Ilya dragged a gloved hand across his mouth, hanging his head low. "Again." He said, miserably, skating back out toward center ice.
This was their first full practice, and something with his line just wasn't clicking. The season was rapidly approaching, and they couldn't afford to be making stupid mistakes. He was acutely aware that Shane Hollander's line was working better than his own, and he wasn't going to allow that to happen.
They ran the play again. Ilya passed, cut outside, and tapped his stick to the ice in an impatient signal that he was open to take his shot.
But the pass was too late, and all wrong, and was intercepted. Again.
"Fucking fuck!" Ilya yelled, ripping his helmet off. And suddenly, he was feeling too frustrated to even get the words out that he needed to. He knew, realistically, that he needed to step up and help coach his line through this. He was the captain, after all. But he needed a moment to even find the words in English, his frustration mounting to a boiling point.
He turned his back, taking a few deep breaths, trying not to come unraveled. But his efforts seemed all for naught once he turned back around and saw Shane Hollander coaching his line.
Shane was adjusting the position of one player's stick, while pointing across the line, explaining something that Ilya couldn't hear from this distance. But he closed the gap quickly, skating up to Shane with fervor. He took the butt end of his stick and stuck it square into the center of Shane's chest.
"Worry about your own line, Hollander."
Shane looked at him, amber brown eyes blown wide and cheeks flushed. "I was just-"
Ilya tensed his jaw, shooting him a warning glance. "No. There is no 'just'. You are not captain here. I know this concept must be difficult to understand."
Shane huffed out an incredulous laugh. "Christ. I was just trying to help out. We're on the same fucking team, if you haven't noticed." He pushed Ilya's stick away in a decisive shove. "Your line is never gonna learn if all you do is sulk and brood in the corner alone."
Ilya yanked his own helmet off, which caused Shane to rear back slightly.
But before things could escalate any further, Coach was yanking Ilya by his jersey, not unlike grabbing a puppy by the scruff.
"Hollander, you're in for this last one. Rozanov, you'll be on his wing."
Ilya felt his jaw drop open. "I- what?"
"You heard me, Rozanov. Enough fucking around. If you can't play nice with your own team, I'll force you to figure it out until you can. Go." He dropped his hand off Ilya's jersey with a small shove to the back of his shoulder.
Ilya glared over at Hollander, who was making a point to not look at him at all. He felt all the anger rising in an uncomfortable heat inside of him, like he would melt the ice at any moment.
This is exactly what he was afraid of. To lose yet another thing to Shane Hollander, much like he had already lost his heart. And probably his sanity.
But still, he did as he was told. He let his skates bite hard into the ice as he took his position, his breath coming in hard rises.
Shane Hollander moved with a speed that truly could only be rivaled by his own. Shane exploded off the drop, and Ilya moved in tandem, his focus sharpening.
He cut outside, then in, weaving through the defenders. Something prickled under his skin. A feeling of recognition. He took a clean pass from Shane, then dropped back, weaving back out again before firing off a pass backhanded to Shane without even looking at him. It felt like they were the only two people on the ice.
Shane took a shot at the goal, hitting it in the top right corner of the net.
Ilya watched as Shane's face lit up in excitement. The way his smile made his face scrunch up. It was like staring directly into the sun. His stomach dropped.
He was vaguely aware of everyone around them expressing how impressed they were with the play, how they had fallen into that rhythm on the first try. Chemistry, they called it.
It was a great thing practice was over, because Ilya felt sick. He skated off wordlessly, moving quickly to the locker room.
Chemistry.
Something that can't be faked or manufactured. It exists between two people, or it doesn't.
And Ilya had never felt it with anyone quite the way he did with Shane Hollander. Not even close. It was like an electric current ran between them, interconnected and unable to be stopped.
He knew where Shane was on the ice, because he could feel Shane in any room, like a burst of heat flanking him. The same way you don't need to turn around to know it's the sun warming your back on a late summer day.
Since they were teenagers, he had known there was something different about Shane. Something that captivated him in a way that made him feel pathetic and desperate.
Playing alongside Shane was a painful reminder of how obvious it was. How easy it was, and yet, how horribly impossible. He let the cold water of the shower rush over him, as if it would wash away the buzz left on his skin.
Learning to exist on the same team as Shane hadn't gotten any easier, but it had become a manageable flow of pathological avoidance that they both seemed to live by dutifully.
It was not lost on Ilya the way that Shane always seemed to time his shower just perfectly to never be there at the same time. Or the way he kept his back turned while they dressed.
On the ice, Ilya was glad that he didn't need to look at Shane to play with him. It meant he didn't have to see the way he scrunched up his face with determination. Or how his eyes brightened with excitement. Those things were dangerous.
He had made the mistake in their last game of looking Shane dead in the face when he scored the game winning goal. Shane was beaming and breathless, pushing his dark hair away from his flushed face as he ripped off his helmet. It made Ilya feel weak in the knees, as if his bones had reduced to nothing and he would collapse into a puddle on the ice.
He was determined to not make that mistake again. Though that seemed like an impossible feat, given the night's circumstances.
Tonight, they played in Montreal for the first time this season. Though they had already played Hollander's former team at home, the stakes felt entirely different the moment they stepped into the visiting locker room.
All eyes seemed to be on Shane, quiet and studying. Assessing exactly what this was going to mean for him.
Ilya could imagine it had to be surreal, and probably nerve wracking. Shane had probably assumed he would be in Montreal for the rest of his career, the same way Ilya felt about Boston. But they allowed their star center to slip away the moment they didn't make the playoffs, like they were chasing greatness that they couldn't possibly achieve with Shane Hollander.
It was ridiculous. Everyone knew it. And the shame written all over Shane Hollander's face sitting in this locker room was making Ilya angry. Not at Shane. But at the stupid organization that discarded him and made him feel lesser. Shane didn't deserve it, and Ilya could feel his heart starting to ache at the way Shane kept his eyes trained on the floor.
He steeled himself, realizing all at once that he needed to buck up as the captain and stop letting his personal feelings be a barrier for what he needed to do.
"Okay, boys. Listen up." He called out, banging a fist against the locker with an echoing clang. "I am not here to tell you how important it is to beat Montreal. If you did not already understand this, please remove your fucking skates and retire right now." That roused some laughter, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He could see his teammates sit up a bit straighter, leaning into his words, as if they could sense some part of the captain they knew was actually making an appearance tonight.
"What I am here to tell you is that this is not normal game. Is not just any other game we play against division rivals. Tonight, we show every single fucker in the Montreal organization that getting rid of Hollander was dumbest fucking decision they ever made." He cut his eyes over to Shane, who looked up in surprise, eyes meeting Ilya's as a few other members of the team shouted their agreement.
"Every single one of those people who made that choice is here watching. And we know Montreal will be out for blood, trying to prove they can do shit without him." He pointed at Shane, who seemed to be either mesmerized or dumbfounded.
"Are we going to prove them wrong?"
"Yes, cap!" The roar in unison made something in Ilya's eyes turn fierce.
"Are we going to show them who really has best fucking line up in this entire leage?"
"Yes, cap!'
"Then let's get the fuck out there and do it." He took in the buzzing energy of whoops and chanting, posting himself up at the door to fist bump and knock heads with every player as they exited and made their way out to the ice.
Shane was last to get up, wearing an expression that Ilya couldn't quite read. He approached slowly and with caution, as if toeing a line of uncertainty. He stepped up to the doorway, his eyes slowly moving upward to meet Ilya's.
Ilya hoped he had the greatest poker face in history, because god, he felt like his soul had detached from his body. Everything he ever wanted was staring back at him with those molten brown eyes. Ilya gave him a small nod, then a quick pat to the back of the head.
It was nothing he wouldn't do to any other player. A completely innocuous gesture. But the feeling of Shane's glossy black hair gliding under his fingertips for that brief second made him shudder. He quickly dropped his hand to his side, following Shane out the door, trying to convince himself that he could actually keep doing this, and that his swell of emotion wasn't threatening to swallow him whole.
The weight of Ilya's words were still bearing down on Shane's chest as the whoosh of sound and lights and cold flooded his senses.
The last time he was in this arena, he was the star player in Montreal. The team captain. He could look out and find a sea of people screaming his name and wearing his jersey. He was with the team he thought he would retire with after a long, successful career.
But as he crossed the threshold, decked out in white and black and gold, he felt like he was entering his own nightmare.
The pressure has started mounting the moment they all piled into the locker room. He could feel the eyes on him, as if it were a visceral touch, waiting to see his reaction. He felt like a caged animal, cornered and observed. He wanted to crawl inside his pads and shut the world out.
And the last thing he expected was Ilya Rozanov dedicating an entire pregame speech to him. It felt just like getting knocked off your skates and sliding across the ice with no sense of direction or control. He couldn't place the sentiment. Couldn't decide if Rozanov actually gave a shit, or if he was just saying what he felt like he should say.
Shane was aware that the team had all started to become increasingly worried about Ilya as the season was progressing. All hopes of him returning to his old self were dampened by the way Ilya had become increasingly more distant. Like he was trying to sink so far into the background that no one would even care to notice anymore.
Ilya Rozanov was possibly the most perceptive person Shane had ever met, so it wouldn't surprise him at all if he were completely aware of how close the team was to staging some kind of intervention. So maybe this speech served to placate or disarm. To tiptoe so carefully around any real resolution that everyone would just drop it. That, after all, would be a very Ilya thing to do.
But when it was only him and Ilya left in the room, and Shane stared into those impossibly blue eyes, it didn't feel that way at all. He could see the way Ilya's eyes tracked ever so subtly, as if they were searching for something written on Shane's face. He hoped Ilya couldn't read that Shane was ready to collapse into him. To ask Ilya to take him apart until he could think of nothing else, in the way that only Ilya could.
More dangerous thoughts that he couldn't afford to entertain. Especially now that he was stepping onto the ice, feeling thousands of faces pointed directly at him.
He decided to stretch next to Marlow, who was always chatty enough to be distracting. But when he saw his best friend skating toward him, he almost came completely undone.
Shane got to his feet as Hayden threw an arm around him. "I'll never get used to you in this uniform, dude."
"Yeah. Me neither." Shane admitted, leaning into Hayden's side.
"You ready to do this?" Hayden dropped his voice a bit.
Shane swallowed hard. He wasn't ready. Not at all. He could feel the slow rise of panic in his gut, hot and unwelcome.
"You got this." Hayden squeezed his shoulder. "Okay?"
Shane nodded, clenching his jaw hard.
"Call me later?" Hayden said, skating off backward.
"Yeah. Later." Shane's voice felt small, swallowed up everything around him.
This wasn't supposed to happen this way. Montreal was supposed to be home. This was the organization that told him over and over and over again just how valuable he was, yet they pulled the rug out from under his feet as if he were nothing more than a business decision.
He looked across the ice at his team. His former team. The rich blue and red uniforms, in stark contrast to his own. He wondered if any of them thought he was complicit in this. Like the trade was somehow his idea. Like seeing him here in their arena would spark a bitter disdain for how he had left his loyalties behind.
Shane's head was beyond swimming now. He could not afford to freak out like this. The game hadn't even started yet.
He skated back toward the Boston bench, but the moment he reached the boards, he doubled over. All his thoughts collided at once, punching him straight in the gut. He squatted down, ducking his head. "Fuck." He muttered, feeling his breath quickening. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying and failing to block out his own panic.
He heard the creak of the boards. The sound of skates hitting the ice. But his mind had spiraled too far to place it.
"Hollander?"
He heard his name, but kept his eyes firmly shut.
"Hollander."
The sound seemed distant, as if he were hearing it from underwater.
"Shane." Warm, firm hands on the sides of his neck jolted him, his eyes opening. Inches away from his face, Ilya looked at him under slightly furrowed brows.
"Hey, hey, hey." Ilya was saying, lightly patting Shane on the jaw. "Listen to me. You're okay. Just breathe." Ilya moved one hand to plant firmly on Shane's shoulder.
Shane focused on the low register of Ilya's voice, and the feeling of his strong hands. He took a few deep breaths. For a moment, he pretended like he and Ilya were the only people in the entire arena. Maybe the entire world. It brought a grounding sense of relief slowly down onto him.
"Okay." Ilya said quietly. "You are okay, yes? Do you need to go-"
"No." Shane cut in, taking another breath. "No. I'm fine. I'm okay. I...fuck. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry for. Come on." Ilya stood, holding out a hand. Shane stared at it, then at him, before reluctantly taking it. Ilya yanked him up to his feet, then put both hands on his shoulders. "Good?"
"Good." He nodded.
Ilya patted his shoulder, hopping back onto the bench. Shane followed, now feeling an overbearing sense of embarrassment, hoping to god that no one saw that. But people definitely did.
As if Shane were narrating his thoughts aloud, Ilya reached a hand over and firmly planted it on Shane's knee.
"Hey. Is okay. Plenty of guys freak out before a game. I have seen people puke on the ice before. Is just…adrenaline." Ilya waved a dismissive hand.
Shane looked down at the hand on his knee. It was so warm and grounding, like it was the sole thing tethering Shane to the earth. Ilya leaned in closer, close enough that Shane could feel the warmth of his breath dance across the skin on his neck. "Relax."
Shane's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Goose prickles rose on every inch of his body. He nodded. "Okay." He said in almost a whisper.
Ilya kept his hand on Shane's knee for another beat, before carefully removing it.
Shane wanted to grab it back.
He hoped Ilya couldn't hear that thought, too.Ilya had never wanted a game to end more in his life. Montreal had worked them thoroughly. He could feel the sweat dripping down the back of his neck and the way his legs felt like solid concrete.
Typically, he'd be itching to get off of the ice in Montreal to go meet Shane in his mysterious apartment, kiss him until his mouth felt numb, and take him every which way on any available surface. Tonight he knew he would be dragging himself to his hotel room alone to sink into the plush mattress and pretend he didn't exist. Though that sounded much better than continuing to drag out this brutal game.
He tried to sharpen up for these last few plays, knowing they just needed to hang on a bit longer to come up with the win. Boston was up 3 - 2. Ilya had scored twice and Shane once. Ilya had a sneaking suspicion that Shane might try to at least tie with him tonight. Their unspoken competitiveness was still alive that way.
Shane was racing down the outside in stride with Montreal's new center, Baird, both of them fighting roughly for the advantage over the puck. Ilya hung around like a vulture, his body electrified with anticipation of the next move.
Suddenly, Baird was checking Hollander hard, pinning him against the boards with all his weight. Ilya heard Shane groan with the impact.
"You gonna call your boyfriend Rozanov to come kiss it better like he did before the game?" Baird mused, letting Shane wrench free.
"What the fuck did you say?" Fury flashed in Shane's eyes. Ilya moved closer, sensing the ticking time bomb.
"You heard what I said. Fa-" But the rest of that word barely left Baird's lungs before Ilya had him fully in his grip, slamming his back hard into the boards.
In a flash, gloves and helmets were on the ice. Ilya's hand connected with Baird's face several times, though he didn't quite feel exactly what he was doing. Just remembered seeing a spurt of blood splash back onto the glass.
But as he reared back for another punch, two Montreal players had Ilya in their grasp, a third standing by. There were so many bodies and sounds and so much adrenaline was pumping through him that he couldn't quite orient himself completely. He knew he landed another punch on someone else. Knew that it took two people to slam him so hard over the boards that it knocked the wind out of him.
The benches cleared. It was Marlow who eventually broke through to where Ilya was essentially getting triple teamed, and dragged him out of the pile and back onto his feet. Ilya was panting, feeling his rage come down to be replaced with a strange sense of relief and satisfaction as he saw Baird sitting on the ice, his bloodied face being tended to.
Ilya pushed sweat soaked hair off his forehead, listening to the cacophony of boos as he skated out to center ice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hollander, who was dragging Boston players back toward their bench, but still keeping a watchful eye on Ilya.
The corners of Ilya's mouth dragged up into a lazy smile before he spit a mouthful of blood onto center ice, blew a kiss to the camera, and started waving to the crowd. Being shoved forcibly into the penalty box for the rest of the game was worth it.
Well, maybe it all wasn't totally worth it. They beat Montreal, 4 - 2, after Hollander scored again. Because of course he did. They proved their point.
But Ilya felt like he was quite literally dragging himself to his hotel room. Both he and Coach decided it was best for him not to go out and do press after his blow up so near the end of the game, and he was eternally grateful for that.
When Ilya finally got into his room, he collapsed into the bed with a heavy groan. Bruises had already started to form over his knuckles. Another blooming on his cheek. But the worst pain was plastered over his ribs, right at the spot where he got folded over the boards like a rag doll by two henchmen hockey players. He decided he wouldn't look at that bruise right now. He felt like he almost certainly heard a rib crack, but he would definitely be pretending that part didn't happen.
He had always been a fierce captain. Protective over his players to a fault. But he could only hope that no one read any deeper into the way he had shown up for Hollander tonight.
He so badly wanted to hate Shane Hollander. He was better than him at hockey. He was a better person. And his irresistible charms, that Shane wasn't even remotely aware he had, put Ilya in a hopeless chokehold from essentially the moment they met. It was horrible.
What was even more horrible was that he did not hate Shane Hollander at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite. And that felt worse than getting his ribs smashed in ever could.
Just as he felt himself start to drift into that lull between consciousness and sleep, a soft knock on the door jolted him upright. "Ow." He grasped at his ribs. Taking a deep breath.
It was probably Marlow, wanting to come give him a full run down of the entire fight as if he were narrating a wrestling match. Marlow loved that. Ilya was way too tired and sore to entertain it tonight. He was ready to tell Marlow to go the fuck to sleep and save his play by play for the airport as he swung the heavy door open.
But instead, he got a face full of Shane Hollander.Shane hung back in the elevator corridor, leaning his back to the textured wallpaper as he watched.
Ilya was at the end of the hall, a hand clutched over his ribs as he grimaced, searching his pocket for his key card. Shane made a mental note of the room number, then slipped away into his own room.
Though the room was small, he started to pace back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to gather his thoughts.
It seemed like something had emerged from Ilya during this game. Something in his eyes that showed signs of life. And Shane was on the verge of insanity trying to figure out why he missed seeing that spark so badly.
It reminded him of the Ilya he knew. The one he couldn't stop himself from going back to, time and time again.
Shane could try to pretend that couldn't rid himself of Ilya for all those years simply because he was incredibly hot and incredibly good at sex. Those things were true. But not the whole truth. And everything Ilya had done tonight served as a reminder of that.
Shane told himself that he just wanted to properly thank his captain for being supportive. And that was it. Not that he was looking for an excuse to linger, to clamber on to the feeling he got when Ilya's hand had been on him at the game.
He could hear Hayden's voice in his head, telling him not to be stupid. He wasn't going to be stupid. He was going to be professional, and prove to himself that he was over this.
With much more confidence than he felt, Shane slipped out of his room and strode to the end of the hall, stopping in front of Ilya's room. He could feel a sudden surge, being in this exact scenario before. Sneaking up to Ilya's room, being pulled inside. But this was not that. He took a beat to remind himself. Again.
Shane knocked quickly, then shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, clenching and unclenching his jaw.
The door swung open with fervor, but when Ilya's eyes met Shane's face, he reared back slightly, looking utterly shocked.
"Uh…sorry." Shane laughed awkwardly. "Is…this a bad time?" He studied the look on Ilya's face, resting somewhere near confusion and exhaustion.
"What? No. Is…fine. What do you need?" Ilya's voice was slightly gruff with sleep.
"Do you…have a minute?" Shane used his eyes to gesture toward Ilya's room. It took Ilya a moment to register, or maybe to decide if this was a good idea.
After a few seconds, he stepped aside, holding the door open. Shane followed him in, hands fidgeting inside his jacket.
He heard the door latch softly before Ilya leaned a shoulder against it, crossing his arms as he looked at him.
Shane cleared his throat. "I just wanted to thank you. For tonight." He leaned up against the desk, scuffing his shoe lightly against the floor. Being in close proximity to Ilya, in a hotel room, was turning out to be far more distracting than he had anticipated. He felt like muscle memory was bound to kick in. He swallowed that thought down.
"I am your captain." Ilya shrugged, sniffing a bit and looking down. "Is my job."
"Yeah. I get that. But still." Shane let his eyes graze up Ilya's frame. "You..helped a lot. Probably more than you realize. So thank you." He said, earnestly.
Ilya nodded a bit, his expression impossible to read. "You are good player. But is hard situation for you, I know." He kept his gaze down.
"Well you're the reason we pulled it off. Even if you didn't get to enjoy the end of the game."
That tugged a slight smile onto Ilya's lips. The kind that reminded Shane that this man truly did thrive off of chaos. His eyes raked over Ilya, illuminated by the soft lamp lights. He had a dark bruise on one cheek, and more scattered across his forearms. His knuckles were busted and battered. It made something in Shane's stomach stir. A feeling all too familiar when he was around Ilya. "How are you, by the way?"
Ilya groaned softly. "You saw those fuckers jump me."
"Yeah. It took three of them to get you down. It was kind of-" And oh god. Shane had been about to say it was kind of hot. The way Ilya was so ignited, beating in the face of someone who had insulted Shane, that three players had to take him down. He snapped his mouth shut, his brain feeling like it was going to short circuit.
Ilya raised an eyebrow. "Kind of…?"
"Just, crazy, I guess." He said quickly. "They got you pretty good though, huh?"
Ilya took a few steps forward, moving to stand closer in front of Shane. He held out his hand to show his knuckles. "Mm yes but probably I got Baird better."
A smile pulled at the corners of Shane's mouth. "I'm pretty sure you broke his nose. And maybe his jaw."
And without thinking, he reached his fingers out to lightly graze the bloody bruises over Ilya's knuckles. He felt Ilya's hand twitch, but he didn't pull it away.
"Well maybe he will learn to keep that word out of his mouth."
"How are your ribs?"
Ilya seemed to almost wince at the mention. "I haven't looked. I think it might be bad." He admitted, looking down at where his shirt covered his torso.
Shane idly bit at his bottom lip, trying to steady his breathing when he realized that Ilya was tugging up the hem of his own shirt.
He rolled the shirt all the way up to his pecs, revealing an impressive bruise, purple and red and expansive. Shane sucked in a breath. "Fuck, Rozanov. Did you get this looked at?"
"Mm no. Maybe when we get back to Boston. Is probably fine."
Shane could feel the rise and fall in his chest as he stared at Ilya's bared torso. He felt intoxicated. And the muscle memory started to nudge its way through the mental barrier he had tried so desperately to put up.
Slowly, Shane reached out a hand, stopping and letting it hover between them for a moment, as if testing the waters. But Ilya didn't pull away. Didn't pull his shirt down. He just watched Shane's hand with curious focus.
Shane took a slow breath, closing the distance. His fingers danced lightly over warm skin and hard muscle, tracing over the bruise carefully. He heard Ilya swallow, and felt the goose prickles rise over his skin.
"Does that hurt?" Shane said quietly.
Ilya only shook his head, then took a half step closer, so that Shane's whole palm was now flat against him.
Shane took a shuddering breath, before adding his other hand, running them both slowly down Ilya's stomach. Ilya exhaled, a sound that was a mixture of nerves and pleasure.
Shane was aware that he was essentially panting now, his hands moving back up to grip at Ilya's bare chest. Ilya moved their faces closer together, their noses brushing slightly.
"Fuck." Shane muttered, then quickly stepped backward, snatching his hands back.
Ilya took a step back as well, his chest rising and falling quickly.
Shane turned to him, as if to say something. Anything. 'Sorry' or 'this was a bad idea' or 'please fuck me'. Instead he just disappeared into the hallway, raking his hands through his hair.
"What the fuck." He said to himself in a quiet panic. "What the fuck."
The cold of the hotel room was hitting his skin, icy and uncomfortable, but Ilya was powerless to move.
He stood frozen in place, his shirt rolled up, skin buzzing from Shane's touch. His heart was pounding so hard could swear it would burst straight through his chest.
It was a scene that he felt had played out before. Shane on him, with him, their bodies electrified, his mind overwhelmed with the feeling. Shane. His Shane. The only thing he ever really wanted.
And then in an instant, he was gone. And a piece of Ilya's soul was torn straight from his body and thrown out the door with him.
Stop running, he wanted to beg. He wanted to scream. But instead, he laid back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, letting his tears silently soak his face.