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Standing on the dock by the lake, Shane scrubs his towel through his hair before letting it fall to his shoulders. Ilya’s hair, when he looks back, is a mess, the curls fuzzy in the aftermath of a quick towel dry.
He’s adorable.
Grinning, they race up the path to the cottage. Shane reaches the flagstones of the patio first, turning around in triumph, letting himself be captured. He wraps his arms around Ilya's neck in return, stretching up the few inches needed to kiss him. Even after a few days, it makes him giddy, because they’re allowed to have this now. There’ll be complications, of course, but they can figure it out. They’ve spent the last eight, nine years trying to run from this, trying to hide from themselves, and now... now they get to share their lives.
It’ll take a while, and a lot of work, but they can do this. NHL and being gay. Professional hockey and loving each other.
“Do you want pasta from last night or hot dogs?” Shane asks, doing his best to ignore the slide of Ilya’s hands from his waist to his ass.
“Mm, hot dogs,” Ilya says with a wicked smile and fuck, Shane loves him so goddamn much. Ilya pushes him backwards, pressing against the windows between the kitchen and the patio.
“Okay, we’ll need to let those thaw a bit.” Shane tilts his head back, lets Ilya brush a kiss against his jaw. “Any ideas for how we can spend that time?”
“I--” Ilya starts to respond but freezes, sudden tension invading muscles that had been sun-warmed and sex loose. “Shane,” he says, low and urgent.
Shane twists around to look inside, trying to figure out what has Ilya going still.
Dad. Standing at the kitchen island. Slamming a drawer shut-- the sound doesn’t carry, but the motion does. Rushing out the door before Shane can even get loose from Ilya's grasp.
He rushes after him anyway, Ilya on his heels, but Dad is already in his car and driving away before Shane can catch him.
“Fuck.”
“Shanya?” And Ilya’s accent is thick like it rarely is these days, ten years of Boston gone in an instant, something that might be fear curdling whatever warmth was left.
“My dad,” Shane half-explains, half-despairs. “I don’t-- They stopped coming over without calling years ago.” And his phone had been ringing on the table all morning while they played in the water and made out. “Fuck.”
His heart is jackrabbit fast, no way Ilya can't feel it where he has hold of Shane’s wrist. “Fuck,” he repeats, the only thing he can say, because this wasn’t supposed to happen. They had a plan! Or the outline of one, they just needed to nail down a few more details before they could start moving their lives around to make space for each other.
“Hey.” Ilya pulls Shane around to face him. “Shanya. We go inside, calm down, and come up with plan, yeah? You said they would be good.”
Shane lets Ilya bully him inside, kicking off water shoes, and grimacing at the tracked water and gross. He’ll need to clean that up, soon. Before it gets spread even further. He needs--
“Malysh. What do you need?” Ilya’s never seen him have a panic attack, not a real one, and if he doesn’t get a handle on himself, this is going to spiral completely out of control.
He had said Mom and Dad would be good. He’s mostly sure they will be. After they’re over the shock of it. Probably.
Shane doesn’t quite fall to his knees, just a deep crouch, pressing his shoulders against Ilya’s shins burying his face against his thigh. “I can’t-- this is a nightmare. I have literally had this nightmare.”
“Shh.” Ilya pets his head, fingers catching in still damp hair. They’re silent for a long moment before Ilya draws him upright, pulling Shane close. “Maybe time to wake up?”
Because then he’ll know. And for all he's pretty sure they'll be cool with it, he's not one hundred percent sure.
“They don’t talk to Aunt Isobel,” Shane blurts out. “And they never said anything about Joe, but—” And they were oddly quiet about Hunter. A resentful quiet. Shane thought it was because of the Cup but...
“We will talk to them. And then you will know.”
Ilya shouldn’t have to go through this again. He’s already lost his father and brother this year, and he doesn’t know Shane’s parents but he deserves someone to love him like that. And now he’s dealing with Shane’s bullshit.
“Okay,” Shane says shakily, pressing his head into Ilya’s neck. “Okay. Let’s... let’s get cleaned up and then we can go over.”
Ilya presses a kiss to Shane’s temple. “You said they would be good about it.”
He knows that. But the fear won’t leave him alone, won’t let him relax. Ilya tries to go to a different shower to get cleaned up-- probably to get it done faster?-- but Shane can’t force himself to let go of Ilya’s wrist, keeping him close. Keeping him in sight, where he can protect him. Not entirely certain who he’s protecting Ilya from, but someone, something.
(Russia, something whispers beneath the panic. The Voyageurs, something else whispers.)
(His mother. It will destroy Ilya to lose a second mother, even if this one is only an almost.)
Shorts, a button up shirt that feels like it is strangling him, but the right clothes have always been the best armor he can don. It probably means something that he feels like he needs armor for this conversation. Weapons. Stats and figures and an intimate knowledge of every game and public interaction he and Ilya have ever had together.
He thinks about offering Ilya a shirt too-- he only packed t-shirts-- but doesn’t. Nothing he has will fit correctly and and a shirt fitting badly is worse than not wearing one at all. Ilya probably doesn’t view clothes as armor anyway, not like Shane does.
“That’s… not going to help,” Shane says bluntly when they reach the car and he realizes that Ilya’s wearing an old Bears shirt, print faded but still clearly legible.
“Oh, they do not know?” Ilya asks, heavy with sarcasm. “They think there is some other hot blond named Ilya Rozanov?”
“Fuck, you’re right,” Shane breathes.
He manages to stretch a fifteen minute drive to nearly twenty-five, going well below the speed limit, trying to keep the summer dust down on gravel roads, slowing unnecessarily at the few intersections. He lets Ilya pull his hand away from the gear shift, tangling their fingers together and resting on Ilya’s thigh. Occasionally, Ilya’s thumb brushes across his own.
They’re adults. Their relationship is… both very old and very new, but honest for the first time. They have a plan, and he knows how to present that plan to his mother so she will get on board. It will be okay, almost certainly. He can handle some shock and disbelief, as long as they come around.
He reclaims his hand to park the car, collapsing forward to rest his forehead against the wheel. The curtains in the living room twitch, his mother checking to see who’s at their cottage. “Fuck. I can’t-- Ilya.”
“They are your parents,” Ilya points out, his hand trailing up Shane’s back to cup the back of his neck. “If they love you as second best player and on Voyageurs, they will love you like this.”
“Asshole,” Shane says weakly, but it does make him feel better. “I’ve won a Cup more recently than you.”
“Brad’s fucking knee.”
“And your ribs. You’ll get another one some day,” Shane reassures him. “Maybe you should stay in the car?”
Ilya looks at him like he’s lost his mind, and maybe Shane has.
“No, you’re right. Stupid. Sorry.”
The curtain twitches again, harder this time. Dad, and not even trying to be subtle about it.
Climbing out of the car takes more effort than it should, his knees feeling shaky under him, last game of the playoffs, penalty kill shaky. Ilya tries to edge in front of him, first in the line of fire, and something snaps into place.
No. They have done nothing wrong and Shane won’t let Ilya take whatever comes out of his parents’ mouths. His parents, his responsibility, same as if Ilya’s brother was here. He tangles their fingers together before knocking briefly on the door and letting them in.
“Hey, it’s me. Shane.” Awkward, awkward, awkward. Fucking hell. “I… think we need to talk?”
Both his parents stand from their seats in the living room, turn to look at him, and there’s a glass of wine in front of his mom and a tumbler of something amber in front of his dad and that is not a good sign. It’s the middle of the afternoon, for chrissake.
“Yes, I think we do,” Mom says, cutting off whatever apologies Dad may be trying to make. Or maybe he’s not trying to apologize at all, just explain.
Shane nods, squares his shoulders. “This is Ilya. Rozanov. But you knew that? He’s my…” fuck, no idea what goes there. Something, but they never talked about labels.
“Lover,” Ilya says solemnly, resting a hand on Shane’s shoulder and squeezing.
“No, that’s—” too much, not enough, demeaning, “-- gross.”
“But we hate him,” Mom protests, and Shane really doesn’t know how to explain anything about their relationship, but he knows this.
“No, I don’t. Actually, I kinda love him?” It comes out as a question, because he's the fucking worst. "I do love him."
“But he’s your rival. You’ve been in competition with each other for a decade, Shane. You can’t love someone who you’re always fighting with. And frankly, Rozanov’s an asshole.”
He doesn’t need to be touching Ilya to feel the flinch. “We’re playing a game, on the ice. He’s no more an asshole than I am a robot. Or do you think I hate Stéphane because we were always being matched up as kids.”
Mom sniffs. “That’s different. He’s your cousin.”
“And Ilya’s my boyfriend. We’ve been together for years.” Kinda, sorta. Close enough for this discussion anyway. They can talk about details later. If there is a later.
“No, you haven’t,” she insists flatly. “Because if you had been dating someone for that long, I would know about it.”
“The fuck?” Shane asks. "You don't know everything about my relationships."
“I am your mother and your manager. Of course I would know if you were dating someone! It’s my job to know these things! Between the morality clauses in your contracts and your reputation, I have to know.”
“I have no idea what you think you know,” Shane says firmly, because this is going so much worse than he thought it would. “But you’re wrong.”
He really wishes they could have this conversation seated. His knees are starting to feel like jelly again.
“I would know,” she repeats, snatching her overly full wine glass from the coffee table. “You have never kept a secret in your life. And my son is not gay.”
Shane barks out a laugh. “Are you also going to sign me up for fucking conversion camp? See if you can pray it away, since dating women hasn’t worked?”
“Shane—” Ilya murmurs behind him. A warning. Although what the warning is for, Shane’s not quite sure.
“This is his fault,” Dad says.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” Shane snarls, whirling around to glare at him. “I was gay in high school when Jessica thought I was a prude, I was gay over the winter when Rose had to come out for me because the sex was just that bad. I was gay when I picked up a bartender in Mexico and when I let myself be picked up in LA.” He owes Ilya such a blowjob for hearing this. He was already jealous of Rose and knowing that there are other men… they never promised each other anything until three days ago, but this is not how he wanted to have a discussion about past partners.
Mom opens her mouth again, like she can prove that she knows everything about him, convince him that he’s not gay-- like he hadn’t been trying to convince himself of that for years-- if she can just find the right evidence. Like flat denial and blaming Ilya will get them anywhere.
“Don’t,” Shane snaps. “Just. Don’t.” He has to get them out of here, now, before the anger breaks down into something else. Something much more dangerous. “I thought-- Whatever. Never mind. When you can have this conversation without insulting me or Ilya, let me know. Let’s go, Ilya.”
He lets Ilya steal the car keys out of his hand, lets him take the wheel and pull away from his parents’ cottage. He wonders if this is the last time he’ll be welcome here.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really thought-- a shock, maybe, sure. But not. Fuck.” Swallowing, he points away from his cottage, towards town. “We need to go to town.”
“Shane, malysh,” Ilya starts, but he falls silent when Shane shakes his head sharply.
“Just to pick a few things up,” Shane insists. “The hardware store. Maybe something for dinner.” They’d had a plan for dinner, a peanut butter chicken stir-fry, but it’s Dad’s recipe and he can’t-- no. Later. He can figure that out later.
“Okay,” Ilya says carefully, and follows Shane’s directions into town.
The thing is, he trusts that his parents won’t out them, won’t ruin them. There won’t be any dramatic leaks to the press about their relationship, or changes to his contracts. Not immediately, anyway. Maybe in the future, as those contracts come up for renegotiation, but he’s safe enough right now.
Ilya though…
“Is your agent Russian?” he asks bluntly as Ilya parks the jeep with an undeserved level of care. “Should you—”
“I have been looking. Pyotr is… well-known. Not many want to take his clients.”
Rose’s oldest brother, James. The agent. “You can talk to Farah. Or. Rose’s brother.” He needs to give Farah a heads up.
He needs to make a list of everything.
It’s not hard to change the locks on his cottage. He’s not worried about his parents causing problems, but he also thought they would be okay with him being gay. Changing the locks is… nothing, really, and gives them both another layer of security. Ilya can have his own key, can make the cottage his.
The grocery store is easy too. Ground chicken, some seasoning he doesn’t normally keep around, cheese. Salad greens, because he’s too fucking tired to do more than that. The locals are all used to him here, and it’s not like he’s the only player with a cottage in the area, so no one says a damn thing about Ilya standing too close.
His jaw hurts.
Selling his townhouse. If they can’t--
He needs to get his fucking act together. He has to make sure Ilya is safe, can’t get dragged back to Russia, even if Boston finds out and takes it badly. And of course they’re going to take it badly, it’s the fucking NHL; anything that’s not straight-white-male is an attack on the league, even the fucking women’s league, an attack on the men who pride themselves on being the best.
The Cup hasn’t been won by a straight captain since 2013.
He can’t tell Montreal.
They need a new plan. He won’t… he was iffy about bringing Ilya to Ottawa when he would have a support system, it was just the best solution he could come up with at three in the morning. Now he won’t. Montreal isn’t an option for so many reasons. A lawyer. Maybe James has a suggestion.
Maybe James is just as homophobic as the rest of the NHL.
Maybe Shane’s doomed them forever because he didn’t want to be bothered by his phone for a morning. Maybe there is no way out of this that doesn’t mean losing hockey for at least one of them.
Him. If one of them is losing hockey, it’s going to be him. His fault, his mess, and Ilya is so beautiful on the ice, powerful and in control.
He’s spinning out and he knows it, but he has no idea how to stop it. Even Ilya’s hand on his has stopped feeling real, sensation lost among everything else. The sun is too bright and it makes his shirt itch.
Why did he try to put on the right clothes for this? There are no right clothes, just clothes he can be comfortable in. Normally this shirt is okay-- worn soft after years of wear, he had to stop throwing it in the dryer because it was starting to get thin spots-- but now it itches.
“Almost there.” Ilya pokes his thigh a couple times, emphasis. Or maybe to distract him from his spiraling brain. “We will eat lunch, and do hardware things, and make dinner. Then we will make new plan.”
“How are you so calm? Shane demands. “This is your life.” He’s going to be having nightmares about this, about how wrong he was, how wrong this could still go. He lives his life with a low-simmering anxiety, but this…
“One of us has to drive the car, solnyshko.” It’s a non-answer and suspicious one, like maybe Ilya half expected telling Shane’s parents to go wrong always, and just allowed Shane hope. “You cannot. So.”
“You knew it was going to go bad.”
Ilya shrugs. “I did not know. But I think I have more experience with disappointed parents, yes? You are perfect son.”
“I’m not—” Shane breathes out, ignores the gathering wetness in his eyes. “They’ve always been proud of me.”
“You are Shane Fucking Hollander. They should be.”
Dad’s car is parked in front of the Cottage when they pull up to the house, neatly, like they’re not all having really bad days and would benefit from some time apart. Like Shane didn't tell them to figure themselves out before contacting him again less than two hours ago. He picks up his phone from the cup holder, spots about fifteen angry texts and half a dozen missed calls, and breathes out.
Part of him wonders if they can just… leave. For all that his mom insists that she knows everything about him (and isn’t that a laugh), he’s pretty sure she doesn’t know about the investment property near Centre Bell.
There’s no way she would ever have let it be if she knew about it and never seen it.
“You don’t have to be here for this,” he tells Ilya seriously. “You can go for a drive, or hang out on the dock. Call Svetlana or Marlow.”
“I think if I call Svetlana, I will tell her everything. Cliff too.”
Closing his eyes, Shane leans his forehead against Ilya’s, breathing the same air for a few precious moments. “Call Svetlana,” he says. “Tell her… whatever you want. We need someone in our corner. Tell Marlow too, if you want. He’ll have your back.” Just… don’t watch Shane blow up everything. “Not inside, though. The dock should be nice, this time of day. Or that chair between the fire pit and the northern treeline.”
“Shane?”
It’s a dangerous calm that’s taken over, the sort of thing he normally only experiences when his team have forgotten how to skate during playoffs, or when they’re doing something so manifestly stupid that he wonders how they can tie their skates at all. “I got this, baby. Call your family.”
He’s not sure how Ilya feels about Marlow being his brother, but Shane knows enough about their relationship to know that’s a lot closer, and healthier, than Ilya’s relationship with his actual brother. His relationship with Svetlana is more complicated, and absolutely none of Shane’s business.
He points Ilya at the small path around the house, and watches him go before squaring himself. If this is going to end in a fight, he’ll end it. This is big enough to be worth the penalty minutes.
The house is as dim as it ever gets on sunny afternoons, the blinds still partially drawn from this morning, the surrounding trees shading some of the windows and keeping it from being too bright in the shared living spaces. He loves it here.
He wonders if it's ever going to feel like home again.
His parents are seated at the kitchen table, a glass of water in front of both of them. They’ve made themselves at home-- Dad has a crossword puzzle in front of him, Mom has a novel-- and look up when Shane drops his keys in the bowl by the front door and slips his shoes off.
The silence is deafening, and Shane has a momentary thought that maybe Ilya is right and he does need a stereo system, just to provide background music occasionally. Later.
“You came back,” Mom starts, slipping her bookmark into place. “We weren’t sure you would.”
“So you decided that invading my space was the way to go?” Shane asks coldly. “This is my home.” Fuck, he’s glad Ilya stayed outside.
“We’re not invading, Shane. We need to talk to you. Where’s Rozanov?”
“So talk.” Shane avoids the table, goes to the kitchen to put the ingredients for dinner into the fridge. They don’t need to know where Ilya is. Not when things are like this. “Since that’s what you want.”
“Hey,” Dad says sharply. He doesn’t need to say ‘be polite’ for Shane to hear it, but there are more important things at play right now.
“Do you know what this means for your career?” Mom asks, because of course she does. The fucking Voyageurs are the only thing that matters, certainly not how Shane is doing. “You can’t date another player, Shane. Throwing games just because a boy is handsome? And Rozanov is such an asshole-- do you know how many women he’s been photographed with? How do you even know he's serious about you?”
“Who the fuck said anything about throwing games?” Shane says sharply. “Do you let Dad win at cards?”
“I would rather die.”
“Have you let Rozanov win?” Dad asks. “I didn’t raise you—”
“For fuck’s sake.” Shane forces himself to breathe steadily, not start shouting. They deserve it. “Can you even hear yourselves right now? Can you? Accusing me of throwing games, of cheating, because I’m dating someone. I know my stats against the league as a whole and against Boston specifically. I know Ilya’s stats. We play better against each other. We always have.”
“That can’t possibly be true,” Mom says. “And even if it were, it doesn’t change what being gay will do to your career.”
“Look it up,” Shane insists. “If you’re going to accuse me of lying, prove it.” He can’t deal with the second part, not right now. Because he knows if this ever gets out his career will take a hit. He doesn't care.
Ilya is worth it.
“I don’t need to look up something that’s obvious.” He should have known that logic wasn’t going to work. Mom’s decided that they’re throwing games for each other, therefore they are. Regardless of what the numbers show. “I know Hunter came out, but that’s going to ruin his career too, and he doesn’t have nearly as many outside contracts as you do.”
“The homophobia of the brands you wanted is not my concern right now,” Shane says. “The homophobia of the league is not my concern right now.” He falls silent, hoping that Ilya’s conversations with Svetlana and Marlow are… less painful. However they’re going.
“Why now?” Dad asks quietly, cutting off Mom’s ranting about being ungrateful. “You’ve been straight your entire life, and now suddenly you’re gay? We know you pretty well, Shane, and there’s never been any sign that you were… like that.”
“Never any sign?” Shane barks out a laugh. He’s been paranoid about people noticing, knowing, for damn near ten years, and his own fucking parents thought he was straight. “On the basis of what? A couple of girlfriends that didn’t last long?” Jessica is even Micah now, has been for about seven years, not that he’s going to tell his parents that. “I spent just as much time kissing Joe as I did anyone else and we were not subtle!”
“You and Joe were friends. Of course you spent time with him. I know you didn’t have many friends in school, and maybe that was our fault, but that doesn’t mean you were gay.”
“No, but kissing him does.”
“Shane. You’re not gay. You can’t be. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just don’t know why you keep insisting on making your life harder, but you know you can’t just… be that. Not without repercussions that you’ve not thought through.” Mom clicks her tongue, like she’s said a universal truth and settled the matter. “Now send Rozanov on his way so we can figure out how to get your career back on track. You’ve not told anyone else, have you? The more people who know—”
“Fuck that,” Shane cuts her off. “You really think I’ve been hiding my entire fucking life without having thought through the consequences? Me? The son of Yuna and David Hollander who got diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at ten? Of fucking course I’ve catastrophized every single fucking thing that could happen!” He huffs. “But you know what I never doubted? Not until today? That my parents would love and support me. I thought about telling you for years, didn’t get a chance, and now… now I guess I know why it never felt like the right time.”
“Of course we love you and want to support you,” Mom says, hurt clear in her voice. “Part of that support means telling you when you’re wrong. Dating an abusive womanizer? That’s wrong, Shane. And you know it. That’s why you’ve never said anything to us. You didn’t want anyone to point out the red flags.”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” Shane says, voice going cold again. “You want to insult me, fine. Whatever. But Ilya has done nothing to you. Get the fuck out.”
“Shane—”
“I said, get the fuck out of my house.” Shane pushes away from the counter where he’s been leaning. “Stand the fuck up, get out of my house, and expect some NDAs. I won’t let you put his life at risk because you’re bigots.”
“Being outed isn’t a death sentence anymore,” Dad says. And Jesus Fuck, they really are just intent on being those people. And Shane would put up with it if it was just him, because who else does he have, but he’s not going to let them hurt Ilya. Not like this.
“And what was Mom just saying about the League? And my career? It’s his League and career and motherfucking visa too.”
“Maybe if he gets sent back to Russia, you’ll both figure some things out.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” He stares at them both, no longer hoping that they’ll figure out that they crossed the line several miles back. “Leave,” he repeats, and picks up his phone. He’ll call the cops if he needs to, for all that he’s big enough that he can physically eject them both, just to start the fucking paper trail needed.
“Call us when you’ve calmed down,” Mom says with a huff, picking up her book and purse like she’s doing him a favor. “We can talk about this again when you’re capable of discussing it like an adult.”
This isn’t a fucking trip to the lake, or amusement park. Or even staying out past curfew while still living under their roof. This is his fucking life, and he’s twenty-goddamn-six years old and hasn’t been living under their roof since he was fifteen. There’s nothing to discuss. Not with them anyway.
He follows them outside, watches as they get in their car and drive away, before he goes back inside. He needs to make a plan. Needs to figure out how to get Ilya safe, call Farah, rearrange his entire fucking life.
The table is still too angry, and he can’t bring this level of emotional upset into their bedroom. He won’t. The couch in the den feels too precious-- they’ve had heavy conversations there before, but not like this. He doesn’t want to have this conversation hanging over them every night while they wind down before bed.
His restlessness and leftover anger drives him outside, snatching up a pad of paper and pen as he goes, searching for Ilya. It only takes a quick glance to tell him that Ilya’s not on the dock, or the patio, so he must be in the chair by the treeline.
The grass out here is kinda scraggly-- too much shade to grow well, mowed too frequently to go to weeds-- and rough on his bare feet, but Shane doesn’t care right now. Not when Ilya’s dragged the sturdy wooden chair into a patch of sunshine and is sitting with his legs spread while talking on the phone.
Fuck.
Ilya must be on the phone with Svetlana, because he’s speaking in Russian far too fast for Shane to even pick up individual words, tone not really light-hearted, but not as annoyed or tired as Shane has heard him with Alexei. His free hand gestures towards the house before flexing a couple times. Looking up, he sees Shane and a golden smile slowly blooms across his face.
“I need to go,” Ilya says, abruptly switching to English, and meeting Shane’s eyes. “Da, I will call in a few days.”
There’s no way the weathered plastic chair will support them both, but Shane lets himself be drawn into Ilya’s orbit, half-squatting to lean into Ilya’s knees. He just wants to be close right now, let Ilya hold him while whatever he’s feeling shakes out of him. If it was feasible, he’d pull Ilya’s pants down and suck on his cock until all thought fled.
But that’s not going to happen just yet. Later.
“Are your parents—” Ilya stops after a moment, carding his fingers through Shane’s hair. “Nyet. I’m sorry.”
“I really thought they would be okay with it,” Shane says. He thinks he’s said it half a dozen times in the last three hours.
God, has it only been three hours?
“Sometimes the people we love do not love us back,” Ilya says slowly. “Or their love is not good for us.”
“Who the fuck have you been talking to?” Because Shane’s pretty sure he heard that on some episode of Grey’s Anatomy or something. No hockey player talks like that.
“Svetlana is very smart.” Ilya shrugs. “She had therapist girlfriend, years ago. I never asked, but Svetlana must have. She told me on our flight to Russia that summer.”
“Sure.” Shane’s knees are starting to hurt, so he shifts all the way down to kneeling, still leaning against Ilya’s knees. “I don’t know that they’re bad for me or… no, they probably are. At least right now. Maybe if they… I don’t know. Apologize. Stop acting like we’re doing anything wrong.”
“I have lots of experience with parents who are bad for you,” Ilya admits. “We can figure out how to live without them together.”
Shane hums, exhaustion starting to hit him hard. He still needs to make a list, but sitting here with Ilya is better.
Ilya’s hand returns to his hair, combing through it carefully, undoing the small tangles that have formed. “Sveta says congratulations. To you, not me. She thinks I’m an idiot who should have locked you down long time ago.”
“You tried,” Shane says. “I ran away.”
“She does not care. She wants to get dinner when we are back in civilization.”
“If it’s safe. I don’t think they’ll out us, but—”
“If it is not, we will have take out.”
He’s too tired to spin up again, but the reminder still has Shane reaching for his phone. “I don’t think your agent can wait. Do you…”
“Inside first. Water. Then you can call her.”
Sighing, Shane rocks back onto his heels and then up, offering Ilya a hand out of the angled seat. Today should have been better. Instead, it feels like half his life has imploded.
Creating a list while he drinks the glass of water Ilya sets in front of him, eats a banana, settles him some, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Ilya doesn’t seem to calm down either, rarely going out of arm’s reach, never letting Shane leave his sight.
“Shane, you don’t call me after hours, let alone during the first week of July,” Farah says as soon as she accepts the call. “What happened?”
“I… nothing that affects you, yet,” Shane says with a wince. “But are you accepting new clients right now?”
“Yet is one of my least favorite words.”
“I know, or well, I assumed. But there are other things that need to be dealt with before I can go into it.”
Farah sighs, and there’s a clink, like she set down a glass. “I don’t have space for another client, no. But if this is an emergency, I can make it work until we can get them set up with someone else. I assume this is another player?”
“Yeah, uh.” Shane closes his eyes, squeezes Ilya’s hand. “Ilya Rozanov needs new representation. Or will soon, we think.”
“I don’t like scandals, Shane,” Farah says doubtfully. “Any reason Rozanov needs emergency representation, when I know Pyotr Bazanov is incredibly protective of his clients? The two of them splitting would be major news.”
“I… Farah, I’m gay. Ilya… My parents didn’t take it well.”
The line is silent long enough that Shane’s almost certain that the call dropped. “Fuck. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathes, and sets the phone on the counter between him and Ilya, pressing the speaker button. “I don’t think they’d do anything with that information? But I also thought they’d be okay with me being gay, so.” He chews on his lip for a bit. “I’m sorry.”
“That is not something you apologize for, Shane Hollander.” There's more quiet noises on the other end of the line, Farah opening her computer or tablet or something.
“Told you,” Ilya murmurs.
“Rozanov, are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I do not have room for you on a permanent basis. I’m sorry. But I can act as a bridge between Bazanov and whoever you end up with. Do you have any ideas?”
Ilya shrugs. “I can ask teammates. They will have suggestions.”
“I was thinking maybe James Landry, if you weren’t willing or able?” Shane says tentatively. “I’m still on good terms with Rose.”
“And now I know why that relationship didn’t work out.” Farah laughs. “Landry is a good call, actually. He doesn’t have much in the way of NHL talent, but he’s got a bunch PWHL players. Works well with queer players, has the experience to back up his talent.”
All the same reasons Shane had picked Farah herself, years ago, although he guesses his mom never looked too closely at who else she was representing. It had been obvious enough in Farah’s office, even if he never allowed himself to think about the photos on her walls or the subtle pins.
“Okay. Rozanov, I’ll send you a short term contract with me at Shane’s email address, along with a severance notification to give to Bazanov. I’ve got a couple immigration lawyers around too, we’ll get you started on that before anything can gain traction. At least I’ve already gotten my free agents sorted.”
“Thank you, Farah,” Shane says. “I’ll need to update some things obviously. But they can wait.”
“Yeah, of course. Those contracts should be in your email any moment, just get them sent back to me as soon as you can. Today, preferably. But I think you’re right, Yuna won’t do anything tonight. If you’re physically safe, you’ve done what you need to do for right now. Take a breather, we can talk more tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Ilya says, wrapping an arm around Shane and pulling him close. “Thank you.”
“Take care of each other,” Farah says, with far more warmth than Shane thinks this probably deserves. “Good night.”
“Night,” they both echo, and the line goes dead.
Shane checks his email for the contract from Farah and hands it off to Ilya to complete.
They never ate lunch.
He doesn’t want to cook. He doesn’t want to make Ilya cook. Not after this day, not after Ilya’s spent all afternoon taking care of him and is probably going to lose his home because of Shane’s fucking parents. Is never going to be able to see his mother's grave again.
He sets the leftover pasta from last night on the counter, still cold, refills their waters, and grabs two forks. They’ve absolutely done worse things in the last several hours than eat cold spaghetti.
They dump the empty tupperware in the sink when they’re done, and without discussing it, head towards the bedroom. They share the shower this time, for their third showers of the day, taking care of each other the best way they can right now.
Ilya moans while Shane’s working shampoo through his curls, and exhausted heat zings through him. Fuck. Okay. Kissing the nape of Ilya’s neck, Shane hurries them through the rest of washing off the day. Ilya’s dick is clearly interested in the proceedings, but Shane ignores it for the time being.
“Shane, malysh?”
“Not in here,” Shane reassures him. They’re too wrung out for anything athletic, and today will not be improved by concussions or sprains or broken bones. He wants to be close more than anything else. “On the bed.”
“Okay.” Ilya’s tired too, just hiding it better, or only now letting it affect him. Not surprising, Shane thinks. There’s no way today hasn’t brought up some bullshit from dealing with Gregori, or not dealing with him.
It takes them a bit to get mostly dry and into bed, they keep getting distracted by gentle touches and kisses, a reminder that they’re still here, still together, still a team. It’s his turn to be the caretaker here, even if he’s feeling pretty raw.
It’s barely six, the sun just starting to noticeably angle towards the west. Shane glances at Ilya, spread across the bed, curls awry, skin still damp, and leans down to kiss him, fumbling for the remote to the blinds.
Ilya deserves sunshine. But they still have to hide. A countdown started today until they can’t hide anymore, but for right now, he just needs to keep Ilya safe.
Ilya looks heartbroken as the blinds come down, cutting off the golden light playing on his hair. His mouth opens and closes a few times, not speechless but unable to say what he needs to say.
Shane can relate. He had watched Hunter’s speech at the Awards with dawning hope that something could change, would change. He was wrong: they can be together, but only in the same shadows that have always kept them silent. Silent, lonely, apart.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally. Again. “I’m so sorry, Ilya. We were supposed to be-- and—” Collapsing onto the bed, he pulls Ilya close, peppering kisses over his face, anywhere he can reach. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya lurches forward, burying his face in Shane’s shoulder. “Moya lyubov. Is not your fault. You made bad guess, and now we deal with consequences together.”
It doesn’t feel like it should be that easy, and maybe it’s not easy, but it simple. This part anyway. “I love you,” Shane says, because that part is always true.
“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Ilya repeats in Russian, leaning back so he can see Shane’s face. “Sveta and Marly will protect us. Farah will protect us. Rose too, yes? And Hayden?”
“I don’t know. I think so? But.” But he no longer trusts his own judgment. He knows they can’t trust the rest of his team, not yet. Maybe some day, when the locker room has shifted.
“If you are not sure, we do not say anything to them. Simple.”
“Yeah, simple,” Shane breathes.
“Now, it has been long day, and your boyfriend has been good,” Ilya says, mischief brightening his eyes. “I think he deserves prize?”
“Boyfriend?”
Ilya shrugs, hand coming up to cup Shane’s cheek. “I think so, yes?”
It’s too early for anything else, boyfriend will have to do. “Yeah.” Soon though, he’s going to ask Ilya to marry him. Just not when they’re both this upset. He wants to do at least something right. Letting out a breath, Shane grins before he starts crying again. “And yes, he deserves a prize.”
They’re on top of the covers, and still naked, so it takes almost no effort to slide down Ilya’s body, pressing his lips to moles and freckles and scars, reaffirming what they already know.
This is forever, regardless of whatever else happens. Sunshine or not, the weight of the world’s eyes on them, everything trying to turn to shit around them, they will always have each other.