilya had said Shane for the very first time and gotten to watch as he walked away - but they were returning with a vengeance every night since he had returned from Russia.

In his dreams, Ilya was with Shane - nowhere in particular, maybe his house or the rink of a restaurant Ilya had been to years ago and didn’t really remember anymore - and his mama was there too. But he wasn’t with her. She was across room, or down a corridor, or outside and he was looking at her through a window.

“Look, Shane,” Ilya would say. “Look, is my mama. She’s come back for me. I want her to meet you.”

And Shane would look at him, and he would be smiling, and he would say, “hurry then.”

And Ilya would try. He would run. He would yell her name. He would beckon her to come closer. It was never enough. She never heard him. She wouldn’t even turn to look at him, and all he would be able to see was her white nightgown and the tumble of her golden curls. He would picture her turning around, looking at him and smiling, and he would realise - even in the dream - that he could not remember what her face looked like, but if she turned to look at him -

But she wouldn’t. And Ilya would turn, and Shane wouldn’t be there either. He would be left where they had started, and Ilya would be caught between the two of them, unable to reach either. That was where he usually woke up - begging, weeping, pleading with one of them, both of them, just to come, why wouldn’t they come to him? He didn’t understand why it was always him who was getting left behind. He didn’t understand why he loved them both so terribly and neither of them wanted to be near him.

He would never see his mama again - not even her grave. He would see Shane again - their jobs made it impossible to avoid him - but Shane would probably never be his again. It would almost be worse, in a way, seeing everything that he might have had in a nicer world and knowing that Shane wanted it too, and knowing that it was everything he was never going to be able to have.

After the dreams, it was impossible to sleep again. Ilya had tried, once, and it had felt like his skin was being peeled away from his bones, so he’d given up. Now, he would scroll through his phone, eyes aching with the glare of the screen, and hope that he could lose himself in the numbingness of it all. He’d lie there until morning, and then he’d get up and he’d make breakfast, and he’d eat it and he’d pretend that it didn’t all taste like ashes. It all left him in a terrible mood - crabby and antisocial and mostly wanting to melt into the floor and disappear forever. Sometimes, when he got like this, he’d call Hunter and let him distract him; sometimes, he would sit and glower at wall until he had to be somewhere, like morning skates, where he could take out all his aggression fruitfully.

He’d chosen to do the latter when Cliff sent him the message. It was pure dumb luck that Ilya had decided that biting Marley’s head off if the message was shit outweighed the gratification of leaving him on delivered.

have u seen, Marley’s text read, and beneath that: Marley has sent a link!

Ilya clicked on it. It was not porn.

Recently, I have been thinking a lot about matters in my private life - deciding what it is that is important to me, how I would like to be remembered, and what would make happiest. Whilst it has been a long journey, I’ve decided that it is time to be honest with myself and with the fans: my name is Shane Hollander. I play hockey for the Montréal Voyageurs. I have won two Stanley Cups. I am captain. I happen to be a gay man, and have been throughout all my career and achievements.

This doesn’t change anything about me. I am still the same Shane Hollander who has been playing hockey all these years. I am just making the choice to live as my authentic self, to channel the bravery that many people recently saw in Scott Hunter. To Scott, I owe you my thanks and gratitude for being the first, which is never easy, and my promise that you will not be last or alone. Your actions have paved the way to a better, more inclusive NHL that we will all share.

To my parents, thank you for always supporting me and loving me, for pushing me to be the best version of myself and the happiest. To my friends, thank you for being there for me and for accepting me. To my teammates and my fans, thank you for having me on your team and letting me play this game that we all love. To my loved ones, and to anyone who is feeling lonely and lost out there, this is for you, with gratitude and hope.

- S.H.

Fuck. It wasn’t porn.

Ilya’s hands shook and he read the statement again, and again, and again, and he half expected for the words to change and shift, for this to be some strange figment of his overactive imagination, still burdened with the same desperate want of his dreams. But it didn’t. The words stayed the same. The account handle and the signature and the picture of Shane in his jersey on a bench in the locker room, the slightest of smiles curving his lips, stayed the same.

Ilya’s hands shook and he navigated to his contacts, scrolling down until he found Jane.

He pressed Jane’s contact, and he listened as it contacted.

“Ilya?” said Shane, his voice breathless and disbelieving.

“Is this real?” Ilya asked. His voice trembled.

“It’s real. It’s real. Ilya, I’m - fuck, I’m sorry. I was so scared, but I - I was more scared of losing you, I think. I want - I want.”

“I know. I want too.”

Shane took a deep breath. “Ilya, I was going to ask you - Will you come to my cottage this summer? Don’t go to Russia. We’ll have so much fun. We could have a week or even two, or even longer. We’d be together.”

It was everything that Ilya thought he’d ever wanted.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I’m coming to the cottage.”