By the time dawn started to peer through the gap in the room's heavy curtains, Shane believed he likely could have drawn the entire room by memory. He had not slept a wink. Only moved around the bed and room in various different positions throughout the night, trying his hardest to comprehend what exactly he had just done.
Hayden had tried to call at some point, but he ignored it immediately, unable to even form a coherent thought. All he could see in his mind were his hands running so gently over that bruise that was painted over perfectly shaped muscles and warm skin. He had wanted to lean in and kiss it better. Ilya would have let him. Ilya would have let him do anything, or would have done anything to Shane, that he wanted. He could see it in those hungry blue eyes, deep and wanting.
Shane had come to many realizations since the day he ended things with Ilya. The biggest of which was that he was definitely gay. It had been strange and difficult for him to accept, but he accepted it, none the less.
He thought that maybe if he tried other guys, the nagging thoughts of a certain devastatingly beautiful hockey player would fall away. That didn't exactly happen.
The two times that Shane had tried, he was not only scared beyond belief that he would be recognized and outed, but he felt strangely empty. He couldn't bring himself to finish the act.
So maybe stumbling into a bisexual Russian sex god who looked like he stepped straight out of a Calvin Klein ad as his first ever experience with a man had proven to be problematic. It had admittedly set the bar unrealistically high, and Shane had never been able to get enough.
Something else he came to terms with was that he was not capable of being casual with Ilya Rozanov. That became extremely evident one night in Montreal, when Shane was trying his hardest to act like he was enjoying being at a night club with his beautiful girlfriend. But the world had fallen out from underneath him when he saw Ilya on the dance floor, his tongue down a woman's throat. The jealousy and pain had surged through him so violently that he felt like he was going to be sick. He had ended up sobbing that night, curled in a ball on his bathroom floor, so overwhelmed by his own stupid thoughts.
He knew then that he definitely could never, ever hook up with Ilya again. He could not handle juggling all those feelings. Because at his core, he wanted Ilya to belong to him. Only him. And it was something that he knew he could never have. He made to move on.
So he had deprived himself, in many ways, for the better part of the past year. Chasing a satisfaction that never came. Pretending that Ilya Rozanov was just another hockey player on his periphery.
And that led him straight here, panicking in this hotel room, because the millisecond he got the chance to be alone with Ilya, he wasn't able to keep his hands to himself.
He felt completely desperate and out of control, but he also felt very fucking confused.
Because whatever it was that possessed him to make that move, was not purely out of lust. It wasn't strictly motivated by physical attraction. That surge of desire bloomed from the way Ilya had protected him. How he had brought Shane out of his own panic in seconds using only his touch and his voice. How he didn't hesitate in the slightest to break another player's entire face for insulting Shane. How he took a brutal beating and then flashed a menacing, bloody smile for all of Montreal to see.
And when Shane saw Ilya's bruises, the lingering, real reminder that Ilya truly cared, it had uncoiled something in Shane. A primal need to thank Ilya with more than just his words.
But that was teetering on the edge of a cliff that Shane knew he would never be able to climb back up from once he fell.
Shane kept his hood pulled over his head and his gaze pointed at the ground, fingers tapping idly against the phone in his pocket. The rest of the players had started to gather in the airport terminal, and he was desperate to get out.
Marlow came up beside him, bag slung over his shoulder. "Damn, you get any sleep at all Hollzy?
"Not really. Too wound up from the game, I guess." Shane rubbed one of his eyes, as if it would wipe away his sleep deprived look.
"Hell of a game. You and Roz were on fire." He plopped down in the seat next to Shane.
Shane swallowed. "Yeah. Glad we pulled it off." He said tightly.
"I feel like you finally got to see what we mean when we talk about Roz last night. He's a fucking dog."
Shane was unable to formulate anything to say about that. But the beat of silence was broken by Marlow's voice again.
"Speak of the devil!"
Shane swallowed hard, realizing Marlow was looking up at Ilya, who had just appeared in silence.
"Oh. Shit, Roz. You look fucking terrible, man. You good?" Marlow said, concern in his voice as his brows furrowed.
The bruise on Ilya's cheek had spread and darkened and his eyes were rimmed pink and red. He was lightly running his tongue over the split in his lip, and had an arm clutched over his ribs. "Fine." He said sharply, focusing his eyes out of the large windows.
"Are you sure? You should probably-"
"Can you please drop it, Marly? For once?" His voice wasn't angry, but exhausted. Ilya's eyes moved to Marlow's face. And he did look like absolute hell, Shane could see. "It's too fucking early."
It was obvious to Shane that Ilya had been crying.
"Damn. Sorry. I guess you both were too wound up last night." Marlow leaned back in his seat.
Shane quickly looked down and away.
Too wound up was one way to put it.
"You really went for it." Svetlana's voice carried from the couch as Ilya came striding over from the kitchen, taking careful steps that wouldn't further aggravate his ribs.
"Went for what?" Ilya sat down next to her, then looked up at the TV, where she was watching a replay of Ilya smashing Baird's face in with his fist.
He groaned. "Can we please not talk about this?"
Svetlana raised an eyebrow, shooting him a pointed look.
He loved when she came over. It was nice to have a close friend, and someone to speak Russian with. One less thing his mind needed to process. But he hated the way she could read him like a book.
"What? Must we always talk about hockey?" He crossed his arms.
"Ilya."
"Svetlana."
They both stared each other down. Svetlana shook her head. "We both know I'm not talking about hockey, Ilya. Not really. I watched the whole game. I saw who Baird was roughing up before you went after him. I've seen you fight plenty, but never quite like that."
"Well." Ilya shifted in his seat. "You saw, but you don't know what he said."
"What he said to you? Or to him?"
Ilya swallowed. "What does it matter? It's over with. Why are we still talking about it?"
"It matters because you are falling apart, Ilya." Her tone became more serious. "Even more so than before. You can't just bottle it up and hope it will go away. It's been a year like this and it's only gotten worse. I'm worried about you."
Ilya groaned, putting his head into his hands.
"Something else clearly happened. Why don't you just at least tell me about that before you implode." She pulled her legs in and turned to face him.
Ilya's head started to pound even considering recalling it. But she was probably right. She was pretty much always right.
He took a deep breath, laying his head back on the couch cushion. "I kept trying to tell myself that I hate him. But I fucking don't. And it's awful." He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"During warmups, Hollander started to…I don't know. He looked like he was about to have a panic attack. I know he was upset about being back in Montreal. So I tried to calm him down. I was close to him, I had my hands on him. I guess people noticed. But I didn't really care. I didn't like seeing him like that."
Svetlana toyed with the hem of her shirt, listening intently.
"So fucking Baird made a comment to him about it, something homophobic. And I just snapped. I just felt like…I could never let anyone do anything bad to him. Like I would kill for him. Actually kill for him, if I needed to." Ilya started to feel the annoying sting of tears welling in his eyes. "Not there, of course. Not over that. But it just hit me that I do care that much."
"Does that scare you?" Svetlana asked, her voice even.
"It fucking terrifies me." He said honestly, rubbing at his eyes to try and stop the tears from coming. "And after the game, back in the hotel, he came to my room out of nowhere. He asked to come in and he said he wanted to thank me for what I did. I was trying to keep my distance but it just…" He looked at her, breathing deeply through his nose.
"Just what?"
"Escalated. I don't even know how. I think he was asking about my ribs, he knew I got hurt. And then next thing I know his hands are all over me and we're getting closer together, like we were about to…" He let his voice trail off there, shaking his head.
He hated the way Svetlana was looking at him, like she pitied him.
"But then he just ran off. He didn't even say anything. He just left me there with my shirt up, looking fucking pathetic. Because I am. Because I would have done fucking anything for him stay." Now a tear fell, rolling quickly down his cheek.
Svetlana put a hand on his knee. "Ilya."
He put his hands into his hair. "Why the fuck do I care so much? I could have left that hotel room and fucked anyone I wanted to."
"But you didn't want to." She rubbed his knee. "You haven't wanted that in a long time."
"And why not?" His voice was strained, coming out harshly.
"You tell me." She leaned back, studying him. It wasn't a challenge, but more of an invitation for Ilya to finally be honest with her. And himself.
He didn't speak for a while. Just kept his eyes closed, his head resting on his hand as his brain ran through a marathon of thoughts. Truths that he knew, but had pushed so deep under the surface that he convinced himself that they weren't there.
"Because he's the only thing I want." He said, quietly. "I've never met anyone like him, Svetlana. He fascinates me, how genuine he is. He's so serious about everything, but not in a bad way. It's charming. I don't understand how he can be so sexy but also so…adorable. It hurts my brain."
She smiled a bit at that, sensing the passion in Ilya's words.
"From the first moment I saw him, I could never get him out of my mind. And I never wanted to. When I'm with him it all just feels right. It makes sense. And for a long time, it scared me. I didn't understand it. I didn't know I could even feel like this about someone." He was trying to quickly wipe the tears as they fell, but it was impossible to keep up.
"And then once I figured it out, and I tried to show him, it just fucked it all up." Ilya choked on his last words, swallowing back a sob.
Svetlana pulled him into a hug, shushing softly into his hair.
"I wanted it so badly." He cried, not caring now how ridiculous and weak he sounded. "I still do. But I don't even fucking deserve him."
She pulled back, using both hands to wipe his tears. "Ilya. Look at me."
He reluctantly met her gaze, feeling his chin quivering.
"Anyone would be lucky to have you. You love with your whole heart. And your heart is beautiful." She stroked his hair, searching his eyes. "I think you need to talk to him."
He scoffed, scooting away from her. "No. That is the worst idea you've ever had."
Svetlana grabbed his arm firmly. "Listen to me, Ilya. You can't go on like this. You never got the chance to tell him how you really feel. You should tell him. I think you both deserve that."
She rubbed her thumb soothingly on his arm. They stayed like that for a long while, silent, but together.
"I am lucky to have you." Ilya said quietly.
Svetlana smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "And you will always have me."
"I will think about it. What you said." Ilya brought his fingers to the cross around his chain, then closed his hand around it, praying silently for the right answer.
The shapes on the screen in the film room seemed to move around in blurs of color, Shane unable to make clear focus of anything that he needed to.
Coach had started off the day by telling them that Rozanov would be out for practice because of his rib injury, and suspended for their next game for his excessive unsportsmanlike conduct. It sent a surge of guilt straight through to Shane's gut.
He knew he wasn't responsible for how Ilya chose to conduct himself, or for how the other players reacted. But he also knew that all of this happened because Ilya had chosen to protect Shane, fiercely, even though Shane had been previously convinced that Ilya hated him.
Despite not practicing, their captain was still present, seated in the corner of the room with a stare fixated at the screen.
Just as Shane thought they had come to the end of the film, a short clip flashed up on the screen. It was Ilya skating out to center ice, that wolfish, bloody grin on his face. His eyes were burning bright as he lifted a bloodied hand to the Montreal crowd and waved. Shane's stomach tightened. The rest of the room rang out in loud laughs and fists banging on tables.
"Had to add that one in just for cap." Coach smiled in Ilya's direction. Ilya had his hood pulled up, the string of his hoodie hanging from his mouth. He gave the slightest hint of a smug smile as Marlow shook him by the shoulders.
"But don't go thinking I want you all getting yourselves injured and suspended out there, alright? I spoke with Rozanov privately, we can't have this happen again. Keep it hockey. No more street brawls."
The players all sang out their agreement before filing out of the room.
Selfishly, Shane was glad Ilya wasn't able to practice. It kept a more reasonable amount of distance between them, as Ilya spent most of practice perched on the edge of the wall near the bench, watching silently.
He would occasionally whistle a player over to him, pointing around the ice or adjusting their hand placements or demonstrating a posture. Shane had always been revered for having the highest hockey IQ, but Ilya was so intensely perceptive to everything.
Shane hung around late after practice, wanting to make sure he had the details down perfectly on how his line would attack their next game without Rozanov. He knew he needed to take the lead in his captain's absence. And he still felt that pang of personal responsibility over the whole situation.
The whole arena was almost silent by the time he was showered and slipping back into his sweats. His entire body was screaming at him, legs burning and hips aching, his hands tender and sore. But Shane's mind was still somehow occupied elsewhere, disconnected from himself as he padded slowly out toward the parking lot.
Dusk had fallen, and a light snow was drifting through the crisp air, especially visible in the warm glow of the street lights overheard. As he went to round the corner, the smell of cigarette smoke stopped him in his tracks.
Shane tensed, the smell flooding his body with immediate recognition. He stood still, a silent panic filling him as he knew exactly what he would find as soon as he stepped around that wall.
"I know you are standing there, Hollander."
Ilya's voice, cool and even, jolted him a bit. He felt a heat creep up his neck. This man truly was too perceptive for his own good. Or maybe this truly was just how the universe worked for them. The same way they could sense each other on the ice, or find each other's eyes in a sea of people. Shane took a breath, and rounded the corner.
Ilya was standing with his back to the wall, his hood now pulled down. Snowflakes were nesting their way into his curls, shining a warm gold under the lights. He pulled the cigarette away from his lips, flicking his ashes as smoke poured from his parted mouth. His long legs were positioned in a way that blocked Shane's path.
"We need to talk." Ilya said, his deep voice projecting more smoke out into the air between them. He kept his gaze pointed forward.
"Talk?" Shane blurted out, feeling his saliva go sticky in his mouth.
"Da. Talk. This is English word for it, yes?" He perched his cigarette back between his lips.
Shane huffed a bit. "Yes. That's not what-" He exhaled, trying to compose himself. "About what?"
Ilya turned his head toward him now, giving Shane a pointed stare.
Shane sighed, shaking his head a bit as he rocked back on his heels and looked away from Ilya's intense gaze. "Fine. Go ahead."
"Mm. No. Not here." Ilya took a long drag, crossing one arm over his body.
Shane exhaled slightly. "Wh-"
"You have apartment here?" Ilya cut him him off.
"...yes…" Shane could feel his chest tightening.
"Send me your address." He said as plainly as if he were discussing the weather.
Shane let out a small, incredulous huff of laughter. "You-"
"You have plans tonight? Important date?" Ilya cut him off again, clearly growing impatient.
Shane felt his cheeks growing hot. "No."
"Okay then. Send me your address. I will meet you there." Ilya dropped his cigarette on the ground, stomped it out, then carefully picked up the butt to toss in the nearby trashcan.
Shane knew he must have a dumbfounded look on his face. It had always annoyed him the way Ilya was so persistent, but Shane was always quick to be obedient. The way Ilya seemed to always know what he wanted, and was bold enough to go after it, was a quality that had truly been alluring to Shane.
He could feel his own mind short circuiting. Ilya was looking at him with an expectant stare.
"Jesus Christ." Shane muttered under his breath as he grabbed his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his messages app, finger hovering over Lily. He had spent the past year trying and failing to avoid this very thread, finding his way back to it on nights when sleep wouldn't come to him.
He took a shaky breath, then quickly typed out his address and pressed send. A surge of panic immediately started to rise in his gut, his eyes slowly meeting Ilya's. There was no taking this back now.
The cool rush of mint on Ilya's tongue as he popped a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth helped to ground him as he approached the door. He knew he couldn't chain smoke in Shane's apartment, so this would have to suffice to take the edge off.
He was slightly surprised that Shane had given Ilya his address without much push back, though that had always been their dynamic. He supposed Shane could just simply refuse to let him inside now. But he had already buzzed him into the building wordlessly, so it seemed like they were past the point of no return.
He knocked quickly, a few short raps, before shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket he had adorned over his hoodie to stave off the blowing snow outside.
Ilya could hear footsteps come toward the door. Then hesitation. Ilya tilted his head back with a soft groan before the door finally opened, Shane stepping aside to let him in.
Ilya slipped his shoes off at the door, eyes scanning the apartment. He turned to track Shane as he slowly padded toward the back of the couch, leaning his back against it. Ilya took his place across from him, leaning his back against the kitchen island. They both stood with their arms crossed, in a sort of face off.
After an uncomfortable beat of silence, Shane finally spoke. "Look." Shane swallowed. "I'm sorry about the hotel, okay?" He kept his gaze pointed down, shifting on his feet. "It was a stupid idea."
Ilya huffed. "What part? The part where you grope me or the part where you run away?"
Shane's face flushed red. "The whole thing, okay? Fuck."
Ilya shook his head. "This isn't even about that, Hollander."
"So what is it, then?" Shane's face flashed annoyance.
Ilya pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Shane was watching him intently. In the apartment's soft lighting, he looked almost ethereal. Skin glowing and freckles painted in a way that made him look warm and flushed. The shadows played up all the perfect angles and planes of his face, and his eyes were a shining amber.
It was impossible how beautiful this man was. It sent a jolt of frustration straight through his core.
"Well?" Shane urged.
Ilya bristled. "Do you not recall when you ran out of my house for no reason, saying we were done, and never contacting me again?"
Shane looked away.
"Well?" Ilya said, mocking Shane.
"Yes, I fucking remember." Shane grumbled. He ran his hands over his face "I don't know what you want me to say, Rozanov."
"I want you to tell me why!" The words exploded out of Ilya before he could temper them. He threw his hands up, exasperated. "Fucking tell me what happened, because I've spent a year trying to figure it out!"
Shane winced, which immediately made Ilya feel guilty. He turned his body away from Shane, running a hand through his hair, trying to cool himself down. But his heart was hammering hard in his chest, and he could feel his fingers trembling.
Ilya knew this was going to be far from easy, but they had barely spoken three sentences and he was already overwhelmed. He rested an elbow on the cool granite of the kitchen island, then placed his forehead into his palm, trying to even his breathing.
"We shouldn't have ever been doing it in the first place. That's why." Shane said.
Ilya couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "No?"
"No!" Shane threw his hands up. "Fucking no, do you not agree?"
Ilya turned back to face him. "Then why did you give me your room number that first time?"
Shane bit at the inside of his cheek, wordlessly.
"Why didn't you stop it after that? Or the second time? Or the third time? Or-"
"Because! Fuck!" Shane put his hands in his hair, the words pouring out of him in a frenzy. "Because I don't think I ever even realized I even liked men until I met you. And then my first ever sexual experience with a guy, my first ever sexual experience where I even remotely enjoyed what was happening, was with…fucking…you!" He gestured wildly at Ilya.
"I mean Jesus Christ. I think you're arrogant enough to figure out what I mean by that." Shane said pointedly. Ilya tensed his jaw. "So yeah. Forgive me if I couldn't help myself after that. And by the way, I don't recall you ever trying to stop anything, either."
"You are right. I also am not the one who ran away." Ilya crossed his arms again.
"Oh no?" Shane raised his eyebrows. "Because I seem to remember you taking my virginity and then ghosting me for six fucking months."
Ilya could sense the pain in Shane's voice. It cut into him, sharp and biting.
"And I never said that was right thing to do." Ilya looked down, sniffing a bit. "It wasn't."
"So it's just forgiven when you do it?" Shane gave a short, bitter laugh.
"I did not say that. But I also did not tell you it was over after that. I came back. We both did." Ilya could feel the pressure mounting in his chest.
"Well maybe I was trying to be the responsible one." Shane was angry now, his words landing more harshly.
"Responsible?" Ilya looked up at that, eyes searching Shane.
"Yes, responsible. Because what the fuck were we even doing? 8 years is a long time to be hooking up with someone and pretending it's just casual. And the last time we were together, it started to feel like it wasn't just about sex anymore. So yes, I was responsible, and I ended it there." Shane said, a firmness in his tone.
"And why is that so responsible? So it's more than just sex. Why does that make it bad?" Ilya felt an ache blooming in his chest.
"Because, Ilya!" Shane threw his hands out, a gesture in how unbelievable he found this conversation to be. Ilya swallowed hard. "Because we only see each other a handful of times a year, for a couple hours at a time. Because I know you're running around out there fucking God knows how many other people. Because neither of us are even out publicly. Because we're both major league hockey captains on rival fucking teams. And because I don't even have a fucking clue how you ever actually felt about me, because all we ever do is fuck and then you just disappear into the night to go be the league's playboy. Do you need me to keep going?"
Shane's face was flushed, but his eyes had grown glassy with bitter tears. "So yeah. Please forgive me if I was trying to protect myself from whatever the fuck any of that was supposed to be."
Ilya found himself trying to shrink back, but he was already flush against the counter top. He felt a dizzying mixture of shame, dread, anger, sadness, emptiness, and God knows what else. A horrible concoction of emotions on a collision course in his brain.
He was supposed to be telling Shane how he really felt about him. How he had wanted this to work, more than he had ever wanted anything. But everything was wrong now. There was a horrible mix of anger and moroseness hanging in the air between them.
Ilya tried to steel himself, but he felt his own grip slipping away as Shane stared tensely at the wall.