Archive of Our Own

Shane can think of a million places he'd rather be than right here. He'd love to be in his apartment and setting up a Skype call with Ilya. Even better: he'd love to be in Ottawa if he could swing it. If those options are off of the table, he would be fine with going to the gym and doing burpees until the aches in his appendages become too intense for him to ignore. He could have left earlier with Hayden and now be reading a bedtime story to the Pike kids and getting pelted by a million questions about Pete the Cat or the Paper Bag Princess. He could be squeezing in a yoga session and watching a documentary about deep sea creatures before falling asleep to the low timber of the narrator’s voice. 

Frankly, he'd rather be watching his coach try reciting the official MLH rule book from memory in Aramaic than be in this restaurant, smushed in-between JJ Boiziau and Patrice Drapeau while getting his senses pounded by pulsating lights, the smell of frying oil, and loud reggaeton. Alas, Shane has decided that one of his goals for this season is to appear just a little more social with his team. In the past few weeks, some of them have noticed his withdrawal and seem to be on the precipice of– god forbid– prying into his personal life. This is absolutely not something Shane can allow. If sacrificing one quiet, pleasant evening every few weeks is what it takes to stop his teammates from wondering what's going on with him once he’s shed his hockey gear, then it's a sacrifice well-made. 

In summary: unfortunately, this is all a hell of Shane's own creation. 

"Capitaine," JJ breathes into his ear as he throws a large, strong arm around Shane's shoulder and leans in close. Shane can just barely hear him over the beat of the music and the amplified volume everyone around them is using to speak to each other. "I'm glad you came out with us tonight!" JJ cheers. 

Shane watches as Drapeau and Comeau immediately share a long, loaded look with each other.

He recently came out to his team, a move he simultaneously is proud of and deeply regrets with a burning intensity. He knew things would be different the second he finally ripped that particular bandaid off– his coming out would always be a point in time where two eras are divided. There would always be the clear-cut period of time in which the Voyageurs did not know about Shane’s sexuality, and the time period after. 

BCO and ACO, if you will: Before Coming Out and After Coming Out. 

The ACO era has brought Shane a sense of relief that he no longer needs to hide the fact that he is gay from his teammates, which is a relief heavily dampened by the fact that his team is absolutely not handling the whole situation well. It could be worse, of course. He has imagined the worst of the worst-case-scenarios time and time again in the deep, dark nights of his BCO era. He’d lay starfished in his bed, wide awake at three in the morning, imagining a future where his teammates express their disgust for Shane with fists (or, often, whatever else Shane’s imagination could conjure: hockey sticks, media frenzies, and in one strange dream, by being chased by a shockingly-fast zamboni that threatened to crush him). 

A more logical part of his brain, the part that takes over when there is daylight, reminded Shane that this was an extreme, and more importantly, an imagined outcome. More likely, his team would react with varying levels of disgust or disinterest. Maybe some already-fraught friendships would crumble a little more. Maybe it’d become a little harder to manage the room. Maybe everything would get just a smidgen harder. Then again, maybe Shane would no longer have to lay awake at night imagining what would happen if he slips up and his teammates figured it out before Shane outright told them. Maybe Shane could comfortably push the limits of the room without constantly fearing that they’d find out. Maybe he could finally devote more energy to his actual fucking job once he devotes less energy to hiding the fact that he’s attracted to men. 

Or, you know, his entire career could be over. 

Then, one morning, Shane walked into the room half-exhausted from another restless night, and Olsson told him he needed a haircut because his “shaggy mullet situation” looked “kinda gay.” Shane, not even looking in Olsson’s direction, just casually said “Well, I am gay, so that’s fine,” and that was that. There was no fanfare, explosions, fireworks, or panic attacks leading up to The Big Moment. It just simply happened. The bandaid was ripped clean off, the worst-case-scenario did not happen, and yet the room still changed forever. Shane blearily stepped into his ACO era without realizing what he had just done until the room fell into an icy silence and shocked him awake.

In the end, he’s still Shane fucking Hollander, a name which commands a certain level of respect. He’s still earned his fame, titles, records, and massive trophy room. He, since the day he signed his name on his freshly-printed Montreal Voyageurs contract, has been shown at least some level of respect. Even when veteran players tried to haze him in his early days as a Voyageur, the name Shane Hollander held enough weight to give them pause. He knows the respect is born from his blood, sweat, and tears, not because his team actually likes him. Respect is a very different thing than like. In a way, it may be better to say that he is tolerated. The ACO era has not destroyed his status in his room– it’s more that it feels stranger, now. He’s added another transgression to his laundry list of transgressions that would have made anyone else’s life a living hell, but because he’s Shane fucking Hollander…he’s managed to get away with it. Kind of. 

It’s starting to get a little tenuous.

And so Shane is here, plopped in a chair between two of his teammates, hoping that maybe being a tiny bit more open and social with his team can make the tolerance a little less fragile. Maybe they’ll finally see him as a normal fucking person and not some kind of circus exhibit. Maybe the guys who want to pry into his life will lay off a little, and maybe the guys who have begun to treat him like an unwelcome shadow will be a little more normal about everything.

“Happy to be here,” Shane says through his teeth. It comes out a little more robotic than he was hoping. It’s another thing he’s working on: sounding a little more enthused as he lies. He’d rate this attempt as a 3/10.

JJ raises his phone up and presses his cheek closer to Shane’s own. JJ smells faintly of alcohol already– he’s already a few shots deeper than the rest of the team because he knows the restaurant owner, an old friend who is hellbent on creating a fusion cuisine menu no one else in the city has even contemplated yet, and came early to “maximize the evening,” whatever that means– and Shane forces himself to smile in the direction of the phone. Tipsy JJ is a social media fiend who posts Instagram stories and Snapchats with reckless abandon. Shane knows that the phone being held aloft means that JJ is well on his way to posting a photodump so massive that the vast majority of JJ’s instagram followers will give up and swipe out of his story only 10% through. Shane also knows that the night is young, so this photo of him with JJ will probably be inside of that first 10% of the dump, which means he ought to put some effort into looking like he’s having a nice time, which in turn means he has to put on his practiced photo smile that looks acceptable to the average eye. 

It took a lot of work for him to train the strained, somewhat pained look out of his photo smile years ago. His mother made sure of it. She was the one who told a gangly, awkward preteen Shane, as she frowned at his most recent school photo, that he needed to learn how to flash his real smile on command for photographs. Sometimes young Shane shines through, despite his best efforts, and the tense smile comes back.

JJ lowers the phone and inspects his handiwork. 

“Hot,” he says. “The people will love this, Capitaine. They go nuts whenever someone posts a photo of you,” he says, smiling wide and slightly mischievously. 

Shane hums, feigning interest. People going nuts every time they see a photo of Shane is kind of a problem he doesn’t like to think about. It’s why he has to be so fucking careful all the goddamn time. Some guys can get away with a myriad of transgressive photos and still be fine by the end of the day; Shane knows he probably wouldn’t be afforded the same level of grace. His mother, at least, no longer texts him reminding him that You’re a role model, Shane. Kids are looking up to you, every time a photograph of him holding a beer makes its way onto the internet. Now, she’s begging him to loosen up a little bit. He wonders if he’ll ever find that mysterious sweet spot she wants him to occupy. Sometimes, he thinks that she might be quietly moving the goalposts centimeter-by-centimeter when he’s turned around, inching them to new locations in increments so small that Shane doesn’t notice their movement.

“You should post more often,” JJ continues. “All of your accounts– dead! So dead! It’s a shame, with a face like that.” JJ waggles his eyebrows and Shane immediately feels a sense of dread wash over him. Oh god, JJ is about to post a million photos of him, isn’t he? Or force Shane to do something stupid like write a tweet or post a selfie on his own instagram feed? The last time JJ got like this, he forced Shane to change his Facebook profile photo. It was such a pain trying to remember his password, and then he had to deal with a flood of Facebook messenger messages from people he went to middle and high school “just trying to catch up”-- or, in one particularly brave instance of shooting one’s shot, just straight up sending him a blurry photo of her boobs with an Apple Photobooth filter on them. 

Shane’s phone lights up in his hand, signalling that he has received a message. JJ’s eyes latch onto it. 

“We can take some nice pictures tonight, maybe something you can use on Tinder…or…Grindr?” JJ says. “If you need a good picture.” 

“Absolutely not,” Shane says immediately. 

“What’s Grindr?” Berkes asks. JJ leans over and whispers something in his ear, which makes Berkes say “Oh!” and blink rapidly in surprise. 

"You're always glued to your phone," Mitty comments casually, ignoring the whole Grindr thing. Through the layers of forced-casualness, Shane can tell there's more underneath the surface: a question, an accusation, or something…He just can't figure out what. "What's on there that's so interesting?" Mitty asks.

Mitty’s one of the guys Shane suspected might start prying soon. Well, actually, Mitty’s prying right now. It’s already too late.

Shane just shrugs. "I have a lot of emails," he says in hopes that it's a reasonable excuse. 

It's a stupid choice and apparently not at all believable, because Drapeau leans over slightly to confirm, and then barks out a sharp laugh. "He's texting Lily," he tells the wider group. He sounds shocked and kind of delighted about it, like he's just stumbled upon the funniest punchline ever. Shane kind of wishes Drapeau would at least tell him which joke it belongs to.

Or maybe he doesn't. Drapeau’s jokes have never been particularly funny.

Shane quickly glances down at his phone to check for anything incriminating. Thankfully, there's nothing much there. He has some lockscreen notifications from Farah via Gmail and a text from his dad that shows a thumbnail of a half-finished landscape puzzle. Nestled at the very top of the stack is a new text from Lily, which says I think the stupid canadian wolf bird is trying to kill me.

"Lily?" Andropov asks. 

"Lily!" JJ yells out. "That chick in Boston you've been texting for years!" he says, like the whole fucking table and the whole fucking restaurant needs a description of Lily. Hey everyone! Shane Hollander, captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, Olympian, and hockey superstar has been sexting this one girl for nearly a decade! 

"Weren't you hitting that?" Mitty asks. ”Are you…still? Hitting that?” he flounders, visibly confused.

"Doubt that," Drapeau sneers. Comeau snorts.

JJ suddenly looks very concerned. "Capitaine, I know some great guys if you need to meet someone," he says carefully. "You don't need to...force yourself, you know?" 

Bless JJ and his massive, stupid heart. The years of “forcing” himself are far past him, safe back in the hellish depths of the BCO era. 

"Thanks, but," Shane grits out. "I don't need you to introduce me to anyone. It’s fine."

"But—" JJ begins. 

"Oh!" Mitty exclaims, like he just made a major discovery. "Lily's a fake name, right?" Several shocked faces turn to him, like this is a brand new realization for everyone at the table. It's probably because this is the first time any of them have ever had to contend with the idea that Shane has fucked men while they all thought he was straight, which a small part of Shane thinks is a testament to the quality of his acting skills. Another part of him is kind of disappointed that his team is full of morons.

Fuuuck, Shane really wishes he went home earlier. Somehow, these morons are making great strides in uncovering Shane's secrets tonight. Faintly, he once again regrets coming out to them. The whole Lily thing makes less sense now that a group of loudmouths know Shane's preferences don't exactly align with the type of people who usually are named Lily. Maybe Shane should have changed Ilya's contact name to something more masculine but still fake-- something more obviously male and farther away from "Ilya" than "Lily" is-- like Lance, maybe? Then again, doing something like that would make things even more complicated when he isn't around his team. What if, someday, a fan takes a photo of Shane's screen from over his shoulder, and the fans who spend their days crawling through the gutters of Twitter see him sending romantic messages to a man?  He might feel comfortable enough having his sexuality slowly become an open secret within the league, but he definitely is not ready for the entire internet to know too. 

While he doesn’t completely regret coming out to his team, a small part of him…does regret it. This is too hard to manage. What, then, happens if his open-secret status gets blabbed about publicly? Like for instance, literally right now? JJ is five seconds away from loudly declaring to this entire restaurant that Shane is single and ready to mingle with men. This isn't some city in the Southern depths of the United States where sports like football and basketball reign supreme over hockey-- in those places, Shane can enjoy some semblance of anonymity in public. Right now, they're in Montreal. This is the place he is most likely to be recognized in public sans maybe Ottawa. If JJ says something too loudly, he’ll see his name and the word “gay” trending on social media within the hour, and then he’ll see it in the local fucking newspaper by tomorrow morning. There will be thinkpieces by the end of the week.

"Guys," Shane puts on his serious voice and hopes he can still pull rank in order to get these clowns under control. "Drop it."

Drapeau shakes his head. "Totally a fake name and totally a dude," he says, and Shane wants to cram a fistfull of akra into his mouth to shut him up, but that might cause more trouble than is worth it. It’d probably bring attention to the table, which is the last fucking thing Shane needs. At least Drapeau's voice is quieter now. Maybe he also doesn't want people around them to overhear-- in a fucked up way, it's homophobia working in Shane's favour; Guys like Drapeau also don't want the world to know about Shane's sexuality because then the world would know they're working under a gay captain. Something about that reflects poorly on them, or something, in their worldview. 

“Capitaine! You know, you could have told us if Lily’s your boyfriend,” JJ says, equally smiley and visibly a little disappointed, perhaps that Shane is still being so secretive with his personal life, or perhaps because he couldn’t set Shane up with anyone himself. “I must meet this guy, seriously, whoever this guy is, you’ve been talking to him for sooooooo long, he must be hot–”

“Drop it, please,” Shane begs. 

Luckily, Mitty listens and tries to take control of the conversation. "Anyone want to share some nachos with me? I could really go for some right now, but we gotta--"

"Ask for no jalapeños, we know dude," Andropov adds on. Mitty's always hankering for nachos but hates pickled jalapeños, so this comes at no surprise. 

"Can we get them on the side?" Berkes asks. "I like them."

Mitty gags. "Dude, no way, they're--"

Shane doesn't bother listening to the rest of the conversation. Once it seems like Drapeau and JJ's attentions are safely off of Shane and instead focused on the vicious debate at the table, Shane turns his own attention to his phone to address the mysterious killer Canadian wolf bird message.

[Author's note: if you have the creator's skin on, all of the texts in this fic scroll! Please don't pass by without scrolling through them!]

And then, just a few moments later, Ilya sends Shane a photograph of a gorgeous loon illustration behind some sort of plastic film. It's only fault is that there is a halo of bright, angry red surrounding it, and some of the lines look angry and raised. The surrounding canvas is blotchy red-and-beige flecked with a few brown spots. After a few seconds of staring, Shane finally registers that he's staring at a photo of a fucking tattoo on Ilya's bicep. He knows those flecks of brown-- Ilya's moles-- deep in his soul. That’s definitely his right arm.

After a few more seconds of staring at the picture, Shane finally registers that he has a photo of Ilya's brand new tattoo on his phone, out and open in between two of his prying teammates, at a table full of his teammates who all know he is actively texting someone named Lily, who is someone Shane has been texting and hooking up with for years, and now they're all thinking (correctly) that Lily is a man. And here Shane is with Ilya Rozanov's massive, irritated and freshly-inked bicep flagrantly on display with the name LILY emblazoned at the top of the screen, because he's a fucking idiot can't stop texting Ilya around his teammates. He's hopeful that no one else at this table is as obsessed with Ilya as he is to the point that they could recognize the arm: Shane would be in massive trouble if someone looked over right now and said hey man, is that Rozanov?

Then again, how many people on Earth could see a photo of a bicep and recognize it as being attached to Ilya Rozanov? It’s probably just a small handful of people: himself, and maybe six or seven extremely dedicated fans who spend their evenings drooling over every pixel of Ilya they can find. Objectively speaking, Shane can’t make fun of them too much, given that he is in the same boat. Or, perhaps, he’s in a separate boat– a much nicer boat than the superfans, of course, because unlike these people he isIlya’s actual real life boyfriend. He’s steering a yacht directly parallel to a series of small pontoon boats carrying Ilya’s most dedicated, obsessive fans, all bobbing around the water as they drive towards the same destination. He might even be leading the way.

Shane carefully slips his phone into his pocket and leans towards JJ. "I'll be right back," he says into JJ's ear, hoping he can be heard above the music, and slips out of his chair before anyone can protest. He rushes (as casually as he can manage while still maintaining a fast pace) through the front door and looks around for a private, nondescript spot he can comfortably take a private phone call, ultimately ending up at the back of the restaurant. There’s a pile of cigarette butts on the ground in a circle underneath a single, dirty-yellow streetlamp. It’s probably the restaurant employee’s designated smoking spot. Really, they ought to put some kind of receptacle for cigarette butts here if everyone and their mother plans on taking their smoke breaks in this spot. At the moment, there is no one here, so it’s probably fine if he takes a call. He’ll be fast anyways. Shane leans against the cool brick exterior of the building and presses call. 

The call connects and Shane is immediately greeted by his boyfriend letting out a whiny, lengthy, "moy lyubmiyy."

"You didn't tell me about the loon," Shane says in lieu of a greeting.

Shane can hear some rustling on the other side of the line. "I wanted to surprise you," Ilya explains, sounding a little embarrassed. “A few weeks ago, I went to Tim Hortons and saw the lucky loonie trapped in the floor while I waited for my coffee, and I had tattoo idea. I thought about that time at the cottage and how lucky I’ve felt since then. And, I wanted to show it to you once it is more healed...but I might die first." 

"You wanted to surprise me with a tattoo of a loon?" Shane asks, kind of dumbfounded. They’ve never talked about something like this and Shane finds that he kind of doesn’t know how to react. 

His boyfriend (!) just got a tattoo (!) for him (!) and to symbolize what they’ve been working towards for the past year and a half.

Shane knows the smile he’s wearing right now looks ridiculous. Thank god no one is here to see it.

"Yes?" Ilya casually confirms while Shane’s world is rocked to its core (a common occurrence for Shane since meeting Ilya Rozanov all those years ago, and he hopes that someday he gets a little more used to the sensation. Honestly, at this point, it’s not looking good for him. He may be doomed to a lifetime of being shocked and delighted by this man). "Shane, sweetheart, you are focusing on wrong thing. The loon is fighting me," he complains. "My body is rejecting the...Canadianness. I should have known this would happen." 

Shane squishes down the overwhelming feelings of excitement, shock, joy, and love for this ridiculous man that zip down his spine, because, hey, what the fuck? "It's, what, infected? Are you allergic to it?" Shane asks, mostly for clarification. He's never let a tattoo needle anywhere near his skin, so it's not like he'd know what the fuck is allegedly wrong with this loon. 

Infection seems like a reasonable conclusion, right? That’s a thing tattoos can do? Shane vaguely remembers a time back in 2012, when a soon-to-retire Johnson got a very wonky version of the Voyageurs logo tattooed on his inner bicep and had to be hospitalized a few days later. Shane can’t really remember the context or details of the situation, only that there was something involving a basement, a friend-of-a-friend, and a very gnarly infection. It seemed like a lot of fuss for a tattoo that looked like someone was drawing it from a vague memory. Johnson’s friend couldn’t even get the colours right– seriously, who on earth thinks the Montreal Voyageurs logo has orange in it?

"No," Ilya says. "Maybe. Possibly. I don't know," he continues. "It stings and itches very badly," he complains.

"That isn't normal?" Shane asks. 

JJ has “Dèyè mon, gen mon” scrawled across the front of his left thigh in neat cursive writing. Shane remembers, back when it was freshly poked into his friend’s skin, that JJ complained about it stinging. A few days later, JJ complained incessantly about it itching. It seemed fine after a week or so. JJ’s never complained about it ever since, and Shane’s never seen it look irritated. Even when it stretches as JJ packs on more thigh muscle, the tattoo looks calm and comfortable nestled in his skin.

"Not like this, I think," Ilya says. "I don't remember my other tattoo doing this. I would remember this," he insists.

Ilya's had his bear tattoo splashed across his chest for about 10 years. Shane's sure Ilya doesn't properly remember anything about the experience at this point. He wonders if young, baby Ilya was even fully sober when he got it. Ilya not being fully sober when he got the bear tattoo would explain a few things about it. If he was sober…well…yeesh. Little teenage Ilya didn’t exactly have good taste.

"How did you take care of that one?" Shane asks. 

"Ah,” Ilya sounds disappointed. “So you think this is my fault," Ilya deadpans.

"I mean," Shane starts, trying not to chuckle at his sensitive boyfriend. "I don't know. Humour me. I don't know stuff about tattoos.”

"My bear was a long time ago," Ilya says. Shane can imagine him shrugging as he says it. "Artist in basement studio in Moscow stabbed me for 4 hours, wrapped me in plastic wrap like I am a cake, and told me to take plastic off at home and not to spray cologne on tattoo for a week." Shane doesn't say anything, so Ilya continues. "The tattoo itched after a few days, but it was not bad. I had some scabs. Scabs fell off. Boom! Done. Now I have sexy bear chest forever."

Shane will never tell Ilya this, but the bear tattoo is unfortunately the least sexy thing about him. It's kind of...faded in some spots? There are sections where Shane imagines more ink should have been packed in. The artist definitely did a great job drawing a realistic bear, but there’s something about it that is just…off. There’s a twinge of uncanny valley to it, like it’s something else entirely wearing an extraordinarily well-made bear suit. Fortunately for both himself and Ilya, Shane is often too out-of-his-mind horny when Ilya's shirt is off to even consider thinking about the state of the tattoo. It's just...there. It’s a fact of life. Water is wet. Middle school sucks for everyone. Ilya Rozanov has a bear tattoo splashed on his chest.

To return back to the main problem: Shane does not know if Ilya's recollection of his first tattoo experience is a typical one, and if the methods used by the two artists differ. "Okaaay," he says slowly. "And...what did the loon artist tell you to do?" 

Ilya scoffs. "Canadian tattoo artist gave me many rules, because all of you Canadians are obsessed with those," he says. "She put my tattoo in sticky plastic jail," he continues. That must be that clear plastic film Shane saw in the photograph. "She told me to leave it on for 3 or 4 days and only take off the patch slowly in the shower. I have to take it off early if it peels by itself or water gets in. I can only use soap with no smell for weeks. I have to use lotion with no smell and keep tattoo away from the sunlight for a while, a month maybe. No pools, no hot tubs, no baths. It’s too many rules,” he whines. “I have never experienced an itch like this. Bear tattoo itched, yes, but not like this. I would remember if it was like this.”

Shane furrows his brow. “You mentioned plastic a few times. What is it?”

“Bear tattoo artist used cling wrap, like for food,” Ilya explains. Shane’s eyebrows pop upwards in surprise. “Very temporary, it was only on for maybe an hour or two. This Canadian plastic is… it’s stuck to my skin like a clear sticker.” Shane hears some rustling over the phone, like Ilya is readjusting or fidgeting. “She said it was called second skin or something.”

“Give me a sec,” Shane says, reaching into his pocket to look for his earbuds. He pops one in and connects it to his phone, so he can take the phone away from his ear and use his internet browser without having to put Ilya on speakerphone and running the risk of someone overhearing. “I’m gonna look some stuff up.”

Once everything is connected, Shane begins his Googling: tattoo aftercare, how to tell if tattoo is infected, and when to call a doctor about tattoo. Then: second skin, saniderm, and can you be allergic to saniderm? what to do if allergic to tattoo bandage? And finally: why can no one agree on how long to leave on second skin? 

“Shane?” Ilya asks, concerned, after Shane’s gone silent for a few minutes. 

“Hi,” Shane says. 

“You were breathing really heavy into the phone,” Ilya says gleefully, like he’s just barely suppressing a laugh.

“I was not,” Shane snaps. 

“Like large dog,” Ilya says, before huffing and puffing several exaggerated breaths into the speakers. 

“Asshole,” Shane says fondly. “I think the problem is the second skin. You need to take it off.”

“Shane Hollander wants me to go against professional artist opinion,” Ilya teases. “I will call for a press conference.”

Shane rolls his eyes even though Ilya can’t see him do it. “Baby, I’m serious, I really think you’re allergic to it.” 

“I am not allergic to anything,” Ilya responds.

“You think avocados taste ‘tingly,’” Shane sighs. “And you’re definitely allergic to ragweed.”

“Everyone experiences the avocado tingles,” Ilya says defensively.

“You’re allergic. It’s a common allergy,” Shane says. “Take the second skin off.”

Ilya huffs a fake-annoyed sigh. “I will, but not because I am allergic, because I am not. I will because it is so fucking itchy,” he says. “Stay on the phone while I do it?”

“Sure, baby,” Shane says, listening as Ilya audibly gets up and begins padding towards what Shane hopes is the bathroom. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Ilya asks, voice slightly more distant than it was a few moments ago. Shane hears a door creak open and the sound of fabric rustling. 

“I’m at a restaurant with some of my team,” he says. “I’m outside right now. Weather’s nice.”

“I can end the call if you want to go back inside to your team,” Ilya says. 

There isn’t a single reality in which Shane would rather go back to hanging out in such an overstimulating environment with Patrice Drapeau over talking to his boyfriend. “No, no, I want to talk to you,” Shane responds. 

Ilya makes a fond sound before Shane hears the unmistakable sound of the shower turning on and the phone being placed on a nearby countertop.

“Remember to pull it off slowly,” Shane reminds him. “Don’t rip it off like a bandaid.”

“I’ve got it,” Ilya says. “I’ll be careful. I don’t want to ruin nice new symbol of my love for Canada.”

Ha. As if.

“A symbol of your love for Canada, or…” Shane says, voice absolutely dripping with fondness. If someone who wasn’t Ilya heard him talking like this, they’d make fun of him forever. He sounds like a lovesick teenager shamelessly flirting while twirling a landline’s cord between his fingers. He feels like one, too.

“Or maybe a Canadian. A symbol of my love for a Canadian,” Ilya supplies, sounding equally as soppy and disgustingly lovesick. Shane suddenly understands all of those characters in teen dramas he used to catch portions of on the television whilst searching for something more interesting to watch. Back then, he couldn’t comprehend why the characters on the screen acted the way they do. Now here he is, practically double their age, and acting just as pathetic. He’s heard the term “late bloomer” before, but this feels maybe a little too late, if that makes sense. Maybe most normal people got this behaviour under control in their early teens. Back then, he was too busy dedicating his every breath and spare mental energy to his career, and now he has to learn how to contain the butterflies in his stomach as he approaches his thirties. How embarrassing.

A giggle bubbles out of his chest, helpless and ridiculous. At least, Ilya seems to be inflicted with the same level of cheesy, lovestruck ridiculousness that Shane has. They’re each other's first (and hopefully last) boyfriends, after all. It only makes sense. “I can’t believe you got a loon tattoo for me,” he says.

“Allegedly,” Ilya says. “Maybe. Maybe it’s for another Canadian…like the love of my life, the wind beneath my wings, Zane Boodram. He loves loons.” 

Shane lets out a loud, full body laugh. “Sure, sure,” he says. 

“I’ll have to get another one, ack,” there is a small thud sound over the phone. “This fucking hurts. I’ll have to get another one that’s definitely just for you, like maybe your number.”

“My number,” Shane repeats, trying to suppress another giggle.

“Yes, number 24, right above my bush,” Ilya continues. “I was originally thinking a tramp stamp, but that might send the wrong message. It makes more sense above my dick, yes? You’d see it more often.” 

“You can’t get my number tattooed, are you crazy?” Shane says, still trying to suppress his giggles and failing miserably. “Someone might see it.”

“That is the point, yes. I was thinking very bold, very large font,” Ilya continues. He makes a few small grunting sounds. “There. The loon is free from the plastic!”

“Nice,” Shane says. “I want to see it all healed up the next time I see you.”

“Two weeks,” Ilya says with a dreamy sigh. “It will be mostly healed.”

Somewhere nearby, there’s a banging sound. It startles Shane out of his teenage lovesick stupor and back to reality: the fact that he’s standing outside, behind a restaurant, surrounded by abandoned cigarette corpses while his team waits for him inside– His team he’s supposed to be hanging out with, because lately he’s been spending all of his free time trying to talk to Ilya instead of maintaining any of his older connections, and some of his teammates have begun to comment on it.

“I should go back,” Shane says reluctantly. “I’ll talk to you later?”

“Mr. Social Butterfly,” Ilya teases. “Yes, later. I should finish my shower.”

“Love you,” Shane says. Ilya returns it, and they hang up. Shane is the one to pull the trigger and tap his thumb against the “end call” button. No you hang up, no you hang up exchange, although Shane was kind of tempted to try it. 

Maybe next time. 

The sun streams into his bedroom at 6:02AM and splashes across his face like a warm caress. There is something so pleasant about waking up near sunrise. Some mornings, he prefers to wake up closer to 5:00AM in hopes of carving extra time before practice. It makes the whole day feel longer and easier to cram tasks into, which is something Shane has always appreciated.

He opted for 6:00AM today to account for the late-night team outing and the fact that morning practice is scheduled for slightly later than usual. On pleasant, slow days like this, Shane likes to allow himself the pleasure of an extra hour of sleep and the gift of waking up alongside the sun. Today, the pleasure is only slightly dampened by a faint headache, which grows slightly worse when Shane picks up his phone and notices that he has about 22 text message notifications from Rose (and counting). 

Number 23 comes in as Shane unlocks his phone. She’s clearly on a roll.

Rose is never, ever awake this early, unless she is physically dragged out of bed by a member of a film’s makeup team. Shane scrubs the sleep and crust out of his eyes before checking the time again: yes, it really is 6:02AM. 6:03 now, actually. It’s like three in the fucking morning in LA, where Shane is fairly certain Rose is right now. What the fuck is going on? Why is she awake and texting him?

Fuck. 

What?

Shane opens Instagram and pauses with his finger hovering over the screen. Behind the little circle innocently displaying JJ’s smiling face surrounded by the telltale pink-and-orange border of an Instagram story lies something that could possibly (and maybe already has begun to) ruin both Shane and Ilya’s careers. 

Objectively speaking, this whole situation is just so fucking stupid. They're just weeks away from announcing the Irina Foundation and continuing the next step of their grand, longterm plan to get the general public used to the idea of even seeing Shane and Ilya amicably exist in the same room as each other, and then eventually, far in the future, like, so far in the future that Shane can’t even imagine it: used to the idea of Shane and Ilya being together. The plan does not include being outed via JJ Boiziau’s stupid, drunk Instagram story during the fucking nascent stages of their serious relationship. 

Ilya just joined the Ottawa Centaurs, for fuck’s sake. He hasn’t even had the chance to really mesh with the team. Maybe now Ilya will never get the chance to mesh with them before the team’s perception of him changes forever.

Shane contemplates throwing his phone away and never leaving his apartment ever again, and then decides to rip the bandaid off and just…watch the damn Instagram story. He can do this. It's just a fucking Instagram story. He can panic once he’s actually seen the beast he’s up against. Otherwise, he’ll just work himself up into a tizzy over something born out of his own imagination. He takes in a few deep breaths before lightly tapping his finger on JJ’s icon. It looks a bit like he is smothering JJ’s face, which might happen in real life later depending on what lies behind the little circle.

JJ posted about 100 times last night, based on the teeny tiny lines at the top of the screen that denote how many individual story posts Shane has to look through before reaching the end. It begins with a photo of JJ’s friend who owns the restaurant, holding a (really delicious-looking) plate of fritay. Then there is a shot of the table the team would soon take over for the evening, with just JJ’s drink and Hayden’s sweating beer in the shot. The next picture shows more of the team sitting at the table. Then there is the photo JJ took of himself and Shane with their cheeks smushed together. A photo of the entire group, all smiling, slightly blurry, set to “We Will Rock You” by Queen. Shane and Berkes are both blinking in the photo. A video of Mitty doing a shot and grimacing. A photo of Andropov, mid-shot, with half of the drink sliding down his chin instead of going into his mouth with a black-and-white filter on it. A video of Shane shooting JJ a helpless look. A boomerang of Drapeau flashing his middle finger several times. A blurry photo of Berkes baring his teeth and squinting. JJ has put a bow emoji in Berkes’ hair. A blurry photo of Hayden’s ass as he leaves the restaurant. A boomerang of JJ doing another shot with Mitty, both grinning at the camera. A video of Comeau choking on a corn fritter inexplicably set to a Skrillex song. Another shot of the table– this time, Shane isn’t there.

Fuck, there’s so much to get through.

There’s a video of JJ, slurring his words ever so slightly, walking through the restaurant and giving a tour of his buddy’s place. The video gets split into multiple parts as he walks around, pointing out different spots. He goes into the kitchen and introduces the kitchen crew, who all seem legitimately happy to see him. There’s a video of him setting his phone down on a counter and running to do a ridiculous-looking, pelvis-heavy dance with a waiter. There’s a clip of him zooming in and out on some sort of meat dish as the chef puts the finishing touches on it, all while JJ oohs and aahs behind the camera.

The next set of clips causes Shane’s stomach to plummet to the floor. Shane watches as JJ tipsily walks towards a back door while discussing a cool mural painted on the back of the building that he thinks everyone must see. He almost makes it out the door before he gasps and excitedly whispers to the camera that he’s just spotted his capitaine, who totally abandoned the team to go talk to his mystery lover, ooh laa laa, which JJ says in an exaggerated whisper. Let’s spy a little, he says. 

Shane didn’t see any fucking murals last night. JJ’s camera whips upwards and– well, there he is: the back of his own head. There was a fucking tiny little open window a few steps away from him that he didn’t notice, just like how he didn’t notice a mural or the fact that JJ was whispering into his phone and shoving it towards Shane while Shane shamelessly flirted with his boyfriend. 

Shane watches in horror as he hears himself say, very clearly: “Don’t rip it off like a bandaid.”

There’s a bit of silence– thankfully, JJ’s phone is unable to pick up the voice of the person on the other end of Shane’s call. Shane made a good call when he popped in an earbud so Ilya’s voice went directly into his ear canals and could not spill into the quiet night. Maybe all is not lost. Maybe Shane and Ilya can survive this, if Shane truly didn’t say anything too specific…if only he could remember the exact beats of this conversation instead of having to watch it unfold in front of him. 

“A symbol of your love for Canada, or…” the Shane in the video says, and god, he sounds so fucking dopey. The only way to make it worse is if he was baby-talking Ilya. Small mercies, he reminds himself. He must appreciate the small mercies the universe has afforded him.

The universe then quickly reminds him to stay humble as Shane watches in horror as his past self giggles like a schoolgirl and says “I can’t believe you got a loon tattoo for me.”

Everyone (who has watched the Instagram story) knows he’s giggling like that over someone who got a loon tattoo…for him. It’s over. There is no way to explain his way out of this mess. He is powerless to watch as his life falls apart around him.

In the video, he lets out a huge laugh and says “Sure, sure,” and then, with a delighted, choked-up voice: “My number.”

The camera sways a little. Shane desperately hopes the video is finished. Please, Universe, another small mercy, please.

It isn’t finished. The universe does not give a shit.

“You can’t get my number tattooed, are you crazy? Someone might see it,” video Shane says, sounding so, so fond. JJ nearly drops the phone. It’s a fucking miracle Shane didn’t hear him last night. He wishes he heard so he could have stopped JJ from posting this. Instead, JJ readjusts his phone, repositioning it in the window. 

“Nice, I want to see it all healed up the next time I see you,” Shane says.

The phone falls backwards. The camera points towards the ceiling and catches the underside of JJ’s face, focusing on the hair of his chin and his nostrils. “Merde,” JJ whispers. 

While the video no longer shows Shane, you can still hear him speaking a little. “I should go back, I’ll talk to you later?” he hears his own voice say. 

“Oh, he is coming,” JJ whispers conspiratorially to the camera, bringing the phone closer to his face. 

Shane says “love you,” and JJ makes a run for it, sprinting wildly through the kitchen and back into the main part of the restaurant. The phone video swings so wildly that it makes Shane kind of nauseous to watch. 

“I feel like a spy,” JJ says gleefully as the phone captures the movement of his sneakers hitting the wood flooring.

The next video shows him and Comeau doing another shot. Shane slides back into his seat in the background. The Shane in the video has no idea.

Then, there’s a boomerang of Mitty sticking his tongue out at the camera. A photo of Drapeau’s shoes. A photo of Shane smiling into the rim of his drink. A selfie of JJ smiling broadly as Andropov loads a single tortilla chip with a mountain of pickled jalapeñ o slices. There are about 50 more little tidbits from the evening, but Shane doesn’t want to watch a single second longer. 

He instead reopens his chat with Rose.

Once Shane and Rose hang up their call, Shane is brought back to reality. It feels a bit like falling from a high place and slamming heavily onto the ground, like he is a sopping wet leftover half of a sandwich that has fallen off of a 5th floor balcony and splattered onto a concrete sidewalk.

Unfortunately, this entire situation is a nightmare. Ilya just got an extremely specific, uncommon tattoo and now a massive hoard of people on social media are aware that Shane Hollander is associated, to an intimate degree, with an individual who just got that exact specific, uncommon tattoo. The videos are still up on JJ’s instagram story and will presumably be up for a full 24 hours unless JJ deletes them after waking up. Even once the stories disappear from JJ’s profile, there’s the chance of fans screenrecording them and reposting them elsewhere. Even if no one does that, there is still the power of collective memory. 

Even if the wider world forgets, there is still the issue that is his team. They probably won’t forget anytime soon. 

In short: the jig will be up the second Ilya takes his shirt off in public or even wears a tank top, which is...constant. Fuck, Ilya takes his shirt off in front of cameras all the damn time! In the summer (and sometimes, in other seasons too, because Ilya is hellbent on convincing the world that Russians naturally run at a higher temperature than weak, pathetic Americans and Canadians [depending on where said Canadians are from; Ilya holds respect for the populations who inhabit the arctic circle]), Ilya's tank tops are on a near-constant rotation. He's cut the sleeves off of the vast majority of his t-shirts. 

That loon is going to be hypervisible unless Ilya makes a very sudden lifestyle change. 

A well-timed phone call from "Lily" interrupts his spiral. 

“Shane,” Ilya greets groggily once Shane answers the call. “Your teammates are fucking terrible.”

“You’ve seen it,” Shane says. 

“Yes,” Ilya responds. “I just woke up and decided to check instagram profiles of all of your team to enjoy my morning treat of Shane pictures.”

“Seriously?” Shane asks. And, although it isn't necessary at all: “You're up early.”

“Yes?” Ilya responds, sounding offended that Shane would even ask about the ‘morning treat of Shane pictures' thing, or perhaps it's because Shane acknowledged that Ilya is awake at 6:30 for some reason. “Obviously, yes, I want to see Shane pictures, and I know you’d be in background of some.” Ilya clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Even if I have to swim through photos of ugly Voyageurs doing shots of shit vodka just to get to the good Shane pictures.”

“You got more than just Shane pictures,” Shane grumbles. 

“Yes, Boiziau is a very good spy,” Ilya says. “Maybe it is time for him to quit hockey and take a job for…what is the Canadian FBI?”

“I dunno,” Shane says. “CSIS?”

“Like the TV show?” Ilya asks, sounding confused. 

“No, what?” Shane asks. “Wait, do you mean CSI? No, that’s different.”

“Boiziau should become the lead actor on CSI, then,” Ilya says.

“Ugh, this is not what we should be talking about,” Shane snaps. “We should be talking about, the fucking– fuck, what the hell do we do?” Shane whines. “The internet knows I’m fucking in love with someone with a loon tattoo. They’re gonna figure out it’s you!” A small part of Shane’s forehead throbs, signalling that his headache is getting worse. Fuck. “You are never allowed to have your shirt off in public ever again,” he says. 

“Very difficult demand,” Ilya says. 

“That’s only for me to see, anyways,” Shane grumbles.

“Oh?” Ilya asks, sounding a little more delighted than Shane thinks the situation warrants. “You don’t want anyone else to see me shirtless? You are jealous, Hollander? Possessive?”

Shane sighs. “Maybe,” he says with force. 

Ilya has the audacity to laugh. “You are the only one allowed to touch,” he says. “Maybe think about it like everyone else now has to suffer, seeing my chest, knowing they can’t get near it. Too bad, very sad for everyone else.”

“The loon,” Shane reminds him. “This is about the loon.”

“Yes,” Ilya agrees. 

“You can’t show anyone else that tattoo, like, ever,” Shane continues. Then, he remembers something very, very important: Ilya has his shirt off in front of an entire roomful of men, frequently, and unavoidably. How could he forget so soon, when his little comment about the locker room is the very thing that made Rose realize he was fucking another hockey player? “Fuck!” Shane yells into the phone. “What are you going to tell your team, oh my fucking god?”

Ilya hums, considering the question. “Maybe I will tell them I lost a bet,” he says casually. “I needed to get matching tattoo with strange person Shane Hollander knows.” 

Ilya must think his teammates are idiots.

“No one is going to believe that,” Shane grumbles. 

“I think they will, especially when we tell everyone we are good friends,” Ilya reasons. “It sounds like something people would expect of me, yes? Make a stupid bet and win a stupid prize, and now me and Shane Hollander’s girlfriend have hilariously similar birds on our arms.” 

“You could get the tattoo covered up,” Shane suggests. 

“No, absolutely not. The loon stays,” Ilya says. “It will be fine, Shane.” 

“I’m buying you 100 long sleeve shirts and you will wear them all the goddamn time,” Shane says. 

“Many people will mourn the sight of my biceps,” Ilya says. “You are starving the world. They will not be kind to you in future history books.”

“Again, those are for me only,” Shane grumbles. 

Shane enters the Montreal Voyageurs locker room with the assumption that there is a non-zero chance he will be executed on sight. He isn’t really sure how his team could organize a firing squad on such short notice, but they’re all paid disgustingly well, so nothing is really outside of the realm of reason. 

Only a few guys are here so far, which spares Shane the embarrassment of walking into a full room of curious (or disgusted) eyes. Two of the guys call out simple, tired words of acknowledgement, just as they do for every morning practice. Comeau doesn’t even look in Shane's direction, which isn’t much of a surprise. He’s been quieter towards Shane since Shane stupidly came out to the team.

Shane kind of appreciates being left alone by Comeau. He just wishes Comeau wouldn’t do it on the ice. It’s really fucking up some of their plays.

JJ’s head snaps up when he realizes Shane has arrived. There’s naked fear on his face, like he’s a young child who knows he is about to be scolded by his teacher. Shane meets his gaze and then tears it away just as quickly, before making the very quick walk to his assigned spot. Rather than look at his friend’s fear-stricken face, Shane decides to lazer-focus on his nameplate affixed to the wall– there is a small smudge in the righthand corner. He should wipe that. In the corner of his eye as he catalogs each smudge and scratch on his nameplate, he sees JJ’s massive body stand up and begin to slither towards him. It’s unsettling how quietly and carefully JJ can move considering he’s six-foot-seven and is possibly the most well-built person Shane has seen in his entire life, and yet JJ moves his musculature with the same daintiness as a ballet dancer. That’s probably why JJ was able to record so much of his phone call with Ilya without Shane realizing it– even now, he can barely hear JJ’s footsteps. Shane sets his bag down with a sigh and waits for JJ to finish his slow, careful approach. 

There are three smudges and seven faint scratches on his nameplate.

“Capitaine,” JJ says as he creeps up directly behind Shane. “Can we talk?”

Shane nods, tearing his gaze away from the smallest scratch on his nameplate. JJ gestures to the doorway and beckons for Shane to follow him. It’s a brief, soundless exchange performed by two exhausted mimes. They silently make their way down the hall just far enough from the locker room so they can’t easily be heard by anyone else.

“Sorry,” JJ starts. “Hayden told me that I shouldn’t have posted those videos,” he continues, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “I wasn’t thinking. I deleted the stories, but, you know…”

Shane knows. People have seen. The damage is done. As they speak, there are hockey fans on twitter making memes about getting tattoos for Shane Hollander. There’s a hashtag rapidly gaining traction– #tattoollander– full of people discussing different tattoo ideas to dedicate to Shane Hollander. There’s one post making the rounds of a real-looking tattoo of the number 24 inked on someone’s skin, and god, Shane hopes that it’s either just a really good photoshop job, or that number 24 is completely unrelated to him.

Rose sent him extremely frightening art someone drew of him as a loon. It is an uncanny thing to see his own face stretched onto a bird’s body. They called it a “fursona,” which makes no sense because loons don’t have fur. It’s barely nine in the morning. How the fuck did they draw that so quickly?

The damage will likely be irreversible by noon. It’s probably already reached that point, if Shane thinks about it. He wonders how long people will be referencing this. Hopefully it will make very few waves and die out completely by the end of the week. That being said, he knows that there is a high chance of the opposite happening, which is something he is already dreading. There’s a video of Stedlund getting thrown off of a mechanical bull back in 2013 that people still talk about online, often sneaking it into top hockey moment compilations. One television network back in late 2015 threw text on the screen mid-game that compared Scott Hunter to Sisyphus complete with an explanation of who the mythological figure is. People also still talk about this even years later. 

“I know,” Shane says. “Uhm, I’m not going to lie. I’m really upset about this. That was an invasion of my privacy.”

“I get it,” JJ says, sighing and grimacing. “Is your…Lily okay?”

Shane huffs a small laugh despite everything. “He’s fine. He thinks this is funny,” he says. “But, obviously, him having a fresh loon tattoo right now is…” Shane trails off, hoping JJ can pick up what he is trying to say. 

“Ah,” JJ nods. “Will it cause problems for him?”

Shane shrugs. “Maybe. He says he’ll make up a story if anyone asks. I just got him some shirts that cover it,” he says. Shane has already ordered a pack of 25 long sleeve shirts from Amazon directly to Ilya’s house. They’ll arrive in two days. Shane will get a notification when the box is placed in front of Ilya’s door. “It’s okay.”

JJ nods. “So…can we talk about it?”

“Aren’t we doing that right now?” Shane asks. 

“No, mon gars, I mean…he got a tattoo for you? And you love him, ouais?” JJ asks teasingly. "You didn't tell us you had a serious boyfriend! I can’t believe this."

Shane groans and puts his head in his hands. Fuck. "We're private," he says instead of denying it. There’s no point anymore. 

"Come on, I'm your friend! You've gotta tell me this stuff," JJ says. There isn't any anger behind his words, mostly delight mixed with twinges of...disappointment? Sadness? Something else? Shane can't quite tell. "Capitaine is in love! With a crazy guy who gets tattoos for him!" JJ continues to tease. 

"Come on, JJ, seriously," Shane chuckles. JJ makes it really hard to stay mad at him. There’s something about him that triggers a low level of cuteness aggression in Shane. Even at his most annoying, Shane finds that a small portion of him is just…endeared by his friend’s antics. Shane wants to jump up, grab his cheeks, and pinch them.

Shane had a crush on JJ for a few weeks after they first met, but that’s neither here nor there. The crush dissipated quickly, thank fucking god, and was replaced by the constant low-level urge to squish him.

"You have to tell me about him," JJ says, suddenly very serious. "Seriously, I've told you about every girl I've dated," which is a lot. Shane kind of wishes he knew a lot less about JJ's love life. JJ loves frequently, intensely, and messily. JJ's shown Shane photographs Shane wishes he could scrub from his memory. JJ has a penchance for taking selfies with flash, even when there are tongues out and licking into mouths. The flash always makes the saliva trails look so much more...apparent. Again, thank fucking god Shane’s short-lived crush on the guy died so fast. "How hot is this guy, Shane? How old is he? What's his job?"

Shane snorts. "He's a private person," he reiterates. 

JJ lets out a huge, exaggerated whine. "Give me more to work with!"

Shane shakes his head, smiling at JJ's antics. On one hand, he can't really tell JJ much without giving himself, and Ilya, away. On the other hand, JJ is his friend, and yeah, Shane kind of wants to talk about Ilya with someone, even if he can't share much. 

And JJ already knows that Shane is seeing someone. Shane originally planned to pretend to be painfully single for the next few years…so painfully single that there couldn't even be the possibility of him spilling the beans about his boyfriend. Alas, that ship has already sailed. Shane must adapt, improvise, and overcome. This is something he's always been adept at, so...

"I'll tell you a little about him later," Shane says, putting a lot of emphasis on a little. "Come over to my place. I'll cook?" 

JJ pumps his fist into the air. "Yes! Success!" Then, "Non, you will not cook. We will get takeout. I will bring takeout," JJ says, eyeing Shane warily. 

Shane just rolls his eyes good-naturedly and turns to reenter the locker room.

Shane spends a good chunk of practice mentally sorting out what things are safe to share about Ilya, and which things are strictly off-limits to tell. Safe: he's so smart, he's caring, he's supportive, he's so hot it kind of melts my brain, his ass is glorious, he's kind of a dickhead but I really like that about him because I think it’s hilarious, and my parents love him. Not safe: he plays hockey, he's associated with hockey, he's been near a hockey puck in his life, he knows how to skate, he's Russian, you've met him, he has a reputation as a partygoer and womanizer which is deserved but that’s a really outdated reputation, I promise, he's got little moles all over his body that I am simultaneously endeared by but am also closely monitoring in case they need to be removed because I know he isn't watching them carefully enough, and I think I might have A Thing for curly hair, because I can't stop putting his fingers in his curls and now that I’m thinking about it I used to really, really like your hair too, like I mourned when you started cutting it so short, and is that fucked up? Actually, don’t answer that. 

Maybe Shane needs to spend the afternoon workshopping a fake backstory for his Lily. He needs something that can bypass reality while still staying close enough to it to sound realistic. JJ would never believe him, not even for a second, if Shane tried to tell him that Lily doesn't like hockey. Maybe Shane's Lily is...a very dedicated hockey fan? Maybe he is a disappointed Bostonian who met Shane before the draft and had hoped Shane would be Boston's pick? Maybe Lily holds a job somewhere in the sports world, and that's why they have to be so secretive about their connection? Would that be enough to pass muster? Does that account for the amount of time the team knows they've been texting, the fact that Lily spent years as Boston Lily, and sound realistic enough for Shane? He hopes so. 

He isn't sure how he'll incorporate Ottawa into this without rousing suspicion. Maybe he'll avoid that for now. 

Now that people know there's someone in Shane's life, he'll need to get very good at deciding what can and cannot be said about the someone. He can practice on JJ. Maybe, just maybe, if Shane fucks up, JJ won't react to badly to the Ilya Rozanov of it all? All things considered, JJ seems like one of the safer options to test the limits on. He’ll probably react better than Hayden, and both of them will probably react far, far better than literally anyone else Shane knows.

Shane will also need to get better about checking windows, doors, and other portals in his day-to-day life. Maybe he'll need to even be concerned about manholes? He can never tell Ilya this, by the way-- Ilya would have a lot to say about man holes, and Shane would lose control over the conversation so quickly it'd probably make him dizzy. He’d forget all about the manholes and then they’d be fucking outed by a construction worker crawling up from a storm drain.

As for the window (and door, and manhole) thing: the JJ videos were a close call-- imagine, what if something happens someday and Shane isn't so lucky? Imagine if JJ caught Shane saying something that made it obvious he was talking to a man, more specifically Ilya Rozanov? Heaven forbid, imagine if he was video calling Ilya, and JJ managed to capture that? Or, imagine if Ilya was physically there, and Shane thought they were safe and alone together, only for a video of them making out to be leaked onto the internet and change the course of their lives forever? What a nightmare.

Someone online has designed a t-shirt that features three pictures of Shane alongside a loon with its wings spread out underneath. His name, SHANE HOLLANDER, is at the top in bold, blue lettering. There are flames and lightning bolt scattered throughout the image. It kind of looks like fire and smoke is coming out of the loon’s eye. Shane doesn't remember taking one of those photos of himself– the one that takes up the very center of the trifecta of photos and shows him sneering at the camera like some kind of cocky asshole. It’s kind of freaking him out. When the fuck did he take that picture?

Andropov ordered it and keeps asking if anyone else on the team wants to match with him. Everyone is pretty certain he got scammed. They’ll find out in 4-6 weeks if Andropov just got his identity stolen in exchange for a thin cotton t-shirt.

Shane desperately hopes Ilya never learns about its existence, if it is real.

The jokes and references die down in the coming weeks. Shane’s seen reuploads of the instagram story make the rounds, but it never sticks around for long. Only one reporter even bothered to ask him about it and the Voyageurs PR person present at the time shot the question down before Shane even had a chance to blink at it. Only really, really dedicated fans seem to care about it– specifically the type of fan that cares deeply about the personal lives, both real and imagined, of players in addition to the actual hockey. All things considered, this makes up a small percentage of hockey fans. 

He’s had nine people send him photos of fresh loon tattoos of varying degrees of quality that they’ve gotten. He keeps them in his instagram requests and refuses to accept or refuse them. He just…keeps them there. They’re proof that there are more people out there with loon tattoos. It’s soothing, in a weird way, knowing that Ilya isn’t the only person out there with those spotted feathers and beady red eyes permanently inked into his skin. It makes Shane feel like Ilya’s lost-bet story can work. 

He accepts one message request containing a loon tattoo only because the person sent a photo of their tattoo that looked so angry, blotchy, and red behind the second skin that it made Shane’s own skin crawl. You might be allergic to second skin. Please talk to your artist, Shane wrote to the fan. OHJ MY GOD SHANE GHOLAANDER RESPONDED TO ME? The fan wrote back. Shane did not engage further. 

Ilya’s team believes the story about the lost bet, and Ilya hasn’t been seen outside of his home or the locker room shirtless since. They’re still on track to announce the Irina Foundation in a scant few weeks. Maybe, in a few more months, they can use the lost bet story on the general public once they’re established publicly as friends, and the warm weather all but forces Ilya to tear off his shirts like one of those werewolves from Twilight. Shane’s already given up on forcing Ilya to wear shirts that cover his arms once the temperature surpasses 20 degrees. Loonacris’s public appearance is inevitable; All Shane can do now is organize it with the same meticulous energy one would use to organize a debutante ball for their daughter.

Speaking of which, the name Loonacris has stuck. 

In short: things are fine. No one has been outed. His team only cares a little– just like everything related to Shane’s sexual orientation, the vast majority of the team accepts it with a grimace and pretends to have not learned anything at all. Only a few guys have referenced it recently, all with varying degrees of intent to tease him. Laine asked him what a loon is, nervously and concerningly late into the entire situation. Bouchard asked him if loons hold a special significance to “people in your community.” Berkes asked if they should be on the lookout for a crazy dude with the number 24 tattoo across his cheek during any of their upcoming games. 

Drapeau keeps making weird caw sounds when he gets near Shane, which, well, loons simply don’t caw. Shane refuses to correct Drapeau on this despite the small voice in the back of his head screaming at him to hit Drapeau with a deserved well, actually. While Shane is capable of doing a killer loon sound impression, he doesn’t think demonstrating it in front of anyone would help this whole debacle die down. If anything, it would just add fuel to the fire, and he really doesn't want Drapeau to learn what loons actually sound like anyways. Shane likes the sound of loon calls, okay? Sue him for not wanting the sound tainted by Patrice fucking Drapeau of all people.

Andropov’s t-shirt hasn’t arrived yet. There is no tracking number, but it allegedly left a warehouse in Shenzhen, China a day ago. 

Mitty, like JJ, has been legitimately interested in learning about Shane’s mysterious partner. The only difference is that Shane isn’t close to Mitty the same way he is with JJ, so the only time Mitty really asks about it is while they’re in the presence of other guys on the team…and Shane has absolutely zero interest in gushing about Ilya in front of that crowd. Shane answered each question in the vaguest possible way, which seems to please Mitty well enough. In fact, Mitty seems to believe they’re friends now. Some of the guys decided to go out tonight, and in the process of organizing the outing, Mitty invited Shane (much to the visible disappointment of a few guys, which is something Shane is trying to ignore and hopefully fix in the near future). Shane accepted the offer (it's step one of fixing the…everything, he thinks), and then JJ immediately swooped in and demanded to be allowed to join in as well. 

Tonight, JJ, mercifully sober and with his cell phone firmly in his pants pocket, keeps flashing Shane weird looks over the rim of his glass. On one hand, Shane is grateful that JJ is keeping a low-profile on social media (for Shane’s sake, probably, which Shane is trying not to feel a twinge of guilt about), on the other hand…JJ’s behaviour is unsettling. He’s usually the center of the party and tonight he’s acting like he’s listening to a class lecture. He gave the bartender a quick greeting and didn’t try to continue the conversation. A very attractive woman (not Shane’s type, for obvious reasons, but he has eyes and knows JJ’s type like the back of his own hand) a few tables away keeps looking at him expectantly– and Shane knows that JJ has seen her do this, because Shane watched them make eye contact– but JJ isn’t doing anything about it. 

It’s weird. 

No one else seems to notice the tension. Drapeau and Comeau are at the far corner of the bar, both attempting to hit on the same woman who looks only somewhat interested in either of them. Mitty and Hayden are deep in conversation next to Shane about Game of Thrones, which is something Shane can’t bring himself to give a flying fuck about. He knows the Pikes are deeply invested in the show and watch episodes to help them unwind after getting all the kids to bed, but Shane had no idea that Mitty was in the same boat. Olsson and Stedlund are busy watching a NFL game on a large flatscreen hung above the bar. Andropov left 10 minutes ago to “take a massive shit” and hasn’t been seen since. 

JJ keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something to Shane, but is aborting his mission each time. It’s strange seeing JJ’s facial muscles move like he is more goldfish than man. The lack of confidence does not suit him.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Shane says, standing up and hoping JJ catches his intention. Wordlessly, JJ emerges from his own seat. Shane can’t hear or sense JJ, but he’s certain he’s trailing behind. 

Shane hears a faint caw as he shuffles towards the bar and tries not to visibly stiffen in response. Fucking Comeau. 

Once Shane reaches the bar and asks for another ginger ale, JJ soundlessly slides next to him and requests a beer. They stand together quietly for a moment as they wait for their respective drinks.

“I hung out with Bood after our game against the Cens last week,” JJ says eventually.

Well, shit. Shane kind of forgot that, even if the cold weather has bought him time with the general public simply because Ilya isn’t wearing loon-exposing tank tops in public when it’s nearing zero degrees, there’s still the…hockey of it all. The Ottawa Centaurs may have bought the I-lost-a-bet story, but Shane kind of doubts the entire hockey league would be so on board. Sure, plenty of people would believe it in a heartbeat. It’s a hilarious little story and very in-tune with what people think Ilya Rozanov is like. That being said, all it could take to shake the story apart would be a singular player telling someone else on his team that he doesn’t believe the story and thinks maybe Shane Hollander was talking to Ilya Rozanov on the phone in that one weird video. Maybe the theory would catch on in a few locker rooms, and Shane’s life would be fucking over. 

More importantly, Ilya’s life could be in danger, like, literally.

And the thing is: it was always inevitable that Ilya Rozanov having a loon tattoo would break through the containment of the Ottawa Centaurs team. Frankly, Shane is embarrassed that he didn’t already think about that. Hockey players have friends spread far and wide across the league. Sure, Shane doesn’t have friends on other teams (besides Ilya, who doesn’t count because they’re dating, and maybe Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughan on a good day), but that isn’t the case for everyone. Take JJ, for instance: JJ is friendly to varying degrees with a solid quarter of the entire league. He and Zane Boodram are close enough to go out for drinks together. 

JJ also knows that Shane is gay and has a boyfriend, named fucking Lily, who at some point lived in Boston, and–

Yeah, Shane’s kind of fucked. 

“He’s a nice guy,” Shane says, forcing his voice to remain steady and casual as his thought process devolves into a series of fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, that is in tune with the rapid thumping of his heartbeat. 

“Ouais,” JJ agrees. “He told me some funny stories about Rozanov because I was curious about how the team has been since he joined.”

Shit, fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. Nuts. Gosh darn it. Of fucking course JJ asked about Ilya. Of course Boodram was willing to talk about him. His boyfriend is fucking interesting. He doesn’t blame them for wanting to talk about the guy.

Shane just takes a long sip of his drink instead of responding verbally. He can feel JJ’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head as he waits for Shane to, he doesn’t know, do something? Say something? Shane swallows and goes in for another long sip instead. 

“Bood told me something really funny about how Rozanov lost a bet and showed up with a loon tattoo,” JJ continues. 

“That's crazy,” Shane says, mumbling it out over the rim of his glass. Shane's not selling it at all. God, all that practice in a mirror just in case someone asked him about the loon tattoo thing and for what? He can’t even act casual in front of JJ. 

It kind of sucks that Shane’s entire life revolves around a series of lies when he’s such a shit liar.

Jj barks out a laugh. “Wow, Shane, come on,” he says wryly. Shane briefly closes his eyes, taking a quick, half-second pause to try to collect himself. He can do this. He can sell this. He has to.

“What?” he asks, pretending to be confused. 

JJ is looking at him like he’s fucking crazy. Shane’s still not selling it.

Fuck.

“It’s fine, mon gars,” JJ says. “Good for you, I guess.” JJ flashes him a small smile that seems kind and understanding, not the anger Shane braced himself for. “I don't understand why him,” JJ continues. “--but I know he's objectively hot, so…nice catch.”

Shane blinks in confusion. “You’re…not mad?” he asks.

JJ shakes his head. “Confused, a little, not mad,” he affirms. Shane lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding in. “I think I see why you are nervous to tell people about him, though.” 

“You think?” Shane asks, kind of surprised by how playful his own voice sounds when it comes out. JJ snorts in response. 

“It is a trainwreck waiting to happen, Capitaine,” JJ nods. Shane also nods in agreement, visualizing two trains smushed into each other on a set of old, rusted tracks. Some of the cars are on fire. Passengers and the conductor are all yelling at him because the train wreck is all his fault because he just couldn’t stop his gay little heart from beating for the one guy the upper echelons of the league told him he shouldn’t even be amicable with. Some of the people yelling at him are doing it in frantic Russian that he can only barely begin to understand, but it seems maybe politically inclined– and, oop, someone brought out a sign. Several signs, now, with permanent marker scrawled on poster boards denouncing him as a corruptor, degenerate, and disappointment in several languages. A large swath of reporters sprint towards him, cameras and microphones in tow, like a massive tsunami of flashing lights and stampeding feet–

JJ’s voice snaps him out of it. “But I’ve been thinking about what you've told me about him, and you sound like you care about him a lot,” JJ says. 

“I do,” Shane says quietly. 

“And it sounds like he cares about you,” JJ adds. “Like, getting tattoos for you? That’s kind of insane, man.” JJ shakes his head in apparent disbelief. “How did you lock him down that hard?”

“It’s a long story,” Shane says, grinning. 

“Let me hear it,” JJ says, returning the grin before suddenly dropping it. “But first, you have to tell me– neither of you have, ah,” JJ looks to the side for a moment, thinking through his phrasing. “...let each other win, right?”

Shane groans. This is another thing he’s always worried about when he thinks about how people will react: calling their careers into question. When one considers the immediate physical danger, the disgust, the ostracizing, or anything else Shane has long imagined would follow their coming out, this is simply the icing on the cake. 

Shane hates icing. He, on the extremely rare occasions he has a slice of cake, methodically peels off the icing with his fork before digging into his portion. Even as a young child, he’d ask for a slice of birthday cake with the least amount of icing on it. Whatever did end up on his plate was destined to stay there as he dug out the cake and ignored the sweet coating. His dad stopped bothering with buying and making icing by the time Shane was 6. 

Shane spotted a can of cream cheese frosting in his parents’ pantry recently, unopened and waiting for its time to shine. Cream cheese frosting is Ilya’s favourite. Shane couldn’t help but smile when he saw the offensively sweet slop sitting there wedged between the (definitely expired, but his mother won’t let him touch it) kinako powder and an old box of golden raisins. 

“I’d rather die,” Shane grits out.

JJ stares at him for a shocked moment before dissolving into another big, boisterous laugh. “You’re right, sorry,” JJ says through his own huffing. “That was a stupid question. Sorry.” 

Andropov’s ridiculous, shockingly-not-a-scam Shane Hollander loon t-shirt arrives near the beginning of January. It’s slightly too small on his bulky frame, so Shane’s face is squashed and stretched strangely across his pecs. It’s also slightly too short for him, to the point that it almost counts as a crop top.

Andropov debuts it at the in-rink gym, to the shock and delight of a good chunk of the team. Coach Theriault takes one look at him before demanding that he change into something less offensive to the eye. Shane, for the first time in a while, fully agrees with his coach; seeing his own eyes and nose distorted by Andropov’s muscles is a deeply unsettling experience that he does not want to deal with when he’s supposed to be focusing on lifting weights.

For some reason that Shane cannot comprehend, the existence of the ridiculous-looking t-shirt does more to bolster Shane’s reputation in the locker room than any of his own attempts. Seeing the shirt in all of its poorly-designed glory sends a portion of the team into a state of chaos, and Theriault’s banning of the shirt is seemingly taken by them as an attack of sorts. For fuck’s sake, they’re talking about fighting the power and defending our captain and other shit Shane is still confused by. He supposes that all things considered, this is kind of a best-case-scenario. Whatever it takes to have his team treat him like he isn't a nuissance, truly. Still, he is allowed to be confused by it all. The team places a group order for the shirts with a grand total of nineteen guys opting to join the fun, plus three extra shirts ordered for Shane himself (despite his begging that they not include him in this), one for Coach Theriault (who will absolutely never wear it), and shockingly: one for Lily. The guys seem very adamant that Lily gets his matching shirt. 

JJ promises everyone that he’ll make sure Lily gets his t-shirt, because he knows Shane won’t do it himself. It sounds like a threat. Mercifully, no one questions why JJ seemingly knows Lily now-- perhaps everyone accepts it quickly and without much thought simply because it's JJ. Or, perhaps they don't actually care about the Lily thing enough to inquire further. The idea that his teammates no longer give enough of a shit to pry into his life is a relief like nothing else.

Regardless, Ilya can not, under any circumstances, have one of those goddamn shirts. Shane needs to fucking burn the package as soon as it arrives at Andropov’s doorstep. He’s considering installing a ring camera.