Do the Wrong Thing

MacyFletcherFiction

Preface

Do the Wrong Thing Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at archiveofourown dot org U.R.L.

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Heated Rivalry (T.V) Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s) Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers) Additional Tags: Cheating, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Hurt, Home wrecking, Slow Burn, Infidelity, Not Canon Compliant, Ilya Rozanov pays for his crimes, Shane 'Fuck Around And Find Out' Hollander, Love Triangles, Major Original Character(s), Shane/O.M.C - Freeform, Explicit Sexual Content, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, No Beta We Die Like Metros, Second Chances, Red String of Fate, Jealousy, Situationships, Idiots in Love, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Shane Dates, Right Person Wrong Time, Lovers, Guilt, Bittersweet Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, happy ending for most, Shane Hollander Does In Fact Fuck Another Dude This Is In Fact A Cheating FanFiction, They're not cheating on each other tho, Hollanov Ending

Language: English

Series: Part 1 of Mo & Jo Expanded Universe Stats: Published: 2026-02-21 Completed: 2026-05-18 Words: 143,820 Chapters: 27/27

by MacyFletcherFiction

Summary

After Shane's plan to come out to Ilya in Tampa falls through, the pair have a falling out. There is no cottage. Instead, Ilya is forced to wait and see Shane at a charity event being held in New York. Ilya hopes that, after a miserable summer apart, he and Shane can reconcile.

There's just one problem.

Jordan Bragg, a forward for the New York Admirals, has also come out as gay. Stunningly handsome, funny, and just what a heartbroken Hollander needs, Jordan makes it clear that Ilya Rozanov isn't the only one after the Metro's star centre.

Notes

Hi party people.

This work is currently in an unbeta state, so if that drives you nuts, circle back in like... eight months?Some small amendments will be made to my earliest chapters after the last chapter has been published.Bonus content like chapter art, other coding mechs and so on will be made way later.

Ok bye bye love you.

Also, Jordan sequel story coming June 5th.

Ok love you be good.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Prologue:

The night after seeing Ilya in the club in Montreal, Shane knew he couldn't do it anymore.

Despite the edges of his vision being crinkled from his empty stomach, post-game exhaustion, and champagne buzz combination, the sight of Ilya in that horribly ugly animal-print shirt with his tongue in some blonde woman's ear was etched into the back of his eyelids. He had been petrified in that moment, stuck frozen on the dance-floor, his agony glowing beneath purple and pink flashing lights for everyone to see. He was heartbroken, and there was no rationalizing his way out of it, which was saying something, because Shane could rationalize his way out of or into just about anything.

But not this.

He knew if he turned around and saw Rose making out with another guy a few feet away, his heart wouldn't flip over itself. He wouldn't feel the air in the club grow thin around him until it ghosted from his lungs. He wouldn't care. Not like this, anyway.

It was just exploratory sex. It was just something to do when he was bored. It was, in a weird way, somehow to get back at his top rival. He wasn't gay.

Then Ilya ran his powerful hands over the woman's breasts, her head flying back with an inaudible moan, lost beneath the pumping of a pop song. Ilya leaned into her, his curls limp with sweat, tracing their way down her neck as he planted a kiss on the hinge of her jaw, then viciously ran his teeth across her tender flesh– just like he used to do to Shane.

Fuck. Shane was going to cry.

As dampness swelled into the corners of his eyes, the music shifted to a Latin-sounding artist, the beat low and sexy. Shane was thankful the lights dipped into total darkness with the new track, allowing him to flee– yes, run out of the club and into the cold Montreal November night without his coat or his girlfriend. He would text Rose that he was sorry when he got back to his apartment.

If he ever got back.

Not even ten minutes into the drive, Shane threw on his hazards and pulled off to the side of the road near an exit, the roads and signs and dark sky blurring together like a smeared oil painting. The front of his t-shirt was beginning to soak through, as no matter how many times he swiped at his eyes, the cold, fat tears wouldn't stop falling in silent sobs.

He was crying for two reasons.

The first was as obvious as the wetness on his face: he was gay. The second, much harder reason, was that he was in love with the one person in the world who made being gay a million times more difficult– the one man with whom he probably could never have a future, no matter how bad he wanted it. He wasn't even sure if Ilya wanted it. The tears turned hot, a mix of shame, acceptance, relief, and then finally, grief.

It took him twenty minutes of breathless crying to pull himself together enough to get back home. He didn't text Rose, nor did he shower; both radically strange moves for him. Instead, Shane dragged himself into bed, still in his clothes, and slept for fourteen hours.

In his dreams, Shane was trapped beneath pink and purple lights, feeling around blindly as his eyes burned from the harsh flashing lights, unable to find the door to leave. His head was pounding and all his limbs were floaty, each step like wading through syrup. Instead of finding an exit, Shane began to softly collide with jungle foliage, fat leaves in varying shades of emerald softly hushed as he weakly pushed through them. He thought he was inside a club in Montreal in November– why was it suddenly humid and dense with greenery, like the Amazon? He pushed forward, stumbling in slow motion to his hands and knees and crashing through more leaves until he was sure he was on solid ground, dirt and tiles of a dance-floor.

Lifting his head up, he wasn't sure if he would see a blue sky or an industrial metal ceiling– he would never know. His eyes never got that far. Instead, a few feet ahead of him lying low to the ground between two flowering bushes was a leopard, huge yet stealthy.

Its eyes gleamed sharply when Shane met its gaze, black as ink. His heart thundered blood into his ears— or was that the bass of the music? Shane couldn't tell the difference anymore. He put his hand flat against his chest, which was surprisingly bare, to ensure it wouldn't explode like a confetti cannon across the jungle floor.

He was totally naked. Shane looked down at himself and expected to be washed in humiliation, but nothing came. It was oddly peaceful.

A low growl snapped his attention back up to the powerful predator ahead of him, and Shane's mouth dropped open at what he saw. Clenched between the cat's exquisitely large fangs was the neck of a woman, her blonde head twisted away in an angle in which thankfully Shane couldn't see her expression. He guessed, by her limp body that was motionless in her black sparkly dress, that she was dead. Shane sucked in a sharp, scared breath, and as if on cue, the leopard dropped her with a sickening thud to the ground, its gaze never leaving Shane's. Around the neck of the animal, something thin and gold caught the pink dancing lights, glinting and making Shane flinch, unable to tell whether or not he was seeing it sink low into its haunches, its ears flattening and its lips curling back in a snarl, seconds from pouncing. Just as he got his bearings, the leopard was gunning for him in an impressive leap, mouth open, paws and claws outstretched, ready to tear him apart.

Shane jumped awake with a violent jerk; his mouth was cotton, and he had sweated through his sheets, which were a tangled, matted mess around his legs. He was gripping onto the side of his mattress as if he had actually been in the throes of an attack. Frustrated, he kicked the fabric away from him in an agitated huff. A soreness ached between his legs.

Fuck Montreal clubs. Fuck leopards. Why am I hard?

Charging his dead phone while he showered, Shane thought of what the hell he was supposed to do. He'd need to come out to Rose first, obviously. Shane owed her that much, especially after he had been such a shitty boyfriend to her, both in and out of the bedroom. And then his parents.

God. There was one conversation Shane had prayed his entire adolescence he wouldn't ever have to have. And then his team, of course, which would be the worst. The last thing Shane would ever want would be for his sexuality to affect his career or his teammates. Or his chances at another cup.

Yet, sitting on his dishevelled bed, wrapped up in a towel, Shane didn't want to tell anyone but Ilya.

He opened their message chain and typed the same sentiment in multiple ways, different words, different tones, deleting it and starting over at least a dozen times.

Hi. I'm gay.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

Shane closed the messaging app, then his eyes.

These conversations were going to be the hardest thing he'd ever done. And he'd won a Stanley Cup. Twice.

Over the next three weeks, Shane and Rose had awkward short phone calls and spotty text exchanges while they both danced around the obvious impending breakup. It was torture. Even though Shane knew Rose wasn't the type, he would anxiously float around his phone, worried for an accusation to hurl or something to come up in a tabloid headline.

It never did. Instead, as Rose wrapped her shoot for a new thriller movie in which she played the best-friend turned serial killer accomplice, she suggested the two of them grab dinner the first night she was back in Montreal at the wine bar where they had their first official date. That was almost three months to the day.

Putting a date on the first conversation had Shane worried sick.

It also didn't help Shane's frayed nerves that all texting between him and Ilya stopped the night after they bumped into each other at Ultraviolet.

Fuck Montreal Clubs.

Shane hated thinking about that night. To him, it was the night that changed everything; it rocked his foundation to his core. He hated thinking about all the women Ilya hooked up with, maybe men too, in the long stretches when Shane couldn't be the first one at his door.

He hated how his stomach flooded with liquid fire when he remembered gold eyes glinting with laughter as Ilya stared him down across the dance floor, kissing a trail down some random woman's slender neck while his hands roamed wildly along her curves. It had literally reoriented Shane's world, and did Ilya care? Of course not. He was too busy getting his dick wet and getting better at hockey; two things Shane was currently barred from doing in his terrible mental state.

He couldn't even run on a treadmill without stumbling from distraction. Every time an awkward text from Rose would ping, Shane's pulse would leap, hoping it would be Ilya. When it wasn't, he felt even worse– gross and guilty.

All in all, Shane showed up to his date looking and feeling like shit. Which is why he found it odd that as soon as he sat down across from her, Rose called him cute. Twice.

She was beautiful, as always. Practically shining under the restaurant's dim orange light, in a soft black blouse and champagne colored silk skirt, her big gold earrings catching and sparkling like suns. Shane thought she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, which only further cemented his guilt for wasting her time.

There were two white wine glasses chilled and waiting on the table between them, and Shane took long, time-filling sips while Rose rolled the stem between her fingers. They barely got past pleasantries before Rose threw open the doors and yanked Shane from the closet.

“Shane, I like you.” Rose was insisting, her dangling earrings swinging as she reached across the table and grabbed his hands. “I just don't think we fit well together. I don't think I… do it for you.”

“You do! You totally do!” Shane could feel his head shaking in the negative as he lied, suddenly unconfident, his pre-planned script to come out dissolving in panic. “I mean, you sort of do…”

Rose's mouth twitched, clearly suppressing a laugh.

“Shane,” She cradled his name gently, and he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. “It's okay.”

Any chance to backpedal or defend himself melted into the stretch of silence between them, her warm hand encasing his. She beat him to the punch. The jig was up.

Shane let his head fall for a moment, letting out a long, thin sigh until there was no air left in him.

“I came here to tell you. I'm really, really sorry, Rose.”

“You're like, the eighth gay boyfriend I've had. It's really not a big deal, Shane. I still really like you, only I think we'd be way better as friends.” Rose sounded relieved. “I'm a great actress, but I don't want to pretend in my personal life.”

“I was a terrible boyfriend to you, gay or not.” Shane met her comforting gaze meekly. “I'm so sorry, Rose. Typical douchebag hockey player move, right?”

Rose pulled her torso over the table, her voice dropping to a whisper so no one around them could hear. “Sorry, I stole your big coming-out moment. Typical asshole movie star move.”

Not even ten minutes later, they were sitting on the same side of the table, arms around one another in the booth and cracking up over truffle fries. They really were better as friends.

“And then Thomas Ferrent, my next gay boyfriend, was huge into arthouse films and would drag me to these crummy theatres all along the strip. They always smelled of pee, but he insisted it was an authentic ambiance enhancement.” Rose sarcastically finger-quoted into the air. “Oh my God!” She had a tear of laughter escaping from the corner of her eye.

“Jesus,” Shane wheezed, shaking his head. “Please never set me up with any of your exes. I'm glad I wasn't the worst gay boyfriend.”

“God, Shane, no.” Rose affectionately laid her head on his shoulder, popping up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You are seriously one of the sweetest guys I've ever dated. I'm so glad I get to be around you all the time as a friend.”

“Me too.” Shane felt a lump bob in his throat, but he pushed it down with his last sip of wine from his second glass. Or was it his third? “I don't have, uhm…”

People. I don't have anyone to talk to about this yet.

“I know.” Rose filled in the blank for him, squirming so she could sit closer. “But you do now. And I want the juicy details, seriously. If you hold out on me, I'll kill you. Best friends tell each other everything."

Shane snorted and kissed her temple. “You're a great girl, Rose.”

“I'm the best.” Rose started to slide away. “I'm also a little drunk, and I think my cab is here.”

Shane checked his watch. “Yeah, I'd better head out.” As he stood, he realized his head was swimming a little bit. “Let me walk you out.”

Together they stood for a moment, happily and drunkenly swaying in the chilly February air, smiling at one another.

“I think this is the worst time to tell you, but I love you, Rose.” Shane grinned. “I've never met anyone like you.”

A massive smile split her face, and she shone, like Rose always did. Like the sun. “Shane! Fool me once, shame on you!” Her laughter warmed the scene around them as if it were spring already. “I love you too.”

She jumped into his arms and let Shane plant a kiss on the top of her head.

“I'm calling you as soon as I land in L.A, okay? Don't go and have sexy adventures without looping me in. And do not watch this next movie, it's going to be so bad!”

“Shh!” Shane laughed as he ushered her towards her impatient cab driver. “No spoilers!”

The sky darkened as he waved at the yellow car until it was out of sight, Rose waving back with her same sweet smile– it was the smile she gave him when he first slid into her booth at La Tambour when they first met. Rose Landry was, to Shane, an angel. She only ever wanted to know him, and now that he was coming to terms with who he was, he could finally let her. And they were having so much fun already.

Shane turned back to call his own cab from inside the restaurant lobby when he spotted a man in a black toque and a navy puffer coat posted up on the wall in a somewhat casual stance. His iPhone was out, and he was clearly recording, which raised Shane's hackles.

Maybe a little too much fun. Shane noted guiltily. Rose had to be careful about movie spoilers and her public image; she probably shouldn't be getting wine drunk with him and hollering on the sidewalk.

Oh well. No harm, no foul.

Shane called his cab and headed home. He texted his parents from the backseat and asked if they were free for lunch this weekend, stating he had something important to share with them both. For the first time in a while, Shane scrolled down to Ilya's number, his finger hovering for a moment. What was he supposed to say? He scrolled away, opened up Instagram and liked Rose's most recent story-highlight from tonight of the two of them in one another's arms, flushed and grinning, instead.

Four Days Later

“Oh, thank God.” His mother gasped, her eyes closing like prayer over her steaming codfish. “I thought it was drugs.”

“Why do you always worry that it's drugs?” Shane's father barely raised his eyes from his steak; he mushed a piece into his fluffy mashed potatoes. “Shane still takes baby aspirin for his headaches.”

“Because he's a professional athlete, that comes with pressures, David!” Shane's mother opened her eyes just to immediately roll them.

Shane knit his eyebrows together, lifting his eyes from his salmon and asparagus. “Uhm, hello?”

“Oh please, the Metros wouldn't dope.”

“What do you know about dope? You barely know YouTube.”

“I'm on YouTube, Yuna. Where do you think I learned about dope?”

“Hello?” Shane unpursed his lips. “Are you even going to acknowledge what I said?”

A look passed between his parents. Had they already forgotten?

“Oh, come on!” Shane balked, his tears instantly evaporating. “Are you fucking with me?”

After thirty minutes of gut-wrenching fear, Shane shook out a monologue he prepared the night before in between the appetizers and the mains.I'm sorry. I tried to be normal. I really did try. I'm still your son. Please, don't treat me any differently. After a long time of trying to make things work, I realized recently that… I'm gay. Actually, I think deep down, I've always known.

He had barely choked it out, and it was as if he told his parents he was missing a sock from the dryer. He had even gone out of his way to book a secluded table so no one would hear if things got loud, but things didn't even get acknowledged.

“Right, sorry.” His dad wiped barbecue sauce from the corner of his mouth with the ridge of his cloth napkin. “Sorry, Shane. You're gay. Continue.”

It wasn't a question, just a flat statement. The sky is blue. My steak is rare. You are gay.This coming-out shit was going differently than Shane had expected.

“Yes, honey. We're sorry.” His mother patted his hand. “Do you have a boyfriend for us to meet? Is that what this is about? You know, you could have brought him here today.”

Shane slumped back in his chair. “I thought…”

What, exactly? That his parents' unconditional love for him would draw the line at liking dick? He wasn't sure if he should be offended or laugh at how quickly they had accepted that their only son was gay. Maybe his spotty relationships with girls growing up had been an early indicator that they quietly ignored until Shane was ready. Maybe this entire lunch conversation was totally redundant.

Shane shook his head with a small smile. “I don't know what I thought.”

“So, no boyfriend then?” Shane's dad asked again, cutting another bite free.

Shane's stomach knotted.

He remembered the pressure of a large sturdy hand pressed between his shoulder blades, the smell of cigarette smoke and its bitter twinge along his mouth, the glint of a chain beneath stadium lights, sneakers barely touching in a hotel gym. Firm fingers digging into the inner flesh of his thighs, his own fingers digging into damp curls. Pinned. Flipped. Filled. His last name husked in the dark. Hollander. And then, as loud as a gunshot, his first name under a huffed Russian accent. Shane.

He thought of a leopard with a neck in its mouth, and swallowed jaggedly.

Something between a sob and a laugh escaped Shane's lips, and he coughed quickly to cover up the strange, strangled noise.

“No. No boyfriend.”

Shane snatched his water glass, gulping the ice liquid down to simmer his edgy nerves. He noticed his mother hadn't touched her lunch, her eyes downcast.

“Mom?”

“I'm sorry if you felt the need to hide anything from me, Shane.” His mother's voice wavered, and Shane reached across the table to grab her hand quickly.

“It's okay, Mom. I forgive you.”

For a sweet moment, they stared at one another, Shane noticing all their shared features, all their soft points and their edges.

“But… we can really make some great partnerships now. Think of all the Pride opportunities.”

Shane sat back in his chair with a long sigh.

“Okay, mom.”

One Week Later: Tampa

When Shane landed in Tampa, he was determined to talk to Ilya. Like, really, actually talk, not just immediately jump into bed with him. Although he was hoping they could do both. He was feeling more confident after his conversations with Rose and his parents, and then a somewhat awkward coming out with Hayden over FaceTime while his friend was covered in spit-up. In the summer, Shane had already made up his mind that he would come out to the Metros. First to the coach, then to the team, and then, if the league wanted, they could pump out some generic Instagram statement about how Shane liked to kiss boys. That part barely mattered to him. What really mattered was Ilya.

And there he was. Tall and fit and starting to tan already in a silly-looking tropical shirt, salmon-colored with dots of palm trees. He had on cargo shorts and grey slides, and Shane couldn't help but consider that everything Ilya had on was extremely easy to take off, and quickly. It sparked the same ball of fiery desire in his stomach that he always got when he looked at Ilya. Sharing a space with the Boston captain was agonizing, especially after they hadn't even spoken in so long. Shane took a moment to take a breath and steady himself.

He felt slightly overdressed, but his new stylist had insisted that he didn't look like a creepy yacht owner and instead was giving Florida chic. Whatever that meant. In this case, it appeared to be a light cream jacket and a black, ultra-breathable shirt to help with the thick humidity that Tampa was breathing onto everyone's necks.

With his new wind of confidence, Shane took a seat next to Ilya at the main bar and ordered whatever Rozanov was drinking. Some beer he had never heard of. By this point, he and Ilya hadn't texted for over three months, and Shane wasn't sure how to approach this conversation, but he knew he had to try.

“Hey,” Shane bravely met Ilya's eyes, which were glued to him from the minute he walked into the bar. “Nice shirt, Rozanov.”

Ilya took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes scanning Shane from top to bottom. Shane felt his mouth dry out and hoped the bartender would be back soon with his drink. Just being in proximity to Ilya made Shane feel strange, excited, but nervous, maybe a little bit afraid.

“Hello, captain,” Ilya said coolly, shifting a little in his barstool. “You look nice. Florida ready.”

“Thanks. This should be fun, eh?” Shane took a sip of his beer the moment it hit his hand. “All-Stars is always a good time.”

“Mhm.” Ilya drummed his fingers on the bar in front of him.

Despite the hot weather, it was decidedly cold between the two men at the bar. Shane wasn't sure how to push through the sudden silence that was born from the Russian's disinterest. Ilya wasn't giving an inch.

Shane felt his palms begin to sweat. Should he just come out and say it? It wouldn't be like Ilya to tell people– after all, they were the same. Almost. Being openly gay might change things for the better between them. Shane racked his brain and finally landed on starting with an apology for the way he had run out of Ilya's apartment after things got a little too close to honest. They had slipped up and said each other's first names, and Shane bolted, and then he ran to the nearest solution he could think of: Rose. But now things were different; really different.

Shane knew that Ily,a of all people, should understand Shane's actions, considering how he slept with women constantly. Shane had just needed to be sure, and now he was.

“About last time, at your apartment…” Shane didn't get to finish or barely start his apology before Ilya loudly cleared his throat.

“So, where is she?”

Shane's head tilted slightly. “Who?”

An angry glower clouded Ilya's sharp features, annoyance flashing in his hazel eyes as he snapped his head over. It was so plainly directed that Shane almost flinched.

“Who,” Ilya repeated, his accent thick with disgust. “Nice.”

“Rose?” Shane tented and untented his brows. “We aren't together anymore.”

“Right.” Ilya snorted, polishing off his beer with a few loud swallows.

Shane found himself momentarily entranced by the bob of his throat, the veins in his neck, and the first lines of stubble appearing along his chin. He ached to run his fingers across those planes of skin, but first, he had to clear the air.

“We're not!” Shane insisted, a little too loudly. He dropped his voice a level. “We broke up. She's a great girl, the best, actually. But we weren't compatible.”

“Bullshit.”

“I'm gay, Rozanov.” Shane hissed after glancing over his shoulder, thankful all the other All-Stars were crowding around a few pool tables on the opposite end of the room.

Ilya turned to stare at Shane, his expression morphing and losing all semblance of bitterness. His gaze had gone soft, and his mouth had opened slightly; Shane felt his heart skip a beat. It was the look Ilya would sometimes put on when he kissed Shane. Not a hot, brimming with sexual tension and desire type of kiss, but the gentle kind. The kind he had given Shane the afternoon they spent in Ilya's apartment bed, watching the game and eating lunch together. Before they went past the point of no return. Before Shane realized that, for years, right then, and right now too, he was in love with Ilya Rozanov.

Suddenly overwhelmed by it all, Shane dropped his gaze to his shoes. “I should go make the rounds and say what's up to people.”

Chickening out for the time being, Shane stood up and walked away, leaving Ilya alone at the bar with a dumbstruck expression.

Later, by the pool, Shane had spotted Ilya standing next to Mike Brophy, the big New Jersey defenceman with a ginger beard. Shane was hoping that they could talk more, but for the time being, he was happy drinking Ilya in. Shane had just been watching Rozanov play with some kids in the pool, losing a race against them and then buying them all candy bars from the hotel lobby as their reward for besting a famous athlete. Now, his golden hair looked dark brown as it was slicked back against his head, curling around his ears as it began to dry. His body, chiselled and firm and dripping wet with chlorine water, was leaving Shane parched. He absent-mindedly sipped a virgin Mojito as he watched Brophy sling an arm around Ilya's shoulders, showing him something on his cellphone; a video, Shane guessed, by the landscape orientation of the device in his massive hand.

From across the pool deck, Shane saw Ilya's expression drop, and for a moment he looked sad– maybe even devastated, but it quickly twisted and soured. When Ilya looked up, he looked right at Shane, scowled, and then slipped out from Brophy's arm, disappearing into the building behind him.

“What the fuck was that about?” Shane wondered aloud, receiving a dirty look from a mom who had her young son on her lap in the next chair over. “Oh, sorry.”

That night, because Ilya had been avoiding him like the plague, Shane gave up and texted him his room number.

There was no response, and as the night crawled by, Shane was beginning to wonder if he would show at all. Just as Shane was about to turn off the lights and crawl into bed, defeated, he heard a soft knock at his door. Checking his watch, Shane was baffled to see it was almost two in the morning; he had sent the text three hours ago.

“You sure took your sweet time,” Shane smiled teasingly as he opened the door.

Ilya didn't look happy. Shane dropped his smile and took a few steps back, letting Rozanov take a few slow steps in, flinching when he slammed the door behind him.

“We doing this, or what, Hollander?” Ilya asked, giving him a bored look.

Shane tried to swallow his discomfort. “Uhm, I think we should talk beforehand.”

Ilya made a face, shaking his head in the negative. “No, thanks.” Then, he moved forward and shoved Shane in the middle of his chest, forcing Shane to sit down clumsily on the bed. “Take your clothes off.”“Rozanov,” Shane heard the hurt in his voice and tried to stiffen his tone.

Something about this was reminding Shane of the Vegas award ceremony.

“Seriously. Let's talk for a second here. I have a bunch of things I need to say to you.” Shane licked his lips as Ilya bent down, their faces only a few inches apart.

“I don't want to hear your lies, Hollander. Keep your boring shit to yourself.” The cruel statement was followed by Ilya crashing his mouth into Shane's.

Frustration and passion swirled in Shane's head for a moment. He was getting what he wanted, but not at the cost Shane had been planning to pay for it. A sickening feeling fizzled out the desire that had flooded Shane's stomach moments prior, and it peaked when Ilya grabbed at Shane's belt and unlatched the buckle.

“Stop,” Shane turned away from Ilya, breaking their kiss. He took Ilya's hands off him. “Stop it.”

Ilya sighed, long and annoyed, then pulled away from him.

Shane caught his breath, then forced himself to look up at Ilya, who was standing over him, glowering down at him with his hands shoved into his shorts pockets.

“You are wasting both of our time.”

“Oh, am I being boring? Sorry.” Shane sarcastically huffed, feeling his eyes begin to sting. “Sorry for wanting to talk to you.”

“We fuck, we don't talk, Hollander. It is simple this way.”

“Bullshit.” Shane scoffed, then looked out the window of his hotel room to the waves crashing outside. He swallowed thickly, hoping Ilya didn't actually feel that way. “I want more from you.”

“Now who is bullshitting?” Ilya laughed without any humour, turning away from Shane and walking over to the mini fridge.

He opened it and fished out a beer. It cracked with a hiss, and Shane watched Ilya drain half the can before speaking again.

“You have enough. You don't need anything more from me.” Shane felt heat and embarrassment wash over him. He looked away again, determined not to let Ilya see him cry or get close to it again.

“So all we're good for is–”

“Yes. Fucking, Hollander.”

Shane nodded stiffly, mechanically. “Okay.”

Ilya finished the beer and tossed it with a loud clatter into the small trashcan by the coffee table.

“So, are you going to take your clothes off, or are you going to waste more of my time?”

Shane re-latched his belt, swallowing his agony and letting the anger he had been trying to keep at bay wash forward like the waves on the Tampa shore.

“Get the fuck out of my room, Ilya.”

An ugly pause. Then, with a slight scoff, Rozanov left.

Shane locked the door behind him, stripped down, and crawled into bed with an aching heart. He felt bruised, like he had just been thrown from a moving vehicle.

Yes, he was gay. No, that didn't mean that things would automatically work out between him and Ilya. Their arrangement was exactly what it was. Sex. Rivalry on the ice. Sex. Distance.

Shane and Ilya assisted one another on the ice for All-Stars, smiled for group photos, and didn't speak for the rest of the duration of the trip.

When he got back to Montreal, the first thing he did was come out to the rest of the Metros and helped their publicity team craft and publish a statement. He got many phone calls and texts of support from other players; Metros, Admirals and Ottawa Centaurs, and even a few guys from the Boston Raiders. Not Ilya, though. And Shane told himself he was fine with that, even if his heart still felt bruised.

His score for coming out was a solid three out of four. His parents were okay with it, Rose was fine with it, and now his team was too. There. It was perfect.

Almost perfect.

Chapter 2: Chapter 1

Image summary: A hand holds a smartphone displaying an Instagram post by user Braggstar from Salmon Arm, BC. The post features a photo of a shirtless person wearing a baseball cap with a maple leaf, sitting on a boat at sunset. The post has 84,000 likes and a comment reading ILY 4ever with a Canadian flag emoji. The text FUCK! appears in a red burst on the left, and the phrase DO THE WRONG THING is written at the bottom.

I

July 2018

Post Tampa and post coming-out, Shane had written and deleted about one hundred texts for Ilya. Every time he considered reaching out, he thought of the boundary that Ilya had put between them and turned his phone off. Sometimes the messages were angry, other times they were pathetic and pleading. All were deleted, and in the end, their text chain fell to the bottom of the app, where it continued to collect dust.

You don't text a casual fuck-enemy about your major life events, achievements or failings. You also don't limp around your Montreal apartment with a broken heart when he clarifies that, yes, fucking is all you're good for. You fuck him, and you move on. But Ilya was almost certainly in Russia for the summer, so then it really didn't make sense to reach out to him for anything.

There was no winning, and Ilya didn't text him, either. Shane began resenting his phone and every message that came through, including a vague one from Hayden when he was mid-workout.

7:42

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Hayden Pike

Today 7:42 P.M

You and Hunter are trendsetters.

?

Shane frowned at the ominous text.

Hayden sent a link to a tabloid sports network, which led to an article that was only posted twenty minutes ago.

Jordan Braggs of the New York Admirals makes a stunning confession in a new post-game interview.

The clip was obviously cut from a standard post-win interview, only a minute long and taken from inside a locker room. Jordan was sweat-soaked, his grey tanktop dark around the neck where a silver chain glinted with movement. He looked bored, probably just finished rattling off the standard interview answers that people had come to expect.

Great game. Great effort all around. The other team played well, we just played better tonight.

Some exhibition match between New York and Florida, nothing that mattered too much. The real season wouldn't kick off until October.

Then, the interview asked how it felt being led by the first openly gay hockey player in this upcoming season of 'Admiral Allyship', and his expression shifted from unengaged to something new. The corner of his mouth twitched a few times upwards as he paused, then his lips split into a grin tinged with trouble.

“I mean, why not ride on my captain's coattails, am I right?” He was boyishly laughing into the microphone, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “All the cool guys are doing it. Why not? Yeah, I'm also gay, but don't get any funny ideas. Scott is a great team leader, but he's not my type. Way too gloomy. Don't know how his boyfriend can stand him.”

An expletive hurled in the background was censored over with a bleep, causing Jordan to lean forward and laugh hard, the interviewer stumbling back a little. It looked like maybe a shirt was thrown at Bragg.

“See what I mean?” He looked directly into the camera, eyes crinkling in the corner with mischief. Jordan pointed off-camera somewhere into the locker room, accusingly. “Lighten up, Hunter! The G in L.G.B.T doesn't stand for grandpa.”

And that's where the video ended. In about forty-five seconds, Jordan Braggs did something it took years for Shane to work up the courage to do. And he did it smiling, in an off-handed comment, mainly to dig at his captain.

Jesus.

Shane closed the video and pulled up his message chain with Hayden, his head reeling a little.

7:47

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Hayden Pike

Today 7:47 P.M

Is it bad if that made me feel fucking stupid?

How come?

I feel like a drama queen. My big Metro talk seems a bit theatrical, in hindsight.

No way, man. It's easy for him because of you and Hunter. Don't forget that shit.

Do you think I should try talking to him?

Idk. Do you think he's cute?

Fuck off, you know what I mean.

Don't see why not. Maybe the three of you can join a little club.

Maybe. You won't be invited.

Now I have fomo.

I'm telling Jackie

🖕

Shane could count on one hand his interactions with Jordan Bragg. He was a great forward with an impressive amount of assists, but he wasn't big on scoring goals himself that often. He never fought, but he had a reputation for getting under competitors' skin with his chirps– lucky for him, his mouth was always backed up by the stacked defencemen lineup, who seemed to baby Bragg a little.

Now that the Admirals had Matti Jalo, the Finnish giant defenceman, Shane was sure that Jordan would only get more brash. Shane had seen on more than one occasion how players skidded to a halt and whipped their head around to gun down Bragg, who was usually mouthing something terrible or gesturing obscenely. Most of the time, he would laugh, gloved hands on his knees as he doubled over, unaware that the one or two defencemen toeing behind him were the only reason he wasn't actively getting pummel.

Once during the post-game hockey lineup, when Jordan and Shane were meant to touch gloves, he pulled away quickly, leaving Shane to fumble slightly after him. Jordan had leaned over and hissed too slow, Hollander, at him, which cracked up the other Admirals (except Scott Hunter) and annoyed all the Metros.

Shane hadn't thought much about it, beyond the fact that he was kind of a dick. J.J referred to him as Big-Mouth Bragg, a nickname that spread around that Jordan took in stride. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in being a bit of a clown and a shit-disturber, blowing kisses into booing crowds when one of the defenseman would lay out an adversary at his behest. He was all smiles until Scott Hunter would lay into him at the bench, which then would cause him to goofily sulk like a little kid.

Other times Jordan was doing something outrageous, like randomly approaching someone on the opposite team, dropping his gloves to the ice, then forcing the opposition to dance around with him in a waltz while they swore at him in confusion. That was pretty funny– and that was the Jordan Bragg people knew.

On the other hand, Shane had seen a glimpse of Bragg that he suspected not a lot of people were privy to, especially outside of the Admirals' team. Years ago, when everyone was in Vegas for the award ceremony circa 2014, Shane was lingering around a hallway during the afterparty, waiting for Ilya to text him, when he spotted Jordan sitting on the floor near the elevators next to a woman.

She was clearly a random person from the hotel, not here for the awards or with anyone in particular, dressed in a sparkling purple slip meant for clubbing. She had a busted heel in her hand, her head down on her knees, and she was sniffling.

“I can't believe he broke up with me while I'm on my girls' trip. My life is the worst.” She was whining loudly, her voice catching with a slight sob.

“Now now,” Jordan comforted, lifting her with ease as he stood. “You think your life sucks? I just flew ten hours to get no awards. If anyone should be crying, it should be me.” Shane caught a glance of him brushing her tangled curls from her pretty face.

The latter comment seemed directed at Shane with a small smirk, since Shane didn't win any awards either. Shane hadn't realized he had been spotted. Bragg was right– Shane, too, felt like crying.

In fact, his only typical solace, hooking up with Ilya, left him feeling like the ultimate loser that night. It stung worse than losing M.V.P. It stung about the same as not winning the cup.

“Are you, like, a celebrity?” The woman slurred, wiping the smeared mascara under her eyes but making a bigger mess in the process, smudging ink across her rosy, tear-stained cheeks.

“Yep, I'm a comedian.” Jordan had lied, then added. “That's why I came over here. Seemed like you needed cheering up.”

“Tell me a joke, then?” The woman wobbled, and Jordan gently held her upright on her uneven shoe.

“What did the drunk girl say to the hockey player?”

“Uhm… I don't know.”

“Boo hoo, I'm single.”

The woman looked affronted, tossing her head back with a scoff.

“That's not funny!” She knocked his chest with her clutch purse.

Jordan paused a beat, then smiled. “I told you, I didn't win any awards.”

To that, she laughed, and then they were both laughing. Shane lingered around the corner until Bragg tucked her into the elevator and sent her on her way, promptly turning on his heels and disappearing back into the reception room to party with everyone else. He seemingly had no problem letting his self-perception be a one-note jokester, but Shane had seen him be earnest and kind for a change.

Between that interaction and the fact that the Admirals were always smiling or laughing when they were around him, Shane guessed that off the ice, Jordan Bragg was nicer than when he was being an aggressive forward.

And he was gay. And apparently, deeply unfazed about what that meant to the league, the fans, or anyone else, for that matter. He was smooth talking, sociable, and laid back about all the stuff Shane wished he could be.

Shane couldn't decide if it was fair or not to hold that against him.

He did, however, decide to slightly stalk his Instagram.

There were only six photos, not including his profile photo, which looked to be a childhood photo of him playing street hockey in an oversized shirt. In it, he was smiling big with a bunch of missing teeth; he looked like he was maybe eight years old. The most recent photo was a long carousel of nonsense photos, most being half-blurry photos from inside the locker room, different Admiral guys making stupid faces, with the odd party photo sprinkled in. The last one in the set was a selfie of him and Scott Hunter, but Bragg had put some sort of horrendous filter on Scott, making him look like he was a thousand years old with wrinkles, sunken eyes and white hair.

Scrolling to the comments, Shane saw the top-liked one from Scott himself.

ScottHunt00_: you're a fuckin idiot.

Other photos were more standard, like a single mirror picture of him in his New York Admiral's jersey about a month after he was drafted, a lazy smirk on his mouth that was a little cocky, no caption. Next, he was with a woman who had a short brown bob; they looked into the camera, making matching silly-stern expressions; she shared his green eyes and full lips; the simple caption said momma. His very first photo on Instagram from 2013 caught Shane's eye because it was of Bragg on a boat, shirtless with his strong and tanned back to the camera, a backwards ballcap with a maple leaf on it. Shane clicked into it and zoomed around the massive teal lake that was surrounded by dense pines and rippling birchwoods. He knew that lake. It was in British Columbia. Sure enough, the caption said B.C, Ily 4ever with a Canadian flag emoji.

Shane switched off Instagram and opened his texts.

7:57

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Hayden Pike

Today 7:57 P.M

Is Bragg Canadian?

Idk. Ask him yourself, loverboy.

Stalking his Instagram? 😏

Shane felt heat rush into his cheeks. He flipped back over to Instagram, fumbling to close the

app. He liked the photo by mistake, then promptly unliked it.

“Fuck.” Shane said out loud, his voice reverberating through his empty bedroom.

8:01

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Hayden Pike

Today 8 01 pm

No.

Can people see when you like photos and then unlike them?

lmao

So shameless.

Four Days Later

Hayden texted Shane a phone number. For some reason, he had bonded with the alternative goalie for the Admirals over being a twin-dad and was able to get Bragg's contact information that way.

Shane sat on it all morning, not even sure what to say. Congratulations? It felt weird saying that. It felt weird saying nothing.

After Shane had come out to the Metro's and he quietly confirmed to the press that the rumours were true, Scott Hunter had called him the following evening. They had spoken about how surreal the experience was, the backlash, the support. Mainly, the relief.

The hour-long call had left Shane feeling lighter, like he was getting confirmation that yes, in fact, it really was okay to be attracted to men and play hockey professionally. Shane knew that Jordan most likely came out to Scott way before, that he didn't need Shane to say anything, but he still wanted to. He just wasn't sure what.

3:18

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Unknown Number

Today 3 18 pm

Congrats on coming out, man. This is Shane, by the way.

Shane stopped overthinking and sent the text. Then overthought again and sent another.

3:18

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Unknown Number

Today 3 18 pm

Congrats on coming out, man. This is Shane, by the way.

Hollander.

With a sigh, Shane put his phone down on his apartment's kitchen counter and headed for the fridge. He was almost finished filling his glass with water when he heard it rumble against the marble.

3:22

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Unknown Number

Today 3 18 pm

Congrats on coming out, man. This is Shane, by the way.

Hollander.

thx Hollander

you're not going to try to tell me how sex works, are you? i already got the talk from Scott

Shane chuffed. Of course, Jordan was going to be as goofy with this as he was with everything else.

Shane added his name to his contacts and replied because his curiosity was eating at him.

3:24

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Jordan Bragg

Text Message

Today 3 24 pm

Are you Canadian?

no im gay

Shane reacted with a thumbs down to his message.

3:25

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Jordan Bragg

Text Message

Today 3 25 pm

Are you Canadian?

no im gay

but also yes i'm Canadian. i grew up in a small town called Salom Arm. it's in B.C.

you knew that already

Shane felt his face growing hot.

3:29

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Jordan Bragg

Today 3 29 pm

Are you Canadian?

no im gay

but also yes i'm Canadian. i grew up in a small town called Salom Arm. it's in B.C.

you knew that already

Yeah hahah. Sorry.

it's ok to be intimidated by another gay Canadian hockey player. plus, i look good, right?

Shane found himself texting Jordan until late into the evening, talking about anything and everything until eventually Jordan mentioned getting dinner together when they were all in New York in a few weeks for the upcoming pre-season charity event. A round robin tournament with ticket sales going to the Cancer Foundation of New York.

Shane agreed, though he warned him that he had a weird diet. Jordan threatened to take him to a food truck that sold pizza by the slice, apparently so greasy that most people held it vertically for a few minutes to let the fatty liquid drip off before eating.

11:04

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Jordan Bragg

Today 11:04 A.M

it's why the rats here are so huge. juiced up on pizza grease.

You make New York in the fall sound lovely.

it's no Salmon Arm, but it's nice enough

looking forward to grossing you out in person, Hollander. try to lighten up this season, eh? 8=D

Try being nice for a season.

In response, Jordan sent a photo of himself, a selfie of him lying across the arm of a green sofa, a smug smile on his face, his middle finger raised. He was wearing a black Admirals team t-shirt, the red logo half visible, half cropped out of frame. His wavy chestnut hair was slightly pushed back, tumbling around his eyebrows and poking out from behind his ears. Shane noticed his angular jaw was shadowed in scruffy facial hair that he usually shaved clean during the season. His eyes, which Shane previously thought were brown, were actually a deep green colour with small flecks of gold and tawny.

Shane could almost hear Jordan's laugh through the photo as he had a few times before, bouncing off the rink boards and floating through the air richly. The sound that came after he successfully pissed someone off. His full pink lips cocked half up in a smirk, like they were in the photo.

He was handsome, both boyish and manly at the same time. Despite being almost two years younger than him, Jordan had a type of maturity to his look, one that Shane envied, since he felt he looked childish next to other men in the league.

Standing in his dimly lit bedroom, Shane held his phone out and flipped off the camera, examining the photo briefly before he sent it. He was wearing a navy sweatshirt, his reading glasses hanging from the collar. He looked a bit tired, and his hair was still mussed from the gym, but nothing was incriminating in the background, so he sent it. Jordan liked it almost immediately.

Today 11:12 A.M

i'm telling Hunter you're bullying me

Over the next three weeks, they barely went a day without texting.

Shane sent him a photo of his lunch when Jordan asked. Skinless salmon, steamed spinach, half a cup of brown rice, walnuts, pumpkin seeds and an apple. Jordan sent back a photo of McDonald's fries, two sticking out of an unlidded milkshake, and a pack of menthol nicotine pouches– the kind you slip under your lips and hold against your gum. Shane threatened to send the photo to Scott. Jordan threatened to force-feed Shane something called a New York Garbage Plate. When Shane googled it, he couldn't even comprehend what he was looking at, so he decided to call it a truce.

They talked about their workout regimens, gear, and were careful to steer around the topics of strategy and techniques. Friends or not, they were still on rival teams. Still, they filled each other in on funny stories from their team's locker room, like the time J.J left a peanut butter sandwich on the floor for some reason and Hayden slipped on it like a banana peel, or how Hunter was once caught staring at a few grey hairs that had magically appeared on his temple after a particularly close game against Detroit.

They briefly talked about when they knew they were gay, and unsurprisingly, Jordan said he'd known since he was in grade school. He'd told his family before he was even drafted to the Admirals. Shane admitted he really didn't know for sure until his early twenties, assuming he could be bisexual, or something. Jordan said he understood the impulse, having had a girlfriend for three years before giving up the facade. They spoke about the mutual fear of knowing they could never go back. It felt good to say these things to someone who understood.

When Shane felt like texting Ilya, he texted Jordan instead. It was easier.

“I'm going to kick your ass in a few days, Holly.” Jordan was rummaging around on the other end of the phone. “And then you'll have to eat a garbage plate, as you promised. Or Pizza Al's.”

Shane shook his head, even though Jordan couldn't see him. “Not a chance. I never agreed to that stupid bet.”

“What do you want if you win, then?”

Shane rested his head against his phone. “I dunno. I have everything I want already.”

Jordan scoffed at him. “God's gift to hockey, eh?” Another thump was picked up by the receiver.

“What are you doing?”

“Pretty sure you ask what I'm wearing first.”

Shane found himself smiling. His phone was cradled between his cheek and his shoulder, since Jordan had texted him earlier to say his hands were full and that they should call instead. It was nice to hear his voice.

They absent-mindedly chatted while Shane had his laptop open on his lap. He was lying in bed, googling the hotel he and the other team members would all be staying at. All but the Admirals, of course.

“I'm cleaning,” Jordan said, followed by another thump. “I hate it.”

“I never imagined you as a clean person.” Shane teased as he scrolled the website.

“I'm not, but I'm expecting a guest soon,” Jordan grumbled, and Shane heard the unmistakable whirr of a vacuum cleaner chord being pulled. “I should just hire someone, this is so annoying.”

Shane laughed, switching tabs to confirm his flight pre-flight check-in. “Ok, so what are you wearing?”

“A slutty maid uniform with fishnets. I thought it would help me get in the mood.” Jordan's voice wavered a little as he bit back a laugh. “How's your stupid hotel looking?”

“Amazing, actually. I can't believe these fancy water features, it reminds me of Vegas.” Shane said, but his mind bittered when he thought of Vegas, because Vegas reminded him of Ilya.

“Are we still on for dinner after you land, Holly?” Jordan asked, his voice sounding a bit far from the phone now.

Shane wasn't sure he was fond of the nickname, but it made sense, since Jordan had a nickname for just about everyone he met. Scott was Scotty, or Grandpa Hunt, which apparently drove the Admiral's captain nuts. Hollander was shortened to Holly. Jordan was proudly Big Mouth Bragg.

“Yeah, of course!” Shane grinned, closing his laptop and setting it to the side. “I get in on Friday, and I should be at the Luxe hotel at like four, so give me an hour or so to unpack and shower, and then we can go out. Somewhere normal, please.”

Then, because Shane heard the soft hum of a vacuum, he added in a teasing tone, “You sure your date won't be jealous?”

“What date?”

“The one you're cleaning for.”

Shane could hear Jordan smiling from New York. “No. He's a lot of things, but I doubt he's the jealous type, unlike me.”

“Maybe I can come see this horrible shoe-box apartment of yours if there's time,” Shane suggested. “If you wanted to hang out.”

“Don't think that just because I'm gay that I know how to decorate. That's a vicious and untrue stereotype.” Then, more quietly, he finished, “But yes, I obviously want to hang out.”

“Maybe we can invite Hunter.”

Jordan huffed. “No way! That's like if I invited your dad to hang with us.”

“My dad's cool!” Shane said defensively.

“Is he like you?”

“Yes?”

“Then he absolutely isn't cool.”

Shane laughed, shaking his head again. “Goodnight, big mouth. See you soon.”

“Night, Holly.”

Chapter 3: Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

II

July 2018

The night Ilya left Shane Hollander alone and untouched in his Tampa hotel room, he walked along the beach in total darkness so he could cry unseen. It was two-thirty in the morning, and the moonlit walk would have been perfectly romantic if only Ilya hadn't convinced himself that he would never be able to love anyone again.

Back in his room, Ilya rolled over in his bed and rewatched the video that Mike Brophy had shown him at the pool about a hundred times.

It was a poor-quality iPhone video taken in Montreal, but the people in it were unmistakable. Shane Hollander and Rose Laundry, swaying and mooning over one another along a snow-swept street, drunk and in love and loudly proclaiming it. Shane's nose, ears and freckled cheeks were pink, probably both from the cold and from being a bit drunk. Maybe love, too.

It made Ilya sick to watch, but he did almost every night until he flew home to Russia after Boston was knocked out of the season. It was like a horrible bruise on his heart that he couldn't stop pushing his fingers into.

The video was taken two weeks before the All-Star game, and it circulated like crazy. Ilya was surprised he hadn't seen it before Brophy had drunkenly shown it to Ilya, mainly to talk up Hollander and his impressive game with women. It was impressive. And torture.

Ilya wished that day at his Boston apartment, a few months prior, he had kept his stupid mouth shut about liking girls. He had no idea that Hollander would turn around and prove just how much he, too, could sleep with women. That hadn't been Ilya's intention at all. But there Shane was, swaying in a black peacoat in the snow, telling Rose Laundry how much he loved her.

Ilya had suspected as much, of course, when he saw them together in Ultraviolet a few months later, after Shane fled from his apartment. Rose had her hands up the front of Hollander's shirt, flipping her long, beautiful hair and kissing his mouth sweetly between sips of champagne. It had enraged him. It was like he was trying to flaunt everything Ilya ever wanted in front of his face.

Powerless, Ilya had grabbed the closest horny woman and put on a show, hoping Hollander would see him and hate what he saw. He didn't want to be the only one miserable. But when he opened his eyes, Shane was gone. Ilya went back to his hotel in Montreal, devastated and empty.

Fuck Montreal clubs.

And fuck Tampa.

Ilya had completely iced out Shane, convinced that his movie star girlfriend, whom he loved so much, was completely unaware that her boyfriend had made a habit of using him whenever they were in the same city. That their sex was something vicious and beautiful, something that couldn't be replicated between her and Shane.

Ilya realized how stupid he was being when Shane sent him a text with his room number.

This wasn't Rose Laundry's fault at all. It was Ilya who had let his heart get involved; it was as clear as Hollander's first name stinging on his lips that day at his apartment. His heart had swelled when Shane said his name back to him, only to be crushed moments later when Shane panicked, realizing what the two of them had become– what they had been, for a while.

Ilya supposed he couldn't blame Shane for wanting what they used to be back. It was comfortable and easy. They could fuck, and then Ilya could return Shane to Rose, that way Hollander could have the best of both worlds. Wasn't that what Ilya had initially told Shane? Wasn't that what he enforced in Vegas, or when he ignored Shane's texts? There's no reason he should be heartbroken– Hollander was getting with the program that he established. That's what he wanted. That was the lie he kept telling himself.

But then it was Shane who kicked Ilya out of his room, and now it was Shane's texts that weren't coming through. And it bothered Ilya. Badly.

When he showed up at Shane's room in Florida, despite his guilt over Rose Laundry and the war that raged inside his head, Ilya had wanted so much more. He wanted to hold Shane and kiss him. He wanted to tell Shane about his life, his father, his brother, his agony of being abroad and returning to Russia. He wanted to listen to Shane and fill in all the gaps of time they had spent apart.

He wanted to claim Shane and make him his and his alone. He wanted Shane to call him by his first name again.

Get the fuck out of my room, Ilya.

Ilya swallowed hard in the darkness of his Moscow apartment, feeling his stomach churn.

He had to find a way to reestablish his hook-up routine with Shane. If that was the only thing Hollander wanted him for, then Ilya would do it; he would do anything to be in the same room as Shane again, with the opportunity to touch him. He didn't care about Rose Laundry or any other woman Shane might have– Ilya wanted him. He wanted him so badly it drove him insane.

I'm gay, Rozanov.

Fine. Whatever. Ilya was fine believing whatever lies Shane needed to tell. He was straight and in love with Rose. He was gay and wanted to hook up right away. Okay, fine. As long as he could touch Shane, run his fingers through his silky black hair and kiss each one of his freckles again, it didn't matter. Ilya was willing to cross any moral boundary if it meant that one day Shane might look at him again the same way he did in Saskatchewan.

When Scott Hunter came out in May, Ilya desperately wanted to talk to Shane, but he had already planned to return to Russia, and things were still sour between them. Ilya wasn't even sure how things would work now with Rose around– Ilya always saw them together on her Instagram, going out for dinner, visiting her on set, so on and so forth. It was another perverse punishment Ilya indulged in.

Was Tampa a one-off? Would they only hook up in Boston now? Did Rose live with him in Montreal? Ilya wanted to chew Shane's ear off with his questions, but he was scared to hear the answers.

Instead of asking, he drowned himself in easy sex and vodka for an entire month, waking up in a drunken stupor and then hitting the gym until the callouses on his palms broke open and he wasn't able to catch his breath. He did anything with anyone in an attempt to get Shane Hollander off his mind, and it worked in brief moments, but never for long. All it would take was a pause in conversation, a night alone, or the moments when some girl was leaving his bed, and Shane would be on his mind again. What was he doing? Who was he doing it with? Was he having fun, or was he miserable too, like Ilya?

Then on the first Friday of the month, Ilya got a text from Cliff Marlow.

Cliff: Holy shit.

Ilya followed the link to the Metros instagram page, a single text-only post with the team logo outlined how their star centre, Shane Hollander, was gay. It was a neat and tidy post, one that definitely had Shane's input, but it wasn't right. It infuriated Ilya. It confused him.

What was Rose? What was the half year lost between them as Ilya sulked around Boston, refreshing the actress's page thirty times a day, waiting for them to break up or get married or have a baby? What was that fucking video of them declaring their love for one another?

In equal parts, Ilya wanted to kiss and shake Shane. He wanted to text Shane right away and ask what this meant for them– but then he remembered Tampa. He wasn't sure what Shane wanted anymore. He wasn't sure that his coming out actually made a difference. Gay or not, what was he to Hollander? A joke? He seemingly had no problem asking Ilya to hook up with him when he was with Rose, or leaving him hanging in his apartment when all he had done was call Shane by his first name. All it took was Shane sending one text in Florida, and Ilya had crumbled, after some debate, showing up to his room angry as hell but still willing to give Shane everything he wanted. Then, he pushed Ilya out. Again.

Agony ripped through Ilya. He threw his phone across his bedroom, hearing it skid and slide across the wooden floors until it stopped with a thunk along the wall somewhere.

He would have to face Shane soon, at the charity event in New York. Boston had been chosen to play alongside Montreal and Ottawa, and of course, the Admirals, to raise funds for the N.Y Cancer Foundation. Something about them being the top three teams in the league, plus one fan-favourite vote in for the Centaurs, who frankly, sucked. They would all be placed in some new hotel downtown and play one another; each day, the ticket would have their profits donated until a winner was declared. It was a lovely idea, but it made Ilya ill. An entire weekend around Shane.

He had two months to think of a way out of this mess, and ideally, the solution would have Shane back in arms before the first puck dropped.

August 2018

“I have shit all.” Ilya sighed, placing his head down on the table rudely as Svetlana looked on in irritation.

“You have lots to talk about; you just need to open your stupid mouth and tell him.” This was the fourth time this month Ilya had gone down this spiral about not being sure what to say to Shane when he saw him next week.

Svetlana was getting a bit fed up at this point. At first, she was enthralled; her best friend was in love with his archenemy and long-time hockey rival? It was too good to believe! Now, she couldn't stop hearing about it.

All of Ilya's old tricks had stopped working after Shane came out. No amount of women in his bed or liquor in his stomach was changing how he felt. The distance wasn't working. Not speaking wasn't working.

He woke up in the middle of the night, hoping to feel Shane's body next to his– it was ridiculous. They hadn't even spent a night together; his fantasies were running away without him, totally untethered. And it showed. Ilya could barely function properly anymore.

“You are driving me nuts,” Svetlana muttered at him over the rim of her wineglass.

“I am driving myself nuts,” Ilya grumbled into his folded forearms. “I'm going to botch next weekend, I know I am.”

Ilya's emotions boiled and simmered throughout the month, but now that the date was upon him, he was stewing. The idea of texting Shane that he was looking forward to seeing him had embarrassed him too badly, even though it was true; Ilya couldn't manifest the messages. He waited too long to say something about Hollander's coming out, and any conversation piece about the New York Cancer Foundation would be an obvious veneer.

Plus, what if Shane responded? Then what would Ilya say?

Can we just forget Tampa? Forget Montreal. Forget Vegas. Forget what happened at my apartment. I want to see you. We don't have to talk about Rose. We don't have to talk about anything.

Ilya couldn't believe what he had been reduced to. He didn't even care if Shane touched him anymore. As long as they could be near each other, in any capacity, Ilya felt his heart could be soothed.

“You are a mess,” Svetlana remarked, reaching across the table and patting Ilya's head. “You'd better finish this season with a cup and with Hollander, or I won't know what to do with you.”

“I hope my plane goes down.” Ilya sighed dramatically, pulling his head up. “Will you come visit me this season, in Boston?”

Svetlana considered this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose if Hollander breaks your heart again, you'll need someone to pick you up.”

“He didn't break anything.” Ilya lied. Shane had a nasty habit of breaking his heart, although it wasn't entirely Hollander's fault.

What he ended up telling Svetlana was a partial truth. He told her that in Tampa, Ilya thought he and Shane (yes, that Shane, Shane Hollander) were no longer on the same page about what they wanted from one another. Svetlana was used to hearing Ilya complain about clingy hookups and women who wouldn't be casual about casual sex, but when she asked if Hollander had fallen in love with him, an expression like grief must have crossed his face, because she connected the dots immediately.

Ilya hadn't elaborated– it was way too vulnerable. He was never supposed to fall in love with Shane or so embarrassingly wear his heart on his sleeve.

“Maybe you can make him jealous,” Svetlana offered deviously. “You and I can hit the town, paint Boston red!”

Ilya bitterly fought back the idea that you can't make someone who doesn't care jealous. He mustered up a smile for his long-time friend, shooting her a suggestive wink.

“Maybe.”

Chapter End Notes

I'll be slowly editing over the next few days. Don't mind small hiccups.

Chapter 4: Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

III

September 2018

“No shot you're not ready yet. You're worse than a chick.”

Jordan had his arms folded across his chest, his broad frame filling the doorway of Shane's hotel room. His lips were straight in a slightly annoyed grimace, his eyes drawn narrow beneath a few pieces of wet hair. He was bigger in person than he was in his photos.

Shane, embarrassingly, had fallen asleep after making plans to get dinner with him. There was no time change. Shane's only excuse was that he couldn't sleep well for days knowing he would be seeing Ilya here this weekend, and it was stressing him out. He had been tossing and turning for days, dreaming the same stupid dream of being hunted down by a leopard in a gold chain beneath the flashing lights of a club. He always woke up restless and exhausted, hard and heart pounding.

“Sorry,” Shane said, then immediately broke into a yawn. “I took a nap.”

“Hm, likely story. You probably had some guy in here, right?”

Shane shot him a dirty look, then noticed Bragg's hair was leaving wet patches on his shoulders. His brown hair looked inky black when it was soaked through. A baseball cap was hanging from one of his hands.

“Did you rush over here?”

“I'm hungry.” Jordan ignored his question.

Shane stepped aside and let him pass.

He strolled in, looking around with mild amusement. “What a shit heap. They know you're Shane Hollander, right?”

“Best they could do, given the situation.” Shane turned his hands outward helplessly.

Boston, Montreal and Ottawa were originally planned to stay at the massive luxury hotel a few streets over. A major flood from one of their new water features had wiped out several rooms across multiple floors, causing last-minute pandemonium. The three teams were scattered at random across a Best Western and a Hilton, and everyone got demoted to whatever available rooms could house them. So much for the team's bonding before the charity event– no one knew where anyone was right now.

Shane guessed his room hadn't been updated in over twenty years, if that.

“What, is your New York loft somehow better?” Shane asked sarcastically as Jordan picked up an old T.V guide and flicked through it.

“No, but you can come stay over if you want. My place doesn't smell like mothballs.” Then, with a smirk over his shoulder, he added. “Unless that smell is you.”

Shane self-consciously sniffed his shirt, pulling the fabric away from his chest and up to his nose. “Maybe. I passed out before I could shower. Give me like, fifteen, okay? Then we can go eat.”

“Fine, but move your ass, Hollander. Or I'll order this disgusting room service. Want some devilled eggs from 2009?”

Shane suppressed a gag. “No thanks.”

Grabbing a change of clothes, Shane stripped in the small bathroom that did, in fact, smell like mothballs. Turning on the water as hot as it would go, Shane waited until the steam started to cloak the room before attempting to get in, but stopped short. Realizing he forgot his shampoo on the bedside table, he fixed one of the scratchy white towels around his waist and opened the door, nearly jumping back as Jordan was already standing there, Shane's shampoo in his hand.

“Thought you'd want your weird fancy shit.”

Shane reached for the bottle. “Thanks. And it's healthy, not fancy.”

Jordan yanked it out of reach, causing Shane to huff and shake his head.

“I have like five minutes of hot water, probably, you asshole.”

“Hm.” Jordan mused, yanking the bottle away as Shane made another attempt. “Need a hand in here? I'm so used to showering with twenty other guys, I get a little lonely when I do it all by myself.”

Shane pursed his lips together tightly, a laugh threatening to escape. “Funny stuff, Bragg.”

A knock at the other door had both men looking across the small living room for a beat, and Shane took the opportunity to snatch his weird fancy shampoo.

“Did you actually order room service, you sicko?” Shane taunted, shaking the bottle that was now safely in his possession.

Bragg turned back to him, his eyes slitted, slightly darker, which made Shane's pulse spike. He didn't say anything, but he moved slightly closer in the cramped space. Something akin to sinister flashed across his features, but then it passed as quickly as it appeared.

“Are… we going out, or not?” Shane said at last, licking his lips nervously. It was too hot now, between the water and their bodies in the tiny space.

Jordan lingered for a moment in the doorway of the bathroom, his eyes crawling slowly from the top of Shane's head, down each ridge of his body to his feet, then back again. His heated gaze danced all around Shane's face, from his eyes to his mouth, like he couldn't decide where to stop. Steam was starting to fill the bathroom, like a blanket, and Shane hoped it was enough to mask a soft blush that was feathering up his neck and deepening on his cheeks. Was Jordan checking him out, or was he imagining it? Shane worried that Jordan was going to pull some stupid prank, like snatching his towel and then answering the door, leaving him naked and scrambling.

Another knock.

Self-consciously, Shane held his towel tighter.

It was a movement that greatly interested Jordan, who nodded when they made eye contact.

“Yeah, we're going out, Hollander.”

Shane cleared his throat. “Uhm, do you mind getting that while I jump in?”

Jordan paused, his mouth opening like he was going to say something, but he closed it, lips drawn in a small smile as he bit back whatever comment he was going to make. Softly, and not all the way closed, he pulled the door as he crossed over the room to see who was knocking, leaving Shane to hastily get naked. Shane listened to the lock unlatch as he stepped into the shower, the warm water slicking him and settling his stomach, which was beating with butterflies. As if to shake them away, Shane aggressively ran his hands over his face, scrubbing away any lewd thoughts that threatened to bubble up around his mind.

Jordan was a friend. A fellow gay hockey player– someone who understood the weight and struggles of being an open and out gay man in this field. He needed to get his mind out of the gutter, even if Bragg started it. He was a self-proclaimed shameless flirt and a bullshitter; there wasn't any reason for him to take the guy seriously when he looked at Shane that way.

Somewhere above the water, voices floated, slightly raised in an exchange that didn't seem like room service. Shane dipped his head out of the water, stretching his arm out and flicking the bathroom door open a smidge more as water droplets cascaded off his arms and onto the tile floor.

“Who is it, Bragg?” Shane's voice rasped a little as the cold air from the hotel room's air conditioner met the steam in his lungs. When no response came, Shane asked again. “Jord?”

The sound of a door closing echoed a beat later.

"No one important,” Jordan replied at last. “Just Hayden.”

Shane felt a swish of embarrassment flutter around his midsection. He couldn't explain why. It's not as if he and Jordan were doing anything, and even if they were, Hayden wouldn't care.

Still, Shane felt like he was busted for something. Maybe he should text Hayden and invite him to dinner, too? Would Hayden get the wrong idea?

By the time he towelled off and changed into his clean clothes, Jordan was lying back on his bed, scrolling through his phone with a muscular arm thrown above his head. Thankfully, his shoes were off. Shane couldn't take it if his room got grubbier. Jordan's hair was nearly dry, parting back into the waves that hung a bit messily around his eyes, soft and brown and taking shape under his baseball cap.

“Hi,” he said with a half smile, giving Shane another up and down, though this one seemed less charged.“You know, people like us are supposed to dress better than that.”

Shane paused. “Hockey players?”

“Gay people, stupid.” Jordan snorted.

“You dress like me!” Shane shot back, feeling his face flush.

He told Jordan about how his stylist had gone off the rails, trying to put him into mesh clothing after he came out as gay. It got too flamboyant. Shane had fired them, and subsequently went back to wearing athleisure.

“I know. We dress like shit.”

Shaking his head, Shane grabbed his phone off the bedside table and rolled onto the bed next to Jordan, intending to text Hayden. “You sound like Rose. She's always trying to take me shopping and dress me up.”

“Let her. Then tell her to do me, too.” Jordan gestured to his outfit. A plain black polo shirt, a black baseball cap turned backwards, and light brown cargo shorts. “I look like a golf douche.”

“You do.” Shane grinned, then smiled harder when Jordan's mouth plopped open.

“Oh yeah? You think so, Hollander?”

“Your words!” Shane basically yelped in defence as Jordan shoved him with his shoulder, using the momentum to roll on top of him and nail him to the bed, the springs groaning under them.

Jordan grabbed the front of his shirt, lifting Shane a little with the force. “Nah, see. This is cheap Reebok crap. I'm a Nike boy for life.”

“They're my sponsor!” Shane wiggled defensively between Jordan's firm thighs for a second, feeling a bit breathless, dropping his phone among the sheets. “What's your excuse, d-bag? You have to make a tee time right after the game?”

Just as Shane was about to shove Jordan off of him, he leaned back and began hitching his shirt up, pulling it free from his torso and nearly all the way off. Shane swallowed tightly, not having anywhere to look but at the firm, muscular body in front of him.

“Tag,” Jordan said from inside his half-on polo. He gestured blindly with one hand. “Where is this from? I can't remember.”

Shane squinted at the tiny logo. He wasn't wearing his glasses. “I think it's Tommy Bahama." He leaned forward, the bed protesting under their shared weight. “How old are you? My dad shops there. Are you borrowing clothes from Scott Hunter?”

“Blow me, Hollander.” The springs screeched again as Jordan wiggled his shirt back down, his weight moving back with the effort.

A few hard bangs landed from behind the headboard from the room next door. Probably someone pissed with the out-of-tune piano that was Shane's shitty Hilton mattress

“Sorry!” Shane squeaked out, but Jordan only laughed, rolling off him and then pulling Shane up onto his feet.

“Fuck them, let's go already. I'm starving!”

“Okay, okay.” Shane checked his phone, deciding against texting Hayden. They could catch up later tonight. Shane wanted to get to know Jordan better in person, plus, he didn't want the two of them to outvote him on where to eat.

“I'm glad you're here, Holly.” Jordan gave Shane a quick hug, slapping him on the back as teammates did. Platonic. Normal.

Shane relaxed a little and smiled. “Me too. Now please, feed me normal food.”

Unable to help himself, Shane scanned the hallway as he and Jordan made their way to the elevator. He had no idea if Ilya was here somewhere, at the Hilton, or if he was at the Best Western. He certainly wouldn't be asking, and Ilya wouldn't be telling, so it felt like only a matter of time before they blindly bumped into one another. Shane felt like there was a ticking time bomb strapped to his chest.

Shane only felt better when he and Jordan were on the streets of New York, swallowed up by the crowd. They talked about the upcoming brackets, how it was cool of them to include a fan-favourite team, even if Ottawa was sort of a shit team, and how Hotel Luxe was underwater.

There was a big team breakfast for all the players being held tomorrow at a nice event centre nearby, and Jordan had heard that all the players were being thrown together in an attempt to cultivate a friendly attitude despite the long-running rivalries between the teams. The comment sent Shane's nerves on end. He didn't like the idea of being shoulder to shoulder with any Boston Raiders, but especially not Ilya.

“Are you friends with anyone else from any teams?” Shane asked as they dipped around a city block.

“I'm friends with everyone. Everyone loves me.” Jordan said with a smile, which made Shane laugh. “What? Are people not saying I'm friendly?”

“I'm sure you could make lots of friends on other teams if you'd lay off a bit,” Shane assured him. “You giant dick.”

“Hm, maybe.” Jordan lightly grabbed Shane's arm to manoeuvre Shane away from a mysterious pool of orange sludge that was coagulating on the side.

“What the hell is that?” Shane furrowed his brow over his shoulder. “What is wrong with New York?”

“Don't ask,” Jordan warned. “You don't want to know. I told you, it's gross here.”

“You must miss B.C,” Shane said, falling in step a bit closer to Jordan.

“I do. When the season's over, and it's my time with the cup,” Jordan started.

“Okay.” Shane scoffed, shaking his head.

“I'll take it to Shuswap Lake and drink from it. Maybe if you're not a sore loser, I'll let you take a sip from it too, Hollander.”

Shane playfully shoved him with his shoulder. “Maybe you can come polish the cup in my cabin in Ottawa.”

“Eat a dick.” Jordan mused, then slowed his pace in front of a short, brown brick building. “Speaking of eating, here we are.”

Shane moved his gaze over the restaurant. It looked like the world's biggest health code violation. A grease-stained menu on fluorescent yellow paper showed various deli sandwiches wrapped in buttery bread, drowned in thick white mayo sauce and nested on top of a basket of fries that were seasoned to the point of being orange.

They didn't have a single burger that wasn't crowded between handfuls of bacon, fried eggs, or, for some reason, chilli. They didn't even offer bottles of water, only slushies, soda, and beer.

“You have to get their newest burger, it's the best thing they offer.” Jordan insisted earnestly. “It's a hamburger, but instead of buns, it's a glazed donut. They park the entire thing on top of a cotton-candy milkshake, and they deep-fry their fries twice. It's amazing.”

Shane felt sick at that description, coupled with the building itself. It was the type of place where the frycooks in stained aprons would scratch their sweaty crotches with their spatulas, the floors would be sticky and pull at the bottom of his shoes, and all the cutlery would be dirty. He took a sharp, shaking breath in, trying to find a polite excuse to get the hell out of this situation, when he heard Jordan huff next to him.

Shane looked over and saw him crumpled almost in half, his body shaking, his hand pressed hard against his mouth as he tried to muffle his laughter. His cheeks were pink with the effort.

“Oh, fuck you!” Shane snapped, turning a few passersby's heads.

“Your face,” Jordan lifted a finger in Shane's direction, his eyes wet. “Your face, Hollander. I wish I had taken a photo. Holy shit.”

Shane felt his face. It was flushing.

“Sorry,” Jordan straightened out with a croak. “I just couldn't help myself. Come on, Holly.”

Shane followed him down an alleyway.

“You're so cute when you freak out like that.”

“Haha,” Shane replied dryly, then more nervously began to look around. “I thought you weren't supposed to go down alleys in New York?”

“According to who?”

“I don't know. Common sense.”

“Whatever. I don't have that.” Jordan smiled, not looking back at Shane until he opened a door, holding it for Shane to step through. A small sign above it read Vicky's in small purple cursive. “This is what we locals call a hole-in-the-wall gem.”

“You're a fake New Yorker.” Shane gave him a warning glance as he passed him.

“And you're kind of a brat.” Jordan placed a hand on the middle of his back, gently guiding him and closing the door. “This is my favourite place, I'll have you know.”

Shane walked down an entirely black hallway. It was softly illuminated by old-school sconces, and Shane could see a large redwood door at the end of the hall; light ambient music flowed from it. When it opened, a woman in a long yellow pencil skirt and matching blazer greeted them warmly.

“Welcome back. For two?”

“Yes, please.”

Shane noted how fancy the interior was, a total one-eighty from the alleyway entrance. Round tables were cloaked under heavy butter-yellow linen, each illuminated with a candle tucked inside the shell of a Tiffany lamp. Beautiful women sipped on thin wineglasses, and men in business attire spoke in hushed tones to them, discarding oyster shells on china plates between quiet laughter.

“Ah, dickhead!” Shane hissed as he trailed behind Jordan, who trailed behind the host. “I'm not dressed nice enough to be here.”

“Dress as badly as you want, Holly,” Jordan smirked over his shoulder at him as they navigated towards the back of the restaurant. “I own this place.”

Shane slid, mouth slightly open, into the booth across from Jordan. “What?”

“I own Vicky's. I bought it and fixed it up, you know. In my downtime.” Jordan said, then shrugged. “What? You bought an apartment building, didn't you? Real estate's too boring for me.”

Shane licked his lips, smiling softly. “Okay. You got me there. This is pretty cool.”

Jordan slouched back, clearly at home. “Wait till you try the food.”

“What's good?”

“Everything, dickhead. It's my restaurant."

Jordan recommended the butter-poached Dover sole with champagne beurre blanc, caviar & fennel pollen. Shane googled half the words and noted that while it looked amazing, it completely blew his diet. Instead, he decided on the wild-caught halibut with greens in a herb emulsion, much to Jordan's exasperation,

“Fine, but you are trying our ice cream.” Jordan insisted. “We make it in-house with like, ice and salt and shit.” He kicked Shane lightly under the table, their sneakers knocking together.

“Okay,” Shane gave in. “Just no donut burgers.”

For the second time since they sat down, Shane heard Jordan's phone buzz in his pocket. It was flipped to vibrate mode, but Shane could tell someone was texting him.

“Do you need to get that?” Shane sipped his ginger ale, happy to see the Canadian staple on Jordan's menu.

“No,” Jordan said flatly, then with an annoyed sigh. “I should've just left it at home.”

While waiting for their orders to come out, Jordan and Shane talked a bit about hockey, past injuries and players they looked up to before they were drafted. They argued over who was the actual greatest player of all time, debating stat weight and strategies that inspired them when they hit the ice.

As they began to cut into their food, Shane heard another buzz from inside Jordan's pocket as someone called him.

With a small clatter, Jordan dropped his fork from his duck and shook his head, catching Shane's eye from across the table as he fished his phone free.

“I'm sorry,” Jordan said, sincerely apologetic.

“No worries, man,” Shane assured him, a little fascinated with why Jordan was being so adamant about not answering his phone.

Shane had answered a text from Hayden, who was bitching about being abandoned in the Best Western with a bunch of smelly Raiders.

6:40

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Hayden Pike

Today 6:40 P.M

Where r u? I'm alone. I lost J.J.

At dinner.

Where?

Jordan's restaurant.

What do you mean?

I'm eating, Pike.

With Jordan?

No, with Lady Liberty. Dumbass.

Shane watched as Jordan inspected his screen, hearing him curse under his breath. He slid his finger along the bottom, then quickly held it to his ear.

He didn't say hello; instead, his voice dropped to a tone Shane had never heard before. It was low, deadly serious, and his entire face shifted stormily as he spoke.

“You're being rude.” Jordan was level, but harsh.

Shane felt his eyes fly down to his food, which was, as Jordan had promised, delicious. He was a bit shocked to hear the always laughing Admiral be so stern. Shane couldn't make out the voice on the other end of the line, and he didn't want to, but he could hear them talking.

“Thanks for your input, but I know what I'm doing.”

Shane shuffled a chunk of fish through the light green sauce, flecked with herbs.

“Well, it's not really any of your business one way or the other, now is it?”

Shane suddenly wondered if Jordan was talking to a boyfriend. Or maybe an ex.

“Enough.” Jordan's free hand lifted from the table for a moment in an annoyed gesture. “Worry about yourself. I'll see you later tonight.”

Jordan hung up the phone and quickly shot Shane an apologetic smile. In a matter of seconds, his cold and mean demeanour flipped off, melting away, and he became the Jordan that Shane was familiar with.

“Hunter,” Jordan revealed, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Micro-managing, as per usual.”

Shane lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, really?”

“Bet you don't get on your teammates' cases like that.”

“Well, no. Not really. I don't feel the need to.”

“Don't suppose the Metros are looking for a forward?” Jordan smiled around his fork and watched as Shane choked at the blasphemous suggestion. “Just kidding.”

Shane fiddled with some lemon wheels on his plate. “I mean, it would probably be nice to be closer to home, right?”

Jordan's gaze hovered at him from over the rim of his wineglass. “Yeah, something like that.”

“What's tonight?” Shane decided there was no point in pretending he didn't hear the conversation that took place two feet in front of him. “Are you and the Admirals doing something?”

“We're all doing something, Hollander.” Jordan gave him a mischievous sideways glance. “All the teams are going to a club downtown. You included.”

Shane felt his stomach sink. “I don't really…”

“Yeah, no shit.” Jordan laughed plainly at him. “But you will tonight. This is the weekend that Shane Hollander misbehaves.”

“Jordan, I don't know…” Shane said, filled with apprehension. He tried to push Ultraviolet into the corner of his mind. He tried not to think of a glowering leopard.

“But I do know. Oh, that reminds me!” And then, like a bulb went off over his head, Jordan leaned out of their booth and called to a waitress. “Can we get some ice cream over here?”

Chapter End Notes

Holy cow. Sorry for the reshuffling of chapters, folks. Trying to do it on my iPad was a mistake. Things should be sorted now.

Chapter 5: Chapter 4

IV

When the door to room 1609 opened, it wasn't Cliff. It was Jordan Bragg, a forward for the New York Admirals.

“Oh,” Ilya said, surprised, lowering his knocking hand and putting it in his coat pocket. “You are not who I was looking for.”

An awkward beat crawled by, and Jordan leaned casually against the doorframe, his wet waves flicking sparse water droplets onto his black polo. Something in his expression was putting Ilya off. There was a smugness in his smile, like it wasn't genuine.

“Who were you looking for? Wait, don't tell me.” Bragg closed his eyes, putting his pointer fingers to his temples. “I'm a psychic.” His tone was downright smarmy.

Ilya frowned, his brows tenting together. He had never had a long conversation with Jordan Bragg, or even a short one. They would mouth off at one another on the ice– Bragg had a worse shit-talking reputation than even him, and off ice, they were nothing but cordial.

Actually, they were nothing at all. They never bumped into one another until today, only floating around the same shared spaces. Like this hotel, for example. Even though that made no sense. Jordan had been playing for the Admirals for years. He lived in New York.

“So the Admirals don't pay you enough to rent a house then, Bragg?”

“Not my room, obviously,” Bragg responded coolly, then waited, as if he was expecting a challenge.

“Ok,” Ilya responded flatly, not looking to get into a standoff with the random forward who had the uncanny ability to get under people's skin, worse than even him.

He pulled his phone out and texted Cliff while Bragg looked on, slightly amused.

6:12

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Ass-Captain Cliff

ceгoCyrillic text 6:12 P.M

1609 is not your room, moron. I'm looking at a stupid Admiral.

srry, I meant 1607 lol

Open your door. I'm in the hall. Idiot.

Ilya blew a short puff of air through his nose. Typical Marlow. It was the next room over. Shoving his phone back into the pocket of his jeans, Ilya rocked on his feet while he waited.

“Whoops.” Was all he offered.

“English is hard, but you'll get the hang of it one day, Rozanov.” Fake sympathy oozed from Bragg.

“Fuck yourself, big mouth. You speak enough for the both of us.”

Jordan merely shrugged, unfriendly laughter twitching at his lips.

Ilya wasn't sure what this guy's problem was.

Sure, he hated the New York Admirals– but Ilya hated everyone. They were rivals, but this weekend was for charity, so off-ice tension seemed even more silly than usual. Snarkily, Ilya wondered if the slightly younger man was intimidated by him, like a little puppy whose bark was worse than his bite.

Ilya tried to rack his brain for details on Jordan Bragg, maybe something for common ground to smooth this tense interaction over? He had already promised his coach that he would be on his best behaviour for the event, and he didn't want to stir up anything unnecessary. Even though Jordan Bragg was clearly looking to pick a fight with him.

They both liked hockey? Duh. Not much more to say on that. Ilya didn't know anything substantial enough to make small talk about New York. Boring anyway. Ilya knew that he had recently come out as gay a few months ago in a locker room interview, the third ever player to do so after Scott Hunter and of course…

“Who is it, Bragg?”

Ilya's heart plummeted into his feet. He knew that voice all too well.

Wordlessly, Bragg closed his eyes and gestured again like he was mind-reading, an open hand waving mystically in the space between them, only now he was smiling.

Time dripped to a halt.

Immediately, Ilya's mouth dried, stuck open. Despite himself, he felt his gaze slip off the smirking Admiral into the room behind him. The bathroom door was open, steam rolling out in clouds.

Ilya prayed the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Was that Hollander's shampoo he was smelling, or had he completely lost his mind? What did Bragg say about this not being his hotel room? He couldn't think. He couldn't speak.

No.

Dread swarmed his system. Snapping his attention back to the man in front of him, Ilya closed his mouth with a slow, concerted effort. Now, without a choice, Ilya had to fully take in Jordan Bragg. The damp spots of water that formed under his dripping hair, his barefeet, that fucking unfriendly glint in his eyes. Mocking.

Deep-set stormy green eyes flecked with brown were cast in an accusatory challenge at Ilya. He had looked like such a boy in that coming-out interview, Ilya hadn't thought twice about it. But here, now, it was obvious how simply handsome he was. Handsome and charming and unapologetically gay, and standing in Shane's hotel room, looking right at home.

He wished Cliff would just open his fucking door already and save him; Ilya could hear his teammate lumbering around inside through the paper-thin walls.

“Jord?”

The nickname, sweet from the lips of Hollander, who was probably waiting for the Admiral to rejoin him under the water, made Ilya's stomach clench so hard he feared he might audibly gag. He stumbled back as Cliff opened the door next to them, and in the same second, Bragg slammed 1609 closed, with one last ugly smile.

Ilya was left staring at Hollander's hotel room door.

“Sorry, Roz.” Cliff was in the corner of Ilya's vision, standing in his boxers. “I think I only packed one pair of pants.”

Ilya had been trying to find Cliff's room. That was all.

He made it a point not to text Shane right when he landed, keeping his phone turned off and in his pocket until he was redirected from the Luxe Hotel. Then, he was left scrambling to check in at the crappy Best Western, jumbled in with a few of his own teammates, Hayden Pike and J.J, and a ton of Ottawa players.

The entire flight over, Ilya had been thinking of exactly what to say. He knew he wanted to say it in person and hoped that maybe in the confusion and chaos of check-in, Ilya could find a brief moment where the two of them could slip away, just for a short conversation. Maybe make-up. Hopefully a make-out. He was dying to see Shane– a sentiment that had him flustered and embarrassed, since the last time they spoke, he had been so adamant about what they were to one another– decidedly nothing but casual sex partners.

Maybe Ilya should have apologized then, in Tampa, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Apologize for what, exactly? They hooked up once in a while, and it didn't always happen. It wasn't as if they were dating.

Ilya didn't owe him anything. Plus, as far as he knew, he and Rose were still together then. Ilya wanted to be more than a dirty fuck for Hollander, despite what he had thrown in Shane's face. It would be okay. Shane wanted the same things, probably.

Then why was he sick with worry about talking to him, now, getting ready in his crappy hotel room in New York?

Since Tampa, they had exchanged four texts. Ilya texted Shane when the Metros lost and fell out of contention for the 7th cup.

9:28

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Jane

Maй 16th 1 23 pm

Better luck next time, Jane.

Shane didn't reply, but merely thumbs downed his message.

When Boston lost their shot a month later, Shane sent a text to him.

7:31

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‹cooCyrillic texteCyrillic text

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Jane

Cyrillic text 23rd 7:31 P.M

Too Bad.

Up yours.

If you want.

Shane hadn't taken the bait, and Ilya didn't want to push it. He was already seemingly mad as hell about being knocked out of their seventh season, and with their situation being on a sour note, Ilya worried he would make it worse.

That was the last time they had spoken. It had been the longest stretch since Ilya had ghosted him for half a year in 2014, when his life back home was coming apart at the seams. Had Shane's life been coming apart, too? Ilya had wanted to ask.

Then, Scott kissed his boyfriend in front of the world, and Ilya jumped to his phone. He wanted to say so much, he wanted to say it all to Shane, but he hesitated. Did this actually change their situation? The last time they spoke in person, Ilya had made it clear that their relationship was one-note. Why would it matter that Scott Hunter was openly gay?

So he said nothing.

Ilya went back to Russia that summer and saw, through a tabloid headline of all things, that Shane Hollander had also come out as gay, in a clean, publicist-approved post on the Metro's Instagram.

We are happy to support Shane Hollander as he continues to play for the Montreal Metros as his true, authentic self.

When it happened, Ilya was pissed, even though he knew he had no right to be. It stung like a motherfucker, but if they were just hooking up on occasion and rivals on the ice, as he had thrown in Shane's face in Florida, why would Hollander talk to him about it first? It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't have.

It ruined his summer, but he had to come to terms with the fact that Hollander didn't owe him anything, either. Ilya fell into a bit of a pre-season slump, wasting days lying on the couch and refreshing social media, waiting to hear more from Hollander. More about Hollander. Nothing really came up. He watched Jordan Bragg's coming out video, which was hardly anything at all, with little interest.

Ilya had thought for sure that time and distance would either make it easier to follow through with talking to Shane or at least easier to forget him. It did neither.

He hadn't even seen Shane, hadn't seen his sweet brown eyes or his soft freckles, but he had heard his voice. He had smelled Hollander's shampoo, and Ilya felt… haunted.

Feeling impossibly heavy as he sat down in one of the ugly, lowback maroon chairs in Cliff's room, Ilya tried to ground himself. His blood was rushing so loudly in his ears that he could barely make out what his teammate was rambling about. Something about how people were still going to meet for breakfast all together tomorrow.

Something about the receptionist at the Hilton having the biggest rack he's ever seen. Something about all the teams getting together to party tonight. It didn't matter.

All Ilya could think about was next door.

He could hear footsteps and muffled voices, then the creaking of a bed. Shane's voice pitched up, the words inaudible but the tone happy, like he was laughing. Ilya's body temperature rocketed. Anxiously, he ran his hands over the grubby fabric of the armchair and listened more intently, trying to zero in on Shane's voice while blocking out Cliff completely.

He didn't want Shane to be happy and laughing. He wanted Shane to be fucking miserable, like he had been all summer in Russia. Like he was right now. He wanted Shane to feel sick when he thought of him, like Ilya had felt sick seeing Jordan Bragg in his hotel room. Why was Jordan in his hotel room?

The sounds of the neighbouring bed springs compressing and rocking drowned out whatever Cliff was saying. He was asking Ilya a question, and he should probably answer his teammate, but each squeak and groan from the other side of the wall deepened the pit in his stomach. The sounds tore through his ears like a freight train in a tornado.

Cliff seemed to notice Ilya was distracted by the noise and stopped in the middle of his sentence, gesturing over his shoulder to the wall behind him.

“I know,” Cliff rolled his eyes. “Hollander's got some guy in there. They've been driving me nuts.”

More mattress squeaking intensely came through the walls, and then, audibly, shockingly: "Blow me, Hollander".

Ilya jumped out of his chair with such force that it knocked it down to the floor behind him, while Marlow banged on the wall with the heel of his hand.

“Keep it down! Jesus.” Cliff snapped.

Muffled laughter erupted from behind the wallpaper. Ilya clenched his midsection, feeling worse than when he bruised his ribs last season. This felt like a different type of wound reopening.

“I don't feel well.” He said, honestly.

Cliff looked like he was going to make a joke at his expense, but stopped, giving him a curious once-over. “You actually don't look too good.” He noted the toppled chair. “Do you need to lie down, Roz? You look like you're going to puke.”

“Yes,” Ilya said, his vision clouding with unwelcome thoughts of what was happening in 1609. “No. I mean, I'm going back to my room.”

“Club later tonight,” Cliff called after him as Ilya fled; yes, ran, from the Hilton hotel. “If you're feeling up for it! I'll text you!”

Ilya was slamming on the elevator button and praying to God that it would come before Shane, or worse, Shane and Jordan left their room. He wouldn't know what he would do if he ran into them now. He was already suppressing something horrible that was bubbling in his chest, like bile, simultaneously fighting wetness that was threatening the corner of his eyes.

Once inside, Ilya held the button to keep the door closed and cursed under his breath as the old tin box took its time before moving. A door slammed in the distance, followed by footsteps and echoing voices.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You'll see.”

“Is this place going to have my approved foods? I'm not eating a garbage plate.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Holly.”

The elevator lurched and began crawling down. Ilya hoped it wouldn't stop until he was in hell.

The entire walk back to the Best Western, he wanted to scream. There were lots of crazy people in New York– maybe no one would pay him any mind if he did. He couldn't push the thought of Jordan and Shane from his mind; he couldn't convince himself he wasn't bothered by it.

Completely void of energy or appetite, Ilya ignored passing players from all the teams and went straight up to his room, pulling the blinds shut so he could lie down in total darkness. He changed his phone to silent and buried his head beneath a pillow, holding it down over his face as a few bitter tears escaped while his brain tortured him, filling in gaps with images and ideas he didn't want to see.

They were going out to dinner. Yes, hooking up makes people hungry. How nice that they didn't have to hide away behind closed doors. Were they sharing a hotel room?

Maybe Shane let Jordan stay over. Maybe for Jordan, Shane didn't run away. How long had they been sleeping together?

Maybe they're actually dating. Jordan got to touch Shane and hold him whenever he wanted. Kiss him along his freckles under the sun. Fill his mouth with his tongue.

Fill his body until they both were sealed together, then all at once coming apart. They called each other nicknames, not because they had something to hide, but because they were endeared to one another.

That's not Holly, Ilya bitterly grimaced into his pillow. That's my Jane.

Ilya groaned in the dark, crushed beneath a failing he had never experienced before. Temporary peace only came when sleep pulled him under.

Loud knocking on his door woke him a few hours later, but he was exhausted, like he hadn't slept at all. His entire body ached and cried out with protest as he sat upright, blinking into the dark.

“Ilya, are you alive?”

Ilya rolled over in bed and ignored Marlow.

“Dude, come on.”

More knocking.

“You got Pike out here worried for you, and he doesn't even like you, bro.”

“Rozanov?” Hayden's voice seemed way higher than Marlow's. Like a chipmunk.

Agitated, Ilya rolled out of bed and sulked over to the door, opening it only a crack.

“What?” His voice croaked as he glared out into the too-bright hall where the two men were standing.

“You weren't answering your phone.”

“Is dead.”

“Are you coming out tonight?”

“No.”

Cliff and Hayden exchanged a glance, and Ilya could see this was going to be more trouble than it was worth. If he kept dodging people all weekend and behaving like a moody child, people would start talking. It was bad enough with Pike here, the damn Metro spy. Ilya couldn't let his poor attitude seep out any further, or he'd start disappointing people.

He would just have to suck it up for the weekend, and then, if he was lucky, he could forget the New York Charity event ever happened. If he were really lucky, he would forget all about Jordan and Shane. But he doubted it.

“Give me five minutes.”

When Ilya was finally ready, Hayden had already taken off with J.J to the Hilton with some Metro players, drunk and whooping down the hall. Ilya had packed nice clothes, maybe subconsciously to make up for his stupid shirt in Florida. Maybe to impress Shane. He didn't pack anything for clubbing, really, so he slipped on a textured maroon button-down and left the three top buttons open, hastily throwing on black jeans and slapping on a gold watch.

Ilya felt stupid. He did not want to go out clubbing tonight, and it showed on his face.

“You look like you're going out to war, Roz. What's up with you today?” Cliff said when Ilya finally appeared in the Best Western hallway. “Don't tell me you're that broken up over the rooms.”

“I'm fine,” Ilya lied. The walk to the waiting car felt like an execution march. “Let's just go.”

Chapter 6: Chapter 5

V

Shane had opted to ride in an oo-ber with J.J, Hayden, Taylor and Patrice, which had been a mistake since everyone but him had been drinking ahead of time to be sufficiently buzzed by the time they hit the club. By the time Shane corralled them into the car, it was clear the buzz was closer to a bender.

“Sorry,” Shane kept apologizing quietly in the passenger seat to the annoyed-looking driver. The other four whooped and hollered in the backseat. “Uhm, we're just really happy to be in New York.”

Feeling his phone buzz in his pocket, Shane shifted and fished it free, glancing at the text.

9:38

Bell Network 88%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Jordie

9:38 P.M

in a dancing mood, holly? 💃

Shane smiled and let out a small huff of laughter, then felt the back of the passenger seat shift as J.J clambered over it, making the driver grumble.

“J.J, sit down!” Shane snapped, fumbling to put his phone back in his pocket.

“Who are you smiling about, Hollander?” J.J asked in French, then made a kissing face at him. “Is it a boy?”

“No,” Shane lied.

It was stupid. Everyone already knew that he and Bragg were friends– you were allowed to have friends on rival teams. People were traded all the time.

It wasn't a big deal. Chris Nelles, the Ottawa Centaurs captain, was really good friends with the captain of the Toronto Guardians. Their families even went skiing together last Christmas, according to Hayden, so why should Shane feel embarrassed? He wasn't sure, but he was. He could feel his ears turning red.

“Hollander's going to get some play tonight,” Patrice whooped, slapping his legs excitedly. “Yeah, boy!”

“Some play?” Shane shot his goalie a confused look. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Well, we can't say you're getting pussy, right? That makes no sense.” Taylor exchanged a glance with Patrice, who nodded earnestly. “What do we say?”

“How about nothing?” Shane remarked huffily, fidgeting in his seat.

“You do play better when you get laid,” Hayden offered unhelpfully. “Think of the cause, Hollander. Do it for cancer.”

Shane refused to look back at him in case he laughed. It was annoyingly true.

And it was annoying how long it had been. Christ, how long had it been since he had gotten laid? He had a random hook-up at the beginning of summer with a guy he kept bumping into at a coffee shop near his cabin, but since then, nothing.

The dry spell before that encounter was even worse. That was months. The last time he had gotten laid– like really gotten laid- was on Ilya's couch.

Shane.

Shane scrubbed the thought from his mind, shaking his head. He hadn't even realized Hayden was still talking to him.

“Plus, there are tons of great-looking guys in New York. I have faith in you, Shane. In fact, I'll put my money where my mouth is.” Hayden patted his pants pocket where the faint outline of his wallet sat. “Three hundred dollars says Shane goes home with the hottest guy in the club tonight.”

“I'm straight.” J.J peacocked. “And also, my money is Shane hooks up with someone we know.”

“He is not going to bang Scott Hunter, for the millionth time.” Patrice rolled his eyes. “One hundred dollars says J.J strikes out with every woman there.”

J.J swore at him in French.

After tipping generously, Shane yanked Taylor out of the backseat, and the others followed, like drunk little ducklings.

“Oh, Shane. Come on!” J.J was pleading as they quickly walked towards the club entrance, still in French. “It's pre-season, lighten up! When do we ever get a chance to party together on break? Promise tonight you'll try to have some fun.”

“Maybe.” Shane didn't feel like partying that much.

When J.J looked disappointed, Shane caved. His team had taken a hard loss last season, and it was important that he at least tried.

“Okay, okay. I'll party.”

“Will you even dance?” Hayden fell in step beside them. “Talk about things I'd pay to see.”

“You're pushing it.”

“I will pay you one hundred dollars to dance, Hollander.” Taylor's eyes were glossy. Clearly, he was tipsy.

Shane pursed his lips to crush a smile.

“Like I said, maybe.”

Club Virtue was a three-floor building in the heart of downtown, which was absolutely bursting, typical for New York on a Friday night. People swarmed inside and out, spilling from the massive wooden double doors and across the velvet rope to crowd the sidewalk. A long line snaked down the street, and three buff men in tight black t-shirts with staff scrolled across them in blocky white font were multitasking: turning people away, throwing people out, and letting people in.

Luckily for them, N.H.L players got to bypass the crowd crush and slip right inside, as car after car of athletes were guided upstairs by pretty hostesses in short glittery black dresses.

A girl with stunning red hair down to her waist led Shane's group up the winding steps inside, where music bumped heavily through speakers and strobe lights pulsed in blue and purple. By the time they reached the top floor that was sectioned off for the four hockey teams, J.J had the host giggling and whispering into his ear. Hayden and Taylor made a beeline for one of the bars in the corner of their section, while Patrice bounded over to someone Shane recognized from the Boston team– a defenceman whose name he didn't recall.

With a sticky swallow, Shane realized the last time he had been in a club was in Montreal. Another horrible memory threatened to rise to the surface, so Shane immediately began looking around for someone– someone else, who could help distract him.

“Hollander, good to see you made it.”

Shane turned on his heels to see Scott Hunter approaching him, a beer bottle in his hand. He was dressed more casually, wearing a short-sleeved crochet shirt with vertical stripes in forest green, white, and a deep burnt yellow. His beard was recently trimmed and straightened up, his hair shaped neatly under the glint of some hair gel. Somewhere in the distance, Shane could feel J.J's eyes on him.

J.J, and his endless teasing about how Scott looked like he wanted to take a bite out of Shane. He would have to get back at his teammate for all his stupid ideas.

“Hey,” Shane cleared his throat, making an effort to talk above a rap song that started picking up as Scott came to stand beside him. “We just got here. How about you and your guys?”

“Been here for about thirty minutes. Pretty much everyone but me is drunk.” Scott quirked the side of his mouth up. “I can't keep up.”

“Is this everyone?” Shane absentmindedly scanned the crowd. “Seems like we're missing people.”

When Scott didn't respond, Shane turned to look at him, catching the fellow captain studying his face.

“What?” Shane asked, furrowing his brow. “Did something happen?”

“No, no.” Scott looked away, shaking his head. “We're waiting on a few more Boston people, that's all.”

“Oh, fair enough.” Shane nodded into the space before them that was wriggling with bodies.

The club walls were lined with white leather booths that sandwiched low glass tables on golden arms, many of which were already crowded with cans and bottles or hosting buckets of ice with foiled bottle necks popping out of them. Two small bars sat on each side of the floor, shrouded between two dense shrubs, illuminating the silhouettes of players in a crisp blue halo as they ordered trays of shots, hollering and slamming glasses together in loud conversation.

It was nice seeing teams who were usually at each other's throats getting along so well, with the help of alcohol, of course. Shane could only hope that tomorrow, people weren't too hungover– Montreal needed to show up and perform well, even if it wasn't a real competition.

“Just out of curiosity,” Scott broke the silence between them with a startling question. “Are you seeing anyone romantically, right now?”

Shane's stomach flipped, and instinctively he began looking around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear this bizarre exchange. Especially J.J. He could feel his face burning a little.

“Uh, no.” Shane pinned his gaze temporarily to his teammate, who was buying the red-headed hostess a very expensive bottle of champagne at the other side of the room. “Why?”

“Oh, not because,” Scott raised a hand in front of his chest, closing his eyes. “Sorry, I didn't mean… Kip and I are still good. We're getting married next year. I was just wondering.”

“Oh, no, yeah.” Relief uncurled in his stomach. “I'm not seeing anyone, no. How's Kip?”

“Good,” Scott smiled, and when his eyes met Shane's, they seemed to glow warmly. “Really good, actually. He couldn't make it here with his school schedule, but he promised he'd be at the season eight kick-off game, and when we're back to win the cup again.”

“Keep dreaming, Hunter,” Shane smirked. “Do you really think the N.H.L will accommodate a walking stick instead of a hockey stick?”

Scott's eyes popped, his mouth falling open. “Excuse me? Where the hell is mild-mannered Shane Hollander?”

“I killed him.”

Jordan was suddenly between them, his arm clinging lazily along Shane's shoulder. When he turned his face to Shane's, he could smell a slight twinge of something bitter. Possibly tequila.

“Please, one of you is enough!” Scott stepped back to allow Jordan to move more freely.

“I think you like it.” Jordan poked Scott in the ribs. “Isn't it sweet? He's starting to sound like me.”

Devastatingly, Shane and Scott met each other's gaze as soon as Jordan said it.

You're starting to sound like him.

Shane swallowed thickly while Scott kept busy by emptying the rest of his beer into his mouth.

Instantly, Shane began pulling at straws to change the subject.

“He looks good tonight, right?” Shane managed to get out, gesturing to Scott's shirt. “Maybe we oughta take fashion advice from him.”

“No way.” Jordan gave him a disgusted look. “Where's that even from, Hunter?”

“Tommy Bahama, I think.” Scott glared at his forward. “Why?”

Shane bit back a laugh and studied his shoes. “No, nothing. I think it's cool.”

Jordan swore under his breath. “Son of a bitch.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck you both. I'm getting another beer.” He firmly clasped Jordan on the shoulder as he began to move away, and the two shared a long look. Scott avoided Shane's eyes as he left.

Shane was almost glad for it, not wanting to see what his face looked like in the reflection of Hunter's eyes. Guilty, probably. Or sad? A small pit was growing in his stomach, and Shane was feeling his social battery emptying fast, despite his big promises to party.

“You need a drink.” It was a statement, not a question, from Jordan, who grabbed him by his forearm and started to drag him to the bar on the other side of the room.

“I don't really drink,” Shane started, but he let it fizzle out on his tongue. He wouldn't mind a drink, actually.

As Jordan weaved through a few players and a few girls who had been invited up from the first two floors, Shane tried to make himself relax. He was at a club with his peers, and he was allowed to have fun. He should have fun.

Lining up behind two Ottawa defencemen who were in arm-in-arm and singing along to the Post Malone song that was playing loudly overhead, Jordan finally released his hold on Shane's arm and turned to face him, newly lit by the bar's hue that washed him of faux-moonlight.

Jordan was looking far less scruffy than usual, with his wild waves more tamed and structured so they fell more intentionally to frame his angular face, and Shane could tell he trimmed down his beard and shaved cleanly against his neck. For the first time, maybe ever, he wasn't wearing athletic wear or sweats. Instead, he had opted for an oatmeal button-down linen shirt, the sleeves bunched up around his elbows, which only made his biceps look even more defined than they already were. He had on terracotta pants and crisp-looking low-top white sneakers, which Shane was slightly jealous of. His brand with Reebok limited his sneaker collection.

For all his talk of not being able to dress well, Shane thought he looked pretty good. Embarrassment struck Shane when he noticed Jordan had caught him staring.

Amusement flickered around his dark green eyes that looked almost black under the club's lighting. “See something you like, Holly?”

“Fuck off.”

“The menu, Shane.” Jordan gestured to the bar and to the bartender who was waiting for them to order. “I mean, what do you want to drink?”

“Oh,” Shane stepped forward. “Sorry, uhm, can I get…”

Jordan raised a hand in front of his face.

“Just kidding. I'm ordering for us. Do you guys have coffee back there? Can I get two shafts?”

The bartender with a high black ponytail considered Jordan's request. “We have cold brew? Walk me through it.”

A few minutes later, Shane was drinking a bitter cocktail of coffee, vodka, and coffee liquor over ice in a booth next to Jordan. About halfway into the glass, he found himself enjoying it.

“Popular back home.” Jordan wistfully drank his.

“In B.C?” Jordan nodded, and Shane added, “Do you miss it?”

“Yeah, I like Canada. You're lucky, Hollander.”

Shane thought briefly of Jordan's Instagram, which he stalked months ago. He wondered if Jordan was lonely out here on his own.

“Lots of family back home, then?”

Jordan nodded, this time more slowly. “My two brothers and my little sister. My mom, too. Even the family dog, Checkers. I see them when I can, but…” He drained his glass empty, despite only sitting down a few moments ago.

A sadness seemed to roll off Jordan for a moment, which surprised Shane. Instinctively, he scooted a bit closer so he could bump his shoulder against Jordan's.

“And I thought I was the downer.”

Jordan pulled his gaze off the table in front of them and turned it on Shane, the corners of his mouth twitching. Their faces pulled close together so they could hear over the music.

“Funny,” Jordan said levelly, then, as a waitress approached, something evil glinted in the gold flecks in his eyes. “But unfortunately for you, I'm hilarious.”

Shane watched in bewilderment as Jordan passed his empty glass to the waitress, then promptly whispered something into her ear, sliding away so he couldn't be overheard. She laughed behind her hand, then followed Jordan's finger as he pointed at Shane, then into a few different spots around the room; to where Shane couldn't really tell. With a nod and a quick smile flashed at Shane, the waitress disappeared.

Once back in the booth fully, he pretended like nothing happened, which caused dread to churn in Shane's stomach.

“What was that?” Shane asked hesitantly, knowing that with Jordan, it could be literally anything.

“Nothing,” Jordan told the bald-faced lie with a smile.

“Jordan.”

“Dance with me, and I'll tell you.”

Shane felt heat flick up the sides of his face. He turned his head in the other direction.“No way.”

Jordan pitched his eyebrows up, then sighed with a fake-looking pout; “Well, if you don't want to make me feel any better…But I really miss my dog.”

Shane dipped his chin to his chest. The private dance floor was full of people– even Scott was slightly swaying while chatting with a couple of guys from the Centaurs. Shane spotted J.J dancing with the hostess who let them up here over an hour ago, now, she looked right at home between his hands. He remembered how he promised he would celebrate with everyone tonight, feeling a slight twinge of anxiety for being posted up along the walls so far tonight.

Relax. Shane took a shaky breath in. It wouldn't be the end of the world if he did, right? But he had only ever danced with Rose at a club, and that was with a woman. And it didn't go well. How did people platonically dance? Did he just copy what other people were doing?

Hayden was dancing poorly and out of time, which might be a good enough distraction from whatever the hell Shane was about to attempt to do. Not that, he hoped.

Oh god, was he really going to try to dance? He wasn't nearly drunk enough for this.

“One more drink,” Shane said, procrastinating.

Jordan's mouth puckered in surprise, then his lips split into a grin. “Okay, Holly.”

When a different waitress returned with two small glasses of foul-smelling amber liquid, Jordan took both, one in each hand, and goaded Shane towards the crowd on the dance floor, smiling at him as he backed into the mass of people.

“Here, Shane. Come here, boy!” Jordan called to him, catching the attention of a few surrounding people who smiled in his direction.

Shane shook his head but found himself trailing after Jordan, casually saying hello to players as he stopped being a wallflower and joined them on the glowing dance-floor. When they were both sufficiently in the depths of people, Jordan gave him an approving smile and handed him the shot glass.

“Doesn't that feel better?” Jordan clinked the small cup against his. “To Hollander, the social butterfly.”

“Fuck you,” Shane replied, but he was smiling too hard for it to matter.

It burned all the way down, but the shot also peeled back a layer of tension that had been wrapped around Shane's shoulders.

“Whoo! Hollander!” A Boston defenceman shook him by his shoulders. “Love to see it, baby!”

Shane chuckled, nodding along. “Well, it's a fucking party, isn't it, boys?” It came across shyly, but the already drunk players on the floor whooped as if it were an inspirational battle call.

People clinked glasses and beer cans, and Hayden slowly clapped from a few feet away. Shane flicked his hand at him, turning his body back toward Jordan, who was looking entirely too pleased with himself for getting Shane to misbehave.

“What did you tell that waitress?” Shane swayed gently into the soft beat of a song as it tapered down into something more slow, the underlying beat synth and a bit dirty sounding.

“I love this song,” Jordan replied, ignoring Shane. “Ever heard of it?”

Shane shook his head.

“Power Trip. Great song. Love J.Cole.” Jordan closed his eyes, his body rocking back and forth to the rhythm. He was stalling.

Shane carefully tried to match the rhythm of the people moving around him, ignoring how clumsy he felt anywhere but on the ice. His prayers to find something to do with his hands were answered when Matti, the giant Admiral's defenceman, casually passed them both a beer. The bottles looked cartoonishly small in his hands. He looked like he wanted to stay and chat with the pair of them, but he was immediately distracted by the Centaurs' goalie, who was calling to Matti from a nearby booth, frantically waving him over. With a nod, he turned and left, so Jordan tapped the neck of his bottle against Shane's, then beckoned with his empty hand for Shane to move in closer. The gap between them shrank, and although Shane's nerves were settling under the thumb of a buzz, he could still see that Jordan was fighting back laughter.

“What did you say to her?”

“I told her the truth.”

Shane furrowed his brows. “Okay?”

Jordan pointed to his ear, indicating that he couldn't hear him.

Shane stepped closer until there were hardly any inches left to spare, turning his head to speak directly into the side of Jordan's head.

“What truth?”

Jordan cupped a hand around Shane's ear, his hand and breath warm. His other hand, holding the beer bottle, bumped against Shane's hip as he spoke.

“That I'm your biggest fan.”

Shane snapped his head back, but dropped it again because the club's flashing lights were too bright to look at, too contrasting in the dark. Jordan's hand fell from his ear and cuffed his shoulder instead, as if to keep Shane right where he was.

“I'm serious, Hollander.” Jordan continued. He pulled Shane by his beltloop so they were flush against each other. “You must know that.”

Would you believe me if I said I'm in love? Baby, I want you to want me. The hook gently played overhead, the song's volume coming down momentarily.

Shane laughed against the side of Jordan's head, despite his heart being in his throat. “You are such a bullshitter.”

Would you believe me if I said I'm in love? Baby, I want you.

“I like you, Shane.”

The rhythm of his movements skidded out of time at the simple statement, and Shane felt his mind start to stutter.

“I like you too,” Shane replied easily after a moment, because it was true.

“Yeah, I know, but…” Jordan started, but he trailed off, dipping his head around Shane to look across the room, a smile cracking wide, his more serious expression falling away. “You'll just have to forgive me, okay?”

“What? Why?” Shane whipped his head around to where four waitresses were approaching the dance-floor with trays. On each there was a massive martini glass filled to the brim with whipped cream.

“Because I really doubt this is on your approved foods list,” Jordan whispered in his ear before slinking away to grab Scott by the collar of his Tommy Bahamas shirt as the captain tried to sneak away.

Shane had no idea that a shot of gin buried beneath an avalanche of whipped cream was some sort of prank drink to order on people, nor did he know it was tradition not to use your hands and instead unbury the shot with your face. But there he was, lined up beside Scott Hunter and Chris Nelles and, at the end, Ilya Rozanov. All four captains with the same task– drink the shot and make a fool of yourself while your team lovingly films you and laughs.

“Why do I have a feeling this was your idea, Bragg?” Scott glared hard over the top of his whipcream glass.

Jordan looked like a little kid on Christmas, saying nothing as his face betrayed everything.

“Come on, Ilya!” Cliff whooped. “Bring it home to Boston.”

Shane hesitantly glanced down the table to steal a glance. He hadn't seen Ilya all night. He hadn't seen Ilya since he arrived in New York.

He looked, as always, beautiful. His golden curls were a bit shaggy. In between seasons, Shane knew he didn't always like to get his hair cropped shorter.

His firm chest was as broad as ever; it stretched the maroon collared shirt he was wearing to its limits. Shane searched the length of his neck until he spotted Ilya's crucifix, still there. Something was comforting in the few things that wouldn't change, even if their situation did.

Ilya didn't look in his direction. Shane forced his gaze back down when the countdown started, adjusting the grip on his hands that were interlocked behind his head.

Maybe he was drunk, or maybe he felt he had something to prove, but he wanted to win. Shane Hollander could party. Why the hell not? Shane Hollander could do anything he put his mind to.

The whipped cream was disgusting, cold, and way too sugary. Shane fought hard to push it aside rather than eat it, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to commit to making a mess, knowing it was unavoidable anyway.

Next to him, he could hear Chris mutter curses under his breath as he got the shot, then promptly lost it, spilling it into the whipped cream. The Centraus wailed in defeat somewhere as Shane manasged to finally dig out the fucking thing enough to get his mouth around the rim of the glass. Pulling his head back and out with a disgusting wet sound, he forced himself to snap his head back and drink the sharp gin in a single gulp as it mingled together with the sweet slop. The group in front of him erupted, and people began grabbing at Shane from all sides.

'“No fucking way! Hollander!” Hayden practically jumped into his arms, slapping his chest excitedly.

Shane still had his eyes clenched shut, afraid whipcream was going to get in them. “Okay! Jeez.”

“Man, we can't win shit!” Nelles bellowed with a laugh next to him.

Shane used his clean hands to flick gunk away from around his eyes, squinting into the club light that was, for a moment, nothing but a blur of purple and dark figures happily hopping around.

“Oh my god, you asshole!” Scott barked suddenly, and Shane turned to see him feeling around the martini glass with his hand. “There isn't even a fucking shot in here!”

Immediately, three Admirals had Jordan on the floor, playfully thumping on him while he wailed for mercy through laughter.

“You traitor!” One of them jeered. “I know why you did that!”

J.J smacked Shane hard on the back. “You are my hero.” Then, in French, added, “You are also very sticky.”

“No shit,” Shane replied in French, then began looking around for the bathroom.

“This way,” Jordan, who was allowed back up at last, was by his side. “Let's get you cleaned up.”

“That was very funny.” Shane tried to sound as sarcastic as possible.

He was filthy, and he was a bit too drunk already, but he did have fun. Well, it was fun to see his teammates have fun.

“Hm.” Jordan mused. “Nice work, Holly.”

He ran his thumb across Shane's cheek, collecting a scraping of whip cream, then popped the digit into his mouth, not taking his eyes off of Shane's face. Suddenly, his mouth felt sticky– and not just from the sugar. When he couldn't get his feet to move, Jordan gently took him by the forearm and led him to the back wall, where the bathroom was, pushing the door open and leading him inside.

It was quieter in the bathroom, the heavy black door sealing the sound out. Jordan sat himself on the counter in between the two massive oval-shaped mirrors and deep black sinks to watch Shane as he rinsed his face, cupping warm water into his hands and splashing it upward in careful motions.

“I rigged the game for you,” Jordan confessed with a smile, looking content.

“Still a dick,” Shane assured him, trying to rinse his neck off without totally soaking himself.

“You love me,” Jordan said, just as the door swung open.

Shane prayed it was Chris or Scott.

Heavy footsteps parked themselves in front of the other sink, water rushing shortly after.

“Tough luck, Rozanov,” Jordan said, a bit less humour in his voice. “Silver is better than bronze, though.”

Shane kept his eyes on the water going down the drain, his hands moving slowly against his skin.

“Keep that attitude for the game,” Ilya replied, also humourlessly.

An awkward silence suffocated the room, broken only when Jordan slid himself off the countertop, landing with a soft thump on his feet.

“I'll give you a minute.” Jordan's tone was unplaceable, but then, more softly, he added, “I'll go get us another shaft. Catch you later, Holly.”

No. Shane silently screamed in his head. Stay. Please, don't leave me alone with him.

Instantly, Shane was worried about what he might give in to. He remembered how quickly he had folded over for Ilya in the past. He couldn't let that happen again.

Instead, he flicked water from his hands, turned off the tap and grabbed too many paper towels.

“Fun game, eh?” Shane felt his brain moving slowly in a cloud of alcohol. He patted his face dry longer than he needed to, like he was trying to hide.

Ilya scoffed. His hands were gripped around the lip of the counter, and his eyes were pinned to his own reflection.“Yeah, your boyfriend's a real riot.”

The comment was laced with disgust.

Shane could feel himself bristling– he wanted to lash out, but he decided to try and take a page from Jordan's book instead. Years ago, in Vegas, Ilya had followed Shane into a bathroom after ghosting him for six months, then laughed in his face. Now it was Shane's turn to laugh.

“You think so?” Shane shot back, his voice twinkling with laughter. “Yeah, he's a lot of fun. I'm a lucky guy.”

Shane waited, grinning, hanging on Ilya's response. It fell apart when Ilya snapped his head hard toward him, his hazel glare knocking the wind out of Shane.

Immediately, Shane dropped his eyes to the floor. Unable to say anything else, he mumbled that he had to go.

“Back to Jordan.” Ilya drawled, like it was boring to him. Like he didn't care, but he had something to say anyway, just to undercut how Shane was feeling.

Shane flared slightly. “Yes, and?”

Ilya laughed loudly, unkindly, shaking his head.

The last of his patience snapping, Shane felt hot anger rising from his feet to the top of his head like a kettle about to scream.

“Why do you pretend to give a fuck?” Shane snarled, taking an angry step towards Ilya. The closest they'd been since Tampa. “What, are you disappointed that I'm not entertaining you anymore, Rozanov? Too fucking bad.”

“What?” Ilya turned an incredulous stare on him, lips curled in anger and eyes narrowed, like daggers.

Shane jeered. “I don't even know why you're bringing him up.”

A beat passed, and Ilya spoke again, his voice booming.

“You're the one throwing it in everyone's face!” Ilya snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Shane's chest.“You and your fucking boyfriend. I don't give a fuck.”

Shane wanted to laugh. There was nothing to throw. Ilya was just mad that he was no longer pinning after him. Meanwhile, Ilya had been doing what, exactly? Sleeping around all summer long and ignoring Shane? Fuck this.

“Oh, go fuck anyone with a pulse and get over it,” Shane lobbed the insult, but it felt like it only broke his own heart to say. “God forbid I try to have a bit of fun too.”

“You want to fuck Bragg, go ahead.” Ilya's rage seemed to subside into cool indifference. “I'm happy for you, Hollander.”

Shane rolled his eyes hard. “Yeah, we're fucking. Maybe I'll fucking marry him too, while I'm at it.”

An ugly pause passed. Shane scoffed and began walking to the door.

“If that's what you want, then do so,” Ilya said quietly at last, turning off the tap.

It was so flippant, so indifferent, it nearly shook a sob out of Shane. Whatever response he could have mustered up in the moment seemed to wash down the drain with the last droplets of water. That was a cruel comment to make, but it shouldn't have surprised Shane. This was just like Tampa all over again. As mad as Shane was at Ilya for throwing him aside, he was mad at himself for getting his hopes up that it would be different this time, somehow. But no. Ilya Rozanov would never take him seriously.

“Goodbye, Shane.” Shane heard over the rushing water as Ilya flicked the tap back on.

Or maybe not, he was drunk, and the club was so loud. It was probably nothing.

What happened next was anyone's best guess. Shane remembered dancing with Hayden and J.J, kissing a male bartender on a dare, and getting to ride on Matti the giants shoulders, feeling like the king of the fucking world. He laughed with Jordan and Patrice until they were all crying, tears streaming down their faces. Shane lost count of how much he was drinking; as soon as his hands were empty, someone was handing him something else to sip on. Everyone wanted to do a shot with the Metro's captain.

At one point, he begged Scott Hunter to stay and do another round of shots, calling him an old man and teasing him about the early bird special for tomorrow. Something about breakfast. It didn't matter. Nothing did, really.

Then he was slow dancing with Hayden like they were at prom, turning under lights to a horrible popstar with annoying falsetto vocals. Then he was sitting with his head between his legs, feeling like he was going to throw up. Cold, refreshing air made him feel better a few minutes later as he swayed outside in an alleyway, listening to someone make a phone call. A few minutes later, he had his fingers tangled in soft, wavy hair that smelled woody and musky.

“Shane,” Jordan was gasping against him, his voice slightly slurred. “Wait.”

Shane's back was against a rough building exterior, wind prickling his cheeks and ears. They were outside Virtue, having tumbled out of a side door. Shane had Jordan by the collar of his nice shirt now, their heads bent together.

He felt like he was unravelling under the other man's touch. Their lips brushed softly against each other, bumping clumsily and only connecting for fractions of a second.

“I have a cab coming.” Jordan rasped. “Trust me. Do this when we're sober. It'll be different.”

Shane whined out a complaint, closing his eyes in the brisk New York night. Then he opened his eyes, and he was in the back of a cab, curled up in Jordan's arms, feeling nauseous.

Then he closed his eyes.

Then he opened his eyes. He was outside the Hilton, his pockets turned out.

“Fuck,” Shane hiccupped.“Fucking stupid.” He continued to run his hands up and down his legs and over his pockets, as if his keycard would manifest.

“No card, no entry.” Jordan was swaying next to him. “Come on, Holly.”

“Don't call me that!”

When Shane opened his eyes, he was sitting on the edge of a bed, tears falling on his bare chest. For a moment, he couldn't recall what he was crying about. Golden curls. Freezing indifference. Agony, like poison in his blood. His neck, limp, pierced by the fangs of a leopard.

The lights turned off, and there was a gentle shushing, then he was being tucked beneath a blanket. Shane felt fragile, as if he was made of glass, and was eternally thankful for a pair of strong arms wrapping around him as he drifted to sleep. Without them, Shane was sure he'd shatter.

Chapter 7: Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

Im literally tweaking trying to reshuffle these chapters. Sorry hahahahaha

VI

When Ilya left the bathroom at Virtue, he felt like an animal. He wanted to tear into someone. He wanted to hit something.

He saw Jordan and Shane on the dance floor together, Jordan's hand sliding down from Shane's shoulders to his lower back, clinking glasses, so close together that they were basically smiling into one another's mouths.

Hollander looked beautiful, his brown eyes shining and the skin under his freckles aglow. His free hand was fiddling nervously with the hem of his forest green shirt as Jordan spoke to him, like he was itching to touch the other man. Ilya remembered how nervous Shane used to be when they got together, how his hands would tremble as they explored, scared but determined.

Jordan placed a hand on the back of Shane's neck, fingers curling around the dip between Hollander's shoulder blades. In response, Shane visibly shuddered.

Oh. Now he wanted to kill somebody.

Unable to watch anymore, Ilya stormed his way through the crashing bodies until he was at the top of the staircase. He needed to get outside and smoke. The fresh air and nicotine would do him good; alcohol would not. Alcohol meant he might try to lay Jordan Bragg out on the dance floor.

With a crash, Ilya stumbled into the New York night, ignoring the turning heads of people who were still waiting to get inside Virtue. There were hot women and men all over Virtue, but the thought of even talking to any of them just agitated Ilya more.

Maybe I'll marry him.

Ilya swore loudly and walked away from the club, choosing a random direction where people tapered off, and he could have some semblance of being alone. Fishing his pack and lighter from his pants pocket, Ilya lit a cigarette and slowed his frantic pace to a slow walk, studying his shoes as he moved.

Hollander had called his bluff. Ilya couldn't believe that while mild-mannered Hollander danced and drank with his boyfriend, he was outside, walking aimlessly in the chilly night on the verge of tears.

Is this how Hollander felt in Ultraviolet? Ilya's stomach twisted, and he slowed to a stop, taking a ragged breath in.

He hated this. He hated what he and Shane had become. In theory, it should be perfect. Shane was out. Ilya could come out, too, whenever he wanted. Serious or not, no one seemed to be taking an issue with two guys on opposing teams hooking up. In theory, nothing was stopping them from being together.

You love me.

Ilya let ash fall directly onto his shoes. Did Hollander love Bragg?

“Fuck, Jesus.” Ilya wiped at one of his eyes that finally gave in, releasing a few tears down his face.

It was his own fault, and he knew it, but it still hurt. Ilya had pushed Shane away over and over, claiming they were simply no-strings attached. But here Ilya was, utterly tangled.

“Rozanov?”

Ilya nearly dropped his cigarette when hearing his name being called. He snapped his head up to see Hunter a few feet away, his nose and ears pink from the cold wind.

“What-” Ilya's voice broke in half. He took a moment. “What are you doing, Hunter? You lost?”

Hunter didn't give him his usual annoyed glower. Ilya prayed that they were far enough away from each other that he hadn't seen him crying.

“I'm waiting for a cab to take me home.” Hunter gestured in the direction of the club. “Pick up is a nightmare by the doors.”

“Right, right. Bedtime, yes? Must be eight-thirty already.” Ilya raised his eyebrows and took a step back, ready to turn around and go back to the club, knowing he would rather lie down in traffic.

“Rozanov,” Scott said, his voice barely audible. “I'm sorry if you're having a hard time with, well, you know.”

Ilya paused. “What?”

“With Jordan and Shane.”

Icy fear shot through his veins.

“Why would I have a problem with Jordan and Shane?” It didn't sound convincing, not even to his own ears as he said it.

Scott shifted on his feet, not meeting Ilya's eyes.

Ilya wasn't sure how much Scott Hunter knew, but he was willing to gamble it all.

“Did he tell you?”

“Who, Shane? No.” Scott licked his lips and examined his feet. “I just know what it looks like.”

Right. As much as Ilya loved to rip on Hunter, he had been a closeted athlete for a majority of his career. No matter how careful they had tried to be, some things couldn't be tucked away neatly in hotel rooms or empty stairwells.

Ilya nodded slowly. “How long have you known?”

“Long time. I mean, I guessed. But then, I wasn't sure.” Scott waffled, then dropped his head and sighed, “You know, hotel rooms aren't soundproof, right?”

Ilya actually laughed; his hand flew over his mouth. “Sorry.”

Then, another unfriendly reminder. Blow me, Hollander.

Nothing was funny now.

Ilya let out a shaky sigh, his smile trembling away. “You won't have to worry about that now.”

“I don't think that's true.” Scott was looking at him seriously now, taking a few steps to close the gap between them on the side. He glanced over his shoulder, as if ensuring privacy, then dropped his voice. “Are you actually done with each other?”

No. Ilya wanted to scream. Of course I'm not done with Hollander. I will never be done with him.

Ilya nodded slowly, unable to meet Hunter's eyes. “I mean, yes, right? Look at him and Jordan tonight.”

Scott didn't look convinced.

“I'm asking because I care about Jordan.”

“You are a good captain.”

“I tried to get him to back off because I thought maybe you and Shane were still,” Scott rocked side to side. “Whatever.”

“We aren't,” Ilya admitted bitterly.

He was starting to feel nauseous despite barely drinking anything. He wanted to go home, to Boston, and never get out of bed again. He wanted to stop talking about how he lost Shane Hollander.

“I guess I'm surprised to hear you say that.” Scott and Ilya both turned as a yellow cab crunched up the side of the curb.

“How come?”

“I didn't take you as a quitter.”

Ilya watched Scott's cab disappear down the street. He dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his shoe.

“Fuck this,” Ilya said into the night.

As much as he pretended to hate Hunter, the Admiral captain had a point. Ilya wasn't a fucking quitter. Having a goalie in the net never stopped him from scoring before. It didn't stop him from winning games. Winning cups. It wouldn't keep him from getting to Shane, either.

It didn't matter how long it took or how painful it got– Ilya decided he would work his way back in. Right now, Shane didn't want anything to do with him; he wanted to dance with Bragg and fuck him in hotels. It was torture, but Ilya could endure it.

He endured months of this before Shane was with Rose. Guiltily, Ilya realized Shane had endured the same when they were apart, and Ilya was, admittedly, not very prudish. Still, no matter who he was with or what he was doing, he could never forget Shane. They always wound up back together, somehow, gasping and writhing, kissing and touching, all over the world. Shane may only see him as a bit of dangerous fun for now, but not for long. Certainly not forever.

A new wave of determination washed over Ilya.

Were they actually done with each other?

No. No, they weren't.

Not if Ilya had anything to do with it.

Chapter 8: Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

VII

When Shane opened his eyes, everything around him felt sticky. His mouth was cottonish, his vision smeared, and his head immediately rang with soreness like he had been hit with a mallet. The hotel room was dark, but through the cracks of the heavy blinds, he could tell it was morning.

He tried to remember what happened the night before, but was immediately irritated with the memory of his conversation with Ilya. Flaring tempers. Raised voices. Whipped cream. Somewhere in the middle of it, Shane's feelings, which he was sure he had shed, had gotten hurt.

He had drunk way too much, for the second time in his life, but last night was way worse than Vegas when he lost rookie of the year. His memories blurred together, blinking in and out. Shots at a bar. Letting someone hoist him onto their shoulders so he felt twelve feet tall.

Throwing his wallet at Hayden. More shots. Crawling into a booth with Jordan, laughing until he cried. Being in a cab and trying not to puke. Crying again, but that time from misery. Warm water on a soft rag. Someone is taking his socks off.

Someone laughing at their Reebok logo. Someone had tucked him in earnestly, like he was a kid.

As his vision adjusted to the darkness, Shane began feeling around for his phone in the sea of sheets, and he began noticing things.

First of all, the bed was moving without sounding like a haunted ship, which was weird. It was far bigger than a twin, soft but firm and stacked with downy pillows that smelled a bit like cinnamon.

Next, the sheets around him were slate grey, not an outdated toffee brown with pinstripe, and felt like his bamboo ones back home in Montreal. The ceiling above his head wasn't spackled with popcorn texture holding asbestos; it was industrial spruce wood and copper piping, vaulted high.

Firm, hot flesh met Shane's fingertips beneath the covers, confirming his sinking suspicion. In response, Jordan snored at him in a way that only people who have broken their nose before could snore. Shane closed his eyes, groaning.

“Why am I here?”

Jordan rolled over. “For a charity match.”

“No,” Shane huffed, his entire body aching. “Why am I here, in your…”

“You lost your keycard in Virtue.”

“Why the fuck didn't I just get reception to give me a new card?”

“Oh, good point.” Jordan yawned so hard his entire body shook with the effort. “You're so much smarter when you're sober, Hollander. And loud.”

Shane kicked off the cover, hearing his phone thud to the ground. He groped around until he found it, hissing with annoyance as of course, it was dead.

“Give it,” Jordan held out his hand, his other arm still thrown over his eyes. “I'll plug it in.”

“I feel like total shit.” Shane crawled back into bed, bypassing Jordan and plugging his phone in, letting it rest on the nightstand. “Fuck, what the hell?”

“You're a bad influence, Hollander.”

“Shut up.”

“Stop screaming.”

Shane scoffed, smirking in the dim room. “I'm not. Think maybe we overdid it?”

“We didn't even get to do it.” Jordan sighed dramatically. “I think you should lie back down.”

The offer seriously tempted him, but Shane fought through his growing headache like a pinched nerve between his eyebrows and tried, with great effort, to focus on a nagging feeling he had. The sliver of golden sunlight that was filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window illuminated a tall door that was left open, spilling into a living room that had a low green sofa, large plants in terracotta pots, and an industrial-looking kitchen with gleaming appliances. For all his talk of living in a shitty New York shoe box, Jordan's place was clearly massive and as luxurious as other players' penthouses. Shane wondered if he had gym equipment up here.

“Please,” Jordan whispered, his hand brushing Shane's as he reached out without opening his eyes. “I feel like I'm going to die. Lie down, Hollander.”

The bed was still warm where he had left his indent, and his throbbing head and aching body were begging him to submit and curl back against Jordan. Then, as if on cue, Jordan's stomach growled.

“Breakfast!” Shane gasped, flying to his feet. “What time is it?”

Jordan groaned loudly, but was also clambering to his feet. “Fuck my life.” He snapped his head away from his phone screen as it lit up, like a flashbang. After a moment of squinting, he grimaced. “Late.”

“How late?”

“It started ten minutes ago, late.”

“Fuck!”

Jordan slammed the lightswitch and the room brightened. Shane found and jumped into his pants, which were folded on the back of a wicker chair in the corner of the room, his socks paired up and lying on the cushion. Along the end of the bed, he found his shirt, which was crumpled in a ball.

“Ugh, I only have my clothes from last night, and my shirt smells like a dog got into a liquor cabinet.” Shane breethd into the fabric and then jerked it away from his face, repulsed.

Without needing Shane to ask, Jordan walked over to his closet and began moving things around. He muttered something about Reebok and then began throwing stuff aside.

“Will your sponsor drop you if you wear Nike?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I have one other option. But you're not going to like it.” Jordan's voice was dripping with laughter, and Shane already had a bad feeling.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

Jordan held out and shook a simple black t-shirt with a small logo on the breast. For the New York Admirals. The one he had sent Shane a selfie in months ago.

“Lose a million dollars or wear the shirt, Hollander.” Jordan tossed it to him, his face beaming with a massive smile.

Shane glared at him as he disappeared into the bathroom, hearing his electric toothbrush buzzing a minute later. Shane weighed his options, even passing by Bragg's closet looking for an alternative, but it was either wear the club shirt or the Admiral logo. It was a close call, but Shane slid the clean cotton team shirt over his head.

It fit like a glove. A glove of betrayal.

Still, it was better than nothing– like, literally going half naked to breakfast. Defeated, he trailed into the bathroom as Jordan was spitting into the sink. When his head lifted, he immediately grinned.

“Wow. It's like you're trying to seduce me.”

“It's really too early for this,” Shane tried to deter him from ripping into him, especially because his head was pounding. “Please.”

Every noise pinged around Jordan's massive bathroom, all blueish tile and slate stone and glass.

For once, Jordan listened. He looked like he had a thousand things to say, but instead gestured to a watercup next to the sink that had a disposable toothbrush wrapped in plastic. Shane gave him a dirty look and removed it, but found himself smiling despite himself when Jordan handed him a tube of toothpaste. As per usual, Shane went to take it, and Jordan pulled it away, just a few inches, down by his waist.

“Too slow, Hollander.” Jordan crooned. Then, when he let Shane have it, added, “My toothpaste isn't healthy,” in a sarcastic whisper before slipping out, his hand briefly trailing along his waist as he slid by, despite all the space around them.

Shane rolled his eyes and brushed his teeth, trying to ignore how domestic and easy things felt with Jordan. It was sort of like being around Hayden, maybe. Or maybe not? Shane and Hayden had never shared a bed, but they shared plenty of hotel rooms. That being said, Shane would feel pretty awkward and creeped out if he woke up to Hayden in his bed, in Hayden's arms. The idea of it actually made him shudder slightly.

Is this okay? Shane wondered as he moved the brush in small circles. Would it be a big deal if I did this with a guy from Ottawa or my own team? Getting fucked up and crashing at their place?

As he went to lean his head down to spit and swish, Jordan knocked loudly on the wall, startling him and making him whip around.

Flash.

An iPhone camera went off, startling him even more.

“What,” Shane started, then turned and quickly spat all the minty foam from his mouth. “What the fuck!”

Jordan wasn't laughing, but he had his hand pressed firmly over his mouth, his eyes glued to his phone.

“Incredible. You look so guilty.”

Shane felt his face flush. “Don't post that, seriously. You're just going to cause trouble.”

“That doesn't sound like me.”

“Jordan,” Shane added, warning in his tone, the only thing that caused Bragg to lift his eyes up and look at him. “Delete it.”

“I don't know, I think the league will be happy the teams are bonding so well.” He held out the phone to Shane, at a safe distance, to show him the photo. “Plus, I want to jerk off to this later.”

Shane did look guilty. His expression was startled, eyes narrowed in surprise, a green toothbrush hanging from the side of his mouth. His cheeks and nose were all scrunched up as he recoiled from the camera. It would have been a great photo, actually, if it weren't for the obviously visible Admirals logo on his shirt.

“Maybe if you photoshop it out,” Shane said, trying to feign sternness. “Maybe.”

“It would be a shame.” Jordan wiggled his eyebrows at him, then turned the phone around as it buzzed. “Uh oh. We're really late now.”

Another buzz.

“Actually, we're last. They're waiting.”

“Fuck,” Shane quickly splashed a bit of warm water across his face, mainly to get rid of any toothpaste left over from Jordan's jumpscare. “How far are we from the restaurant?”

“Two city blocks.” Jordan was slipping on his sneakers, a folded hoodie over his arm. “Wear this, you crybaby.”

Shane plucked it from his arm as he pulled on his own shoes. Reebok sneakers. Of course. Jordan scoffed when he noticed, and Shane gave him a playful shove out the door.

“No time. Fuck off.”

In the elevator down, Shane zipped up the hoodie to hide Jordan's shirt, but he couldn't stay thankful for the disguise for long. After the short run to the restaurant, he was already way too warm, sweat beading above his brow. Both of them were panting as they skirted around the corner of the main desk and into the small hall where breakfast was being hosted.

A woman in a crisp white pantsuit with a pink ribbon pinned to her chest was mid-sentence when they crept to their table, she flashed them a smile briefly and continued. Shane ignored the eyes that briefly scanned over them before flicking back to the speaker.

“Again, we are so sorry for the rooms flooding and the fiasco with the hotels. Thank you for being so understanding and meeting us here for the breakfast kickoff.” She shot Shane's table a look. “Glad we aren't the only ones scrambling today.”

Embarrassment made Shane flush even worse as eyes from other tables glanced his way. Ilya's included, of course. Shane had spotted him at the next table over before he even sat down. Not looking his way, but to the speaker, Shane gave an apologetic wave. Jordan merely smiled goofily next to him, pretending he didn't know why they were being singled out.

“Each one of you taking the time to do this before the start of the season is immensely appreciated by the New York Cancer Foundation. With your help, we hope the funds raised for our research institute can help pave the way to more innovative and effective treatment for cancer patients all across the Western world, and one day, beyond."

Shane took a steadying breath, looking around the tables. Each one was a jumble of players, the seating clearly in line with the idea of cooperation and allyship for a greater cause. Cliff Marlow was sitting across from him, and Scott Hunter was on his right, while Jordan absentmindedly fiddled with his cutlery to his left. There was Zane Boodram from the Ottawa Centaurs, and the goalie, too, whose name Shane was blanking on. Shane was pretty sure the goaltender had lifted Shane off his feet with an aggressive bear hug last night.

Unfortunately for Shane, he was the only Metro. He spotted J.J and Hayden both at Ilya's table with the massive Admiral defence who stuck out like a sore thumb– he looked like he was seven feet tall. Visually, that was a hilarious group. Shane didn't realize he was staring until Ilya turned his head, his eyes holding Shane's gaze. It felt like a wire was running between them, full of tension and waiting to snap. Neither of them looked away, and for a long moment, it was as if there was no space between them at all, like the room was empty except for the two of them.

Shane thought of their exchange inside Virtue's bathroom, how bitter and ridiculous it was. In the span of a few minutes, Ilya proved to Shane everything he already knew– their relationship, or whatever the hell they used to do, was over. Ilya was clearly more interested in sleeping his way through every woman who looked at him and being the world's biggest asshole than he was in taking Shane seriously. It was annoying, but Shane had told himself he was fine with it. He had gotten too drunk to cope with the unchecked emotions it raised out of him, but he was fine. Really fine. He just couldn't tear his gaze away, for some reason. Ilya wasn't budging either.

“Eat what's on your plate, Hollander.”

The bizarre comment was barely audible from Scott, his eyes not moving from the speaker as he said it.

“Hm?” Shane snapped his head over to the other captain and squinted.

Scott didn't elaborate and continued to listen to the presenter as if he never said anything at all.

When the formalities were over, everyone was left to chat amongst themselves as the waiters bustled around them, taking and entering orders and filling glasses with sparkling water, orange juice, and mugs full of steaming coffee.

“Black coffee, please.” Shane's voice cracked a little as he ordered.

“Orange juice, pretty please, beautiful,” Jordan ordered, then noticed Shane pulling a face at him. “What?”

“You just brushed your teeth. That doesn't bother you?”

“No, I'm not a baby.”

Shane saw the Ottawa goalie's gaze shift from Shane to Jordan, then back to Jordan. Another punch of embarrassment hooked Shane as he realized they should probably change the subject from their obvious lateness.

Scott cleared his throat, and Shane breethd an internal sigh of relief. Something else to talk about. He'd let the hometown captain take over; he'd talk about whatever at this point.

“Bit hot for a hoodie, isn't it, Hollander?”

Fuck. Anything but that.

“I'm ok.” Shane lied. It probably didn't help that he could feel heat creep up his neck, making him look even warmer.

“Someone had a wardrobe malfunction this morning,” Jordan mumbled, looking away to dodge Shane's dirty look.

“How so?” Scott pried with a half-laugh.

“It's nothing. It was a sponsorship…” Shane could feel Jordan shaking with muted laughter next to him, but he refused to look over at him again. “Miscalculation.”

“Glad I'm not a big shot. I'd totally forget what brands I wasn't allowed to wear.” Zane Boodram jumped in, taking a bit of pressure off.

Shane gave him a small, thankful smile. “You're a big shot too, man. We're at the same table.”

“Yeah, this table is stacked,” The goalie nodded in approval. “Minus Marlow.”

“Fuck yourself,” Marlow said flatly, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Hollander, you have to be on my side. We're alone out here with these stupid Admirals and Centarus.”

“Shane already reps a side,” Jordan interjected, then shrugged when Shane shot him with fast daggers.

“You suck.” Cliff pointed a non-threatening finger at Jordan. “You and your giant, always flapping mouth. I can't believe someone as unsportsmanlike as you is allowed to play a charity match.”

“Play nice,” Scott was shaking his head. “Jordan, be quiet.”

Jordan slapped a hand to his chest in mock offence, his mouth wide open. “I hadn't even said anything yet!”

“But you were going to.”

“Yes, and it was going to be hilarious.” Jordan reached behind Shane to swat at Scott, who ducked away from him. He let his arm stay parked there, resting lazily across the top of Shane's portion of the booth, dangerously close to his shoulders.

“Are you hungover?” Boodram directed the comment to the entire table, but Shane and Jordan were the only two who showed up late.

“No, Hollander just has a twenty-step skincare routine.” Jordan said smugly, then earnestly added, “My head is actually killing me, though, for real.”

“I heard J.J has Advil.” The goalie thumbed behind him. “I'm sure he'd share, even with the enemy. He's supposed to be in a charitable mood right now.”

“You're supposed to take it with food,” Shane warned as Jordan slipped from the booth, eager to retrieve the medicine.

“Yeah, yeah.” He flicked his hand to dismiss Shane's comment and strolled to the table where J.J and the giant were having a lively discussion.

Scott, the goalie, who Shane remembered was named Tommy, Cliff, and Boodram, started up a conversation about the worst places to travel for away games, which places had the best food, but Shane found himself watching Jordan instead of engaging as he should. Jordan strolled over, pretending not to see the giant, bumping into the back of his chair. He said something Shane didn't catch, but a low rumble of laughter reverberated from the defenceman.

“Be nice, or Matti will eat you,” Jordan teased loudly. Everyone laughed. People at the neighbouring table smiled. Everyone but Ilya seemed to find it amusing.

Then Jordan walked to the other side of the table, J.J and Hayden booed him playfully as he approached.

“Don't do it for me, do it for your captain.” Jordan slinked his arms across both Metros, then pointed off Hayden's shoulder right at Shane. “His headache's worse than mine. He was a real animal last night.”

Not untrue. Shane's head started to pound even worse mid-sprint to the hotel. It rang like a bell when he tried to recall what he had so brazenly put into his body.

Begrudgingly, J.J fished around his pants pocket and pulled out a little white bottle, chirping at Jordan as he backed away with fake gracious gestures, clasping his hands together like he had been handed a miracle. Then, as he was turning his head, it looked like he winked at Ilya, who was stone still, his lips pressed into a firm line for the entire exchange. Shane's head began to pound harder, to the point where he could feel it along the backsides of his eyes.

“Oh,” Shane winced at the annoying sound as Jordan slid into the booth, rattling the pill bottle like a maraca. “Don't.”

“Not like you to get wild, Hollander. Must say I'm surprised.” Scott poked his ribs with his elbow. “But I'm glad to see you let loose a little. Didn't think you had it in you.”

“Special occasion.” Shane lied, happy to see the waitress approaching with his breakfast. He was going to have to eat around the bagel, but the spinach and the smoked salmon were fine, as long as the waitress remembered to leave the sauce off of everything.

While everyone chatted around him, Shane focused on swallowing a few bites, then popped the pill into his mouth and chased it down with cool water. He was already feeling better. Absent-mindedly, he unzipped his hoodie and meticulously folded it in half, then half again, then set it in the space between him and Jordan. He was looking forward to sweating his system clean at the gym after breakfast, and made fast work of separating everything on his plate into what he could eat and what he should avoid, arranging neat little bites.

Just as he finished the weird pre-meal ritual, he noticed how silent the table was. There was barely even the clanking of forks and knives.

Looking up, he saw Tommy holding his knife crookedly over his eggs Benedict with a dumbfounded look on his face. Boodram had his chin tucked to his chest, and his ears had gone pink. Scott had his head turned away, like he was no longer interested in his B.L.T, and Marlow was giving him a look of pure disgust, his plate of pancakes untouched.

“What?” Shane was expecting a dig at the weird way he ate, part of the reason he hated these group outings.

Instead, Cliff pointed his fork right at Shane himself. “What the hell are you wearing, Hollander?”

Shane looked down, blinking in bewilderment. Of course. The Admiral's shirt. How could he have forgotten?

“Look,” was all Shane managed before Jordan butt in.

“Guys, come on.” Jordan wrapped his arm around Shane, his hand covering the logo. “It was actually my fault. I scared Hollander; he got toothpaste on his shirt, and all my other shirts were Nike, okay? Lay off. Everyone knows he's a Reebok boy. He didn't want to get in trouble.”

Shane quieted and let Jordan take the fall for him. The excuse was better than the truth, which was that Shane had gotten plastered and locked out of his hotel room.

Chuckling continued to bubble around the table, then more laughter and whistles peppered the room as other people at neighbouring tables started to notice what Shane had on.

“Looking good, Hollander!” The admiral goalie chirped from two tables over, and a wave of giggles washed the room.

Shane rubbed at both his eyes, annoyed, and trying not to smile. Admittedly, it was pretty funny.

Until it wasn't.

“I don't understand,” Cliff questioned around a bite of toast that was smeared in raspberry jam.

“What?”

“Why didn't you just put on your own clothes?”

Immediately, Jordan began to snicker.

Mortification flooded Shane's system. He had been so embarrassed about being late and his stupid shirt and his stupid hangover and his absurd fight with Ilya that he hadn't put together how this morning looked to everyone on the outside. He and Jordan had stumbled back to the hotel together, and people watched them leave Virtue in a cab. Now, he was sitting across from those same guys in Jordan's shirt, exhausted, smelling like Jordan's toothpaste and probably cologne in his team t-shirt.

This looked like the most obvious, most shameful walk-of-shame.

“You know it's obvious when Marlow of all people can put it together.” Tommy snickered, leaning into Zane so the Raider wouldn't hear him. Scott shot him a warning look.

“It really isn't like that.” Shane turned to Jordan, a bit panicky. “Back me up.”

Jordan's smile widened. He had the side of his head cradled in his palm, elbow resting on the table. His green eyes were round and shining, like he had just told the best joke of his life and was drinking in a roaring crowd.

“Oh, fuck off!” Shane gasped, his shoulders sagging. “You are unfuckin' believable, Bragg.”

Once a painfully awkward moment slugged across the table, Jordan finally broke with a snort.

“Hollander lost his keycard at Virtue and crashed on my couch.” He said at last, throwing his hands up. “He's a real prude. Said he wouldn't fuck a fan.”

Shane shoved him so hard he almost fell out of the booth. “Prick.”

“Oh,” Boodram said with genuine surprise, then turned to Tommy. “Sounds like you're out of luck then, too, Tom.”

“Right.” Tommy scoffed.

Cliff didn't say anything, but he did exchange a glance with Scott, who also wasn't saying anything. Shane couldn't tell if they believed him or if they were just being polite. Either way, showing up to breakfast half-naked wasn't sounding so bad anymore.

Jordan patted the logo, then let his hand slip away, trailing it across the back of Shane's neck in a gesture that made goosebumps rise along his arm.

“Now now,” Jordan shook his head. “Don't think so low of the Metro's captain, he would never stoop so low as to bang an Admiral.”

“Yeah, figures actually.” Boodram nodded slowly. “When I saw you both leave Virtue, I thought you were both way too fucked up. I'm just glad you made it back in one piece. Worse things can happen than losing a keycard, Hollander.”

“What, like sleeping with me?” Jordan frowned across the table at him. “I resent that, Bood. Don't tell me you wouldn't sleep with me either.”

Boodram shook his head. “No way, man. You're way too… silly.”

Jordan threw his head back in faux-devastation. “Always the jester, never the bride.”

Shane ate his breakfast with minimal small talk after that, letting Jordan lead the way and crack people up until their plates were cleared. He noted the half-truth carefully in his own mind.

They didn't have sex, but Shane hadn't crashed on his couch, either. He woke up wrapped in Jordan's arms, actually.

After breakfast, Shane and Jordan were the first to slip out. As much as he wanted to apologize to the organizer for arriving late, he didn't want to get hassled further for his unfortunate outfit choice. Shane needed to shower and show up to practice on time, in his own clothes, and hopefully try to scrape together a better excuse for this morning.

This event was important, and it was annoying to be the cause of a distraction– the other captains were being normal, so he needed to pull it together, regardless of how he was feeling. Which was still, well, like shit. It felt like he had lost a lot more than his key card in Virtue last night.

“You toss and turn like crazy, Holly.” Jordan was walking him back to his hotel, despite Shane insisting he was sober enough to navigate the avenues.

“Well, you snore.”

“My nose was broken, you ableist."

Once and while, their hands would bump, a symptom of walking down an overcrowded pathway. A lingering feeling of embarrassment curled around Shane's stomach like a snake.

“I'm sorry, by the way. For last night and, uhm, this morning.” Shane kept his eyes forward as they walked, but he could feel Jordan looking at him.

“What for?”

“Well, for getting too drunk and then passing out in your room, mainly. And then this morning it almost looked like we were…” Shane cleared his throat. “Well, you know.”

“Don't apologize, I had fun.” Jordan's hand bumped his, this time with intention. “Didn't you?”

“That's not the point!” Shane turned his head, but when his eyes met the swirling pools of green, he had to look away again. “Doesn't it bother you when people imply that we're, uhm…” he started to fumble with his words.

“Fucking?” Jordan crassly filled in the blank, then grinned. “No, of course not. Does it bother you?”

“Yes.”

“What, am I actually not good enough for you, Hollander?”

“Fuck off, that's not what I mean.” Shane shifted his weight between his feet as they waited for a crosswalk to change from the red " Don't Walk " signal. “It's just not true, is all.”

“It isn't, no.” Jordan's tone slipped into something serious, one that Shane had only ever heard him use on the phone yesterday as they were at dinner. “But if you change your mind about fucking fans…”

Shane felt his stomach somersault away from him. He waited for Jordan to smile, or laugh, or double over at his waist and wheeze. Shane clung to words that never manifested.

You should see the look on your face, Hollander. You're so fucking gullible. So full of yourself that you think I'm a fanboy? Holly, you are such a narcissist. Nothing.

Instead, he closed the gap between the two of them, crowding against Shane so they were chest to chest. He smelled like his deodorant, something fresh and pine, mingled with a musky cologne and his toothpaste. Well, they both smelled like his toothpaste. Shane swallowed a lump in his throat as Jordan, in broad daylight in downtown New York, placed his large, warm hands on his hips and guided them even closer together until there was no middle space.

This was Jordan's home city, where anyone and everyone recognized him, but he seemed to be totally indifferent to that fact as he pushed his nose to Shane's. Instinctively, Shane put his hands flat against Jordan's firm chest, fighting both for and against the urge to push him away. As indecision flicked on and off inside his mind, Jordan brushed their lips together in the most chaste of contact. In that second, Shane's body decided for him, causing him to flutter his eyes closed and lean his head slightly back, waiting and wanting what Jordan was taunting him with.

A punishing pause arrived, but there was no pressure or heat from Jordan's mouth. Instead, he pulled back sharply, adjusting the shirt Shane was wearing as if that was the original task at hand. A small, embarrassing sound of desperation crept out from his parted lips, and Shane opened his eyes, expecting to see Jordan laughing at him. He wasn't. He looked a bit tormented.

Jordan's green eyes were clouded, dark, lust-laden, like he really was seconds from mauling Shane on this busy street. It was so intense that it was almost startling. Dipping his head quickly into the crook of his neck, Jordan breethd a hot gasp of air against his flesh as he spoke, just above a whisper.

“Too slow, Hollander.”

With shaking hands, Shane moved to grab Jordan by his shoulders and gently moved him back, keeping his head turned away as if he still had face to save.

“Not funny.” Was all Shane could muster up, his heart bruising against his ribs.

Jordan's expression dropped apologetically, but he quickly concealed it again. His hands flexed at his sides, like he was debating grabbing him again. As the stoplight changed, the crowd that was expanding around them began to shuffle across, seemingly unaware of the strange interaction between two N.H.L players beside them.

Shane forced himself to look at Jordan and nod a goodbye before he turned to join the moving sea of pedestrians. Jordan gave him a half-cocked smile that sent butterflies rushing from the pit of his stomach to his head.

“Hollander,” Jordan called to him when he reached the other side of the street. “I want that shirt back. Unwashed. I'm going to sell it online.”

Shane flipped him off and kept walking without looking back.

Chapter End Notes

On top of doing grammar/spelling and minor content edits, I'll also be adding random bits of art!(Hopefully I can learn how to code in text messages like I've seen other people do!)Mainly because I think it's neat, and also because I think it helps flesh out an A.U, you feel me?

Thanks for reading!!!-Macy

Chapter 9: Chapter 8

8

“I heard Hollander lost a bet, that's why he was wearing the shirt.”

“Right, and it was just a coincidence that those two left in the same cab last night.”

“No way, dude, Bragg will say anything to rile people up.”

“Bet he riles Hollander up pretty good.”

The buzz around this morning's breakfast show was pinging around the stadium locker room. It was all anyone wanted to talk about, and it made Ilya feel as if he was covered in fire ants, inside and out. Ilya pulled the shortest straw of all the captains, so they got to practice first this morning.

As if anyone even cared about the charity right now. They were too enthralled with Shane and Jordan.

Shane fucking Hollander in a New York Admirals shirt– but not just any giftshop jersey; in Jordan Bragg's personally appointed, exclusive and branded team shirt.

Shane, a bit miserable looking and hungover, sitting in a booth sandwiched between Jordan and Scott Hunter, had uncharacteristically arrived almost thirty minutes late to the kick-off breakfast. He was wearing a hoodie and looked flushed, scrambling in an attempt not to be noticed, but, as usual, caught everyone's attention anyway.

Pike had leaned over to J.J and muttered about how weird that was, since Shane was chronically punctual. J.J muttered back an innuendo comment about how Bragg must be rubbing off on him. Ilya felt like he was sinking into sand at the restaurant table, and no one else was noticing. When he met Shane's eyes across the room, Ilya's breath hitched as he remembered everything he had said the night before.

It was like dying a thousand times, watching him and Jordan together. When they nearly kissed while swaying together on the dance-floor, Ilya had to leave, stepping out onto the balcony to hide and smoke until the last of his tears stopped flowing. He wiped at them before they fell, determined not to let anyone notice. Especially Shane. When Cliff finally found him, Ilya was down half a pack, and his eyes were dry; red, but dry.

Then he had to play some stupid drinking game orchestrated by Bragg alongside the other captains, and Ilya kept his eyes down. He'd prefer people to think he was high, rather than knowing he had been silently crying about Shane Hollander outside for nearly twenty minutes.

Fury had struck like a match inside Ilya as he watched at a middle distance as Jordan dragged his thumb across Shane's freckles, shamelessly, licking whipped cream like it was merely an appetizer to his favourite meal.

“Those two are going to fuck, for sure.” An admiral defenceman, Robbie, had hissed in his teammate's ear behind Ilya.

Helpless, he watched them disappear into the men's bathroom, but the rage that flowered carried him to follow them only a minute later. When Ilya opened the door, he heard Jordan claiming that Hollander loved him. A new wave of jealousy crashed over him, and the moment Jordan was gone, Ilya jumped on the opportunity to confront Shane. It was stupid and childish, referring to Bragg and Shane's boyfriend– more than anything, Ilya was waiting for him to deny it. He was desperate for Shane to deny it.

Lie to me. Ilya had silently begged as he watched the water plummet down the drain. Please, lie to me, like you did in Florida about Rose. I'll believe it. I'll believe anything, just please, don't go home with him tonight.

Shane didn't deny it. Instead, he doubled down, and in the process did something Ilya didn't know he had the power to do. Shane broke his heart.

Ilya couldn't pretend he wasn't devastated. It was his own fault for asking, of course, but he couldn't help but twist the knife on himself. He already knew something was going on between him and Jordan– anyone with eyes could put it together. They weren't interested in being discreet; the way Jordan had pulled Shane against him by his belt was downright pornographic.

It was the insinuation that Shane didn't know why Ilya gave a shit that was eating him alive. Shane ran out on him in Boston, and then he has the nerve to act like he doesn't know? Dating Rose immediately after, then coming out publicly without a word to him, and now Bragg? One by one, Shane had taken Ilya's deepest desires and flipped them on their heads.

He wanted to be the one to date Shane loudly. He wanted to be the one to support him when Shane came out, and vice versa. He wanted to be the one to fuck Hollander until they were red in the face, kiss him on the dance floor, and show up to breakfast the next day in each other's clothing.

It was all so sick.

And Hollander still had the nerve to stare him down this morning, like he was fascinated by the shards of Ilya's broken heart.

You mother fucker. Ilya swore at him in his head, feeling his eyes prickle. You perfect, selfish, mother fucker. Come over here and kiss me.

Then, Hollander's boyfriend was at his table, smiling and making everyone laugh, and Ilya had wanted to jump up and kill him. The desire to hurt Jordan was so strong that it made his legs tremble under the table, a reaction that scared the shit out of him. Even when his brother had goaded him into a fight at their father's funeral back home in Russia, he didn't feel this way. His body had physically lurched in his chair when Jordan claimed Hollander was being an animal last night.

Then, Jordan had winked at him, as if to say, watch this, Rozanov.

His arm around Shane's shoulder, his hand gently caressing the back of his neck. Ilya knew Shane liked it, that slight touch against the almost bare flesh where his hair was tapered short. He wondered if Shane had given Jordan a soft sigh, melt like butter beneath his fingers, like he used to do for him.

Ilya was frozen, an untouched plate of eggs and hashbrown cooling into slop in front of him. He couldn't tear his gaze away. He couldn't force himself not to notice every minor, fleeting detail. Shane was cutting around the things he hated to eat, pushing them around his plate pickily, sipping black coffee and wincing at his harshness.

He couldn't make conversation, couldn't smile, and couldn't even raise his eyes when one of the organizers came by the table. How could Hollander be so close but feel so incredibly far, like he was orbiting a different universe?

Then the hoodie had come off, and everything went to shit.

“Nice shirt, Hollander!” The same Admiral defenceman from the night before whistled two high notes.

“Oh, for God's sake, Shane!” Pike had buried his face in his hands. Ilya watched from the corner of his eye as the Metro handed several twenty-dollar bills to his teammate, who was whooping.

Soft laughter and chirping and confused mumbles glittered the room, and Ilya observed Shane's cheeks turn a deep red, a blush that spread to his ears as Jordan carried on smugly beside him. Ilya was praying that Shane would snap, blow up at Jordan the way he had blown up at him in Tampa, leave him like he left Ilya in Boston. Instead, his exasperated expression had resigned to annoyance, and then melted into a small smile. Ilya felt himself free-falling.

Every motion Jordan made caused Ilya's nerves to splinter with hatred.

A casual sideways glance, their legs being too close together, a mortifying moment where they turned to look at one another with such a small space between their faces, as if they were about to kiss in front of everyone. At one point, Jordan tried to feed Shane a bite of his waffles, causing him to go off in a rant, undoubtedly about high fructose corn subsidies and how that wasn't even real maple syrup.

It was all so petty, but it clawed Ilya to shreds.

Ilya had watched them leave together this morning, powerless. Shane thumped a hoodie against Jordan's chest, but he was laughing. They both were. Like it was just the two of them in the world; like Shane didn't even see him anymore.

Oh, but you will. Ilya resigned himself at that moment, knowing he couldn't throttle Jordan the way he wanted in the middle of the restaurant. He had been distracted since then, thinking of ways to get back into Shane's bed– and then, finally, into his heart.

When Jordan turned over his shoulder to smile directly at him before closing the restaurant's door, that's when Ilya knew for sure: Bragg was throwing it in his face on purpose.

After Scott insinuated that he mentioned Ilya and Shane's past to Bragg last night outside of Virtue, everything fell into perspective. Bragg had his sights on Shane, and he was making it clear that he wasn't backing down.

Too bad for Bragg; neither was Ilya.

At breakfast, everyone was polite enough not to crassly say out loud what was communally being thought, but now, in the confinement of the stadium locker room, Ilya was hearing all his worst fears being uttered by his teammates as they laid on their gear.

“Doubt it. Hollander could do better than Jordan fuckin' Bragg.”

“They were all over each other last night at the club!”

“He said they were banging.”

“Bragg also said he bangs your mother. Is that true?”

“I saw them making out after breakfast, bro.”

“Bullshit!”

“It's true! Marlow, lie or no lie, you hear Hollander and Bragg fucking all night long, or not?”

Cliff didn't answer. He shot Ilya a strange look instead.

“So which one of them is like… You know what? Nevermind. I don't want to know.”

“I dunno. They're kind of cute together.”

“Oh, Bragg!” Someone who was washing their hands around the corner moaned mockingly.

This was a living nightmare.

“Who fucking cares?” Ilya snapped, instantly hushing the room to silence. “If you have time to talk about this stupid shit, go run drills instead!”

“...For a charity game?” Someone in the back of the locker room questioned.

The unwelcome feeling of embarrassment flooded Ilya's stomach.

“For fun or not, do you want Boston to look like a bunch of losers? You want to lose to Montreal in any game?”

“No!” The team, over Ilya's sudden outburst, began to chime in together.

Ilya ran with it.

“You want to lose to these fucking New York douche bags?”

“Fuck no!” They shouted back.

“Then get on that ice and show me how you fucking hustle, boys!” Ilya shouted, slamming his hand excitedly on the nearby locker doors.

Whooping and lighthearted hollering filled the room again. Ilya was left alone as everyone else filed out. Or he thought he was.

“You forgot Ottawa.” Cliff was chewing on a dry-looking protein bar, sitting on the bench on the opposite side of the room. “Also, what's your problem?”

“Hungover.” Ilya lied, shooting his teammate a surprised look.

“You barely drank.”

“Headache then. Fuck, whatever.”

“Is the stuff with Bragg getting on your nerves?”

Ilya felt his hackles rising.

“It's annoying, yeah.”

“How come?”

Ilya sucked in a tight breath, turning around to glare at his alternative captain. “Why are you so curious, Marlow?”

Marlow shifted his weight as he sat, chewing thoughtfully for a moment and not meeting Ilya's glower. The handsome brick of styrofoam looked as if he were deliberating whether or not he wanted to poke the Rozanov bear.

“I guess… I figured it would bother me too, if I were in love with Hollander,” Cliff said so casually that Ilya wondered if he heard him right.

A long silence stretched between them as they stared one another down from across the locker room.

Ilya laughed sharply, stretching his arms in front of him to shrug exaggeratedly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Cliff regarded Ilya with an expression he didn't care for. His dark eyes slitted, and he gave Ilya an unconvinced once-over, as if Rozanov had just told him he was leaving to join the Centaurs.

“You might have to sit this tournament out, you've hit your head one too many times.”

“Then say so.”

Ilya huffed, turning away and fixing his stick tape. “You are annoying.”

“Say it.”

Slamming his locker shut, Ilya looked to the ceiling and shook his head in pure exasperation. “What makes you think I do?”

“Don't deflect.”

“Shut the fuck–”

“Ilya!” Cliff snapped suddenly, climbing to his feet. “How many fucking years have we known one another? Why would you think I give a fuck if you like men?”

Ilya glanced towards the shut door that led out to the rink. He didn't know why he was embarrassed. He was comfortable with his sexuality, actually.

It didn't bother him that Scott Hunter and Cliff and probably others had noticed his same-sex attraction. What was embarrassing, and too hard to admit on account of it being downright humiliating, was that people had begun to notice that he was in love with Shane Hollander, and that Shane obviously didn't love him back. Maybe that is why Ilya felt his saliva turn to glue.

Ilya took a deep breath in, his gaze falling from Cliff's and onto the empty bench between them. Words, especially in English, fled from him.

“You drive each other crazy,” Cliff stated, with a slight huff of amusement. “I mean, clearly this shit is getting to you, so just tell me.”

Ilya didn't want to address the New York Admiral elephant in the room. He shook his head and chewed on his bottom lip, hoping Marlow would give it up, but he carried on.

“Is Hollander fucking around on you?”

Ilya flinched at the idea, shaking his head. “No,” his mouth said. Yes, his heart said louder.

“So then, what?”

“We are not together.”

“Why not?”

Ilya glared at Cliff, knowing how his teammate would react. Cliff took his silence and filled in the gaps.

“Ah, right.” Marlow licked his lips in the way he always did when he was suppressing a chirp. “Have you tried not being insane?”

“Hollander started it.” Ilya knew he sounded childish, but there was no other way to explain it.

When everything first started, he and Shane had been playing a game. A dangerous, sexy and fun game; but both of them hated to lose. When he was winning, Ilya could pretend that things were fine, but then, as per usual, Hollander flipped it around. Now, Shane was winning, and the game wasn't fun anymore. Worse yet, Ilya didn't want to play anylonger, and he hadn't for a long time. He wanted Shane. He wanted Shane to want him. And yet, there was Hollander, taking slap shots to an empty net.

“Right. And are you only now realizing that Shane Hollander always wins? Especially against you?”

“Fuck you.” Ilya groaned, pulling his back off the wall of lockers and shuffling towards his skates. He hated hearing that particular truth. “Don't be a prick.”

“How long?”

“A while. Years, maybe. I don't know what counts.”

“Christ, Roz. You could have told me.”

“It was stupid. It still is. All of it. I am.”

“Captain,” Marlow circled the bench and stood right in front of Ilya. “Are you seriously going to tell me that you're no match for Big Mouth Bragg?”

Anger clipped Ilya in the chest briefly.

“I know, I'm working on it,” Ilya said before being forcefully crushed into a one-armed hug. “Jesus, who are you, cupid? Get the hell off of me.”

They broke apart, and Ilya found himself smiling at Marlow.

“You look happy when you're around him. I mean, not right now, obviously. But you used to. Sometimes you still do. I used to think it was strange, all things considered. But I think it makes sense, actually.”

Ilya felt another rush of embarrassment from his teammate's sentiment. He was happy around Shane. Even when he was miserable. Even when Shane was breaking his fucking heart, Ilya would take it. He would take it any day of the week over not seeing Hollander, or God forbid, letting Jordan Bragg have him all to himself.

Fuck that. Jordan might have Holly, but Ilya would always have Jane.

“You know, you are not nearly as stupid as everyone says you are.” Ilya beamed at his co-captain.

Marlow smiled back, brightly. “Thank you.”

His eyes drifted for a moment, and Ilya wondered if the insult would land. It didn't.

“Thank you,” Cliff said again, simply. He clasped Ilya hard on his shoulder. “Now, let's get ready to beat these stupid pricks.”

Chapter 10: Chapter 9

IX

After an embarrassing practice of dodging questions and denying anything happened between him and Jordan last night, Shane was finally getting his head on straight in time for the tournament. The stakes were low, obviously, but there were medals and a podium, and Shane was, to his very core, direly competitive. Even though he was still hungover, he made it a point to hit a gym, using the one at the Best Western because, of course, the Hilton had no amenities.

“You and Bragg really didn't fuck?” J.J asked disappointedly as he spotted Shane, who was growing irritated with the same three questions.

“No. Stop distracting me.” Shane pushed hard to finish his set, using the ache in his body to help expel the memory of Jordan's mouth brushing his on the street this morning.

Hayden was sitting a few feet away, his back against the mirrored wall. He was texting Jackie, half paying attention to the conversation at hand.

“But you two were all over each other.”

“I was all over everyone. I was hammered.” Shane had no reason to save face in front of the two idiots he deemed to be his closest friends. “Now be quiet.”

“You heard him!” Hayden's head popped up from his cellphone. “Hollander didn't bang someone you know. Pay it back, J.J.”

Shane reracked the bar above his head and slid off the bench, watching J.J reach into the pockets of his workout shorts to fish out his wallet.

“Boo! Eat a dick, Pike.” J.J handed Hayden about three hundred in cash.

“Excuse me,” Shane started, then dropped it.

“You'll get him next time, dude.” Hayden shot Shane a sympathetic look.

“Why is everyone so convinced that something is going on?” Shane furrowed his brows at them.

J.J and Hayden exchanged a look.

“Well, he just seems to make you happy.”

“I'm a happy person.” Shane realized that was a blatant lie the moment it left his mouth. “Most of the time…”

“I love you, dude, but that's shit. A few months ago, you had me seriously worried.” J.J was shaking his head. “You were a fucking mess in Tampa for All-Stars. You played well, that's a given, but you were so…”

“Sad.” Hayden finished for him, then shot Shane a pitied look. “And closed off. But now you're having more fun this weekend than I've seen in years.”

Shane felt his skin starting to tingle with shyness. “He's a good friend.” Was all he could offer, lamely as he sat down across from Hayden.

“Right, and what are we?” J.J asked him in French, an unconvinced smirk sliding across his mouth.

Shane shook his head, pursing his lips. “My annoying ass teammates.”

Hayden scoffed. “So you'd kiss J.J at a club too?”

“We did not kiss!” Shane hissed at him, but he felt his cheeks burn. “...I don't think.”

The three of them laughed until a loud thunk caught their attention.

“Are you going to be much longer?” Ilya had thrown his gym bag with a thud to the floor. “Some people do more than gossip in the gym.”

Shane felt an icy hand squeeze around his heart. Behind him, he heard J.J huff.

Rozanov was dressed head to toe in black, from his sneakers to his backwards baseball cap. His shirt had the sleeves cut off jaggedly, the holes of the arms dipping low to reveal his muscular arms and the lean, cut lines of his abdomen from the side. He had stubble along his jaw, the kind that Shane knew hurt but also felt good when it scraped along the inside of his thigh. His crucifix glinted beneath the florescent lights between his pecs, and Shane had the overwhelming urge to reach out and press his palm to it. Feeling himself staring, Shane studied his shoe.

This dinky, shitty, hotel gym wasn't too different from the one in Regina, where they had first met one another, the summer before their rookie season in 2008. Almost unconsciously, Shane ran his hand along the lip of his sneakers. Once upon a time, Ilya's shoes had flirtatiously tapped his. The rest was history. A long, messy, miserable history.

“We were just going.” Hayden stood up.

Ilya folded his powerful arms across his chest, taking a turn to look at each of them, stopping on Shane last. To his bewilderment, Ilya gave him a small smile, his eyes twinkling darkly. It vanished the moment his hazel eyes left Shane's face.

“Good luck tonight, Rozanov!” Hayden offered cheerfully.

Ilya grunted shortly in response, his expression shifting back to stone coldness.

“God,” J.J muttered as they walked through the gym's exit. “What crawled up Rozanov's ass? He's been pissed off all weekend.”

The tournament had sold out months in advance, and it was set to raise over one million for the New York Cancer Foundation between the seat tickets and the pre-tournament dinners. Shane was excited for a chance to play before the next season started, hoping he and the Metros could shake off their prior loss to the Admirals and maybe even put them in their place before things kicked off for real in October. Shane wanted gold– even if it was just a charity match.

The brackets were set across two days, Saturday and Sunday, and each team had to play three games. Day one was Montreal versus Boston, New York versus Ottawa, and Boston versus New York. Shane, of course, was nervous about playing against Ilya first, but the fans were in love with it.

Day two was Montreal versus Ottawa, Montreal versus New York, and then finally Ottawa versus Boston. The organizers had each team captain play rock-paper-scissors to determine the order, and luckily for them, the high-stakes games were split up pretty well between the two days, promising one action packed weekend.

Each team was issued a special jersey with the cancer foundation ribbon on the back, pink stripes down the arms instead of white, red, blue or yellow. Jordan sent Shane a text of him wearing his, then said that when everything was over, he would sell his and donate the proceeds to the foundation. Shane decided he would too, given he had more than enough framed jerseys in his house.

1:45

Bell Network 88%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Jordie

Today 1 45 PM

good luck against Boston. you won't need it

Good luck against Boston. You won't need it either.

cheer for me when we play?

Of course. Until the Metros kill you.

🤡

brat.

Shane smiled at his phone.

Shane didn't stop smiling until he was putting his skates on, about to lock in against the Boston Raiders. He wondered to himself, just before he stepped onto the ice, if Jordan really could be the solution to his underlying unhappiness. Sometimes it certainly felt like it.

As if to confirm it, Shane spotted Bragg amongst the team watching section in the stands, holding a sign among the Admirals. It had clearly been slapped together, Jordan's below-average penmanship across a random piece of cardboard.

“Shane Hollander is a sloppy drunk.”

Shane laughed out loud when he saw it, skating a small circle while shaking his head. When Jordan stopped talking to his teammate and looked down, they caught each other's eye.

“You are an asshole.” Shane mouthed at him slowly, making sure he could catch every word.

Jordan smiled down at him, then blew him a kiss.

The game against Boston was, to everyone's surprise, a bit of a slaughter. Ilya was completely off his game at first, unable to turn things around until halfway through the second period. He kept losing the puck, missing goals, and getting agitated. All the Raiders put up a good fight towards the end, but it wasn't enough to close the gap. At the final buzzer, the Metros took it home with a score of five to three.

“Good game,” Shane offered Ilya as they touched gloves down the line-up, just as he had to every player before him.

“Not over yet.” Ilya grouched back, leaving Shane to skate off feeling a little unsettled.

Jordan and Shane had no time to see one another in between the games since the Admirals had two back-to-back, so they made loose plans to meet up later, if Jordan wasn't totally spent. Shane found himself wishing he and Jordan could sit together as the ice reset.

The Metros and the Raiders, still the enemies they were, sat on opposite ends of the arena as the Admirals and the Centaurs took the ice. The crowd went ballistic for their home team, of course, which only stung more for the Centaurs, no doubt as they stretched and lined up to get annihilated. While a fan favourite team, they weren't particularly good.

Shane took a seat between J.J and Hayden in the watching box behind the Admiral's bench just as the home team was finishing their stretching. Jordan did one fast lap around the entire rink, working up the audience with his usual showoffmanship crap, then bolted towards the boards near Shane, skidding to a violent halt that kicked up ice debris in a fat stripe that blocked the view. J.J, Hayden, and Patrice, who was one row down, immediately began booing him as others laughed on.

A gloved hand knocked on the safety glass twice from behind the frost cloud.

“Knock knock.”

Shane could barely make out Jordan's muffled voice between the crowd and the music.

He failed to suppress a grin. “Who's there?”

Jordan swiped the slush away with his arm, similar to a windshield wiper motion. “Me, stupid.”

With that, he took off to position himself to the left of Scott Hunter. The two of them exchanged a quick nod, and Shane watched with admiration as Jordan transformed. Everything about him changed. His eyes, usually light and rounded with laughter grew dark and narrowed. His mouth that was always running or smiling pressed into a firm, downturned line. His casual posture shifted on his skates, and with one long exhale, Bragg became the star athlete who players both loved and feared.

Shane liked seeing him this way, maybe more than he'd like to admit, feeling his head swim a little.

Shane had intended to stay and watch the entirety of the game against the Ottawa Centaurs, but just as the second period began, Cliff Marlow was casting a shadow over his seat.

“Hi,” Shane said nervously, unclear as to why Cliff was even on their side of the arena. “Uh, what can I do for you?”

“I need to talk to you.” Was all Marlow offered, his hands deep into his black jacket. “Now.”

The guy was massive; he had at least six inches on Shane, not counting his hair, and he probably ate a million calories a day to maintain the brick house form that he had. Post-game, he looked a little worn down, his rectangular jaw had shadows of implied stubble, and his thick brows were knit together in a way that framed all his features very darkly. Shane couldn't think of a single reason that he and the alternative Raider's captain would need to talk to each other, especially post-game. It made Shane nervous.

Just as he was standing to go, Hayden and J.J reappeared in the section with nasty-looking arena hotdogs, piled high with toppings that reminded Shane of the burger joint Jordan had faked him out with on Friday. The pair stopped in their tracks.

“What is he doing here?” Hayden gestured his hotdog at Cliff. “Get lost, Marlow.”

Cliff rolled his eyes shortly. “I need to talk to Shane.”

Awkwardly, Shane could feel more and more Metro eyes turning to him. “It's okay, I'll be right back.”

Shane didn't know if either of those things was true, but he followed Cliff anyway up the stairs with one apologetic look towards Jordan. He found him, number eighty-eight, tipping the puck to Hunter, who rocked it hard into the upper left of the net. As the doors to the arena lobby closed, Shane could hear the crowd explode.

Once in a more private space, Cliff wasted no time. He turned sharply on his heels and leaned in, causing Shane to take a step back quickly so they didn't collide.

“I can't have you watching Ilya play right now. Go back to the hotel, Hollander.”

The demand hung in the air for a moment as Shane blinked through the distance at Marlow.

“I'm sorry?” Shane squinted.

“You should be.”

His tone set Shane's nerves on end.

“No, I mean I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I'm the captain of the Metros. I'm not going anywhere.” Shane was just about fed up with getting pushed around by the Boston Raiders team members. “I'm sorry we beat your ass. You'll get over it.”

Cliff inhaled deeply, his eyes flashing and never leaving Shane's slightly upturned face.

“You want to be an asshole to him off the ice, then okay. That part isn't my business, Shane. But I can't have you throwing his game. Not here, not during the next season, not ever. He's my captain, and I need to look out for him.”

Shane would have been touched by the loyalty if it wasn't annoying the shit out of him. He heard the crowd through the double doors erupt again, no doubt for another goal.

“I am not an asshole.” Shane defended himself first. “And I don't talk to him off the ice. I have nothing to do with whatever the hell you're talking about. Now, excuse me.”

“Bullshit.” Cliff lashed out an arm, blocking Shane's path back inside. “Try putting yourself in his shoes for a change, Shane. If you had to watch Jordan flirt with someone else while you were trying to play, you'd be pretty damn distracted. It's not cool.”

Shane curled his fists at his sides. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“What happened between you and Ilya isn't my business–.”

Outrage shot through Shane, followed closely by dread.

He knows.

“You're right, it isn't,” Shane said, too loudly. Two girls manning the concession stand turned in their direction. “I don't know what crap he told you, but Ilya can take care of himself. Go ask him, he'll tell you.”

Cliff shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“What's that?” Shane flared, stepping forward even though he knew that Cliff would clobber him in a fight.

“I said that's a cruel thing to say about someone who loves you.” Cliff shot a disgusted look at him, not dissimilar to the one he gave him at breakfast when he saw Shane in the Admiral's shirt. “You're fucking killing him, and you don't even care. I can't believe you have the reputation of being the nice captain.”

Marlow didn't wait for Shane to respond; he stormed angrily away, towards the other set of doors that wrapped around the arena and would send him back to the Raiders' side of the stadium.

Shane couldn't decide where to land.

On one hand, he felt mortified, guilty, and exposed. On the other hand, he was pissed.

What the hell was Ilya playing at by telling Cliff their past? To throw it in Shane's face? To use it as a reason for why he was off his game? Both of those assholes were completely out of line.

Somewhere, on a third hand that Shane didn't want to acknowledge, his heart had temporarily soared. Had Cliff just implied that Ilya loved him?

Assholes. Shane seethed in his head. Stop fucking with me.

Embarrassed and feeling slighted from the ambush, Shane paced back and forth in the lobby until he was settled enough to return to his seat.

“What was that all about?” J.J asked, mustard smeared on the corner of his mouth. “He looked pissed.”

“Stupid bullshit,” Shane said, feeling eyes flicker onto him, but he was too mad to care. “All Boston does is bitch and whine when they don't get their way.”

The New York Admirals drove Ottawa into the ground with an eight-to-one score, a brutal game that only served to whet the appetites of the next big match: New York versus Boston.

Per usual, Jordan and a defenceman were goofing around as they finished warm-ups. Shane had purposefully moved down to sit next to Patrice to be closer to the boards and the bench; that way, he could glare out across the rink at Cliff and Ilya, who, on occasion, would stop and talk to one another with their heads bent.

Shane only changed his expression when Jordan rolled up to the glass once again, this time being carried princess style by Matti.

“Hello Hollander!” Jordan shouted to be heard. “Are you jealous?”

Shane stood up and took a step forward, getting as close as possible, his breath fogging the glass. Jordan indicated for Matti to set him down, and the giant skated away. He watched him go, making sure that Ilya and Cliff were looking on from the opposing side.

Shane had wanted to do… something. But now that Jordan was here and all the Metro's eyes were burning into his back, he felt his stomach butterflying and twisting, his cheeks growing pink.

“What is it, Holly?” Jordan shouted, his expression becoming mildly concerned from beneath his visor.

Shane finally met his gaze, looking through the glass at him from beneath his eyelashes. Ilya used to go insane when Shane looked at him this way.

“Score a goal for me, alright?” Shane swallowed hotly, then tried to give Jordan his most flirtatious smile.

Hearing a soft scoff of amusement from one of his teammates, Shane felt his face flush red.

Jordan wobbled on his skates, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“You got it.” He banged on the glass once with a gloved hand, then skated away, still smiling.

“Tsk tsk, you shouldn't play favourites.” Patrice cooed at him as he returned to his seat.

Shane didn't say anything; he kept his chin tucked to his chest, even when Hayden reached down and gave him an atta-boy pat on his back.

Jordan followed through on his promise with four minutes left in the second period, sinking an impressive goal by faking out the goalie with a wrist shot. He was playing more possessively in this game, not as eager to hand off the puck at the earliest opportunity. Shane and the Metros clapped loudly, but no one in the entire section was louder than Shane. Jordan quickly passed by Shane, giving him a soft wink before going to bump gloves with Scott, who had assisted.

Players began shuffling in one direction or the other for the change-out, all but Ilya and Jordan. They were both nearing centre ice, head turned to one another, arms twitching as they spoke.

Jordan said something.

Ilya said something.

Jordan was raising his voice.

Ilya leaned forward on his stick, something smug and terrible in his expression. He didn't raise his voice; he got in Jordan's face closely, to where no one could see who did what.

It all happened so fast.

For the first couple of seconds, no one reacted. No one in the crowd. No one on the ice. The refs, who were basically there as a formality, stood in stunned silence as Jordan and Ilya laid into one another, the sounds of ungloved knuckles cracking against flesh and the breaking of plastic filled the air.

“Oh!” Everyone, including Shane, gasped in unison, as if they all woke up at the same moment.

Shane knew that Jordan didn't fight, but it clearly wasn't because he was unable.

He watched, in horror, as Bragg cocked his arm down and back, taking aim at Ilya, who he held in place by the front of his jersey.

One punch had cracked the visor of Ilya's helmet, the next knocked his helmet clean off. The last hit, which Ilya could have dodged if he hadn't been so focused on punching Bragg back, landed right in the middle of the Russian's nose with a sickening crack. At the exact same time, Ilya's fist landed powerfully along the side of Jordan's mouth, sending the Admiral's head snapping to the side, a thin trace of blood skidding on the ice.

A sharp whistle screeched, and pandemonium broke out in the crowd.

“Oh, my God!”

“Are they serious?”

“What the hell just happened?”

The two referees who got between Ilya and Jordan pushed them back, shouting in their faces as Admirals and Raiders swarmed towards the pair. For a sickening moment, Shane worried that a brawl would break out. Thankfully, Scott skidded to a stop beside Jordan and grabbed him by his jersey, yanking him hard back towards their bench.

Cliff was at Ilya's side a second later, quickly inspecting his captain's face. Ilya was drenched in his own blood, which was gushing from his nose, vibrant and red and speckling the ice by his feet. Cliff shot Jordan, who was still swearing and yelling at Rozanov despite Scott trying to yell over him, a dirty look.

Marlow put his hand on Ilya's shoulder and started pushing him back towards the Raiders bench. He was talking to Ilya calmly, but his eyes were a bit wild, like he was pissed too. Once Rozanov was handed off to a waiting medic, Marlow stared hard at Shane before disappearing down the hall after his captain.

No more fighting. The announcer declared both of them ejected from the event. Bragg and Rozanov were benched, and it wasn't even a real game. It was almost impressive how the pair of them could pull something like that off.

Shane watched Jordan spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice before Scott got him over the barrier. A moment later, the pair disappeared down their own hallway, the Admiral's coach hot on their heels, a clipboard in his hand.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Shane heard someone say. Maybe the coach, maybe Hunter.

Booing poured in from both sides of the arena, and Shane winced, covering his eyes with his hand. That was a really, really bad look.

“Holy fuck,” Pike had dropped his popcorn to his feet, sitting way back in his seat with a bewildered expression. “What the fuck was that about?”

“I have no idea,” Shane said, and hoped to God it was true. “He probably provoked him.”

“Who, Jordan?”

“No,” Shane shook his head, then wavered. “Well, maybe. I'm not sure. They're both kind of like that.”

“Like what? Giant selfish assholes?” J.J made a disgusted noise. “Seriously. This is for charity. Grow up.”

“It looked like Jordan started it.” Patrice turned around in his seat to join in.

“Yeah, but Ilya kicked it off.”

“Did you see how fast he dropped his gloves after Ilya opened his mouth? That was nuts.”

“Your boyfriend can fight, Hollander.”

“Rozanov got him good, though. See all that blood?”

Shane felt queasy. What had Ilya said to get Big Mouth Bragg, the one-man comedy act, to punch him like that at a charity event of all things?

Shane sank low into his seat. “Fuck.”

Unintentionally, he was bouncing his leg, his hand rubbing across his temple. The Metros around him quieted down, and Shane could feel his ears turning red. Dread was pushing on him hard, and his mind was going a million miles a second.

What did they say to each other?

“Uh, Shane?” Hayden kept his voice low and leaned over to him. “If you want, you can go check on him, buddy.”

Shane darted his eyes between his teammates, who were looking at him and between each other, a perfect split of sympathy and incredulousness. Shane flushed deeper, stilling his leg immediately. Could he be any more obvious?

“Oh. Uhm, okay.” Shane jumped from his seat and headed to the aisle, trying to ignore the eyes that followed him.

“Alrighty!” An overly chipper announcer came on. “Moving on from that little scuffle, we're going to take a short break to reset the ice and then invite the teams back to finish up the round. Exciting stuff, right folks? Maybe a little too much! Hahaha!”

Shane felt sorry for the organizers. First the hotels, now this. Shane hoped it wouldn't put a damper on their efforts. He also hoped that Ilya and Jordan wouldn't be in too much shit, but he guessed only time would tell.

He would have to sign his jersey and maybe throw in a hat and something else to make up for the mess. He'd make Jordan do it too, if his jersey wasn't unsalvageable from all the blood.

As Shane zig-zagged down the halls, his mind kept going back to the moment before Jordan leapt out and grabbed Ilya. The wild, furious expression dropped like a checkered flag across his features before he started tearing at Ilya with a clenched fist.

What the hell did he say to Jordan to get that kind of reaction?

Shane wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Finally, after briefly getting turned around in the unfamiliar arena, Shane found the infirmary desk. A blonde woman in head-to-toe blue athleisure was scribbling something down in red ink along a clipboard.

“Oh, those two.” The first aid attendant looked exasperated. “Yes, they're both back here. Separated, but back here. Who are you looking for?”

Shane's mind went completely blank.

The attendant chewed at her gum loudly, then sighed as Shane merely shook his head in response.

“Rozanov is the last door on the left. Bragg is the second-to-last door on the right. Please, don't encourage them.”

Shane's feet carried him down the hallway until he had his hand on the doorknob, his vision a blur of grey concrete and fluorescent white lightning.

He stepped inside and quickly closed the door behind him, pinching his eyes shut for a moment, his heart hammering wildly inside him.

Russian curses were being muttered softly, which Shane could only barely hear over the rush of blood in his head.

Ilya was sitting on the infirmary bed, his back to the door. He was out of his blood-stained jersey and in a white tank top, red smeared gauze and balled up tissues next to him in a small heap. For a moment, Shane just stared at his large back, his muscles flexing with every inhale and exhale.

“Am I cleared to go now?” Ilya asked impatiently, only turning around when Shane didn't give him an answer.

Surprised jumped all over Rozanov's face, and for a moment, Shane wondered if he'd curse him out, too.

With a hard swallow, Shane forced himself to meet his eye.

“Are you alright?”

Silence.

Shane cleared his throat. “Rozanov?”

Ilya's face shifted, and it looked like he almost smiled.

“Your stupid boyfriend broke my nose,” he sighed heavily, a small shake of his head tossing his curls across his downturned gaze. “So unprofessional.”

“What happened out there?” Shane felt his pulse spike at the question he wasn't sure he was going to ask. But he had, and now it was out there.

“We fought.”

“Obviously, yeah,” Shane rolled his eyes. “But why? I mean, it surprised the hell out of me.”

Ilya scoffed, then winced, moving his hand up to the side of his nose. An external splint ran up both sides of the bridge, while his left nostril was packed tightly with pink-tinged gauze.

“What?” Shane pressed. “I mean, you two seem like you'd be friends in theory. You're both annoying, and loud, and you both shit-talk all the time, but that was…”

Vicious. It had been one of the most vicious fights Shane had seen.

Ilya was shaking his head now, not looking at him. He said something in Russian that Shane couldn't understand, then finished dryly in English.

“As if you don't know.”

“I don't.” Shane snapped.

“Then why are you here?”

Shane's stomach fluttered guiltily. “To see if you were okay! My fuckin' mistake. Won't happen again.”

Shane had his hand on the doorknob, and it was a quarter turned before Ilya was on top of him. With a strong hand on his shoulder, Shane was flipped and then pinned against the door. It thudded softly as Ilya pushed against him.

For a moment, neither man moved, their chests rising and falling out of synch with heavy breaths as the universe wobbled around them.

“What were you arguing about?” Shane's voice betrayed him, going soft.

The answer Shane feared most was revealed when Ilya ducked forward, their mouths colliding in a blur of heat.

Shane's hands flew up Ilya's chest, palms flat against his firm body. All of the air was driven from his lungs, rendering him weak and winded. For a brief moment, it was fire, scorching touches along one another's bodies as they kissed, but in the next, Shane was pressing hard, trying to get Ilya away. His mouth betrayed him with lustful gasps, as, momentarily, Ilya pulled back for air.

“Don't,” Shane barely croaked out before Ilya's mouth was back on his.

Ilya's mouth was demanding, commanding Shane back until he felt his legs buckle slightly as the pressure of Ilya's tongue was swiftly followed by the rest of his body, the space vanishing from between them. Desperate moans begot desperate actions of closeness; Ilya slid his warm hands up Shane's shirt, capturing each ridge of his abdomen, the dips in the small of Shane's back, a daring thumb hooking into the waistband of his pants. Shane's own hands were wandering, half pushing away, half pulling closer. Eventually, they were tangled deep into rumpled curls, still sweat-damp, pushing Ilya as far into him as he could accommodate.

“Oh,” Shane pathetically huffed into his mouth as Ilya slid a knee between his legs, the crest of his thigh pressing against the aching stiffness Shane mentally tried to battle down.

Giving in, Shane rested his forehead on Ilya's shoulder while he sank his teeth into his neck, then quickly ran his tongue over the sore spot, forcing a whimper out of him. Rozanov's hands were testing the limits of Shane's denim, causing Shane to huff and whine in needy, high-pitched breaths.

Ilya moved his mouth up the length of his neck, stopping suddenly by his ear to whisper directly into it.

“We had too much in common. Does that turn you on?”

A flash of anger broke Shane from his trance. With a hard, two-handed shove, he knocked Ilya back, causing him to stumble a few steps away.

Still breathing hard, Shane fought to keep his voice level and quiet. “Fuck you, Ilya.”

Shane began to wipe away Ilya's saliva from his neck with the back of one trembling hand while the other searched for the doorknob. Tears prickled at his eyes as he quickly adjusted his belt, his pants, and haphazardly smoothed out his shirt.

“That isn't fucking funny.”

“Hm. Ask Bragg. See what he thinks.”

Shane felt guilt and shame seep into him as if he were a sponge. He didn't look back at Ilya. He slammed the door behind him and made a beeline for Jordan's room, stopping short of opening it when he arrived.

Fuck. Shane's mind was coming undone. He squeezed his eyes closed and let his forehead fall onto the door with a soft thud. Fuck. Fuck.

“Uh, come in?”

Jordan's voice snapped Shane out of his free-fall panic. He took a steadying breath and pushed the door open.

Chapter 11: Chapter 10

X

Ilya was pleased with himself. He had potentially ruined the entire charity event, and everyone on every team was mad at him, including his own, and he may even get written up or given a temporary suspension for the start of the season next month. That was fine.

The moment Ilya's fist had connected with Jordan Bragg's infamous mouth and knocked a tooth clean across the ice, he felt instantly better. Even if his nose was broken.

He touched his swollen flesh with a hiss. Fucking Bragg.

The ache in his face subsided when he thought about how Jordan, turning to exit the ice, coolly looked over his shoulder, emboldened to shit-talk Ilya. Maybe he was trying to press on the insecurity of him and Hollander sleeping together. Too bad for Jordan, Ilya knew the truth, and he was willing to press back.

“Ready to lose again, Rozanov?” Jordan chirped, tamely.

Ilya was ready for it. He was looking to goad Jordan into fighting him, and now the idiot had given him the opportunity.

“You can have the gold, big mouth. I'm getting something better.”

After overhearing that Shane and Jordan hadn't actually slept together last night, Ilya was feeling more confident in his ability to knock Jordan down a few pegs. He almost sank to his knees in relief outside the gym door, hearing Shane, Hayden and J.J laughing about how Hollander couldn't seal the deal to save his life. Thank Christ. That fact had saved Ilya.

Jordan had swivvled, turning his entire body towards Ilya at centre ice, intrigued but visibly agitated.

“Oh yeah?” Ilya could tell by the look on his face that he already knew what he was implying.

Still, Ilya knew he had to push the envelope all the way through to get what he wanted.

“Don't worry,” Ilya leaned on his stick, getting in Jordan's face. “I'll let him sleep in your bed when I'm done with him.”

That did it.

Jordan's face had dropped the same moment his gloves did, and instantly they were at each other's chests. They were physically an equal match, but Ilya let Jordan get a hit in before he started trying to return the favour. Bragg looked rabid, his green eyes were locked on Ilya, and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Ilya's helmet had clattered to the ice as Jordan ducked one of his hooks, and then Jordan had connected his fist perfectly in the square of his face. There was a loud pop which seemed to echo behind Ilya's eyes, and then blood like warm rushing water began pouring from him like a faucet. Ilya let his rage guide his fist to Jordan, vaguely aware of the crowd around them gasping and shouting as he struck the hometown forward right back.

Ilya's head was still ringing as he was thrust away from Bragg by a ref, then moments later, when his face was being held slightly upturned by Marlow, Ilya started to come down off his adrenaline. Booing washed the arena in a loud hum.

“Bad?” Ilya had asked, tasting iron as blood had begun to backflow into his mouth.

“Broken.” Cliff guided him off the ice with a hand on his shoulder. “Let's go.”

Before the game against the Admirals had even started, Ilya had pulled Cliff aside and asked him if he was ready to take over as captain for the duration of the tournament. With no time to talk him out of it, his teammate had made an effort to hog the puck, keeping it away from Jordan specifically, but there was no use. With a legal excuse to hit him or not, Ilya had made up his mind; if Bragg wanted to challenge him to a fight, he was going to get a fight.

Ilya had spotted Coach LeClaire talking rapidly to the Admiral's coach as he was shuffled by two infirmary workers into a small medical room. As a nurse packed and set his nose, LeClaire slid in, sweaty and looking agitated.

“Nice work, Rozanov.” He said disdainfully. “Any other bullshit stunts you want to pull?”

“No,” Ilya answered shortly. “Am I suspended?”

His coach ran a hand over his shaven head. “No. You've been removed, only because Bragg said he was the one who started it. Apparently, Bragg wants you back in the tournament, but the organizers don't want to risk it.”

Ilya was irritated at Bragg for trying to act honourably. “I started the fight.”

“Rozanov,” LeClaire warned. “Let the Admiral apologize for this. This is his territory.”

Ilya received a stern look from a nurse, as if warning him not to start huffing and puffing and disturbing the medical fabric currently packed in his nostrils.

“Let me apologize too, then.” Ilya gritted. He wouldn't let Jordan come out on top– it would be a tie, at the very least.

LeClaire looked genuinely shocked, considering Ilya hadn't sincerely apologized for anything in his life.

That's why I'm in this stupid mess. Ilya reminded himself bitterly.

“To everyone.” Ilya doubled down. “In front of the fans. We don't want to spoil the event for tomorrow.”

LeClaire considered this; his large blue eyes drifted upward in thought. “Let me see what we can do. I need to talk to people.”

With that, he left, and Ilya allowed the nurse to finish taping his nose back together. It would take two weeks to heal, but thankfully, it didn't appear like he would need any surgery unless he wanted to fix something cosmetically. The nurse disappeared to retrieve some release papers, leaving Ilya alone in the small room.

He was bored and a bit anxious, waiting to hear what Bragg had up his sleeve next. The prick.

Ilya hated to admit it, but he was pretty impressed by Jordan. Even with the refs and Hunter on top of him, he was feral, spitting blood and swearing up a storm, angrily prying hands off of him so he could finish what Ilya had started. The massive defenceman that Ilya had breakfast with that morning, Matti, had his mouth hanging open in awe as the Admiral's coach and Hunter corralled Jordan down the hall. Ilya knew that throughout his career, Jordan had caused many stirs but had never thrown or taken a hit thanks to his defencemen. Clearly, Ilya had hit a nerve.

For God's sake, he hadn't even mentioned Hollander by name.

Fair was only fair, though, since Jordan did start it. Before the match even began, Jordan had started it. He had skated over to the boards near the home team bench and spoken to Shane. Then, Hollander gave him a look like he was about to climb the glass and take Bragg apart right there on the ice. It turned Ilya's blood to fire.

Jordan skated away, a big smile on his face, like he had won the lottery. It didn't even matter what Shane had said to him; the way they were looking at each other had sealed Bragg's fate.

Ilya couldn't wait to knock the grin off him, practically foaming at the mouth during the face-off with Scott.

“Ilya,” Scott had tried to say something as they bent for the puck, but he was too far gone.

He could barely focus on this game either, after being distracted during the last game by Jordan in the stands. Jordan, with his smiling and whooping teammates and his fucking sign and his blown kisses to Shane, who was drinking it up and giggling, his freckles disappearing under a cloak of red.

Laugh it up. Ilya had thought as he lost the puck to J.J. The real fun is about to start.

Now that he had basically declared to Jordan that he had no plan of letting Shane go that easily, he was curious to see what he would do. He was curious to see what Shane would do. Maybe it wasn't the most thought-out plan in the world, but Ilya felt far more at ease knowing that at long last, he finally did something. Ilya just had to wait and see.

Ilya didn't turn around when he heard the infirmary room door open, assuming it was either LeClaire or the nurse, back with the paperwork.

“Am I cleared to go now?” Ilya asked, hoping that he could leave this stuffy, small space that smelled too much like medical equipment. Or maybe it was the gauze up his nose.

Worried he was hearing things post-injury, Ilya turned around to see Hollander, blushing and nearly quivering with his back against the infirmary door.

Ilya's heart dropped into his stomach, and he had to bite back a satisfied smile.

That was quick.

Concealing his excitement, Ilya realized that Hollander had asked him if he was okay.

“Your stupid boyfriend broke my nose.” Ilya wanted to wretch as he gave Jordan that title. He sighed instead. “So unprofessional.”

“What happened out there?”

“We fought.” Ilya felt his heart rate steadily rising. He wanted to touch him. Shane was too far away, posted up on the door like that.

“Obviously, yeah. But why? I mean, it surprised the hell out of me.”

Ilya scoffed, then winced, shifting the packing in his face made his entire body shriek with a sharp pain.

“What?” Shane pressed. “I mean, you two seem like you'd be friends in theory. You're both annoying, and loud, and shit-talk all the time, but that was…”

The idea of him and Jordan being friends was downright laughable.

“You gotta be kidding me. Friends with the man who's in love with you? I'd rather die.” Ilya chuffed out in Russian to himself. “As if you don't know,” he finished in English, directly to Shane.

“I don't.” Shane insisted so earnestly that for a moment, Ilya almost believed him.

“Then why are you here?” He had to call Shane's bluff on this, while Ilya still had him here.

Hollander had come all the way to see him, and now he was playing around in his face, acting like he wasn't sure why. If he really thought it had nothing to do with him, then why was he standing there, glossy-eyed and apologetic? God, had he even seen Jordan yet? Ilya doubted it, and his conspiracy was confirmed as Shane nearly looked over his shoulder, self-conscious of whether or not their conversation could be heard down the hall.

“To see if you were okay! My fuckin' mistake. Won't happen again.” Shane made a move to leave, and Ilya sprang up immediately, forcing Hollander back around to look at him and trapping him against the door.

His eyes were wide and shining, his cheeks and neck turning pink, and his body warm enough that Ilya could feel the heat emanating from him, even through Shane's sweatshirt. For the first time in too long, Ilya was close enough to see Shane's sweet freckles. Instantly, he was overwhelmed with the desire to kiss each one. He stared down into Shane's eyes as he shrank back against the door, a swirling pool of unsure emotions twisting his brows, his little nose, his begging, pouting mouth.

Jesus Christ, Ilya wished the doors in the infirmary had locks.

“What were you arguing about?” Shane murmured, giving Ilya the same look he had given Jordan.

It was the same look of pure, unveiled desire that he had given him in the locker room after shooting the promo commercial a million years ago. It turned any remaining shreds of Ilya's strength to restrain himself into dust.

He never wanted Shane to look at anyone but him like that ever again.

Crashing into Shane, Ilya let himself take whatever he could from him at that moment. Whatever Shane was willing to give, Ilya would take it. He expected Hollander to slap him, maybe punch his splint off, but his hands were firm, still, and painfully neutral for too long until Ilya deepened the kiss.

Come on, Hollander. Ilya silently pleaded as he pressed himself against Shane, slipping his tongue into his mouth. Show me you're still mine.

Ilya let his hands roam across the body that once so easily gave itself over to him, searching for the version of Shane Hollander who would go against all his better judgment for him. The Shane who would sneak around hotels with him. The Shane who would buy a building for them to have sex in. The Shane who would lie for him, but never to him.

Realizing that he was hardly able to breathe through his nose, Ilya pulled himself off his mouth for a moment, taking a deep, shaking breath. Shane's head fell back, his eyes barely open, and his lips swollen.

“Don't,” Shane's mouth said, but Ilya looked down and saw that he was clinging desperately to his body, Hollander's fingers tightly digging into the flesh around his hips. Ilya trembled slightly at his touch.

There he is.

Ilya kissed Shane hungrily, recklessly, with no intention of ever stopping. He let his hands wander, pulling and rubbing until Shane tore their mouths apart to whine, squirming under his touch. Needing to breathe again, Ilya moved to Shane's neck, biting and licking to satisfy the urge to genuinely consume him.

Just how far could he take it? Ilya felt Shane surrender, resting his head on his shoulder so Ilya could fully do what he pleased to his neck. The sudden scent of his shampoo sent Ilya back to the hotel room in the Hilton, and then, because he couldn't help himself, he finally decided to answer Shane's question.

Ilya pushed his mouth to Shane's ear. “We had too much in common. Does that turn you on?”

Whoops. Too far.

Shane gasped and shoved him backwards, looking mortified.

“Fuck you, Ilya!”

With the moment ruined, Ilya had no choice but to stand at a middle distance and watch Shane try to pull himself together. The two of them were breathing hard, rumpled, and stiff.

“That isn't fucking funny.” Shane had his hand on the doorknob, and a sickening feeling punched Ilya in his gut when he realized where Hollander was probably running off to.

“Hm. Ask Bragg. See what he thinks.” Shane slammed the door hard behind him.

Because he couldn't help himself, he listened with his ear to the door as Hollander walked away, but not far enough. Shane was outside Bragg's room. He waited to hear the door open and shut before sulking back to the infirmary bed, sitting down with a groan.

Shane wanted Ilya, which was the good news. The bad news was that it appeared he still wanted Bragg, or, at the very least, was hung up on the Admiral.

Rapidly approaching footsteps snapped Ilya out of his pity party, and Ilya leapt to his feet. He hoped it was Shane, and was immensely disappointed when LeClaire swung the door open.

“Okay, I talked to the Admiral's coach. Here's what Bragg proposed we do about this mess.”

Ilya nodded along to the stupid, very Bragg-sounding plan to patch things up between the two teams, even though it was really just an issue between the two of them. Only, the world didn't see it that way. So they would put on a little post-game show, do a little mic'd apology, and assure everyone it was just too much enthusiasm over which one of them hated cancer more. Whatever. Both he and Bragg were still benched for the remainder of the tournament, and they were still on people's shit list.

Mainly the organizers. Ilya was already over it, so he agreed.

“You should be wearing a jersey, but yours is a total mess.” His coach said, opening the door as someone knocked from the outside. “I guess just freeze your ass off out there and think about how all of this was totally unnecessary, Rozanov.”

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry.” Ilya apologized for the first time today, knowing there were many more apologies to come.

Cliff entered the room, still in uniform, minus his skates, helmet and stick.

“How's the face?” Marlow asked, with a small wince. “You look terrible.”

Ilya guessed he had bruises starting to form under his eyes. He hadn't looked in a mirror yet.

“Thanks, dipshit,” Ilya said dryly. “Well, how'd it finish?”

The three men's attention briefly moved to the hall, where laughter echoed and bounced, sliding out from the door of Jordan's infirmary room.

“The Admirals took it,” Cliff mumbled, somewhat apologetically, giving LeClaire a tight nod.

Ilya sighed loudly, tilting his head back so he could feel all the blood rush away from his nose. “Lots of that going around.”

Chapter 12: Chapter 11

XI

Jordan was lying down on the infirmary bed, the sheet pulled over his face with his arm hanging out, playing dead. Shane assumed he was trying to make light of the situation, but he was put off by the look of Jordan's hand. It was swollen around the knuckles, pink and yellow with bruising from where it collided with Ilya's face.

Shane felt his stomach clench with guilt, his body still aching from where Ilya had just been touching him. All of this had been his fault.

While Ilya didn't tell Shane what he actually said to Jordan, he had implied it was something about the two of them, about their past. What else would the two have in common? He was sick with the sense that Ilya had said something awful to Jordan. Maybe Ilya told him the truth.

Cold fear rushed at Shane. Should he even be here? Did Bragg even want anything to do with him after this? His heart ached at the idea of something like this driving a wedge between them. He liked Jordan. A lot.

The realization was crashing onto him: the Admiral might not want to deal with Shane and his baggage anymore. Over the past few months, things had crept up on Shane. How much he enjoyed talking to Jordan, how he started to look for his texts first, how he looked for him in a crowded room. Shane wasn't sure how to cope with the idea that he could lose Bragg.

While Shane struggled for something to say, a scoff of outrage came from beneath the blanket.

“Well, aren't you at least going to say a few words?” Jordan asked in dry sarcasm.

Shane's worry dissolved for a moment, and he found himself smiling like an idiot, his face untwisting from his previous scrunched frown.

“He was a pretty average player. Shit sense of style. Loved Scott Hunter and Tommy Bahama. He was asked to be buried in Reebok.”

They both laughed loudly for a moment until Jordan could no longer play dead.

He whipped the blanket from his face and sat up slowly. “You aren't invited to my real funeral. That was terrible, Holly.”

Shane gasped at Jordan's face. He thought Ilya had cleanly bucked out a tooth with his right hook, but it had split Jordan's lower lip, too, in the process. Fresh stitches glistened under the infirmary room light, holding the flesh together as dried blood and swollen tissue had begun to scar red.

“Still pretty?” Jordan asked, the uninjured side of his mouth twitching upward. “Even after eight stitches?”

Between the two back-to-back games and the altercation with Ilya, Jordan looked worn down. His eyes were dull, even with his usual sparkle of humour in them, and his hair was rumpled. Grey shadows from a sleepless night before appeared in half-moons under his eyes.

Had he been this tired at breakfast? Shane was so caught up in his own anxiety that he didn't notice. Regardless of it all, he reminded Shane of spring in Canada. He was so beautiful.

Another wave of guilt crashed into Shane, his eyes dropping to his shoes. “Of course.”

Tension thumped in the air between them.

“Come here,” Jordan said gently. “I'm okay, Shane. It's just a busted lip. Plus, I've had it coming for like, almost a decade.”

Bragg was the one with the injury, and Shane was the one who had inadvertently caused it– yet here he was, yanking Shane onto the cot to console him. Shane and his stupid bruised heart, still hammering from Ilya. Shame hooked into him like claws.

“I feel like,” Shane started and then shook his head, embarrassed. They were sitting side by side, and Jordan was looking right at him, but Shane couldn't turn his head.

Deep in his core, he was irrationally worried that Jordan would somehow be able to tell that Ilya had just kissed him. To his own indignity, Shane had let him. Shane had kissed him back.

Jordan's hand slipped from his lap and onto Shane's thigh, causing him to twitch in surprise.

He couldn't take it anymore. Without looking in his direction, Shane had to ask.

“What did Ilya say to make you so mad?”

Jordan took in a deep breath, his chin falling to his chest, causing his waves to flop forward, obscuring his face. Shane's heart thundered.

“He called your mother fat.”

Shane balked, and he lightly punched his shoulder. “Jordan.”

In a swift movement, Jordan grabbed Shane by his wrist, encasing it firmly but gently in his fingers. Startled, Shane snapped his head around to look at him. Jordan had the same expression on his face as when the puck was about to drop, serious and focused. The room waxed and waned around them.

“He said something I didn't like,” Jordan said simply, then added, in a more hushed tone. “I don't want to talk about Rozanov right now.”

It hurt to swallow, but Shane did it anyway, his eyes dropping to the cut along Jordan's lip. They had texted between breakfast and the game, but they hadn't seen one another in person since they nearly kissed across the street from the Hilton. With all the chaos, Shane had nearly forgotten.

Carefully pulling his wrist from Jordan's soft grip, Shane slowly moved his hand to the injury, lightly touching the spot that was sure to leave a scar. Shane winced as if he was the one hurt, and leaned in closer. The action made Jordan sigh and close his eyes.

“Sorry,” Shane's voice cracked.

Jordan said he didn't want to talk about Ilya, but the spot on his neck where he had been bitten was burning, and he couldn't stop himself from apologizing.

“I'm sorry.”

Pulling his eyes back up to meet Jordan's gaze, Shane's breathing stuttered. Jordan was looking at him even more lust-struck than before, his dark eyelashes low, his chest rising and falling in shallow, bated breath.

“Kiss me better, then,” Jordan moved his face to Shane's, their noses gently bumping together.

“It'll hurt,” Shane whispered, pinching his eyes closed. To his dismay, he felt tears welling in them.

“Good.”

He didn't want to think about Ilya. He didn't want to cry, either. He wanted to kiss Jordan, and he wanted to feel better.

Carefully, Shane met Jordan in the middle, closing the gap between their mouths. He tilted his head so he could kiss around the injury, but Jordan redirected, forcing Shane to kiss him properly. His mouth was warm and soft, aside from the line down the left side of his lower lip. Shane softly sighed against Jordan as he deepened their kiss, and in response, Jordan's hand gripped Shane's thigh with a bit more pressure.

Feeling like he was four shots deep at Vitrue again, Shane found himself cradling Jordan's face with both his hands to steady himself, his fingertips getting lost in his hair.

When their kiss broke for a moment, Shane pulled back only slightly, just so he could look into Jordan's eyes.

“You okay?” Shane husked out, feeling his hands trembling.

Jordan didn't say anything, but he grabbed Shane by his hips and yanked him nearly onto his lap, planting another long, heated kiss onto his mouth, eventually making himself wince. Shane laughed a little against his lips, then shuddered against his mouth hotly when Jordan pushed his hand higher up his thigh. It was a really good kiss.

Shane felt himself give way as Jordan gently guided his mouth open, their tongues briefly brushing. It tasted a bit metallic, like iron, but it wasn't a deterrent. If anything, it fascinated him. Shane started to unravel in Jordan's arms, finally relaxing.

Does it turn you on?

Shane yanked his head back hard and gasped, his ears ringing with Russian-accented words.

“Fuck,” Jordan sighed, opening his eyes and taking his hands off Shane.

“What?” Stammering, Shane tried to think of an excuse for why he suddenly freaked out.

“It's probably Hunter,” Jordan was barely talking above a whisper. “At the door.”

The door. Had someone knocked?

“Oh, right, yeah,” Shane jumped off the cot and tried to piece his composure back together, playing it off like he heard the knocking that he hadn't even registered. “Should I… I should, uhm.”

Shane wanted to leave, but there was only one way out, and Hunter was blocking it.

Jordan shrugged one lazy shoulder, a glint of laughter in his eyes. He was flushed, and suppressing a smile– probably because it hurt.

“Come in,” Jordan said at last, his voice strained. His eyes slid off Shane and onto Hunter, who stepped into the room with a glare.

“Alright, it's set. Let's go.” Scott sounded, understandably, irritated and exhausted.

Scott startled when he noticed Shane standing beside the door along the wall. Shane had been trying to disappear, but it hadn't worked.

An expression Shane couldn't place slid over Scott's face, but it left after he took a deep breath.

“I think the Metro's are waiting for you to join them, Nurse Shane.” The tone was more stern than teasing.

Shane nodded tightly. “Feel better, Jordan.”

Awkwardly, he slipped out of the room, hearing Scott close the door behind Shane despite the fact that he had just said he and Jordan had to go somewhere. Whatever. Shane had more important things on his mind. Ducking into a nearby washroom, Shane wet a few paper towels carefully and began scrubbing the side of his neck. His mind was buzzing.

Kissing Jordan felt so good. It was tender, slow, and satisfying. There was an underlying warmth that settled into Shane the moment their lips met, as if he stepped into the sunlight. If it wasn't for Scott, Shane could have kept kissing him forever.

Shane's hand shook as he grabbed another paper towel and scrubbed harder, the skin below his ear becoming agitated and raw.

It was the knocking that startled him. The knocking.

“What's going on?” Shane tried to act casual as he sat back down between J.J and Hayden, like he hadn't just disappeared for the better part of an hour.

Hayden patted Shane on the back. “They're about to bring Rozanov and Bragg out here for a special speech.”

“What?” Shane huffed out. “That's fucking crazy.”

“I know, I hope they kill each other for real this time.” J.J was smiling.

Shane narrowed his eyes at him. “Weren't you calling their fighting immature and selfish an hour ago?”

J.J shrugged. “That was during the game.”

The arena was lively with murmurs, waiting to see what happened next. The woman that Shane recognized from breakfast was wobbling out onto the ice in sneakers, getting some assistance from a ref. She had a microphone in hand, and when she was near centre ice, she waved an arm above her head, signalling the music to dip low. A cameraman was beside her, walking more steadily with the equipment balanced on his shoulder. He adjusted slightly to frame her up so her image could be blown up across the massive arena screens.

“Hello everyone!” She said, overly cheerful. “What a night, huh? Let's give it up for our four fantastic teams!”

The crowd bellowed for a moment, and when it was quiet again, she cleared her throat.

“We have a special announcement to make regarding tonight, and who better to make it than this evening's show stoppers, Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders, and Jordan Bragg, our favourite fighting forward!”

The crowd cheered, but Shane could also hear a few boos. Most definitely for Ilya.

Shane pressed a hand to his mouth as the song Why Can't We Be Friends by War started to play. Most definitely because Jordan asked them to.

The entire arena began to laugh as Jordan pushed out onto the ice, smiling and waving, blowing kisses with his fat lip and making finger guns at his fans. He was back in his jersey, the blood on it staining dark brown against the uniform red. Something black was stuffed into the side of his pants, trailing out a little behind him as he skated.

When the camera had him in frame, Shane could see the gap in his smile where Ilya had punched out his incisor, left of his front teeth. For most people, it would be a cosmetic nightmare, but it only made Jordan look more rugged and charming.

His ability to diffuse tension was awe-inspiring. The energy of the crowd had completely flipped from tense and biting to giddy.

After he did a lap, he stopped at the penalty box where Shane had spotted Ilya earlier, wearing nothing but his tank top and a pair of joggers. Dramatically, Jordan threw the door open and held out a hand, which Ilya took with a begrudging stare.

In the face of some light booing, Jordan raised their connected hands over his head and whooped loudly, then let Ilya skate on his own towards the organizer. Jordan buzzed around her like a bee, while Ilya lazily pushed forward, not looking nearly as enthused at what was about to transpire.

“I cannot fucking believe he agreed to this.” Hayden was snickering.

“Serves him right,” J.J snorted. “The dickhead.”

“Well, hi, Ilya Rozanov!” Jordan said into the microphone with a smile. “How are you feeling?” He tilted it towards the Raider.

“Never better.” Ilya's Russian accent pinged, and the booing washed away with slight chuckles.

As the camera shifted over, Shane could see that some symmetrical bruising was starting to purple around his eyes. He raised his tired gaze to the lens, and Shane held his breath, reminding himself that Ilya wasn't actually looking at him.

“Say, I have a swell idea, Rozanov. How about we put my tooth under a pillow, and then donate whatever the tooth fairy brings to the New York Cancer Foundation?”

“Good idea, Bragg.” Ilya forced a smile, his delivery stilted. “But I have a better one. How about we each donate ten thousand dollars? I don't think you'll get much for your nasty tooth.”

The crowd clapped loudly, and the organizer took control of the microphone again. “Well, thank you, gentlemen! What a nice display of good sportsmanship. Is there anything else you'd like to mention?”

Because it was scripted, she tilted the mic back to Jordan.

The exchange was starting to remind Shane of the bit he and Ilya had to do in Vegas, where they had to pretend to be friends for the camera. Shane forced the memory of Ilya's hand sliding down his back into a corner of his mind and shut the door on it.

“Why, yes! I will be auctioning off my signed jersey after tomorrow's final games, with one hundred percent of the proceeds going to the New York Cancer Foundation. What about you, Ilya? Oh no! Where is your Raiders jersey?” Jordan feigned shock directly into the camera. “Did something happen to it?”

The crowd swelled.

The Raiders' away jerseys were primarily white, and after Jordan busted Ilya's nose, his jersey became effectively ruined from all the blood. The crowd whooped with laughter, and as the camera panned over to Ilya, Shane was surprised to see a genuine smile on his face, although he was shaking his head.

“You got me,” Ilya said lightly. “I'm very under-dressed.”

Maybe Ilya could see the humour in the situation after all. For some reason, that relaxed Shane.

“That's okay, I got you, Roz.” Jordan placed his hand over his heart. “We couldn't let our Boston friends freeze out here! Have this.”

Jordan reached for the black fabric looped into his waistband, pulling it free and unrolling it. Everyone in the arena burst into laughter, clapping again.

Except Shane.

That was the shirt he had worn to breakfast– or the exact same style, at least. Jordan waved it in Ilya's face like a red handkerchief in front of a bull. The Admiral's shirt. Shane felt his stomach twist with nerves, but he tried to settle himself down.

This was an act; it was part of the script. Wasn't it?

“Oh, sorry!” The organizer smiled nervously, pulling at the shirt and inspecting it. “This was meant to be an Admiral's jersey! Uhm, excuse the mix-up. Ilya Rozanov will be signing an Admiral's jersey, and it will also be up for auction after the games tomorrow. For more information, please check the official New York Cancer Foundation website on how to bid.”

Shane resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands. Was it an act, or was Jordan purposefully trying to provoke Ilya?

“Whoo! Thank you, everyone! Love you, New York! See you tomorrow for day two!” Jordan hollered hoarsely into the microphone, pumping his fists in the air. He was extremely energized for someone who had just been punched in the face. “Don't forget to donate, donate, donate!”

When the camera zoomed out to frame the three of them in the shot, Ilya wasn't smiling. He looked like he was going to hit Jordan again. He gave one tight smile into the camera, and then thankfully, they skated off in different directions. Shane watched Ilya disappear down the dark hallway. Preoccupied with where Ilya was going with the shirt, Shane almost didn't notice Jordan waving at him from the Admiral's bench. He made a call-me hand gesture, and Shane nodded back, giving him a small smile.

“You might owe me that three hundred yet, Hayden.” J.J mused to his teammate, clearly noticing the exchange between Shane and Jordan.

Shane didn't say anything; he merely rubbed at his neck.

Later, back in his hotel room, Shane found himself bored as he waited to hear from people about tonight. He told Jordan he would call him, but he wanted to give him a chance to see the medical team again, maybe contact a dentist to book an appointment, to shower and rest. Shane wished he could do something to cheer him up, even though Jordan didn't even seem to need cheering up.

Everything just seemed to roll off Bragg's back, and Shane found himself fairly jealous of that ability. Someone punches your face in on the ice, and two hours later, you're smiling and making jokes with them? Shane couldn't picture himself being that type of person. He was perpetually bothered. By everything.

Flipping through the movie guide on the hotel's television with missing pixels, Shane found his mind drifting back to Jordan over and over as he tried to distract himself. He saw that one of the movies to rent was Sinister, a favourite of Jordan's.

Jordan liking scary movies had surprised Shane, since he seemed so laid back. Apparently, he liked the thrill of them. He had teased him when Shane told him he couldn't handle horror, especially jumpscares, and preferred watching documentaries instead. The next time they had spoken, Jordan had watched the ones that Shane had prattled on about the most, so they could talk about them.

Shane wished they were together now, on that green couch in his living room, watching a movie together. He would even tolerate a scary one.

In his pocket, Shane felt his phone buzz. With too much enthusiasm, Shane pulled it out, then frowned at the caller display.

Lily.

Shane ignored the call, sending it to voicemail, then found his fingers unconsciously moving towards the spot below his ear.

No.

Another buzz, but this time it was a text from Hayden.

5:39

Hilt.NETWORK 62%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Hayden Pike

Today 5:39 P.M

Separate team dinners tonight.

Why not all together?

lol

Why do you think?

Shane felt another wave of disappointment. He wanted to eat with Jordan.

Despite his shitty diet when he was on the road, Jordan knew a lot about good food and was a great cook. Even before he took him to his restaurant downtown, Shane noticed right away that he seemed to know his way around a kitchen far better than most. In August, when he caught a summer cold, he was making soup on FaceTime and showed Shane how to properly cut an onion without bawling his eyes out.

That was, of course, if Shane ever became interested in food that wasn't hospital quality in both flavour and presentation. Jordan promised that one day he'd catch and cook him a trout from Lake Shuswap, on the condition that Shane had it with real butter.

Scrolling through their text chain, Shane found the photo Jordan had sent to him when they were talking about it. The photo was taken last year in June, in Salmon Arm, Jordan shirtless in knee-high water that looked like it was made from sapphires, the sun sinking low in an orange sky behind him. His bare chest glistened, and he was smiling, with all his teeth, as he hoisted an impressively large fish up with one hand. His other hand was outstretched in a hang-loose gesture. His eyes were covered by a pair of Ray-Bans, and his unruly waves were poking out from under the wide edge of a dorky-looking bucket hat that was bright blue and spotted with a pattern of yellow rubber ducks.

He looked fucking ridiculous. Happy, but ridiculous. And strong, of course. Thick, powerful legs were planted firmly in the lake's water, his shorts riding high on his muscular thighs.

Shane shifted on his bed and heard the springs creak, immediately conjuring the memory of how Jordan's thighs had pinned him down on Friday when they were roughhousing. The air in the room was becoming thicker and warmer, and Shane thought about cracking a window. Get some fresh air. Cool down.

Shane ran a hand over his face, then across his chest and flipped through their saved photos instead, feeling his face getting warmer and his stomach twisting. The feeling got worse and worse, compressing Shane the more he scrolled.

Jordan, taking a gym mirror selfie, flexing a massive arm over his head. He was wearing nothing but grey sweatpants, a shirt balled up by a bench, discarded. He had two tiny pink dumbbells at his feet that weighed a pound each. “Arm day today.”

The same arms Shane had woken up in.

Swipe.

Jordan, in Central Park with Scott and Kip; he was trailing behind them by a few feet, their backs to the camera. Jordan's linen button-down was all the way open, and his abs were visible from the curtains of his shirt. Black Nike shorts rode low on his hips so the sharp V lines of his lower abdomen could make an appearance. He had his thumb pointed over his shoulder at the pair walking ahead. “Gay people love walking fast for no reason.”

The memory of those same lines, inches from Shane's face while Jordan was on top of him.

Swipe.

Jordan, lying down in his bed, the one Shane had woken up in this morning. His hair was fanned out under his head on the pillow behind him. A big, lopsided, silly smile was plastered on his face; his tongue was slightly out, resting on his lower teeth. “Just watched some fantastic porn. Do you know how they decide on Oscar nominees?”

The blurred, imagined image of Jordan pleasuring himself formed in Shane's mind.

Swipe.

Jordan's large hand around the handle of a comically massive fillet knife; the background was an industrial kitchen that Shane now realized was most likely Vicky's. “Gay guy with a sword. Call that fruit ninja. Is that even relevant anymore? God, I'm old.”

Shane was laughing in between hot breaths, his hand moving down to his thigh that still felt warm from Jordan's hand, despite it being hours later.

Squirming against the lumpy mattress under him, he let out a restless, whiny sigh.

He scrolled to the first photo Jordan ever sent him, in his Admirals' shirt, smiling and flipping off the camera. He was looking right into the lens, as if he could really see through to the other side, his expression taunting.

Fuck.

In a near panic, Shane set his phone down next to him and began fumbling to take his pants off, his breathing frantic and his heart fluttering. All the desire that had been simmering inside of him for the past thirty-six hours was boiling over.

“Jesus Christ," Shane muttered to himself, surprised at his own desperation.

Embarrassment slinked away as his mind filled with images of Jordan and flooded with the overwhelming need to get himself off.

Jordan's eyes trailing his body by the shower. Jordan, who looked like he wanted to take Shane's towel off with his mouth. Jordan, grabbing and kissing him despite his own pain, making Shane vibrate with need in the infirmary.

He wondered what Jordan looked like naked and found himself being petty, jealous of Hunter. Hadn't Jordan wanted to shower with him here in the Hilton? Shane groaned with regret, and he started to work his hand over himself. He shouldn't have waited; he should have pulled Jordan under the water with him.

Then his phone rang, and Shane froze.

It was Jordan.

Feeling his heart skip a beat, Shane answered, trying not to sound like he'd been caught red-handed. Thank God it wasn't a FaceTime call.

“Hey,” Shane said, realizing he sounded winded. “I wasn't sure you'd be up for a call.”

“Mhm,” Jordan sounded sleepy on the other side of the line. “Did you hear about dinner?”

“Yeah,” Shane tried to keep the disappointment from his voice, not wanting Jordan to blame himself for any fallout. “I'll be dining with the Metro's tonight.”

“Come over instead.”

“I'm the captain, Jord.”

“Come over right after, then.”

“You'll be asleep,” Shane said, hoping it wasn't true.

“Nuh-uh,” Jordan said, then Shane heard him break into a yawn. “Will not. We can watch a movie.”

“A scary one?”

“Doesn't matter.” His voice took on a dreamy quality. “We won't actually be watching it.”

Shane felt his unfinished task jump in his lap. For a moment, he had to pull the phone away from the side of his head so Jordan didn't hear him choke on his own saliva.

“You should rest,” Shane didn't sound convincing, even to himself.

“See you at nine?”

Shane couldn't fight the smile in his voice. “Okay, Jordan. I'll see you later.”

“Mm. Fuck you later.”

Shane stared at the time on his phone after the call ended. He had enough time to finish what he was doing before dinner. Now it was a necessity too; otherwise, his time with Jordan would be over before the studio logos were finished playing.

Lying his head back down on his flat pillow, Shane took a deep breath and slipped his hand under the cotton of his boxers.

Bang. bang. bang.

Shane stilled his hand.

Bang, bang.

“Go away.”

Shane didn't want to open his eyes. He was picturing Jordan folding him over the kitchen counter at Vicky's, and he wanted to stay there. Right where he was pretending Jordan had him.

“Shane?”

Fucking Marlow.

Well, that killed the moment.

Shane jumped into his pants and stormed over to his door. He opened it with too much force, so it bounced against the deadbolt chain with a clatter. Shane glared at Cliff, who dipped his head over to look through the small opening.

“I came to say sorry.”

“Ok,” Shane said flatly, still uncomfortable from the lingering pressure in his joggers.

“In hindsight, I don't think Ilya would have wanted me to tell you that stuff.”

Shane pursed his lips, his irritation tripling. “Yeah, well. Lots of people have a past they're not proud of. I'm not his problem anymore.”

“I don't know what that means.” Cliff put his blocky brows together. “I meant I shouldn't have told you he loves you, and then told you to go away or whatever. I was out of line.”

“Because he doesn't.” Shane was growing bored of this repetition, “Yep, I got it. Goodbye, Marlow.”

Shane went to close the door, thankful he didn't have to deal with the Raiders tonight, but Marlow put his giant hand out and stopped it.

“You should hear it from him.”

Shane seethed. “I already have.”

It had been months since Tampa, but for some reason, Shane always found himself back in that hotel room. It was like a horror movie in which he was locked in a room, and all the exits put him right back on the edge of the bed, stars in his eyes, naive and hopeful, looking up at Ilya, who loomed over him. Sometimes it was like he was seeing the memory in third person, standing outside by the shore and looking in, powerless to save that version of himself from the impact.

He wished he had never texted Ilya his room number. He wished he locked the bathroom door behind him in Vegas. He wished that night, after the commercial shoot during his rookie debut, he had gone home covered in sweat.

He wished he hadn't kissed Ilya back this evening.

Marlow shifted on his feet for a moment, looking like he had more he wanted to say. “Maybe you should listen again.”

Shane glowered out into the hallway. For someone who was supposedly not supposed to be running his mouth about Shane and Ilya's business, Cliff sure was talking a lot.

“We square then or what, Hollander?” he asked when Shane didn't say anything in return.

Marlow held out his fist for a moment, and despite not feeling it, Shane bumped him.

“See you at the games tomorrow.”

Closing the door, Shane turned around to slump against it. He went to check his phone, certain that, no thanks to Cliff, he was now out of time before dinner. He had three texts waiting for him.

6:45

Hilt.NETWORK 54%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Hayden Pike

Today 6:45 P.M

In the lobby. Whenever you're ready.

6:45

Hilt.NETWORK 54%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Jordie

Today 6:41 P.M

i can eat soup through my gap

6:45

Hilt.NETWORK 54%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Lily

Today 6 40 PM

1815

Chapter 13: Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

Content Note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content and mature themes.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

XII

Dinner with the Raiders was about as awkward as Ilya had been expecting. Everyone wanted to ask him what the fight was about, but no one did. The only other person at the table who knew why, other than Ilya himself, was Marlow, who sat across from him and was avoiding making eye contact. Instead, his teammates redirected the conversation to praise about how nice it was for Ilya to donate so much money, how funny Bragg looked now that he was down a tooth, and how insanely badass Ilya had been, eating punches without flinching, determined to flatten out Jordan. Everyone steered clear of bringing up the signed Admiral's jersey and the fact that Ilya was benched for tomorrow, until Ilya himself brought it up as people were clearing off their plates.

“You have to win on my behalf now, no more losing,” Ilya said brazenly, as if it wasn't his fault that they lost to both the Metros and the Admirals.

Thankfully, these games only wounded Ilya's pride and his nose, but next month, when the series began, he had to be on top of his game.

Part of him hated Shane for his ability to fuck with his ability to play hockey, whether he meant to do it or not. The game he played against Detroit shortly after finding out about him and Rose had been a disaster, so much so that rumours had begun to fly that Ilya had suffered an off-ice injury. In a way, he had.

Tomorrow, Boston would play the Centaurs, which no one seemed to give a shit about. It wouldn't feel good to win against them, and everyone had essentially checked out now that they were playing for bronze. The middle match was the Metros and the Centaurs, then it was the Metros and the Admirals, minus Jordan, for silver and gold. The biggest match was slotted last, ensuring the hype of the event was maintained.

Ilya had been chewed out by the coaches, mainly LeClaire, but the organizers had been a bit more coy. Ilya guessed that the fighting, although brutal and out of the original tone of camaraderie, sparked a lot more media attention. With attention came money; so in a way, it could almost be framed as a good thing that Jordan and Ilya had rocked each other's shit during the game.

While he was rattling off the stupid, thrown-together script that Jordan had put together for them to say during the special announcement, Ilya had a small epiphany. He hated Bragg with every fibre of his being for taking Shane from him, but he had wavered in his ability to hate the man himself.

He was a prick, and a loudmouth, and he purposefully liked to get a rise out of people, but so did Ilya. Those weren't things he could actually criticize Bragg for. Even loving Shane wasn't something he could blame Jordan for. Ilya was guilty of that, too.

Just when he was feeling a sliver of understanding for the Admiral, Jordan had pulled out the shirt that Shane had worn to breakfast and literally waved it in Ilya's face. It was the perfect reminder of why Ilya was about to put it all on the line tonight with Shane. He had to, before Jordan could get his hooks into Shane first.

Shane had ignored his call, but he had seen his text message. Now Ilya just had to wait, and if Shane's infirmary visit had proven anything, it was that he wouldn't be waiting long.

While everyone ordered one more round of drinks to prolong the night and talked about possibly hitting a club again tonight, Ilya took the opportunity to slip out of the restaurant, eager for a smoke and to check his phone. He had only taken a single drag when Marlow was beside him, so Ilya left his phone in his pocket.

“What's up?” Ilya said levelly, knowing Cliff was getting fed up with his irrational behaviour.

Cliff shot him a dirty look. Ilya offered him a cigarette, and he refused.

“You look like someone pissed in your pasta, Marlow. Cheer up, you get to be captain for a day.” Ilya smirked, taking another long drag and filling his lungs.

“I heard Hollander make plans to meet Bragg later tonight at nine.”

Ilya went to inhale from shock, but his lungs were already maxed out, so he exhaled, coughing hard, rattling his broken nose.

“Fuck,” Ilya crunched over himself in pain. “God damn it.”

Cliff watched on with his hands in his pockets, waiting for Ilya to catch his breath, his lips pressed in a firm line. Normally, he'd be laughing himself to tears over Ilya choking on his air like this.

“Sorry,” Cliff said as Ilya held his nose, praying he didn't start bleeding again. “I wasn't sure whether or not to tell you. I said I'd stay out of it, but, after what you said and the fight…”

Ilya felt his heart soaring in panic. “Are you sure?”

“You know how thin the walls are,” Cliff said, then smiled a little when Ilya gave him an exasperated look. “Sorry.”

Ilya ripped his phone from the pocket of his pants and opened his text thread with Shane. Still no answer. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came to mind.

If Shane went to Bragg, especially first, he would lose him.

“Fuck him,” Ilya said out loud. He put his phone away. “Every fucking time I go to make a move, he's in the God damn way.”

“I think that's the point of being a forward.”

Ilya paced his hotel room as time ticked by. He checked his watch incessantly, squinting at the numbers under the dim light of the bedside lamp. He checked his phone over and over. No texts. No calls. No confirmation, but no rejection either. Time ticked on.

Eight.

Eight twenty-five.

Eight thirty-two.

Eight forty-seven.

Eight fifty-nine.

Ilya knelt in front of his hotel room bed, throwing his head into his hands.

It was over. So over. In a matter of minutes, Jordan would have Shane back in his bed, and then he'd be gone from Ilya's life forever.

Ilya wasn't sure what a panic attack felt like, but he was willing to guess he was having one. It felt like no matter how hard he inhaled, oxygen wasn't entering his lungs. His eyes stung worse than when his nose was snapped, but tears wouldn't come, like they were stuck behind an invisible wall.

Nine eighteen.

A single soft knock.

Ilya wondered if it was Cliff coming to see if he had hung himself yet or not. There was no ceiling fan, and the drop from the window would probably just break his legs. Stupid, shitty New York. He had bolted from the restaurant in such obvious fear and devastation that he hadn't even said goodbye to the other guys. Cliff yelled after him, demanding that Ilya call him one way or the other later tonight.

“If you don't tell him the truth, he's going to make a new truth with someone else.” Cliff had warned Ilya.

Ilya was joking when he had referred to him as Cupid in the locker room this morning before practice, but Marlow's advice wasn't half bad.

It was terrifying the way that Hollander had cracked him open. The shell that he had carefully crafted after his mother died was splintering, and every day Ilya felt he was becoming more irrational, more volatile, more vulnerable. First Scott, then Cliff, and Jordan too. Who didn't know that his heart was being demolished by Shane?

Ilya dropped his head to the mattress, no longer able to hold the weight of all his terrible thoughts.

“Asshole.” A voice hissed from the other side of the door, quickly followed by stomping footsteps.

Shane.

Ilya scrambled to his feet, tripping over himself as he reached the door. He could hear Hollander walking away, back down the hall towards the elevators. Throwing the door open, Ilya launched himself towards Shane, who had his back turned.

Ilya practically crashed into Shane, drawing a surprised oof from him as Ilya flung his arms around his torso. Basically lifting him off his feet, he half-dragged, half-carried Shane into his room, using his foot to kick the door closed behind them. He didn't give a fuck if any Metros or Raiders or Centaurs saw. The literal image of Shane walking away from him had him free-falling.

When Ilya let him go, Shane tried to twist around to face him, but lost his balance in the process, tumbling to the floor and landing on his ass with a soft thud, his hands thrown out behind him, helping him break the fall.

For a wonderful, terrifying moment, they both stared one another down. Ilya against the door, Shane sitting in the stretch of space between Ilya and the bed. They were both breathing hard, but Ilya was the only one with a tremor running through him. He hoped Shane couldn't tell.

Anger tilted Shane's features down in a disapproving expression.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Shane said at last, looking at Ilya like he had sprung three heads and a tail. “You really are a psycho.”

“You came,” was all Ilya dared to say before he sank to the floor too, practically crawling to Shane.

Shane was frozen like a deer in headlights, only moving further back as Ilya advanced, moving them closer together as Shane fought for some distance. Ilya dipped his head, wanting to cry but needing to kiss Shane first.

Hollander let himself fall flat to his back, his hands flying up to halt Ilya by his shoulders before they could connect. Shock danced around his pretty features, making his eyes go wide, and his lips part open.

Jesus, Ilya had missed him so badly. Tampa felt like a million years ago, and they had barely touched then– they barely spoke.

Ilya wondered if he was going to complain about being pinned against a gross hotel carpet.

“I didn't come here for…” Shane's expression slipped into something more serious. “I didn't come here for this. Get off of me, Rozanov.”

Ilya stood up and then quickly pulled Shane to his feet, not wanting to let go of his hand. Shane pulled it away, and it made Ilya feel like he couldn't breathe again.

“I didn't invite you here to fuck, Hollander,” Ilya said the sentence out loud for the first time, despite how scared it made him. “I need to talk to you.”

He had imagined saying that phrase or something similar to Shane for years. On his darkest days, that's all Ilya wanted. It had petrified him. Ilya had worked incredibly hard to never need anyone, but if Hollander didn't let him confess that he loved him right here in his terrible hotel in New York right now, he was going to die. Any second, Ilya felt like he was going to drop dead.

“Me too,” Shane said hesitantly, giving Ilya a look from the side of his eyes like he was looking at an animal that was still on the attack. “Can we sit down?”

“Bed.”

Shane lowered his eyelids at him, unenthused.

“There are no chairs or shit, Hollander. These hotels suck.” Ilya protested his innocence, gesturing to his horrible room. “It's like they don't know who I am.”

Shane's mouth pinched, and he failed to stop a smile from lighting up his face. Good God. He was so gorgeous.

“Oh, I think they know exactly who you are.” Shane took a dig at Ilya's unpopular status.

Even before he punched Bragg, New York couldn't stand him. The feeling was mutual.

Shuffling to the bed, Ilya took a nervous seat next to Shane. Not too close. Not too far.

Shane was looking around the room in silence, and Ilya let him for a while. He just wanted to be near him; he wanted to study him. His side profile, his gentle breathing, the slight squint of his eyes when he passed over Ilya's exploded suitcase, the total disarray of the nightstand. Shane was probably thinking about where Ilya had lost his other sock, itching to find its mate and pair them together again. He hated disorganization.

Ilya swallowed a growing lump in his throat and considered how he was going to organize his own thoughts before getting them out to Shane, but Shane spoke first.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Shane was rubbing his hands over his thighs nervously. “I really like Jordan.”

Ilya nodded slowly. He assumed as much.

“And?”

Shane finally met his eyes, and Ilya searched them hard for any indication of what was coming.

“And we're both from Canada. And he's a good guy, actually. He's nice, he treats me well, and he actually is a lot of fun.” Shane began talking rapidly, his eyes wandering around quickly.

“Why are you telling me this?” Ilya cleared his throat, wondering why Hollander was here defending the Admiral with such vigour.

“I'm going to ask him to be my boyfriend.” A rush of pink washed over Shane's cheeks. “I thought you should know.”

Ilya sucked in a breath, turning his head away. He prepared himself for this scenario. He wouldn't lash out like he did in Virtue, and he wouldn't shut himself down like he did in Tampa.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Shane parroted, twitching a bit in surprise before he settled back into his faux-calm demeanour. “I mean, good. Yeah. Okay. I just thought I owed it to you to tell you in person.”

Ilya knew Shane was nervous by the way he did that thing with his hands, the right one on top of the left, his thumb wiggling back and forth along the opposing wrist. It strangely made him feel better, since Ilya was so nervous he had started to worry if he would throw up his dinner.

Adjusting his chain around his neck, Ilya silently said a prayer to his mother. He wished she had been around long enough to walk him through his first love and his first heartbreak. With a sharp breath in, Ilya took a shot in the dark.

“Hollander, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry.”

“He's fine. He's weirdly resilient.”

Ilya's stomach clenched.

“No. Not Jordan.” Struggling to keep his cool, Ilya grabbed at the off-white sheets beside him, twisting his fingers into them. “I don't want to talk about Bragg.”

Shane shifted his weight from side to side. “You're saying sorry to me?”

“Yes, Hollander. I'm sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing now?” Shane licked his lip quickly, once again not meeting Ilya's eyes.

“Because I can't keep doing this.” Ilya felt the last threads of self-preservation snapping away under the tension like a bow drawn too tight. “I can't keep acting like I'm not…”

Fuck. The words caught in his throat as the familiar fear rushed like cold water over him. He wanted to run and hide. He wanted to casually tell Hollander that they could talk about it next time.

Next time? There wouldn't be a next time if he didn't do this now. Ilya forced himself to use the fear of losing Shane to override the fear of being in love with him.

“I'm in love with you, Shane.” Ilya waited for Shane's expression to change. It didn't.

He started shaking his head.

“Don't do that,” Shane said quietly, barely audible. “Don't do that now.”

Ilya's heart plummeted into his stomach.

“Shane,”

Hollander lifted a hand up, like he was warning Ilya to back off. He turned his head away, and when he turned back, his eyes were dark.

“It's too late for that,” Shane was almost laughing. “What the hell do you take me for?”

“Hollander, I'm sorry.” Ilya doubled down. “But I do love you. You need to hear me be honest about it.”

“You're just mad you're losing,” Shane's voice dipped coldly. He was looking at Ilya deep in his eyes, trying to show resolve.

Ilya didn't buy it; Hollander's lower lip was shaking. He wanted to bite it. He wanted to punish Shane for listening to him without hearing him.

“So, I've lost?” Ilya leaned in, close enough so that each inhale and exhale between them was the same breath, like a puck being passed back and forth between them.

“You can't change my mind.” Shane was making the declaration too confidently for someone who wasn't moving away.

“Let me try.” Ilya kissed Shane as his heart cried out.

Shane didn't move or kiss him back, only pushing Ilya to try again, and again. The fourth time Ilya sealed his lips against him, Hollander's hands flew to the back of his head, running his fingers through his curls.

“Fuck, Hollander.” Ilya crashed them together with fiery urgency.

Their kiss in the infirmary was only a preview of what Ilya really wanted, and he knew Shane wanted it too.

“Fuck you,” Shane breethd, then opened his mouth for Ilya to push his tongue further in. “Fuck you. Come here.”

In a tangle, they moved together up the length of the bed, their mouths never coming apart for more than a few huffy seconds.

“I can't… fucking,” Shane gasped as he began taking his own pants off. “Stand you.”

Ilya's heart flinched, but he pressed Shane into the mattress with his weight, punishing him with another heavy, messy kiss. Shane writhed beneath him with palpable need, not flight.

Break my heart. Ilya resigned himself as he tugged Shane out of his shirt with one aggressive pull. Break it as many times as you want. I've given it to you. Do whatever you want with it.

“Oh, shit.” Shane trembled as Ilya tucked his head against his abdomen, running his mouth down towards his waist.

“I've missed you too,” Ilya whispered against the firm, hot flesh.

“Shut up,” Shane threw one of his arms over his eyes, his other hand lacing into Ilya's hair.

“You want me to be quiet?” Ilya mused, knowing what Shane wanted him to do but was still too shy to ask for.

Ilya didn't wait; he dragged his mouth across the front of Shane's boxers, the last thin barrier between their bodies. Shane sighed happily. Too happily.

“Beg.”

“No.”

“Beg for it.”

Shane's arm flew off his face, a swirling storm of emotions flying across his pretty face. His hand left Ilya's hair and moved to stroke himself, desperate for any kind of friction.

Ilya scoffed and caught it, then used his other hand to free Shane's erection from its cotton prison, taking him deeply down, only once.

A shrill gasp rang out into the room, and Ilya heard Shane's hands smack against the mattress, and he desperately tried to cling to something.

They were both panting at one another, but Ilya quickly busied his mouth, desperate to hear and see and taste more of Shane.

You motherfucker. Ilya thought as Shane glared down at him, his expression laced with genuine anger. Who the hell did you become in the months we were apart? Show him to me.

Ilya lifted his mouth so it just barely hovered above the tip of Hollander's cock. He gave Shane a daring look. Hollander's eyes fell low, like he really was about to beg, but to Ilya's surprise, he reached down with both hands and held the sides of Ilya's head, bucking his hips up wildly.

Ilya only allowed Shane a half-minute of control. He could tell by the frantic, pitchy noises he was making that Hollander was already getting close.

He aggressively pulled away and met Shane's mouth a second later, teasing him by keeping it light and fluttering on his parted lips.

“Say it.” Ilya broke at last as Shane began grinding their erections together, whining nonsense beneath him.

“Get in me,” Shane was dragging his nails down Ilya's back, like the request was tearing him apart.

Ilya froze.

“I don't have anything.”

It was true. He didn't. He wasn't here to fuck his way through the city; he had come to talk to Shane. If things went well, he had planned on maybe picking something up, but he didn't expect it to happen so quickly.

“I do. In my wallet, and” Shane turned his head away, his chest heaving. “Back pocket.”

Ilya bit back a sudden smack of rage, realizing that Shane had originally been on his way to Jordan's.

Whatever. Too slow, Bragg.

Ilya sat sideways on the bed so he could push his slicked, glistening fingers into Shane with one hand while rolling a condom over himself with his other. He was ready before Shane, which was perfect, because Ilya then had the chance to watch Shane open up for him.

“You're the worst.” Shane's head was back so Ilya couldn't see his face, but he knew his eyes were squeezed shut and he was biting at the inside of his lower lip.

“Hm,” Ilya mused, entranced. He curled his fingers in a come-hither move that had Shane swearing and driving his heels into the bed.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya was already too close, and he hadn't even entered Shane yet. “You love me.”

“I don't,” Shane thumped a fist against one of the pillows above him. “Just fuck me.”

They both practically yelled when Ilya sank into him with one steady slide. Shane had flipped over, back arched on his forearms and knees. Ilya wasn't too happy with the position, desperate to kiss Shane along his face, take his mouth, look into his eyes, but for now, this would certainly do.

Ilya snapped into Shane, pulling him back into a brutal rhythm.

“Oh, God, Ilya,” Shane was starting to get loud, which only encouraged him to drive in deeper.

Ilya loved hearing Hollander use his first name. This was how it was supposed to be said: hot and heavy and tinged with desire. Maybe soon, Ilya could hear it said with love. Maybe if he fucked Hollander just right, he would stop abusing his heart and hold it instead. For now, Ilya had to work with what he had, which was whatever Shane wanted to give him.

But this certainly didn't seem like he was losing.

As Shane bucked back with short, punchy breaths, Ilya decided to test the waters.

“Who do you belong to?” Ilya leaned forward, changing the angle and pressure and making Shane cry out a thin oh.

A few more steady thrusts filled the moment, and Ilya began to wonder if Shane would respond.

Hollander turned his head over his shoulder to look back at him, giving Ilya a look that was both furiously annoyed and lust-soaked, his eyes narrow and his mouth turned in a near-snarl.

“I thought you didn't want to talk about him?”

Shane had raised his voice above a whimper to ensure he was heard.

Bastard.

Ilya growled low at his smart ass response. Shooting his hand out, he grabbed a fistful of inky black hair that always smelled of clean tide and pulled hard at the roots. Yanking Shane's head back, Ilya hissed as Hollander purposefully drove his hips backwards onto him harshly.

“You're a terrible liar,” Ilya was feeling himself unthreading fast. “Get on my lap.”

Shane swore as Ilya pulled out of him, then gasped as Ilya roughly flipped him, dragging him across the sweat-soaked sheets until he was able to clamber onto his lap, lining himself up with Ilya. They groaned into one another's mouths as Shane sank down, and Ilya had to take in several deep breaths to ensure he wasn't going to immediately finish in this position.

“Show me how much you like me,” Ilya taunted.

Shane shot him an angry look, but it faded fast this time. For support, Shane held Ilya's shoulders as he adjusted his legs on both sides of Ilya's thighs; they moved in a team effort to ensure that when he rose and fell, Shane could take all of Ilya down to the hilt.

“Oh my god,” Shane's head fell back after just a few passes. “Jesus Christ, Rozanov.”

“Ilya,” he corrected, digging in a hand to Shane's hip to help lift him up and push him down. “It's Ilya to you.”

Shane fell forward as Ilya took further control, letting his forehead rest in the crook of his neck as he rolled his hips up in sync. Hollander's erection was slapping in time against his stomach, and it was driving Ilya insane. Using the hand that wasn't on Shane's hip, Ilya reached between them to stroke his length in time. Shane sobbed against him.

“I've missed you.” Ilya hushed against him, slowing their pace miserably. “Have you missed me?”

When Shane didn't respond, Ilya sucked along the ridge of his neck, right near his collarbone, until he was writhing and gasping.

“Ow,” Shane clipped in his ear. “That hurts.”

Ilya pulled his mouth away and forced Shane to look at him as they shifted together. Shane was such a fantasy, totally gone from the pleasure. Ilya wished he could take his photo. Hollander flushed deeply when he looked into his eyes, and for a daring moment, Ilya let himself believe that Shane would say it back.

“I love you,” Ilya said. He stilled his hand and his hips, waiting.

Nothing.

Damn it.

Shane ran his fingernails hard down his back as Ilya began to take out his unrequited love on him ruthlessly. Shane was falling apart on top of him in seconds.

“I'm going to,” Shane began to break down, his eyes fluttering shut and his face twisting as he straddled the line between pleasure and overstimulation. “I…”

“Tell me,” Ilya demanded.

Shane gasped shrilly, his eyes starting to roll back.

“Tell me how much you fucking love me.” Ilya cruelly stopped stroking Shane so he could grab him by the back of his head, forcing their foreheads together to be eye-to-eye.

“I. Hate. You.” Shane gritted out, his features morphing hard in anger, his stare filling with fury. Ilya would have been scared if he hadn't been so turned on.

Then, Shane left Ilya awestruck as his anger broke apart, replaced by pure fever as his orgasm unshackled. He threw his head back, sinking down one last time as he released, splashing hotly against Ilya's chest.

Shock rippled through Ilya too late, and he was pushed over the edge with those sour words ringing in his ear, Shane still clenching around him. He came hard, and as he did, he sank his teeth hard into the flesh of Shane's still trembling shoulder.

Did Hollander actually just say that he hated him? All while on the brink of coming, no less. It was either a lie or a very strong resolve. Ilya went with a little bit of both.

Ilya laid Shane down so he could more carefully remove himself, quickly covering Shane with kisses before fully rolling onto his back.

For a few moments, Ilya felt at peace. He hadn't felt at peace since he woke up from his nap with Shane in Boston months ago, before he freaked out and left Ilya reeling. Turning his head, he kissed Shane sweetly. Still high from his orgasm, Shane kissed Ilya back slowly and lovingly, like he used to, seemingly forgetting that he supposedly hated Ilya.

“I'll get something for the mess.” He knew Shane hated not being clean.

After disposing of the condom into the trash and wetting a washcloth, Ilya slowly exited the bathroom as quietly as possible. Shane was breathing softly, his head turned to the side. He was out cold, still sticky. Ilya pressed his fist to his mouth so he didn't laugh.

He didn't want to wake him. As gently as he could, Ilya cleaned Shane up and tucked him beneath a blanket that had been wrestled right off the bed.

Ilya slid in beside him, pulling Shane as close as he could before moving to turn off the lamp.

“I love you,” Ilya said into the dark.

Plainly. Simply. In audible English.

Shane didn't respond beyond a soft sigh, and Ilya told himself it was fine, for now.

A blue light briefly illuminated the room. Agitated, Ilya slipped out of bed and found Shane's phone, which had fallen out of his pants pocket, and was lying face up on the carpet. He had gotten a text.

11:58

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Jordie

Today 11:58 P.M

sorry i fell asleep

u still up Holly?

Smirking, Ilya put the phone face down on the nightstand and curled back up with Shane.

On the podium, Bragg could have gold, but he would be walking around with silver; he just wouldn't know it.

Chapter End Notes

I'll have to edit this one tomorrow, babes. I'm dozing off, but I didn't want to leave people on a cliffhanger for a full day. Try to read around the mess. -Mace

Chapter 14: Chapter 13

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

13

Shane was pulling on his hoodie as carefully as he could, fumbling around in the near dark of the unfamiliar hotel room. It was a quarter past five, and he needed to get the fuck out of here. Fast. Before Ilya woke up.

And before he ran into anyone he knew in this Best Western.

Fuck. This was such a mess.

When he woke up about ten minutes ago, head foggy between bliss and sleepiness, he had seen shadowed curls silhouetted, backlit from the New York skyline that was slowly starting to brighten. Shane hummed softly as his heart sang in his chest, undeniably happy, and placed a kiss on the nape of the neck in front of him. The body next to him was warm and dangerously inviting– Shane knew he had two back-to-back games today, but he was tempted to stay in this bed forever. He wished that tonight he could play against Jordan; it would make the game more exciting, and probably serve as good foreplay. If only he hadn't been ejected from tonight's matches.

Taking a deep breath, Shane snaked his arm along the firm chest beside him, wanting to soak this feeling into his bones. Hearing him snore a bit raggedly beside him, Shane tried to remember how Jordan had broken his nose. As far as he knew, Jordan hadn't ever fought anyone until Ilya. Something about a dirt bike accident?

He opened his eyes, expecting to see Jordan's loft ceiling far above his head. He didn't. He saw a tacky, outdated popcorn ceiling instead. Shane paused, his senses filled with sudden unfamiliarity that immediately put him on edge. The sheets were rough beneath him; it was too warm, and his nose had picked up a deep spicy musk laced with smoke.

This wasn't right. There was no softness, no scent of mint and pine. This wasn't even his hotel room.

Shane's hand stilled as his fingertips brushed cold, dainty metal; the realization was crashing down onto him.

No.

Oh, God, no.

Jerking away from the body next to him in bed, Shane's mouth fell open wordlessly. The night before came rushing back to him like a train while he was tied down on the tracks.

It was meant to be a five-minute conversation, in and out, for closure's sake. Shane had come to tell Rozanov that he and Jordan were about to get serious, that he needed to back off and stop calling and texting him, that they were going back to rivals and only rivals.

No more Jane. No more Lily. Ilya could go back to doing whatever the hell he did when he wasn't toying with him, and Shane could start being with someone who took him seriously. That had been the plan.

After the way he had acted in Virtue, Shane hadn't expected Ilya to care whatsoever. What had surprised Shane was how Ilya, at first, seemed to take it. Without any ridicule. When he told Rozanov that he was going to ask Jordan to be his boyfriend, Shane had expected Ilya to laugh in his face, mocking Shane for needing something like that.

Something real and constant– Ilya clearly didn't. Maybe it made Shane weaker than him; that was fine. He didn't mind being weak for Jordan. He liked Bragg enough to know that with enough time, he could love him.

Shane had been sure, ever since that night in Tampa, that Ilya wasn't even capable of thinking that way.

That's why he had to do it, and he had decided to do it as soon as possible. That's how he ended up here.

Last night, he had been a nervous wreck and hardly ate any dinner with the Metros, who were all abuzz over the fight. He could barely keep his sushi down, listening to everyone speculate what happened between the two players, overwhelmed by conspiracies and hearing Jordan and Ilya's names together in the same sentences, over and over, until he eventually had to excuse himself.

He feigned having to take a phone call, but as soon as he was out of sight and around the corner of the restaurant, some fancy Japanese place J.J. had been dying to try called Big Reel, Shane found himself staring at Ilya's text. His hotel room number. He hadn't responded or called Ilya back, and he didn't intend to. There was once a time when he would trip over himself to get this information. Now he didn't want it. Now, he was only annoyed.

Quietly in his own mind, Shane knew the best thing to do would be to simply text him his intentions with Jordan, or better yet, not tell him at all. It wasn't as if Ilya opened up about stuff like that, unless it was to throw it in his face, like when he talked about all the reliable women he had waiting for him in each city he played in. New York included.

Bastard.

Shane put his phone back into his pocket. He'd go. He wanted to see the look on Ilya's face now that Shane finally had something to throw back at him.

I'll have a boyfriend. What the fuck will you have? Nothing, that's what, and that's exactly what you deserve.

Shane felt a bit smug at leaving Ilya hanging after years of it being the other way. Plus, he was getting laid tonight with a guy who really liked him. A guy who was fun, texted first, and always kept Shane laughing.

Fuck Ilya Rozanov.

Shane was smiling out to the busy streets of New York as the sky started to darken, making the city glow like its own bioluminescent creature, breathing and swarming. It was a cool city, and Shane realized he would have to start working out the logistics of when he and Jordan could see one another. Luckily, the Metros played against New York fairly often. Not as often as Boston, but often enough.

He hoped that he and Jordan could be together during their time off, too, whenever it would overlap. It was a seven-hour drive from Montreal, give or take, but only an hour and a half flight. If they had multiple overlapping days, it would be worth it to catch a flight down.

They could eat at Vickys. They could watch movies. Maybe most thrilling of all, they wouldn't have to sneak around. While Shane was aware of sports and celebrity tabloids and their incessant need to pry into his personal life, like when he saw that video of him and Rose drunk outside of that wine bar in Montreal, he wasn't afraid this time.

Jordan didn't have to be a secret. Jordan would never ask him to keep him a secret, either. He was out, Jordan was out, and it was already common knowledge to most people that they were friends. They made sense together. Shane really wanted to believe in it.

Thinking of her now, he pulled his phone out again and texted Rose; he had promised to stay in touch and fill her in on his adventures.

7:32

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Rose

Today 7:32 P.M

Miss you.

Might have a boyfriend soon. I don't know. Nervous. Let you know tomorrow. Love you.

He had sent the text just as Hayden came out of the restaurant, clearly looking for him.

“Just so you know, Patrice put a huge blob of wasabi under your last piece of salmon sashimi as a prank. I had to snitch. I think it would literally kill you if you ate it.” Hayden approached Shane, tucking his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.

“Thanks,” Shane smiled, shaking his head. “I'm glad people are having a good time.”

“I'm glad you are, too.” The corner of Hayden's mouth curled. “Now will you stop holding out on me?”

Shane bit at the inside of his cheeks, feeling them warm in the cool New York air. “Okay, fine. I like him.”

Hayden huffed out dramatically. “Who am I, Marlow? Obviously, I know you like Jordan,” he came to stand directly next to Shane. “Why the hell were they fighting?”

With effort, Shane had conjured his best poker face. “I'd tell you if I knew. I have no idea. Scout's honour.”

Hayden had rolled his eyes, unconvinced. “You were never a scout.”

Loathing sucked viciously at Shane now. He certainly wasn't.

Now, he was using his phone as a flashlight, feeling around the hotel floor, looking for his other god damn sock. He had seen Jordan's text from the night before and felt sick from guilt.

Why? Why the fuck did I do this again?

Tears prickled at his eyes, but Shane held them in. He didn't want to wake Ilya up, but he was so mad at himself. He was the same weak, needy, desperate kid he had been in the locker room in Regina. Powerless. Susceptible. All too willing.

If Ilya had thought that Shane wouldn't show up, he never would have sent his room number. Shane walked right into it.

In the few moments that Ilya hadn't yet opened the door for him, he felt every fibre in him screaming, telling him to leave. He was on his way to Jordan's, anyway. He had stopped into a bodega and picked up condoms and lube. He was getting laid. He was getting a boyfriend, probably.

He was leaving. He was leaving– until he wasn't. Ilya had basically dragged him into his hotel room and thrown him on the floor, crawling to him with his features twisted sadly and his eyes heavy with lust, like he had lost his mind.

And Shane had been fine. He had ignored his intense desire to let Ilya push him onto the filthy carpet and fuck his brains out, even if the slight implication of it had left him hard as iron. They were talking. Just talking.

Shane was talking about Jordan. Ilya was talking about how he was sorry.

And then he was telling Shane that he loved him.

Shane wasn't so delusional as to not admit to himself that those were the words he had been dying to hear since he was in his early twenties. Maybe earlier. He had imagined a million times in his innocent fantasies about how the big I love you conversation would go. He had always secretly hoped that it would take place at his cottage beside the warm glow of a fire, loons calling overhead, the two of them kissing and embracing beneath an indigo, star-filled sky. It would feel like a damn breaking, or maybe like a permission. Childish dreams of Ilya Rozanov loving him back.

Now he was hearing those same words, in a shitty hotel room in New York, all because Ilya was a sore loser. Like a little kid who doesn't want a toy until he sees someone else playing with it. It hardly felt like anything beyond a last-ditch dig at his self-worth. It felt like a hex.

Before, Shane always assumed that Ilya thought he was naive and overeager; now Shane was starting to wonder if he thought he was a fucking idiot. How coincidental that the moment Shane is ready to move on with someone else, Ilya magically loves him.

It was bullshit. Shane had told him as much. He had made up his mind– he was choosing Jordan; Ilya would just have to cope with losing.

So what happened? Shane winced at the memory of him cracking. The result of too much sexual tension inside of him, too much need, and the horrible realization that Shane hated Ilya, but that would never stop a part of him from loving him.

One minute, he's refusing to kiss Ilya back, the next he's letting him inside, completely possessed. It had been horrible, erotic, terrible pleasure as they collided. Was it reminiscing, or was it that Shane had gotten his wires crossed after finally hearing the words that would have saved him years ago?

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so good, sitting on Ilya's lap and cursing his name, then coming with it still lingering on his tongue. The memory made his stomach turn to liquid, and his fists curl.

He wished he felt more shame. He wished he didn't feel any desire.

Whatever this was, it was a mistake. One that couldn't happen again.

And he had to go.

Finally spotting a sock near the leg of the nightstand, Shane grabbed it and rolled it onto his foot. He was nearly home free; he just had to get out the door.

“Hollander?”

A hoarse-sounding voice croaked through the room as Shane was standing to leave.

For a split second, he wondered if he should just make a break for it. The second passed, and with a swish of fabric, Shane knew Ilya was sitting up, looking at him. He could feel Rozanov's eyes on the back of him; they were hooked tongs of a taser, rendering him still. Shane wondered if this was how prey animals felt when a predator had them in their crosshairs.

“I'm out of here,” Shane finally found his voice that had been stuck somewhere between his heart and his head. He didn't turn around.

“Hollander!” Ilya raised his voice, so loud and sudden that Shane flinched, his shoulders rising and staying there.

Panic seared through him when he remembered they were surrounded on all sides by N.H.L players.

“Be quiet!” Rage kicked remorse to the curb for a moment. “Ilya, don't yell my fucking name!”

When Shane whipped around to glare at him, he was startled for a second time. Ilya looked hurt, and it wasn't just his broken nose.

Rozanov, who always held him at arm's length unless they were in bed together, was looking at him with such a wounded expression that Shane wondered if he was still dreaming. Even when Boston lost the cup, he had never seen Ilya look like this before. Maybe once, a little bit, in his apartment when Shane had left that time.

“Where are you going?” Ilya asked, shaking his head already as if no answer would satisfy him.

“Where do you think?”

Ilya scoffed loudly, his eyes slitted, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. And why should he? Shane had shown him last night that he was a liar, claiming he hated Rozanov while letting him buck up into him, slack-jawed and glossy-eyed until they were both beside themselves, utterly gone to indulgence.

“You're actually going to be with him?” There was disbelief dancing in Ilya's tone as he pulled his knees towards his chest.

“Yes,” Shane said, not meeting his eyes. “I am. I want to be his boyfriend.”

A pause rotted in the room, neither of them doing more than barely breathing. Stark lines around Ilya's mouth twitched as his firm jaw worked, his high and defined cheekbones framing his side profile sharply as he barely looked in Shane's direction. He was beautiful when he was angry. Shane wished he could stop noticing things like that. Holding his breath, Shane found himself waiting for the other shoe to drop instead of leaving, his feet glued to the carpet.

“What about us?”

It was such a stupid question, but it made him feel totally breathless, like he was on the verge of fainting. It winded him, but in the next second, it infuriated him. Shane hated the way Ilya had to always push on his oldest, deepest wound like that. The tears that were slowly subsiding washed back, like the waves along the Tampa shore. Shane suppressed them under the thumb of outrage.

Aside from spending time with Jordan, holding onto his anger was the only thing Shane had to keep his heart caged in moments like this, where Ilya was destroying him without lifting a finger.

“We aren't anything.” Shane spat back the words Ilya had gifted him in Sochi. “We're not kids anymore, Rozanov. Grow up.”

“Shane,” Ilya was barely speaking above a whisper. “Don't leave again, please.”

Shane rolled his eyes, hoping Ilya couldn't see them shining with emotion. “Whatever. This isn't happening again– in fact, forget that it happened this time.”

“Shane,”

Whatever Ilya was going to say next, he would never know. He slammed the door behind him and squeezed his eyes shut hard, trying to calm his exploding nerves.

Nausea washed over him, and his entire body ached. His hips, in particular, were sending shockwaves of pain up and down his spine with every slight movement. He was sure he was marked all over from where Ilya had been grabbing him, pinning him, biting him.

Ugh.

Shane made a mental note to check himself over carefully when he got dressed. The temperature had dropped a bit, and now that cold winds were blowing all day, maybe Shane could get away with wearing a hoodie without ridicule. Now he actually had something to hide.

“Scout's honour, huh?”

Blocked from reaching the elevators for the second time, he turned to see Hayden standing in his hotel room, the one directly across the hall from Ilya.

He was still in his pyjama pants, shirtless, his hair all smushed up on one side of his head. Obviously, Shane and Ilya had woken him. Mutual shock electrified the air as they stared one another down.

A strange mix of dread and relief rocked Shane, and after a beat, he finally gathered the courage to say something.

“Promise you won't be mad at me?”

“No. Now get in here.”

By the time Shane was finished, Hayden looked both disgusted and proud. Mainly disgusted. A little bewildered. Shane had to stop a few times to let Hayden drop his head between his knees, or rub his hands over his face, or, when Shane was explaining how Ilya was actually Lily, Hayden got up and did a lap around his tiny room, shaking his head and muttering.

Shane skipped the graphic parts and instead tried explaining the timelines, the incidents, how he never meant for it to happen, but it just kept happening anyway. Shane also left out details that he knew would make him cry if he said aloud, like how Rozanov had just told him he loved him.

“Ok. Gross. But ok.” Hayden had his hands folded in front of him, sitting on the edge of his bed, looking down at Shane. “I can accept that you're gay, obviously, but I draw the line at liking Rozanov.”

“I don't like it either!” Shane said defensively, his voice pitching up.

“Yeah,” Hayden gave him a few slow, knowing nods, eyes wide. “It certainly sounded like it.”

Shane pulled his hood over his head and rested his forehead on his knees. “Jesus Christ, this is so embarrassing.” For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he was sitting on the Best Western's nasty floor.

“What, me overhearing you fucking?”

“You overhearing me fuck Ilya.”

Shane heard Hayden shudder, his hand finding his mouth like he was suppressing a gag.

“Yeah, that's…”

And then Hayden started laughing.

Shane was laughing too, but then he was also crying a little. Nothing he couldn't play off, but the tears hurt when they fell, like they were far overdue. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping it wasn't too obvious how broken up he was about the awful situation he had put himself in.

“Can I ask about Jordan?”

Shane had been trying hard not to think of him all morning, but he nodded, lifting his head so Hayden could hear him.

“I really like him.”

“I know you do,” Hayden said, giving him a sympathetic look. “Shit happens, man.”

“I don't really deserve him after I,” Shane flicked his hand into the open air. “Did…that.”

“Try telling him that,” Hayden assured him with a soft voice, far more relaxed than he had been when they first started talking. “I bet he'll feel differently.”

Could Shane justify last night by saying he just needed to fuck Ilya out of his system? Did he need to say anything at all? Shane didn't want to talk to Jordan about any of this; they already didn't like each other.

From the moment his fingers touched Ilya's crucifix this morning, he wished he could take it all back. It was the wrong thing to do; for him, for Jordan, for everyone. Maybe if it never happened again, Shane could put this decade-long nightmare behind him for good.

Ilya would become a part of his past, and then he could stay there. Besides, by keeping himself busy with Jordan, he wouldn't be able to do the wrong thing.

“I'll talk to him today,” Shane sniffed, pawing at his blurry eyes that were starting to come back into focus. “I missed him, anyway.”

He hadn't texted Jordan back, and even though he was afraid, he was dying to talk to him.

“Aw,” Hayden gave him a little smile. “In my totally unbiased opinion, I think you and Bragg are great for each other.”

Shane shot Hayden a look, but his heart swelled. It was such a relief to have someone to talk to about all of this mess.

“You just want to see his fancy restaurant," Shane stood up, then immediately wiped his hands that had touched the carpet on his pant legs. “See you at practice? I want Jordan to be my boyfriend and all, but I also need to annihilate the Admirals on their home turf. You know, I still have some pride.”

“You're kind of a prick, Mr. Hollander.” Hayden laughed in his ear as he pulled Shane into a quick hug. “And you're kind of a slut, too.”

Shane flushed brightly, the spot where Ilya had pressed his mouth against his collarbone starting to sing. “Fuck off, Pike."

Deciding on taking a jog through the city instead of hitting the gym, Shane felt his post-sex hangover was starting to taper off. He picked up Advil from the same cashier who sold him his condoms the night before, much to his embarrassment, and took it on an empty stomach. It seemed he couldn't stop being a hypocrite today.

Worse yet, Ilya had really done a number on him. He had an obvious hickey on his left collar bone, small bruises on his lower back, and a few light pink scratch marks across his shoulders. The hickey was by far the worst– Shane wasn't even sure what lie he could form to cover for it. There would be pandemonium in the locker room for sure.

Shane's phone buzzed in his pocket, and nervously, he pulled it out. Would it be Jordan, or would it be Ilya?

Neither. It was Rose.

8:18

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Rose

Today 8:18 A.M

I Beg Ur Pardon???? Call me now!!!

Shane smiled and pulled into a nearby coffee shop, thankful that after years of hiding and years of being scared, he was slowly gaining people he could lean on.

Later, when Shane spotted Jordan in the player lobby of the arena, mixed in with all the other Admirals, he felt his heart flip over itself in his chest. Jordan spotted him and winked, but didn't stop his conversation with Matti and Scott. He looked better, more rested, and the swelling along his lip had nearly gone away completely, but his fresh stitches still looked sore. Shane hoped he could kiss him better again if they found themselves alone at some point.

In response to his text from last night, Shane asked if, despite it being blasphemous, they could sit together during the first game. Optics be damned, Shane was going to sit next to Bragg and have a good time. He needed to. He felt like he was dying.

Thankfully, Jordan said he was down. Shane was sure it wouldn't draw too much attention, since people would be focused on the game; plus, they could be discreet.

We have lost time to make up for. His semi-suggestive text had Shane flustered, which only amplified when he realized they never clarified who was sitting where. Ottawa and Boston were stretching on the ice as the fans were settling into their seats, still somewhat hushed, as Jordan and Shane stared one another down from the different team seating sections.

“Come here,” Jordan mouthed the words at Shane.

Shane shook his head. “No, you come here.” He mouthed back, smiling, then gestured to the empty seat next to him.

They were in a bit of a standoff. Shane was the captain of the Metros, so he really shouldn't leave his team. But New York was Jordan's home turf, so he really shouldn't leave either.

After a solid minute of neither of them moving, Shane watched Jordan cartoonishly sigh. He leaned over to a teammate who was eating fries from the concession stand, took one of his napkins, and waved it goofily above his head, surrendering. Boos erupted from the Admirals' designated area as his teammates caught on to what was happening. The noise caught people's attention in the stands nearby, and also everyone on the ice.

So much for discretion.

Shane covered his eyes with his hand, but he couldn't help but laugh quietly. J.J tsked at him, disapprovingly.

“Terrible.” He muttered in French.

A handful of popcorn was launched at Jordan from one of his teammates, which elicited a loud laugh from him. He said something which caused another boo in unison, but Jordan waved them off and kept moving, fighting back a smile and losing. While people looked on, he strolled unbothered to the Metros section. Shane tried not to watch him, as if he was indifferent instead of giddy, until Bragg slid into the seat next to him.

“Hi.” Jordan beamed at him.

“Hi,” Shane said shyly, nervously peeling away the paper on his concession stand water bottle.

Shane watched as Jordan turned himself around in his seat. Way too loudly and with way too big a smile, his voice boomed. “Hi, Metros!” He put up a hand and wiggled his fingers.

Shane's teammates snickered, amused, and when he turned back around, he couldn't help but glare at Jordan.

“Do you always have to make such a circus of everything?” Shane was trying to be serious, but he could tell he was still smiling.

Jordan cocked his head to the side. “Everyone likes the circus.” Then he leaned right over Shane, his hand outstretched to J.J and Hayden. “Hi, I'm Jordan.”

“We know.” Hayden and J.J said flatly, almost in unison.

Neither of them took Jordan up on his sarcastic handshake, so shamelessly, Jordan leaned back and threw his arm around Shane, pushing him in.

Shane felt himself stiffen. Did he like public affection? He wasn't sure. He'd never had it before. After a few tense seconds, he relaxed and let himself lean into Jordan's warm body, firm enough to hold him and soft in the right way to be comfortable.

Cliff was staring up at them with a dark expression, but Shane ignored him, instead focusing on the nice rhythm of Jordan's thumb moving back and forth slowly along the ridge of his shoulder. Later, just as both teams were exiting the ice from warm-ups, Shane saw Cliff stop and look up to the arena stands. Shane followed his gaze to Ilya, who was standing alone on the uppermost ring, in the nosebleed area.

He was dressed in a dark grey sweatsuit, sunglasses, and a hat pulled low over his curls, trying not to be recognized by fans who would surely swarm him. It was definitely him, though. Shane could feel those eyes raking across him even though they were so far apart.

Go away. Shane felt himself growing hot. Stop looking at me.

As if to deter him, Shane fully rested his head into the crook of Jordan's neck with a tight, anxious sigh. Jordan moved his hand to the side of his head, his thumb now caressing the back of his neck where Shane's hair was tapered short. As Patrice hissed that they should get a room from behind them, Jordan planted a quick, gentle kiss into Shane's hairline. Instinctively, Shane's eyes flew up the nosebleeds. Ilya was gone.

“Ottawa is going to crush,” the unexpected comment caught their entire row by surprise, but Jordan didn't sound like he was kidding.

“Look, I hate Boston as much as anyone, but there's no way,” J.J said, gesturing as the two teams started to head back to their benches, waiting for the organizer to do her day two kick-off speech.

“Just watch,” Jordan nodded to the Boston bench. “Those idiots were out till three this morning. A friend of mine works at the stripclub they were at. She said they were kicked out when the club closed.”

“That's nuts,” J.J balked. “How stupid can they be?”

“I know,” Jordan's eyes glinted with amusement. “I guess Rozanov couldn't corral them last night.”

Shane felt Hayden stiffen next to him, then he relaxed and cleared his throat.

“So, you're friends with a stripper?” Shane let out a shaky breath as his teammate changed the subject.

Jordan smiled earnestly at Pike. “Yes. I'm gay, I'm allowed to be.” He pulled Shane closer. “You got nothing to worry about, Holly.”

Sure enough, Ottawa did crush. They beat Boston four to two, and Shane suspected that a few of the Boston players might have still been drunk. Everyone watched the Boston coach, LeClaire, lie down, his clipboard over his face. He hadn't moved since Ottawa tied it up. Ilya was still long gone, having appeared only once midgame; he probably couldn't stand watching this trainwreck.

It was sweet watching Ottawa win. Shane was genuinely happy for them, standing up with the rest of the Metros and Jordan to cheer loudly when the final buzzer blew. All the Centaurs exploded off the bench and flew onto the ice, jumping on each other and hollering in disbelief. Shane hoped no one would tell them why they won. He also hoped winning against Boston would soften the blow of their losing again right away, because everyone in the Metros section was practically frothing at the mouth to play.

“We'd better head down, guys,” Shane said, his teammates jumping up around him at the order. Then, to Jordan, he added, “See you after?”

Jordan smiled up at him as Shane stood. “Absolutely. Don't forget, you're eating at Pizza Al's after you lose.”

Shane glowered at him. “We aren't losing. And I never agreed to that!”

“Poor sport,” Jordan jeered playfully.

“How about when the Metros win, you have to take a vow of silence for a day?” Shane chirped, and the few teammates that overheard him laughed out loud.

Jordan's mouth fell open, and he leaned back against the seat as if his shock was going to bowl him over. “Fine! But when the Admirals win, you're doing whatever I want, Hollander.” He stuck out his hand, and Shane could feel eyes on him as he shook it.

It was warm, and Shane pushed down the desire to lace their fingers together.

As he and the Metros were getting changed, Shane was so focused on the other team's strategies and how best to tackle Scott Hunter in the final game that he didn't notice people were giggling around him. Or rather, at him.

“Sheesh, Hollander!”

“Wonder who that could be from?”

“Looks like someone else got into a fight with Bragg.”

Shane's chest felt tight. He pulled on his thermal wear and his jersey as fast as possible, pretending he couldn't hear anything.

“Okay, guys, lay off.” Hayden was quick to step in. “Get your heads on, we play in ten minutes. We can't let Ottawa embarrass us like they just embarrassed the Raiders, right?”

“Right, yeah.” Everyone mumbled in unison, sliding into the rest of their gear and shuffling down the hall towards the roaring arena.

No one was excited to play the Centaurs, so they were effectively treating this game like a practice run. Shane gave Hayden a guilty but thankful look as they finished suiting up. He couldn't be the Shane Hollander who was caught between two guys right now– he had to be Shane Hollander, world-renowned hockey player, Montreal's Star centre. He decided to take his embarrassment, frustration and guilt and put it all on the ice. It was the only place left to put it.

Montreal absolutely clobbered Ottawa eight to one. It was the furthest thing from a fair match, and Shane had left the lineup agitated. He still had too much chaotic energy inside of him, and it was worsened when he saw Ilya and Cliff sitting together, Ilya's eyes never leaving Shane, no matter where he went on the ice. Had Ilya told Cliff what happened last night?

Shane wished he could block them from his view. Or better yet, all the Raiders should fly back to Boston. They were in last place, Ottawa in third, and now the tie-breaking game for first was about to begin between Montreal and New York. Understandably, Jordan sat back on the other side of the arena next to the Admirals' coach, the pair talking back and forth.

As Shane toed the centre line to face off against Hunter, the arena was deafening. People were already on their feet, chanting loudly, cheering for New York. The energy was unmatched, almost the same as a cup qualifier.

“A lot riding on this game,” Shane said to Hunter with a smile, bending his head down as the puck hovered above them.

Scott didn't smile back; his eyes were sharp, and his tone was serious. “So I hear.”

In the end, the Admirals won seven to six in overtime. Theatrically, the organizers couldn't have asked for a better game. Bitterly, Shane took the silver between Nelles and Hunter. He fucking hated losing, but he softened on the small podium when he saw how much it meant to the Admirals to win, for both the charity and to make their home proud. After the formal ceremony came to a close, Shane watched Jordan run out onto the ice in his sneakers, nearly slipping, jumping into Hunter's arms. A pang of guilt ran through him. If it wasn't for Shane and Ilya, he could've played today as well.

As per usual, though, Jordan didn't seem that affected. He planted a loud kiss on Hunter's cheek, who didn't look amused, then was unceremoniously hoisted up by a few other players who bounced him around as if it was him who had won the overtime goal. Shane grinned, watching from the sidelines with his own team, each with a silver medal around their neck engraved with the foundation's name, cancer ribbon, and year.

“Stop!” Jordan was shrieking and laughing. “You're going to make me lose another fuckin' tooth!”

“Here,” Matti crouched down a little to put the last gold medal around Jordan's neck, “No thanks to you, dipshit.”

As soon as the medal thumped against his chest, Jordan was wobbling towards Shane and away from his team, who were giving quick on-ice testimonies into the camera, each singing their praises for New York and the New York Cancer Foundation.

“Be careful!” Shane chastised him as he nearly fell, the ice all cut up from the aggressive game.

Shane drifted out to meet him, wondering if he was going to flaunt the medal in his face. He didn't mind. Jordan looked so beautiful, stumbling towards him, his face flushed from laughing and his eyes bright.

He was in his stupid backwards ballcap with his hair flicking out beneath, and his Nike tech fleece jacket was half-zipped, his Admiral's shirt peeking through. He outstretched his arms as they got closer, and Shane assumed he was going to try to tackle him down to the ice. He didn't.

Jordan grabbed both sides of Shane's face, pulling them together, and kissed him. Just a few months ago, Scott did something similar with his boyfriend.

It was quick, the warmth of him only trapping Shane's mouth for a few seconds at most, but it left Shane reeling, stumbling back on his skates.

“Jordan!” Shane gaped at him.

Jordan laughed, his body folding in half and his hands resting on his knees. When he lifted his head to look at Shane, his eyes were shining.

“I had to, you looked way too upset about winning silver!”

Shane turned his head to see most of his teammates laughing amongst themselves; with them was Hayden, who smiled at Shane.

“Go on,” He mouthed at Shane, waving his hand in a shooing motion.

Plenty of his teammates had kissed their wives or girlfriends after games. This shouldn't be any different. Ignoring the alarm bells in his head that told him he was doing something terribly wrong, Shane hooked Jordan with his stick, the curve of it lassoing him around his lower back.

Pulling him closer, Shane let Jordan kiss him one more time; this time more slowly, deeper and sweeter. Jordan grabbed him by his jersey, keeping himself steady as they pressed to each other. Shane couldn't differentiate between the people who were cheering for the Admirals and his teammates behind him, whooping at him and Jordan.

“Mm,” Jordan pulled back with a dreamy expression, his eyelids low, “I love winning.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Jordan slowly let his hands drop from the Metro's jersey, his mouth pressed together in a smirk, and his ears became pink. He didn't even need to say it; Shane knew what he was thinking. He was thinking the same thing.

Later.

After the closing ceremony, there was one last all-team dinner. The organization had booked a nice restaurant downtown, a glitzy five-star French place called Maison de la Couronne. Jordan had complained about their menu, calling it overrated and unoriginal. Worst of all, to Jordan at least, they were making everyone wear suits. They had been texting back and forth while Shane was getting ready in the Hilton.

6:10

Hilt.NETWORK 44%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Jordie

Today 6:07 P.M

picking you up

You're driving?

god no. private car. meet you at your door?

With flowers?

no, with a gold medal

Dick.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on Shane's hotel room door. When he opened it, Jordan was leaning with his palm flat on the wall, his medal in his mouth, an eyebrow raised.

“Hm? What do you think? I clean up nice, right?” He dropped the medal from his lips and smiled widely.

Shane felt tingly. Jordan did look good. He looked almost more powerful in a dark navy suit than in his Admiral gear. His tie was a copper colour that made the flecks of gold in his eyes sharp, and for once in his life, he wasn't in sneakers or skates, but polished brown dress shoes that matched his belt.

Shane wondered if this was how he looked in Vegas; how could he have possibly missed him? How did he not stop in his tracks and push him to the ground to straddle him? Was he blind?

“You're staring,” Jordan grinned.

“Yeah, I am.” Shane nervously looked down the empty hall, then closed the distance between their mouths.

He had to keep it quick, worried that he would pull Jordan into his hotel room and ride him to death.

“Christ,” Jordan said quietly when they broke apart. Shane gently pushed him back a few steps with his hand on his chest, so that he could shut the door behind him. “I'm starving.”

“Then let's go,” Shane grabbed his hand and started pulling him down the hall towards the elevators.

“I'm not talking about food.”

Shane flushed, letting Jordan kiss his way up his neck as they rode down the world's slowest elevator. By the time they were moving through the lobby, Shane felt hot and dizzy, his tie slightly screwed up. Jordan was the one leading now, placing him in the back seat while Shane tried to simmer down, his breathing huffing. Jordan seemed equally worked up, sliding into the backseat without taking his eyes off him.

Pure desire, without the tinge of guilt, stormed inside of Shane as the car began to move towards the avenue that would carry them to the restaurant.

“You know,” Jordan's voice was a low, sexy murmur that still glittered with humour. “You technically should be eating a garbage plate tonight.

“Shut up,” Shane wanted to laugh, but it was a tense, thin exhale instead. “That can't be what you want.”

“No, it isn't.” Jordan watched him closely for a moment.

“You can have whatever you want tonight,” Shane forced himself to say, realizing he was being desperate for it, but too turned on to care.

“Really?”

“You won, didn't you?”

Shane swallowed hard as Jordan's hand found his in the empty middle seat between them, their fingers locking together in the dark, only illuminated in flashes from other cars passing by.

“Well, if that's the case…” Jordan leaned forward to speak to the driver, gripping Shane's hand a bit tighter as he moved.“Change of plans. Can you take us back down 78th, please?”

Chapter End Notes

Two things.

First of all, I love you all so very much. Your feedback and comments? Kindest things I've ever read.

You are angels.Second, thank you for helping me navigate Ao3 and being so patient! I'll make some tag updates and continue editing. I want to write the best story I can for you all.

P.S. I'm considering adding bonus content, but I'm still working out what that looks like on this platform. I'll try my best!

Thank you, thank you, a hundred times, thank you!-M

Chapter 15: Chapter 14

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

XIV

All evening long, Ilya had to stare at the empty seat at the head of the Metro's table. This time, no one even acknowledged it. The first time they did it, it was funny, teasing, a lighthearted suggestion; now, it was a stone-cold confirmation.

Jordan and Shane would be celebrating on their own tonight.

Ilya had told himself it wasn't going to bother him. It would be hypocritical to take issue with Shane sleeping with Jordan when he had, admittedly, never been a saint when it came to sex. He loved sex. It made him feel seen and understood, which is why he gravitated towards it so much with every woman who looked his way, and on occasion, men.

It served as a good distraction, too, and the temporary company gave him solace during the long stretches he would normally spend alone with his thoughts. That was never fun.

And then he met Shane.

As earnest and obvious as the freckles on his own darling face, Shane had clearly never done anything as reckless as a hookup, let alone with another man, but he had that night for Ilya. It felt good to derail Shane Hollander back in 2009. It felt even better when Shane started leaning into it. Flirting back, becoming more transparent in the bedroom with the things he liked, how he wanted to be touched. They were both doing something they shouldn't be doing by fucking their rival, and in that way, Ilya felt the most understood when he was with Shane.

Ilya had told himself for years that taboo sex was the only appeal of Hollander, and he kept sleeping around whenever he got lonely to help fill the time. But then, Shane went and fucked everything up. He started to really understand Ilya.

Not just the version of him that existed in the Raiders jersey like everyone else, and not the version of him that was naked and pushing inside of him like the women he kept in every city.

Well, every city but Montreal. He had never had a woman there.

In the very limited time they had together over the years, Shane had somehow chipped away at his outer shell and woven himself into Ilya. Despite sensing so, he never had the strength to keep Hollander at arm's length for long.

Ilya had continued to fuck him with the same intention he had for everyone else. He liked trouble, and it was more interesting than his regular hookups. It was never going to go anywhere. He had clung to that mindset until it was way past its sell-by date, terrified.

Ilya couldn't put an exact date on when it happened, but all at once it seemed like nothing was working.

Parties weren't fun if Shane wasn't there. Hookups were only physically releasing, but there was nothing fulfilling in them anymore. Ilya could tell he was slipping further into it, but he couldn't stop himself from texting Shane in the locker rooms, fucking him even when he had no time, inviting Shane around even when he knew Hollander would say no. A no was better than nothing. A no from Shane was better than a yes from anyone else.

Damn it.

Ilya wanted to hear a no from Shane right now. But he had to wait. At least until this stupid dinner was over.

Sitting between Cliff and Victor, Ilya tried to block out the images of Shane and Jordan together that his mind cruelly conjured. Shane on his knees, so sweet and excited to please, looking up at Jordan through his dark lashes. Shane getting huffy and whiny, as he always did when he got too worked up without any release. Shane letting Jordan inside.

All the things Shane was doing for Jordan was bad enough, but it was the things he wasn't doing that killed Ilya. Shane wouldn't run from him. He wouldn't wake up with regret or tell Jordan that he hated him.

Ilya lifted his nearly full wineglass and drank until it was completely dry.

“Sorry, man,” Cliff said in a quiet voice next to him. “This has been a bad weekend for you.”

“Mhm,” Ilya mused, realizing he had barely thought about hockey this entire cursed New York trip. Maybe he should just quit. “I'm sure worse will come.”

Cliff and Ilya both watched Victor stand up and drunkenly shuffle across the room to the Centaurs' table, slapping his hand on Chris Nelle's shoulder to say something. Ilya was shocked that any of the Raiders had the capacity to drink tonight, considering how wild they went yesterday. That being said, Ilya filled his glass with expensive white wine and chugged it down; he wanted to get wasted. He hoped that if he drank enough, he wouldn't have to think of Jordan having sex with the man he loved. Probably with his stupid gold medal around his neck.

Fucking Bragg.

“I was hoping you could catch up to him yesterday, but I didn't hear him come back to the Hilton.” Cliff followed Ilya's eyes to the Metro table.

“He was with me last night.” Ilya clarified, not changing his face or moving his gaze from the spot that Hollander should have been filling tonight.

Cliff's eyes popped, but he quickly covered his surprise with a more neutral expression. Ilya listened as his teammate drummed his fingers across the mahogany wood of the table.

“I don't understand…so he is screwing around on you?”

“I told him how I felt, and he said he hated me.”

“And then what?”

“And then we finished fucking. He left in the morning to go be with his new boyfriend.”

Ilya was expecting sympathy, but Marlow turned to him, and his eyes danced. He actually looked like he was trying not to laugh. Ilya glowered at him.

“That's funny to you?”

“I mean, sort of, yeah.”

“How so?”

“I don't know how it works between two guys–”

Ilya raised his eyebrows.

“Not that, dumbass. I mean the other stuff. When a chick tells me she hates me, that's when I know she isn't ever going to give up on me. If she says she doesn't care, then it's over.” Cliff nudged Ilya with his shoulder. “But hate? Oh, no. You got Hollander in the bag, probably for life. Hate is almost the same thing as love, the way it sticks to people.”

Ilya's heart fluttered at that idea, but he shook his head, halving his glass. “I don't think so, Marlow. He's with Bragg.”

“Right,” Cliff rolled his eyes and poked disinterestedly at his strange French dish. Some sort of lukewarm grey soup. “And you'll totally turn him away if he shows up at your apartment next month? We're playing Montreal in October, in like, five weeks.”

Ilya felt his face start to burn. Would Hollander actually go that far for him? He wanted to know. It would be one way to test Cliff's stupid-sounding hypothesis of love and hate. He could find a reason to invite Hollander over. At one point in time, Shane had bought them an entire building just so they could hook up– but he was single then. What would he do now?

Shane had said he wanted to be with Bragg, but he had also made out with Ilya and eagerly fucked him. And, in the early hours of the morning, when Ilya was half asleep, Shane held him and kissed his neck in a way the two people who were only using each other for sex did not do. He would know. He did it to Hollander, the one and only time they had napped next to each other, back in Boston.

Boyfriend or not, Ilya wanted to see if Shane would do that again.

Besides, even if it turned out that Shane was just using him for sex, he had given his heart to Shane to break as he pleased, hadn't he? Some time with Shane, morally bankrupt or not, was better than nothing. Nothing was agony.

Ilya wondered if Shane would take his call right now, if he phoned.

He wondered if Shane, spent and sleepy after being taken by Jordan, would slink out into the hall of his boyfriend's apartment and answer. Would he be flustered and try to hide the fact that he had just been having sex with someone else? Would he try to lie, or would he throw it in his face?

Ilya wasn't sure which would hurt less. He wasn't even sure if Shane would pick up. He supposed he would have to see, after things wrapped up tonight.

As he emptied his third glass of wine, Ilya noticed a pair of eyes set on him from the Admiral's table– Scott Hunter. He had meant to apologize to Scott personally for the pandemonium he had caused with Jordan on day one, captain to captain, but they both had been lost in the shuffle. This weekend felt twenty-years long to Ilya, or at the very least, like it had taken five off his life.

Dumping the rest of the wine into his glass, much to Cliff's annoyance, Ilya stood up in his stupid suit and gestured to Scott to join him in mingling closer to the bar. Ilya didn't feel like apologizing in front of Carter Vaughan and the other Admirals, who probably wanted Ilya's head on a stick. Jordan was the Admiral's baby, which did not bode well for Ilya in this situation. Matti, the defenceman, was at the top of a very long list of players to avoid for the next year or so, or Ilya was worried he'd have far worse than a broken nose to deal with.

By the time Hunter came over, Ilya was already annoyed. He fucking hated talking about Jordan.

“Hello, captain,” Ilya smiled awkwardly. “How are you?”

Scott looked tired. Maybe even more tired than Ilya. He had grey shadows under his eyes, and Ilya was sure that this weekend had also taken a toll on Hunter. The old man still looked nice in his black suit and the Admiral's signature red tie. He had a little pin on his lapel of the team logo– because of course he did. Ilya suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the try-hard team and be nice. He had fucked up one of Scott's guys, and right before the season kick-off, no less. He was on thin ice.

“Rozanov,” Scott said a little tightly. “How's the nose?”

“Hurts when I smell.” Rozanov lied. His nose hurt all the time. “How's Jordan?”

The words 'fucking bastard' almost flew out of Ilya's mouth in place of his name, but he caught them just in time, smiling politely back.

“Taking his new look in stride. Said he's going to melt down the medal and turn it into a gold tooth.” Scott began to smirk.

Without even meaning to, Ilya found himself smirking as well. It was a good idea, and it sort of fit the shit-head vibe Jordan had going for himself.

“Yes, I must hand it to him, he takes a punch very well,” Ilya deliberately flattened his mouth. He would not find Jordan Bragg amusing.

“Sorry he picked a fight with you,” Scott said as a formality, since both men knew it was Ilya who had started it. “I'll be sure he's on his best behaviour when we play you guys in November.”

“I'll try to be on my best behaviour too,” Ilya lied once again.

I will be fucking your forward's boyfriend if things go my way.

Then Scott said something that dug at Ilya.

“All things aside,” Scott started to say, then waved his hand, as if shooing away the Shane problem. “I actually think you would both get along off-ice.”

“I doubt it,” Ilya could only think of one thing they had in common, and it did not make for a good friendship.

Then, because he had a sick fascination and a buzz, he heard himself ask: “What makes you so sure? I don't know him all that well. Tell me about him.”

Ilya purposefully never looked at Bragg's social media or asked around about him this weekend. He was worried he would hear things that made him and Shane make sense together. But now that they were together, Ilya's curiosity was eating away at him.

Who was Shane going to be spending time with? What did he have that Ilya didn't? All he had heard so far was that he owned a nice restaurant downtown and that he was Canadian, like Shane.

Scott looked like he was thinking. Then he huffed through his nose and grinned, giving his head a small shake. It felt like a gut-punch. Jordan was so easy to like. It irritated Ilya. He hoped Jordan wasn't easy to love.

“Don't even know where to begin with that kid. He's a troublemaker, like you, obviously,” Scott gestured to Ilya's face. “He plays chess with Kip once a week. He's a total whiz at it. He's a big numbers guy, actually. Likes math and Rubik's cubes and all that shit. That's why he's a good forward.”

“Because math?”

“Pattern recognition. That's why he knows where you'll be before you do.”

Ilya thought about how Jordan was always in the right place at the right time when the puck would pop loose, tipping it to Hunter to knock into the net, no one on him until it was too late. In replays, he seemed almost lost, pulling back randomly or positioning himself away from the action, only to wind up with the puck a few seconds later. Prior to this weekend, Ilya had once remarked that Bragg was a bit of a mind reader on the ice, years ago.

Wait, don't tell me. The memory of Jordan smugly miming at him in Shane's hotel room resurfaced. I'm a psychic.

That pissed Ilya off. He was smiling, but pissed. “So next time I hit him, it should be his head, not his big mouth? Got it.”

Scott laughed, his eyes falling to Ilya's chest. “He's Catholic, too. Is that what that is?”

Ilya reached his hand up and felt his mother's necklace, untucked from his dress shirt and sitting crooked on his tie. “Orthodox Christian, but this was my mother's, so…” He quickly tucked it back in.

The sudden thought of Jordan attending church and speaking to God made Ilya feel guilty, and he hadn't even done anything. Yet.

“Tell me something terrible about Jordan so I don't feel bad for hitting him,” Ilya pressed. He didn't want to humanize Bragg.

“You feel bad for hitting him?” Scott's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“No. Not at all.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Well, he's a prick. You two have that in common. That and the terrible rap music you both like,” he snapped his fingers and squinted, like he was trying to recall something. “All that Lil Wayne bullshit, Travis, Drake, whoever. I could hear you playing it during your practice. Don't you two ever get tired of it? It gives me a headache.”

“Old man hates rap music, very original.” Ilya wiggled his brows at Hunter, who immediately looked exasperated.

“Okay, now you sound like him. Jesus.”

Ilya felt himself getting antsy.

He wasn't learning anything that made him feel any better; if anything, he was starting to see Jordan's appeal and why Shane was taken with him. He wasn't the one-note dumb ass with a pretty face that Ilya had discredited him as. He was hoping Jordan did something sinister in his free time, not cook and watch Drag Race. At this rate, Ilya wouldn't have anything to use against him when he called Shane.

“He's childish and stubborn, just like you. Doesn't know when to quit.” Scott added unhelpfully. “And a bad influence.”

The last addition worried Ilya. A bad influence, how? Shane had already been the drunkest Ilya had ever seen him at Virtue on Friday night, albeit, he seemed to be having a lot of fun too. Shane had danced with Jordan as well. Like, really danced.

Not like he was dancing with Rose that time in Montreal, where he was stiff and robotic. If Jordan could get Shane to kiss him in public and dance and drink, what the hell else could he do?

“What do you mean?” Ilya tried to keep concern from his voice, his glass running low after a few nervous gulps.

Scott looked over his shoulder with a paranoid glance, ensuring other team members were all at a distance. “Do not tell people about this, Rozanov. If you do, I'll deny it.”

Ilya watched in astonishment as Scott, looking totally defeated, carefully reached up and pulled down his lower lip, revealing a tattoo on the inside. Old man Hunter had an honest-to-God tattoo, and it was horrible.

“Did you lose a bet?” Ilya had to squeeze the words out from around his knuckle, a hysterical laugh bubbling inside him. “Wow, that's bad. Forever twenty-one?”

“For my jersey number!” Scott hissed, taking a step forward so he could lower his voice. “And also a dig at my age, obviously. It wasn't my idea! I was drunk with Carter and Jordan when we got them. We went out to celebrate after the semi-finals and, well…”

Ilya laughed into his hand. “I'm impressed. Are the other two just as bad?”

“No, mine's the worst.” Scott grimaced. “Carter's tattoo just says 'big shot', and Jordan's says 'skate or die', only, he spelled the word skate with an eighty-eight. His jersey number. They're supposed to fade eventually. Kip wasn't happy.”

Ilya felt his hatred being whittled away. It was a terrible feeling. It seemed like when people got close to Jordan, they could shed their inhibitions; whether it was getting a tattoo, dancing or simply being talkative. He couldn't remember a time when he was so sociable with a captain from another team, aside from Shane. Cold dread pooled around Ilya's feet when he remembered who Shane was with right now.

Was Hollander losing his inhibitions beneath Jordan? Maybe against his wall, or on his couch? Ilya suddenly felt sick. He had learned too much, and now he was regretting being curious. He was better off before, not knowing why Jordan was likable.

“You know, I bet if you and Jordan could patch things up for real, it would be better for all of you. All three of you.” Scott lifted a shoulder. “We all have to exist in the same spaces, you know?”

“Until you retire tomorrow, Mr. Twenty-One.” Ilya patted his shoulder as Scott turned to rejoin his table.

Hunter let out a long sigh. “Really wish I hadn't told you that.”

Ilya, Cliff, and a few other Raiders went out to get McDonald's after being grossed out by the snails and sludge at the fancy French place. They walked and stumbled down a few random avenues, took some photos, met a few fans, then ate normal, greasy fast food in a sticky booth while watching a soft rain come down outside.

“Now this is real French cuisine,” Victor slurred, twirling a limp French fry between his fingers.

He and a few other guys were noticeably drunk again, and Ilya made a mental note to nip their drinking in the bud as soon as they were back in Boston. Or as soon as he sobered up. Whichever came first. After the P.R and reputational disaster that was the New York Cancer Foundation weekend, they had a lot of game-winning and image-cleaning to do.

A text rattled Ilya's phone, and he all but jumped out of his skin. Ignoring the eyes on him, he stood up and walked a few feet away from the table, then frowned.

Svet: Where in N.Y are you tonight, punching bag?

Clearly, she had seen the fight and flown down. Ilya slipped his phone back into his pocket, anxious to get back to his hotel room. It was getting late, and he wanted to talk to Shane– he'd worry about hockey and Svetlana later.

It was just past midnight when Ilya could finally shake the Raiders and get back to the Best Western. He did one anxious lap around his tiny hotel room before he pulled his phone back out. His head was bubbly from all the wine, and his heart felt like a shaken soda can, but he opened his contacts anyway and began to scroll down to the J's.

He'd call Shane now, before he lost his nerve. As it rang, Ilya racked his brain for something to say. He had nothing bad to say about Jordan, thanks to Scott being sentimental and damn near fatherly towards Bragg, so slandering him was out. He landed on this being a welfare call instead, and Ilya would pretend not to know why he didn't show up for dinner tonight.

Ilya was just checking up on him, that was all. It wasn't because he needed to hear Shane's voice if he had any shot of getting a good night's sleep tonight. It definitely wasn't to make sure that Shane hadn't fallen in love with Jordan after having sex with him. Certainly not.

The phone rang and rang, then rang again. Just as Ilya was beginning to get worried he would be sent to voicemail, there was a click on the line, followed by silence.

“Hello?” Ilya said hesitantly, wondering if Shane only answered to hang up on him immediately. “Shane?”

“Hi, Lily.” A voice that wasn't Hollander was talking in a hushed voice.

Ilya slowly pulled his phone away from the side of his head, inspecting the display. He had called Shane, hadn't he?

Caller I.D: Jane

Ilya put the phone back to his ear, just as slowly. “Who's this?”

“The toothfairy.”

Ilya closed his eyes. Of course. Hollander hadn't gone back to his hotel.

“What, you screen his calls now?” Ilya lost the battle to keep anger from shaking his voice.

No answer.

“Where's Shane?”

“He's asleep.”

Dread filled Ilya, but he asked anyway. He could feel the imprint of Shane's kiss on the back of his neck burn, like someone was putting a cigarette out on him.

“Where?”

“You're asking where my boyfriend is sleeping tonight?”

Envy, pure and raw, ran its talons down Ilya from head to toe.

“Right. Your boyfriend.” Ilya could hear his words dripping with both petty jealousy and pain.

“You know, Rozanov, I might be a silly guy, but I'm not fucking stupid.” The sound of a door shutting transferred through the line, and Jordan began speaking louder. “I know you and Shane fuck. I also know that it isn't anything other than that.”

Rage slapped Ilya upside the head; he didn't want to hear about his relationship with Shane from Jordan's perspective. Boyfriend or not, it had nothing to do with him.

Before Ilya could start to defend what he and Shane were to one another, Jordan pressed on.

“I understand it's difficult, but you should do the right thing here. I can offer Shane more than you can. He deserves something real, don't you think?”

He couldn't argue with that. Shane did deserve more than cheap sex in hotel rooms, but it was Ilya who wanted to give that to him. He wanted a life with Shane; he didn't want to be on the sidelines while Hollander played house with some loudmouth Admiral.

He wanted to eat Shane's horrible, healthy meals; he wanted to hear Shane rattle off his insane anxieties and be the one to help walk him back. God damn it. He wanted Shane to own his heart, and he wanted to own Shane's in return. If he had just gone about it the right way in Boston instead of trying to goad Shane into confessing first, none of this mess would have happened.

The heat of anger started to swarm Ilya, and he struggled to keep his voice low and level. “So, now what? You want me to go away? Join the rest of New York.”

“Let's not be childish about this, Rozanov.” Jordan's tone dipped suddenly, just as it had right before he punched Ilya in his face. “Do you love him?”

Ilya opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

He wanted to blow Jordan's eardrum in half by screaming yes, but he was nervous. He had said it to Shane over and over yesterday, he had whispered it to Cliff and Svetlana in restaurants, but now, confronted by his boyfriend, Ilya couldn't seem to get the words out.

Loving Shane was the hardest thing he had ever done, and it hadn't turned out right — not yet. Loving him openly meant exposing his soft underbelly, giving people like Bragg something to weaponize. Ilya had never loved before, let alone out loud.

“Hmph,” a triumphant sound came from Jordan as Ilya hesitated. “Looks like I don't have anything to worry about after all.”

“You do–” Ilya started, then hissed in annoyance as the line clicked in his ear.

Bragg hung up on him.

Out of options and quickly sobering, Ilya texted Svetlana his room number. Jordan might have won tonight, but Ilya was determined to win forever. He knew just the woman to consult for strategy.

_ _

Bonus content because you were all very brave during the Ao3 blackout. My rough, poorly drawn sketch of Jordan Bragg. Or sort of what I think he might look like. Probably?

Be gentle, I'm a writer, not an artist lol. That being said, if you are an artist, by all means, take a crack at drawing Jordan.

Image summary: A digital character profile sketch of Jordan Bragg, a 24-year-old man in 2018. The portrait depicts a young man with shoulder-length brown hair, green eyes, and a small scar on his chin, wearing a black shirt with a sports team logo. The image is surrounded by handwritten labels detailing his personal facts: he is 6 feet 1 inch tall, wears jersey number 88, is left-handed, is a middle child, and is a Leo born on August 14, 1994. Additional icons and text indicate his Portuguese and Canadian heritage, his Catholic faith, and his status as a lefty.

Chapter End Notes

Whoa, that Ao3 blackout was bonkers.Hopefully the site stays up and everyone can enjoy reading! Unless you hate Jordan. Then you might not like what's coming up. Hahahah!Enjoy the update and the silly lil drawing I had time to do when the site collapsed. :)

Chapter 16: Chapter 15

Chapter Notes

Content Note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content and mature themes.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

XV

After exiting the private car, Shane waited for Jordan to open the door to his building with anticipation and nervousness clinging to his every breath. A soft rain was starting to mist down from the dark, overcast sky, finally breaking after being full all day.

Shane was excited to sleep with Jordan, but he was also a bit frightened. Not only was his body physically marked up from Ilya last night, but his soul felt a little warped. He wanted to give himself over to Jordan completely tonight, but another, smaller part of him wanted Jordan to override any imprint that Ilya had left behind.

He hadn't found the courage to mention what happened last night to Jordan. Between all their kissing and frantic touching, Shane couldn't find the right moment to mention it. Now, his heart felt heavy with the pending confession as the door clacked open.

“Are you sure, Shane?” As if he could sense him faltering, Jordan opened the door only slightly before turning to look at him.

Jordan's question wasn't a challenge or teasing. He had that tone again, like when they almost kissed at the crosswalk. It somehow made Shane more flustered than when Jordan was teasing him. He was looking at him like he was thinking of all the ways he wanted to take him apart, and desire unfurled deep within Shane. He wanted to find out.

“Yes,” Shane said quietly, barely audible over the rain. “Yes.”

Jordan tucked a curled finger under his chin, forcing Shane to raise his head and meet his eyes. His stare was hungry, but his expression was patient.

“One more time?”

Shane took in a shaky breath, desperate for their mouths to be together.

He didn't want to think of Ilya any longer. He would do or say anything to get him off his mind.

“Please, Jordan.”

A second later, all the air was driven out of Shane as Jordan slammed him against the back wall of his building's elevator. His mouth was hectic, moving from Shane's lips to his neck while his hands explored. He was kissing Shane with the ferocity of someone who had already forgotten that he had stitches in his lower lip.

“Fuck, oh fuck.” Shane muttered a bit helplessly as their bodies pressed tightly to each other, Jordan's knee grinding between Shane's legs and along his erection, which ached inside his dress pants.

By the time they were on the penthouse floor, Jordan had untucked Shane's shirt, untied both their ties, and was fumbling with Shane's belt as they moved backward blindly, their lips barely coming apart.

“Jesus Christ,” Jordan huffed, finally slipping his hand inside Shane's pants. “Fuck, Shane.”

Shane moaned under his touch and haphazardly tugged at Jordan's suit jacket, which was quickly discarded to the floor. They stumbled through the living room and, when the back of Shane's knees found the bed, Jordan forced him to sit down, chasing his mouth the entire way.

One by one, Jordan undid the buttons of Shane's dress shirt, kissing his exposed chest feverishly before folding the shirt neatly over his arm. Shane wiggled free of his pants and then, more slowly, he slipped free from his boxers.

For a moment, Jordan stood there, drinking in Shane and his nakedness. He was looking at him like he was something wonderful, and embarrassment started to heat Shane's face.

Shane held out his underwear for Jordan to take, but when he reached for it, Shane pulled it away with a smile, a small get-back for all the times before.

Jordan's lust-drunk expression cracked for a moment as a smile split his face, then he snatched Shane's underwear and neatly squared all the clothes away on his nightstand.

“Not fair,” Shane complained, scooting back on the bed. “Get naked, Bragg.”

Jordan was so hard, and Shane's hands itched to touch him. He wanted to see all of him.

“Hm.” Jordan nodded, undoing the very top button of his dress shirt deliberately, slowly, then all at once he grabbed and pulled his shirt open, broken buttons clattering to the floor.

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling a moment later as Jordan slid his pants off.

“Take your fucking…,” Jordan suddenly grabbed Shane by the ankles. “Reebok socks off!”

Jordan yanked the socks off Shane's feet, throwing them behind him with two soft thuds. He was laughing up until Jordan sank down, kissing the twitching tip of his cock.

“Ah,” Shane writhed, trying hard not to buck his hips up impatiently. “Jordan.”

Slick warmth enveloped him as Jordan pulled Shane all the way into his mouth in one smooth motion.

“Your lip!” Shane gasped at him, grabbing the top of Jordan's head in an effort to pull him off.

Jordan double-downed, greedily sucking while his fingers pressed firm against Shane's raised calves. He muttered something around his cock, his voice hitching in the middle, probably from pain. Shane felt his brain flip between worry and pleasure.

“I have never seen someone stubbornly suck dick before!” Shane scolded, worried that Jordan was reopening the wound.

Jordan came off him with a wet pop, wiping spit from the corner of his smirk. “Now you have.”

Shane raised himself off the bed and pulled Jordan into a kiss, allowing the forward's massive form to cover him completely.

“Wanted this for so long,” Jordan said, sliding their erections together. “You.”

“Since the summer?” Shane thought back to when he accidentally liked his photo and smiled.

“Since I saw you in Vegas. At the awards.”

Shane paused, his mouth open. “What, seriously?”

Jordan rolled off Shane to lie down properly in bed, then lazily stroked himself, a pleased expression on his face. “I wanted to fuck you so bad, but you were too distracted. You didn't even notice how I was shamelessly hitting on you at the afters.”

Shane racked his memory for that night, but all he could think about was Ilya.

Sheepishly, Shane realized he didn't remember talking to Jordan at all that night. Had Jordan teasingly offered to buy Shane a drink despite it being an open bar? Had he blown Jordan off, claiming he didn't drink, only to be drinking straight bitter vodka in Ilya's bed, feeling fucked but strangely untouched?

He must have been wearing his guilt on his face, because Jordan stopped stroking himself and gestured to Shane to come closer, his large bicep resting behind his head.

“It's okay, Holly. Come here and make it up to me.”

Shane kissed his way up Jordan's thighs, then delicately licked at his cock as Jordan cradled his face.

“Unbelievable.” The praise was hushed and encouraging.

Shane relaxed and took Jordan in deep. He lowered his eyes in focus to not gag, finally hitting the hilt and squeezing a long, gravelly moan out of Jordan, whose fingers were lost in his hair.

“Hollander,”

Shane glanced up to see Jordan watching him with a struck expression. He silently mouthed the word yes, and Shane pursued a gentle pace, gradually picking up speed until it was a steady bob. Jordan was swearing, his voice echoing off the walls, and he let out a satisfying guttural sound when Shane paused at the base of his cock.

“I want to fuck you,” Jordan's voice cracked in pure desperation from above him. “Can I?”

Shane pulled off so he could nod, his body aching and his mind racing. “You'd better.”

After a few minutes of Jordan flexing his fingers inside him, Shane was begging. Pleading.

They both groaned as Jordan sank his entire weight down into Shane. Falling forward, Jordan lifted his head so they could look into each other's eyes. He watched intently, rolling his hips only once, drawing out a soft, breathless moan from Shane.

“You okay?” he asked tightly, studying Shane's face for any discomfort.

“Mm,” Shane nodded shyly. “Too slow.”

Jordan's laugh vibrated both their chests, and Shane took the opportunity to push a few tender kisses into the side of his neck between smiles.

When he was finished giggling, Jordan put his mouth on Shane's, and they kissed in a warm haze. They only broke apart because Shane had to tip his head back to cry out as Jordan started a firm rhythm inside him.

When it slowed slightly, Shane's eyes fluttered open to see Jordan carefully inspecting the mark Ilya had left on his collarbone, his fingertips just grazing the skin.

Fear made Shane stiffen, his mind buffering for some sort of excuse. Some sort of explanation. Nothing came to mind.

“Jordan–.”

“Someone's been too rough with you.” The gentle comment wasn't laced with any judgment, only observation.

Shockingly, Jordan lightly kissed the mark, then moved a trail of soft kisses up Shane's neck.

“Don't worry,” he murmured right into Shane's ear. “Let me make you forget all about that.”

Not entirely dissimilar to how he was egged on by a booing crowd, the louder Shane got, the deeper Jordan drove himself in. He was clinging to Jordan's back with one hand, the other balling up the sheets until they were under real threat of being torn to shreds.

“Holy fuck,” Shane's voice crumbled between thrusts.

He was still achy from the night before with Ilya, but the pressure inside him now satisfied like poking at a bruise. Pleasure and pain twisted together until Shane couldn't tell one from the other.

His other sexual experiences with men, like the guy from the coffee shop or the bartender in Mexico, were good. It was fun, especially when it passed the initial awkward fumbling, and it did what it needed to do.

This was different. Jordan was fucking him like it was oxygen. Jordan was fucking him like Ilya fucked him.

“Jesus, Shane,” Jordan spoke, breaking Shane's train of thought. “Come here.”

Gently, Jordan pulled out of him and rolled Shane to his side, maneuvering him so that he could cradle him carefully from behind. He lifted Shane's thigh and kept his hand there as a support as he slipped back inside.

The new angle was merciless, and Shane found himself trembling as Jordan started shifting in and out of him.

“Oh,” Shane felt like he was plummeting down a rollercoaster drop, his stomach flipping with every snap of Jordan's hips. “Oh, my God.”

It was so overwhelming he almost wanted to squirm away. He twisted slightly, placing a hand on Jordan's ribcage in an attempt to put a bit of distance and time between each thrust.

Jordan didn't let up. In fact, Shane heard him laugh.

When he managed to open his eyes, Shane was in disbelief. His vision was blurry; Jordan had fucked him to tears.

Shane would have been embarrassed, but he was too filled with euphoria. Even more so when Jordan kissed his damp cheek, cooing into his ear without stopping his brutal pace.

“I know, baby. I know.” Jordan's grip on his hair loosened to a gentle caress. “Let me take you there.”

Shane was already there. He had been there, teetering on the brink, since Jordan had him on his back. Every second beyond that had been a brutal fight to keep his orgasm at bay– a battle he was quickly losing.

Jordan pressed a warm kiss on Shane's neck, like a permission, and Shane started to unravel. His breath became frantic, his whines growing high-pitched.

“Jordan,” Shane could barely slur his name out.

“Yes,” Jordan's voice went low, his tone deadly serious. “Come for me, Shane.”

Shane felt the final warm rush fall from his abdomen and into his groin. “I'm–”

“Do it,” Jordan encouraged softly, snaking his arm under Shane's so he could place his palm flat on Shane's trembling chest. “I got you.”

He couldn't take it any more– not with Jordan talking him through it like this. The dam inside Shane burst open, his vision filling with white sparkling spots, dizzying him until he had to squeeze his eyes shut. He released into Jordan's stroking hand and all across his sheets. Shane folded his hand over Jordan's tightly as he came, worried he was actually falling to pieces.

“Holy shit,” Jordan rumbled into Shane's hair. “Incredible.”

Shane couldn't find words; he merely shuddered violently in response.

“Can you take it if I keep going?” Jordan asked, his voice stretched and tight.

Shane nodded, even though he wasn't sure. Completely spent already, he had to breathe hard through the last few thrusts as Jordan brought himself up to the edge.

When his huffy breathing turned to harsh grunting and his hips started to lose rhythm, Shane twisted his head back to watch. Jordan's dark green eyes, already clouded with lust, stormed darkly and shut as his orgasm ripped through him and entered Shane.

“Oh, fuck.” Jordan swore against Shane's skin as he emptied himself, his vice grip loosening.

After a long moment of coming down, Jordan pulled out slowly and rolled onto his back, guiding Shane with him.

Shane studied the industrial loft ceiling. His mind was wiped. For the first time all weekend, Shane couldn't think. It was a wonderful feeling.

Catching Jordan smiling at him from the corner of his eye, Shane turned his head and smiled back.

“What?”

“Was it good for you, too, then?”

“Shut up,” Shane had little face to save, since the sheets were in ruins. “And yes.”

“Gold medal good?”

“Shut up.”

Jordan wiggled from bed, fussing a little to get the condom free before tying it off and throwing it in the trash.

“Stay put.” Jordan pointed at Shane as he walked toward the bathroom, still starkly naked.

Shane did as he was told, listening to Jordan open a drawer and the rush of water from the sink.

That was really, really good.

Maybe some of the best sex Shane had ever had.

He found himself smiling at nothing in particular as Jordan returned, a warm and wet washcloth in his hand. As Shane reached out to take it, Jordan pulled it away, but this time he captured Shane's outstretched hand in his.

“Let me,” Jordan gently redirected.

Shane sighed contentedly as Jordan cleaned him up, squirming a bit as the cloth dragged across his stomach in a way that tickled. Once an area was clean, Jordan planted kisses on the same spots. It was so painfully sweet that Shane almost couldn't watch.

Jordan didn't invite Shane to stay the night, and Shane didn't ask either. It was left unsaid.

Instead, Jordan lifted Shane to his feet and led him to the bathroom, handing him the green toothbrush he had used yesterday after the club. They brushed side by side, the only difference being Jordan had gone out and bought Shane's weird brand of healthy toothpaste.

They talked about how bamboo sheets were the best since they both slept hot as they stripped and remade the bed. Instead of asking Shane to stay, Jordan asked which side of the bed Shane slept on. Shane slept on the left and Jordan, apparently, slept in the middle.

He didn't take the bait when Jordan handed him yet another Admirals team shirt to sleep in for the night; it was soft and heather grey, the stupid logo taking up the entire chest. Shane happily accepted it.

“No photos,” was all he said with a smirk, pulling it over his head.

Crawling into bed, Shane met Jordan in the middle and kissed him softly, lifting his hand up to his face. He traced the stitching around his lower lip with a careful finger.

“Sorry,” Shane whispered, letting the common knowledge of why the fight occurred slip away into the night.

In response, Jordan kissed him more deeply, pulling them flush against the mattress and close together, their legs tangling.

“Sorry that I'm going to kick your ass this season, I mean.” Shane moved off the forbidden topic. “Next cup goes to the Metros.”

Jordan frowned into Shane's hair. “I was hoping I'd fucked the talent out of you.”

“Pretty close,” Shane admitted with a soft laugh that morphed into a yawn.

“I was thinking we could do this again sometime. Maybe just you and me?” Jordan sounded a bit nervous, which made Shane a bit nervous in response.

“I was thinking the same thing. Maybe we do it all the time?” Shane curled his head against the curve of his chest and smiled into Jordan's warm skin.

“I'd like that a lot.”

“Goodnight, Jordan.”

“Goodnight, Holly.”

And it would have been a good night.

It would have been a perfect night, actually, if Shane hadn't woken up to get a glass of water around two in the morning and seen that Ilya had called him. It hadn't gone to voicemail, either.

Jordan had picked it up.

Guilt floored Shane; his knees buckled as he stared at the glowing call log in the otherwise dark kitchen.

What did they talk about? What did Ilya tell him?

Jordan hadn't shaken him awake in an outrage and kicked him out, but it was obvious he knew. He had implied as much when he and Ilya fought, and then again with the hickey tonight. Ilya was saved as Lily in his phone. There was no denying who it was now.

Panicked, Shane began looking around in the dark for somewhere to hide away.

In nothing but his boxers and Jordan's Admirals shirt, Shane took his phone out onto the balcony that overlooked the twinkling New York night. The rain had stopped, and the damp city shone under artificial lights. Satellites and airplanes blinking in the dark made Shane homesick for the stars.

He slid the door closed quietly, peering at the shadows inside to make sure he didn't wake Jordan.

Without a plan of what to say, Shane called Ilya back.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Shane?”

As soon as he heard Ilya's voice, he knew the call was a mistake. He had just finished making things official with Jordan a few hours ago; the hell was he doing?

His stomach immediately knotted, and the shame and fear he had been battling back all weekend rose to the surface. The shame of being so wrapped up in Ilya in the past. The fear that he still was, even now.

Shane took a shaky breath in, the cold air raw against his lungs. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

Immediately, Shane felt a sharp pressure behind his eyes, like he wanted to cry. He was okay; he was totally fine. He had a great time with Jordan tonight, so why were his eyes stinging so badly? He felt like he was being torn in two.

The last time he had spoken to Ilya, he was walking out on him, confident that he had gotten rid of whatever had them tied together. But now, on the phone, Shane felt utterly tangled.

“Mhm,” Shane tried to clear his throat, but his voice cracked anyway. “You called?”

“Where's Jordan?”

Shane shot an ashamed glance over his shoulder into Jordan's dark penthouse. “Uhm, asleep?"

A long pause inched through the invisible telephone wire between them.

“Was it okay?” Ilya asked quietly, his voice shaking as he spoke.

Shane recoiled, as if his cellphone had turned into a snake.

Outraged, it took serious effort not to shout into the receiver. “What?”

Throughout their time together, Shane never pried into who Ilya was sleeping with. He never wanted to know; it hurt too much to think about it, let alone ask. They were never committed to one another, but Shane had always made Ilya a priority when he was in town. Embarrassingly, Shane couldn't be sure Ilya had ever done the same for him. He'd rather stay ignorant.

“I wanted to make sure he didn't hurt you. You sound upset.” The voice on the other end was as soft as cashmere, not at all like the biting tone Shane had expected. “Are you really okay, sweetheart?”

Indignation boiled inside of Shane, and to his dismay, a few tears fell onto the balcony railing. Without realizing it, he had been gripping onto the bar so tightly his curled fingers had gone white.

“Is that why you called? To see if I had a good time?” Shane ground his knuckle into his eyesocket, wishing he could push his tears back into himself.

He ignored the pet name; it only made him angrier. “What the fuck do you want, Rozanov? Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Why is Jordan answering your phone?”

Panic flared in Shane again. “What did you tell him?”

“Not as much as I should have.”

“Ilya,” Shane felt like he was being backed into a corner. “Don't–”

“I want to talk to you before we leave New York.”

“No.”

“Yes, Shane. Come see me.”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit,” he could hear Ilya becoming exasperated. “This isn't right. I know you feel it too.”

“I don't.” Shane lied. It came out too urgent, too fast. “All we do is fuck, remember?”

Ilya made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Why did you call me back, Shane?”

Shit.

Shane let the sounds of passing sirens on the street below fill the silence.

He wouldn't say that he wanted to hear Ilya's voice before going to bed, or to confess that his body ached from a touch that wasn't his. He didn't call Ilya to hear his name being said in his accent because it hit differently. Certainly not.

“Come here, Shane,” The insane request was whispered like a prayer. “I want to sleep next to you.”

Shane wanted to kill the part of him that screamed to run to the Best Western. He was supposed to be putting Ilya in his past starting yesterday, but it was only three hours into the next morning, and he had already fucked up.

Why had he called Ilya? Why was he crying?

“What, did you strike out that bad with the women of New York?” Shane flicked tears away from his face, trying to stay angry.

“I don't do that anymore,” Ilya didn't sound defensive. He sounded sad. “I don't want anyone but you.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sappy, naive thoughts he had in his early twenties about the life he had wanted with Ilya. It had always been Ilya. Before he even knew what word to place on his sexuality, Shane knew it was Ilya.

As jaded as he was now, that truth had never gone away.

But, fuck, now what?

Shane could feel his resolve starting to crack.

Ilya wasn't saying anything else; he was waiting for Shane to say something. He was waiting for Shane to decide.

The voice of a woman speaking, her accent sultry and Russian, cut through the sound of them breathing heavily to one another.

Ilya?

She decided for Shane. He immediately hung up.

That was close. Too close.

He had nearly fallen for it again.

Shane's heart was thundering in his chest as he crept back inside the apartment. He deleted the call from his history, muted Lily's contact, and carefully slipped back into bed beside Jordan. Hoping to God his heartbeat wouldn't wake him as he curled himself back between his boyfriend's arms, Shane tried to scrub away the call from his mind and sleep.

He might have fucked up tonight, but tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, he and Jordan would go get breakfast together with Hayden and J.J, as a couple.

Tomorrow, he and his boyfriend would act as if neither of them spoke to Ilya Rozanov last night.

Shane could leave it all in the past.

Starting tomorrow.

Chapter End Notes

Everyone, take a deep breath.You gotta make a home to wreck it, right?...Are you mad at me?Hahaha.

Chapter 17: Chapter 16

XVI

Svetlana was sitting on the end of the creaky Best Western bed, watching Ilya lie flat on his back on the floor, his palms pressed into the concaves of his eyes. Shane had hung up as soon as he heard someone in the background. He didn't even give Ilya a chance to explain himself. He had tried to call back twice, but both times he was sent directly to voicemail.

Ilya had thought about leaving a message begging Shane to call him back so he could set things straight, but the fear of Jordan finding it first prevented it. So instead, he crawled onto the floor.

Svetlana had come to New York after seeing Ilya get punched in the face on television. It was a short stopover on her way to Los Angeles, where she was doing some business with her company's shareholders. Ilya was glad to have her here, even if she was thoroughly disgusted by both the accommodations and Ilya's behaviour.

“You are like a kicked dog, Ilya.” She chided him as she scrolled through Jordan's Instagram. “And not to kick you again, but he's really cute.”

Ilya groaned loudly in response.

“So he asked you if you loved Hollander, and you choked, hm?”

Ilya groaned again.

Shane was so close, but so far. Hearing his sweet, nervous voice trembling on the phone had broken Ilya's heart, and it had scared him, too. Shane dodged the question of whether or not he was really okay, and it left Ilya worried. He could set aside Shane having sex with someone else for now–he didn't care. He just wanted to hold Shane.

The irony of what he said to Jordan before their fight had crawled back to bite him in the ass. Hard. Ilya wanted Jordan to send Shane back to his bed now, but he knew he wouldn't. Selfish bastard. In a twisted way, Ilya found himself hoping Shane enjoyed himself. Just not more than he enjoyed himself with Ilya.

“Wow, look at this. He's even got a pretty big–.”

Ilya flew upright, throwing his hands out in disbelief.

“I thought you came here to make me feel better!” Ilya shouted. Someone in the room next door banged on the wall, irritated.

Svetlana gave him an impatient look, turning her cellphone around so Ilya could see the review page for a place called Vicky's pulled up on her screen.

“... Restaurant. Downtown.” She finished flatly, then patted the space next to her on the bed. “Come here, psycho.”

Begrudgingly, Ilya pulled himself up and slugged over to the bed, letting himself fall into her well-toned arms.

For once, Svetlana wasn't dressed to the nines like the model she could be; she was more relaxed, wearing a soft grey sweatsuit with gold zippers on the pockets that Ilya fiddled with absentmindedly. Her curly auburn hair was bunched back into a claw clip, and her face was bare, which Ilya preferred. Svetlana had soft freckles that were often lost under makeup, and it was comforting to see them.

Once upon a time, they would take opportunities like this to hookup. Their long-standing friends-with-benefits relationship was reliable and had existed since they were teenagers, but it fell apart after Ilya met Shane. Now, thankfully, Svetlana was a dear friend; her company was exactly what Ilya needed right now.

Running her long red nails through his curls, she comforted Ilya in the early hours of the morning. Both of them had decided they missed the boat with getting any sleep tonight, so instead, Ilya laid on her lap while she scrolled through Instagram and caught up on a few emails. Neither of them acknowledged it out loud when a few stray tears escaped from Ilya's eyes. They fell silently and left darkened spots along her pant leg.

“What if I'm not better than him?” Ilya whispered out the fear that had been shadowing the corners of his mind since he met Jordan.

“You don't have to be better than him. You just need to be better for Hollander.”

“What if I'm not?”

Svetlana paused her gentle raking of Ilya's curls and cradled her hand beneath his chin, then bent forward to kiss him on the crown of his head.

“Then I'll be here to pick you up; that way, you can try again.”

“I love you,” Ilya sniffed, his nose buzzing with pain.

“I love you too,” Svetlana went back to combing through his hair. “I'm sorry I scared Shane off.”

“Wasn't you, it was me.”

“Still, if I ever get to meet the man who's made such a mess of you, I'm happy to explain.”

Ilya smiled at the idea of Shane meeting Svetlana, as well as his other friends. He knew that Shane and Svetlana would get along. They were both hockey-obsessed. Even the idea of them meeting and getting to know one another made Ilya's heart soft.

While Marlow wanted Ilya to be happy, he wasn't the biggest fan of Shane right now. He hoped Cliff would come around– it would mean a lot to have all the people he cared about in one room with the man he loved one day.

If that was even possible.

He and Svetlana lazed in bed with an eye on the clock. She and Ilya both had a flight to catch in the late afternoon; her to L.A, and Ilya back to Boston with the Raiders. They could grab breakfast before they went their separate ways, and Ilya really needed food that wasn't greasy fries or fancy French crap. And no more booze, either. His hangover and lack of sleep was making his head throb in time with his heartbeat.

When places were finally starting to open up, Ilya got changed and waited out in the hall for Svetlana to finish getting ready, opening and closing his message thread with Shane. He had pleaded to talk to Shane before they left New York, but he was almost certain that wasn't going to happen. He didn't know what time Shane was flying back to Montreal.

Svetlana appeared in the hallway just as Ilya had brought up the J.F.K airport schedule. She was all made up, her freckles lost between blush and a sparkly highlight. Judging by her crisp cream pantsuit, Ilya guessed that she'd be leaving L.A.X airport and heading straight to meetings. She likely had no time on her hands, yet she stopped by to kiss Ilya better and hear him complain about how he fumbled Hollander. Ilya's heart wobbled when she smiled at him. He wasn't sure if he would ever get to marry Shane, but if he did, he would want Svetlana to be there. She could be his best man– or best girl. Or whatever they called it in the West.

“Stalker, much?” She mused, peering down at Ilya's screen while pulling her suitcase behind her.

Ilya put his phone into his pocket, then took her bag for her.

“I was just–.” Ilya began defensively, but both he and Svetlana turned their heads as the door across the hall opened.

Hayden Pike was fussing with a zipper on the front of his black carry-on bag; it was caught on the arm of a small green teddy bear wearing a little orange scarf.

“Can't sleep without it?” Ilya couldn't help himself; he found himself smiling and pointing at the Metro.

Hayden's head popped up, his startled blue eyes darting rapidly between Ilya and Svetlana. Ilya kicked himself, knowing that Hayden, although extremely annoying, was one of Shane's best friends. Despite Pike hating his guts, Ilya made a mental note to try to be nicer. The people Shane cared about should be people he cared about too. Just not Jordan. Never Jordan.

“It's my daughter's,” Hayden pressed his lips into a line. “I packed it by mistake.”

“Bring it to class, since you're dressed like a school teacher.”

Oops. Ilya bit the inside of his cheek. He would need to practice being nice to people like Hayden.

“It was all I had! Lay off,” Ilya watched Hayden smooth out his sage green button-down. “I don't know what to wear when meeting someone's boyfriend.”

As soon as he said it, Hayden made a face like he just stepped in something terrible. Ilya felt Svetlana tense beside him.

“Ah, right,” Ilya responded slowly, his heart in his stomach. “Tell Shane I'll see him in October, in Boston.”

“You mean you'll see all of us for the game?” Hayden regarded Ilya with open suspicion. “Right?”

“Sure,” was all he offered coolly in response, then Ilya waited for Hayden to head towards the elevator. Pike passed a narrow-eyed look over his shoulder at them as he walked away

“He does not like you,” Svetlana muttered when Hayden was far enough down the hall.

“He and Jordan should start a club.”

At breakfast, Ilya listened intently as Svetlana outlined each of her recommendations at the crowded brunch restaurant. He was thankful that few people in America spoke Russian, and that everyone in New York was too self-absorbed to be interested in their conversation.

“Maybe part of the reason why Hollander is uneasy is that you are still closeted,” Svetlana broke open a bright orange yolk across a piece of toast. “Understandably so. It's easy for these Western players to come out. Or at least, it's easier. They don't know what it's like on the other side.”

“But I do have my green card, and I'm coming up on citizenship eligibility this summer,” Ilya assured her. “If I come out as bisexual, then Russia will want to get rid of me anyway. Let them write me off as an athlete who became too influenced by America's ideologies. I have nothing there– I only ever came back for you.”

Svetlana's eyes went soft, and she reached across the table to pat Ilya's hand. “Eat, Ilya. You'll need strength to be brave.”

Ilya sliced up his omelet with a sparse appetite, too consumed with the plan he had hatched with Svetlana.

Ilya wanted to fight for Shane; that much was clear. If he thought doing so would win him back, Ilya would beat Jordan into a puddle, but it was clear that wasn't the way. It wouldn't do anyone any good, and besides, Jordan was tougher than he appeared. Svetlana had warned him that murdering an Admiral would not impress Shane.

Hollander already knew that he was upset and had the capacity to be petty, jealous and angry– what he needed to be was honest. Svetlana had lovingly harped on him in the same way that Cliff had, only with a more feminine guidance. Cliff had implored him not be insane when it came to Hollander, but Svetlana was giving him advice on what that looked like.

Slandering and talking down on Jordan, as much as it came naturally, was not the right move. According to Svet, Hollander wouldn't be interested in Ilya's opinions of Jordan because Jordan wasn't the reason they weren't together.

After filling her in on how long and how deep their affair ran, Svetlana was almost certain that while Shane and Ilya loved one another, they had missed the first opportunity to act on it. The fumble had left them both shaken, and now they were both acting out. It was like a terrible standoff in which they were still waiting to see if the other was bluffing.

But Ilya wasn't bluffing anymore. He just couldn't convince Hollander of that.

If he sat back and did nothing, it would be like he was admitting to Shane that he didn't care, that his absence didn't burn Ilya alive. Then, on the other hand, if he pushed too hard, he would end up pushing Shane right into Jordan's arms. He couldn't have that, either.

“I didn't realize love could be so complicated,” Ilya miserably speared a piece of egg. “Why doesn't he just come back now that we can be what we wanted?”

“You were the one who didn't hear him out in Florida,” Svetlana dipped her fork at him. “You have to love him like you mean it, Ilya. You can't just say it anymore.”

Ilya huffed. He did want to show Shane. He wanted to love Shane every day, in a thousand ways, but now Hollander wouldn't even pick up his calls.“What if he won't see me in October?”

“What if he moved to Nunavut to ice fish alongside the Inuit?”

Ilya furrowed his brows together as Svetlana smiled at him over her coffee.

“I would… buy snow shoes, I guess?”

“Atta boy.”

Ilya watched Shane and Jordan at the airport from a middle distance as they kissed goodbye. Jordan had his hands around Shane's waist, his mouth was pressed to his ear, and they were trying to stay out of sight, tucked between two pillars, while people swarmed around them.

Ilya wished he hadn't spotted Jordan's stupid backwards hat with the Admirals logo on it. He wished he had gone blind after breakfast.

Like a car crash, Ilya couldn't take his eyes off the two of them. They were folded into one another, talking, kissing, then pulling away to talk some more. It was impossible to hear, but Ilya could swear that through the buzz of the airport, he could hear their mouths coming together and pulling apart.

He knew he should turn around and go through the security gate already; his flight was leaving earlier than Montreal's, but he couldn't lift his feet.

How could something make him want to run and stun him still at the same time?

Ilya felt himself flinch as they kissed again, deeply. Shane was pushing his fingers through Jordan's hair with his eyes closed.

Was it okay?

Ilya felt like the floor was opening beneath him. He remembered how hard it was kissing Shane goodbye, too.

“Don't let it get to you,” Cliff was suddenly beside him, his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Come on, captain.”

Before Ilya could protest, Marlow had taken his bag from his shoulder and used his free hand to grab him by his elbow, forcing Ilya to walk away.

Sitting at their gate with the rest of the Raiders, Ilya had to put his head between his legs. Inside and out, he was battered. And he wasn't the only one.

The entire team looked extremely wrung out; everyone had dark raccoon circles around their eyes. Half of them were sipping on overpriced airport Gatorade while the other half dozed in grubby tracksuits.

Of course, three gates over, the Metros were all bright-eyed and talkative, buzzing about how the charity weekend was projected to bring in over a million dollars already for the New York Cancer Foundation. Ilya had watched Shane and J.J. walk by, talking rapidly back and forth in French.

As captain, Ilya knew the moment the wheels lifted off the tarmac that he would need to have a speech in his pocket to get his team back on track. LeClaire was pissed and embarrassed, and no doubt they would all feel it in a few days at season kick-off.

In November, Boston would be back in New York, and they would have to be back for blood.

“Holding up okay?” Cliff asked above Ilya, his big hand coming down in a gentle pat on his back. “Rozanov?”

“My head is killing me,” Ilya lied. While his head did hurt, it was his chest that ached.

“Go get some Advil.”

“No time, we board soon.”

“Then go ask Hollander.”

Now Ilya really did feel sick. He lifted his head and gave Marlow a sideways glance, full of uncertainty.

“Go,” Cliff's mouth curled in a smile, and he gestured with a tilt of his head.

Ilya had wanted to talk to Shane, hadn't he? Even if that meant buying snow shoes, or, in this case, walking into a pit of vipers who wanted to bite him. The Metros.

The lively chatter hushed to a snake-like hiss when Ilya pulled up to the seating area full of opposing players. The Metros and Raiders were going head-to-head as one of the first-season games, of course, to play up the hype on the league's greatest rivalry.

That was definitely one of the reasons the Metros didn't want Ilya around. That, and most of the players hated him personally.

Agitation raked Ilya when he remembered how Jordan so effortlessly rolled into the Metros seating area at the New York arena. Brazen, basically skipping, with a big dumb smile on his face. Bragg had cuddled right up to Shane and made his teammates laugh.

Fucking Bragg.

Licking his lips a bit nervously, Ilya found himself suppressing a smirk at the open hatred that was beaming his way from Hayden, who was sitting right next to Shane.

“Hello, Metros,” Ilya said, drastically less charming than Jordan.

No one said anything back, so Ilya pushed on.

“How was breakfast, Hayden?”

Ilya noticed Shane flinch, but he kept his eyes on Pike, who was frowning deeply.

“It was fine. Are you bringing your new friend with you, or is she staying here in New York?”

Ilya felt his blood pressure spike. Would getting into a fist fight in the airport get him on a no-fly list? He'd rather not find out.

“Svetlana is a friend from home,” Ilya heard his voice get tight. “She had a layover in New York on her way to L.A. for business.”

Hayden hummed, an unconvinced and disinterested look sweeping his punchable face.

Ilya turned to Shane, who was studying his shoes like he would be tested on them later.

He always did that when he was nervous, whether it was in the locker room after the commercial shoot or before in the hotel gym, when they were just starting to test the waters with one another.

“One of the Raiders mentioned you had Advil, Hollander. Do you mind?” Ilya pointed at his nose, instead of his sunken heart.

Shane didn't meet his eyes. Instead, he gave a small nod and reached into the backpack that was sitting between his feet, riffling around for a moment and moving neatly folded clothes around.

Ilya nearly bit his tongue in two when he saw the Admiral's shirt folded in with Shane's other clothes.

After a moment, Shane fished out a white rattling bottle, stopping briefly to examine the label.

“You're supposed to take it with…” Shane started, but he trailed off, and finally, finally met Ilya's eyes.

His dark brown eyes were like sap that Ilya was sinking into, and without meaning to, he softly sighed when Shane blinked up at him through his long, straight eyelashes.

He wanted to have Hollander sit on his lap and let him count and then kiss each of his freckles. He wanted to take Shane's twitching hand and pull it to his mouth, brushing his lips against the valleys of his knuckles.

Instead, he carefully took the medicine, uncapped it, and dropped a single pill into his palm.

“Food. I know,” Ilya said quietly, his hand brushing Shane's as he passed the small bottle back.

The ever-present electric current between them zapped and sparked at the contact.

“Thank you, Hollander.”

When Shane dropped his gaze to his feet again, it felt like someone ripped Ilya's life support cable from its outlet.

He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that this was insane. They were both acting insane. Everyone was pretending that everything was normal, but it couldn't be further from the truth.

He wanted to grab Shane by his shoulders and kiss him, or to snap his fingers and have a do-over that night in Tampa. He could go back and crawl to Shane on his hands and knees, ready to listen and ready to believe it when Hollander was telling him he wanted more. He wanted to give Shane everything he had.

“See you in October,” was all Ilya said instead, swallowing back the shattered pieces of himself that shrieked in agony.

As he turned to walk away, the weight of not seeing or hearing from Shane for four and a half more weeks crashed down on him. Ilya couldn't believe he and Shane used to do this all the time. It was fucking killing him already, and their planes hadn't even left yet.

“You should have poisoned him,” J.J. muttered snarkily to Shane.

Ilya palmed the pill, moving back towards his gate.

That was almost enough to make him laugh. Shane already did.

Chapter 18: Chapter 17

17

“I'm sorry, I answered your phone last night and talked to Rozanov.”

Shane inhaled the toothpaste foam in his mouth. It hit the back of his throat, and he immediately began to sputter and cough, forcing him to prematurely spit into the sink and gasp.

He hadn't even heard Jordan get out of bed, let alone sneak up behind him while he was brushing his teeth. Shane had been zoned out all morning after waking up too early, completely restless. He had deleted two missed calls from Ilya before he decided he might as well get up and get ready for breakfast with Hayden and J.J.

“What?” Shane croaked, turning to look at Jordan while he wiped the corners of his mouth, his mind jolted and his pulse racing.

At least Jordan didn't look mad. If anything, he looked a bit embarrassed.

Shane hadn't been sure whether Jordan would bring the phone call up. It was awkward and messy, and Shane had prayed before he went to sleep that both of them would forget their respective conversations with Ilya. Shane certainly wanted to forget his.

“It woke me up last night,” Jordan gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I was going to mute it until I saw it was, uhm, Lily?”

Shane felt his face flush. Neither of them had said the name out loud before, but Shane was positive that Jordan had put it together– maybe even before the fight occurred. Secretly, he had hoped that if he never put a name to the owner of his bruises, both of them would fade away in tandem.

“I'm really sorry,” Shane set his toothbrush down. “I told him to stop calling, but…”

But then I slept with him. And then I called him back.

Shane couldn't make his mouth move. Maybe he should have been upset that Jordan answered his phone, but deep down, Shane knew it would make him a hypocrite. Ilya only called because he knew Shane would answer.

“Is he bothering you?” Jordan unfolded his arms and took a step toward him. “It's a principle of mine to never use violence unless absolutely necessary, but if you need help, Shane…”

“No!” Shane didn't think his heart could take it if those two started beating on each other again, on or off the ice. “No, it's not anything like that.”

An awkward moment unfolded between them as Shane struggled to think of what to say. He and Ilya had never put a name to what they were, so it wasn't like he was an ex of any kind. Still, Ilya hadn't been acting in accordance with the boundaries he put up this entire weekend, and it was screwing with what Shane was trying to do with Jordan.

“It's just complicated,” Shane wobbled out, studying his bare feet against the cold stone tile.

Jordan took a long breath in, flexing his shoulders. Shane was worried that he was upset, but when he met Jordan's eyes, they were filled with worry, not anger. Maybe a hint of sadness.

“Okay, Holly. I trust you.”

A soft Russian voice speaking Ilya's name pinged in Shane's ears the next moment.

“It was complicated.” Shane unconsciously made a fist along the counter. “But forget it. Forget him. It's nothing now.”

“Done,” Jordan closed the gap between them, kissing Shane in his hair. “Sorry again about answering your phone, Holly. You don't ever have to explain yourself to me.”

“Sorry it woke you up,” Shane felt the moment to mention his own call with Ilya slip by, leaving the room.

Shane's chest felt tight. Not even a day into dating, and he was already keeping things from Jordan, and for what? Ilya had a woman in his hotel room while he was calling Shane. She had probably been looking around for pieces of her outfit like Shane had been the night before, all while Ilya prattled on about his concern and chastity.

It was ridiculous. Ilya should have been the last thing on Shane's mind right now.

Jordan was gorgeous, swaying in his plaid pyjama bottoms, shirtless and warm to the touch, and looking a bit dejected. His hair was untamed, and his usually bright and dancing green eyes were clouded, his smiling mouth now pressed into a dissatisfied thin line.

Shane didn't want to tell Jordan– he didn't want to hurt him. He wanted to stop fucking up a good thing, and he wanted to leave Ilya alone.

“Hey,” Shane said, setting down his toothbrush and guiding Jordan to him, kissing him softly along his mouth. “Come on.”

Taking Jordan by the hand, he walked backwards towards the large shower and turned the water on. Shane knew one thing that would help get their minds off of Ilya Rozanov.

“You'll make us late for breakfast,” Jordan's sad expression slowly melted into one of lust and mischief, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

Shane dropped to his knees, feeling Jordan's fingers lacing through his hair immediately. Using his teeth, he undid the drawstring bow of Jordan's pyjama pants, causing him to shudder out a shaky sigh.

Shane took a moment to run his mouth hotly against his hardening cock, then smiled up at him teasingly. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

When they got to the airport, J.J. and Hayden made it a point to go ahead without him, letting Shane say his semi-private goodbye to Jordan.

Breakfast had gone extremely well. Jordan had picked a spot not too far from the airport so they wouldn't be rushed, and it had the perfect menu, split fifty-fifty between classic diner items and more healthy alternatives, like cold-pressed vegetable juices.

Shane had fumbled early in the conversation, trying to introduce Jordan as his boyfriend, unable to find a way to say so without sounding like a middle-schooler. Thankfully, Jordan had laughed it off and smoothed it over.

“Hi, I'm Jordan,” He had stuck out his hand with a smile to Hayden and J.J, “Shane's boyfriend.”

Hayden and J.J. replied in unison, mildly amused. “We know.”

And that was that. That's how easy it could be to introduce someone as his boyfriend; it had shocked Shane.

Now, he was melting into Jordan, who was running his tongue slowly along the inside of his mouth. They were as hidden as they could be in J.F.K, but the shower blowjobs hadn't taken the edge off. Shane had been bothered since Jordan ran his hand up his thigh while paying the bill, and he found himself insatiably pulling them together.

“Christ,” Jordan said deeply when they came apart for air. “How long till I can be inside you again?”

Shane flushed and pushed their foreheads together. “Not soon enough. Like, an entire month.”

“And then we have that overlapping weekend in November, yeah? Right after my home game against Florida?” Jordan huffed into Shane's mouth, not waiting for an answer.

Shane moaned softly as Jordan connected them messily, then moved his warm lips to his ear.

“I'm going to fucking wreck you again when you're back in my bed, crybaby.”

Using the heel of his hand, Shane thumped his boyfriend's chest, feeling his warm cheeks glow hotter. “Jordan!”

He pulled Shane into his arms tighter, kissing him on his temple. “You liked it, didn't you?”

Shane nodded against his shoulder. The memory of Jordan bringing him to tears from pleasure was both extremely embarrassing and incredibly hot. He had to force the thought out of his mind, or it was going to be a terribly long and uncomfortable flight.

“Don't run your mouth about that, Bragg.” Shane kissed Jordan one last time, letting it linger on their lips longer than it needed to.

“No promises,” Jordan gently pulled them apart. “Now get going, before we get in trouble for public indecency.”

“You're a bad influence!” Shane called over his shoulder to Jordan as he walked towards the security line, the last of the Metros to pass through.

Jordan blew him a kiss in response.

Shane had calmed his buzzing nerves by the time he was sitting at the airport terminal between Hayden and J.J., his erection flattened through pure determination. He had promised he would text Jordan as soon as he landed safe and sound in Montreal. Jordan encouraged him to jerk off in the airplane bathroom in return.

Shane felt the restlessness of this morning creeping back in on him. He had done a long-distance hookup before, but never a proper long-distance relationship. He and Jordan would see each other as often as they could; everything else would just have to be substituted through texting and video calls.

He supposed it wouldn't be too different from the summer, before he and Jordan hooked up. Only now, between dumb viral videos and selfies, it would be Jordan and him attempting to have some semblance of phone sex.

“One-point-three million, and that's before they've finished the silent auction for all the items. How cool is that? It's awesome to actually make a difference.” J.J was enthusiastically talking about the profits from this weekend.

“Yeah, totally.” Shane made an effort to lock into the conversation, pushing sex with Jordan out of his mind. “And I'm sure they'll hit the two million mark once all those signed jerseys sell.”

“I know that one jersey is going to sell for tens of thousands,” Hayden raised his eyebrows with a smug smile.

“Whose?” Shane wrinkled his brows in thought. “Hunter's?”

“No, your boyfriend's jersey. The one he made Ilya sign,” J.J elbowed Shane in his ribs.

Shane's mouth fell open. “I forgot all about that.”

Hayden and J.J. laughed while Shane thought about Ilya, and how annoyed he must have been to do something like that. Rozanov was a prideful son of a bitch. Just as the idea of buying the jersey to destroy it or hide it was crossing his mind, Hayden's laugh turned into a low, annoyed hiss.

“Speak of the devil.”

The entire terminal hushed as Ilya walked over, his hands in the pockets of his black denim jacket. He looked destroyed, and it wasn't just his broken nose that was taped down in two places. The circles under his eyes were purplish-grey, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in a year.

Shane felt his stomach twist with worry. Was he not sleeping? Was he not eating?

Before he realized it, Ilya was standing right in front of him. Shane dropped his eyes to his shoes. He didn't want them to look at one another.

The last time he looked directly into his eyes was when Shane had been sitting on his lap, chest to chest, coming so hard he thought he was going to die in that Best Western. In Ilya's arms.

Shane cursed himself, wishing he could hate the idea.

“Hello, Metros,” Shane heard Ilya say above his head. “How was breakfast, Hayden?”

Shane felt himself flinch. Hayden must have run into Ilya at the hotel and mentioned something. Without knowing where it was stemming from, Shane felt a vine of guilt winding through him.

“It was fine. Are you bringing your new friend with you, or is she staying here in New York?” Hayden launched the inflammatory comment with no warning.

Shane knew Ilya had someone over last night, so it didn't surprise him. It did hurt, however.

“Svetlana is a friend from home. She had a layover in New York on her way to L.A. for business.”

Was Shane imagining the sincerity, or did Ilya actually mean that?

“One of the Raiders mentioned you had Advil, Hollander. Do you mind?”

Shane realized he was being noticeably weird and decided to get this interaction over as fast as possible. He didn't want to be around Ilya longer than he had to– it made him nervous.

Quickly shuffling through his bag, Shane froze when he saw the pair of mismatched socks among his clothes. One was his, the other was Ilya's. He had grabbed the wrong one when he was fumbling around in the dark while trying to sneak out.

Feeling his hand tremble, Shane grabbed the bottle and pretended to read the label, waiting for his breathing to return to normal.

“You're supposed to take it with–” Shane made the fatal mistake of looking up, and their eyes instantly locked together.

Shane's mouth went dry.

“Food. I know.”

Their hands touched briefly as Ilya took and returned the bottle. Everything felt slow, like time itself was stopping to watch them interact.

The shameful desire to kiss the pill into his mouth unfurled in Shane's stomach; it was so overwhelming that he had to look away. He was scared. Could Ilya see it on his face that he wanted to do stuff like that, even after everything he had said? Did he see through him on Saturday night, when he said he hated Ilya?

“Thank you, Hollander.” Shane didn't watch him go. “See you in October.”

“You should've poisoned him,” J.J. whispered into Shane's ear, but he sounded a million miles away.

He poisoned me first.

Shane put a hand against his abdomen, feeling sick in a way that no medicine would fix.

He tried to sleep on the plane, but it was no use. Every time he dozed off, Shane found himself stuck in the same dream; naked and pinned between the paws of a leopard.

October, 2018

Shane wasn't happy to be in Boston.

He was happy to play, of course; he was actually more excited to play than usual. Last year's loss was an ego blow, and everyone, especially Shane, was eager to grind the Raiders into the dirt. The New York weekend only served to make him and his teammates more keen, and Shane had barely needed to say anything on the flight down to Boston to hype the Metros up.

But now it was Shane who needed to be hyped up, because he was feeling a little on edge walking around the backend of the massive Boston arena. It had been a while since they played an away game in Boston, and Shane was worried that he would bump into Ilya.

Obviously, he'd bump into Ilya.

He and Ilya would be going head-to-head soon for the face-off and slamming one another into the boards. That fact shouldn't have made Shane so nervous, but it was, and now he was procrastinating meeting his teammates and getting ready for warmups.

Instead, he had zig-zagged back and forth through the player-only areas, pacing aimlessly while debating what he could do to steady himself or take the edge off.

Giving up, Shane did the only thing he could think of and called Jordan.

“Hi, Holly,” Jordan answered the FaceTime request on the second ring.

Shane felt instantly better seeing him, and slowly found himself drifting to the professional lobby. Jordan was shirtless, sitting upright in bed with a book cracked open and lying on his chest. Shane tilted his head in an effort to read the crooked title. Something by Henry Miller.

“What are you reading, handsome?”

“Tropic of Cancer. What are you doing, Holly? Shouldn't you be getting ready?”

Shane strolled by LeClaire, the Raiders coach, who was talking loudly into his cellphone.

“He's caused enough trouble; he can push through and play tonight.” The broad man was barking loudly. Shane moved towards a few people, not wanting to be seen by the coach.

“Yeah, I don't know. I just felt weird. I wanted to talk to you before I went on,” Shane dropped his voice as a few administrators walked by him. “Congratulations on winning against Detroit.”

“Hm, thank you. I love winning,” Jordan moved the book off his chest, and Shane heard it thump the nightstand next to him. “Take your clothes off.”

“And go get changed? Yeah, I know,” Shane rolled his eyes. “Wish you were here.”

“What would you do with me?”

Shane grinned. “Make you watch me beat Boston into the ground, that way you know what's coming for the Admirals in December.”

“Is that right?”

“Mhm,” Shane passed by a few women with clipboards who were going over papers covered with highlights. “The Metros are going to fuck you guys up.”

Jordan's face was slightly flushed. “Can you do me a favour?”

Shane paused. “What?”

“Can you hold your phone above you?”

“Okay?” He tried to follow the request, lifting his cellphone up and away.

“Closer to your face. Yeah, like that,” Shane watched as Jordan slightly readjusted himself on his bed, but his face and bare upper chest never left the frame. “Now, open your mouth and look at me. Better yet, keep talking about how much you want to wreck me.”

“What?” Shane asked, squinting up at his screen. “Why?”

He watched Jordan's face fall a bit slack, his eyes had glazed over, and his shoulder was rolling in a familiar motion. Immediately, Shane realized what he was doing and gasped.

“I'm in public!”

Fumbling with his phone, he pushed it to his chest while Jordan laughed through the speaker.

“I'm not.”

Not wanting to draw any more attention to himself, Shane briskly moved down a hallway and immediately ducked into the first set of locker rooms, not daring to look at his screen until he had stepped inside an individual changing stall, locking it behind him.

Pulling his phone away from his body, Shane glared at his boyfriend, who was grinning and still stroking himself.

“Don't suppose you can put your fingers in your mouth, could you, germaphobe?”

“Ew, no way!”

Shane wanted to stay mad; his heart was hammering, but when he saw Jordan's lust-drunk expression, he faltered. Worse, he felt himself becoming hard.

“You started it by chirping at me, Hollander. I know you miss me.”

Shane did miss him.

They texted every day and had phone sex about twice a week, but the lack of physical touch was brutal. It didn't help that Jordan enjoyed rubbing salt in the wound– he recently started taking photos of all the places he wanted to fuck Shane.

Over his coffee table. In the Admiral's locker room. On top of his private table at Vicky's. It was driving Shane insane.

When Shane's mind was full of things he didn't want to think about, or when he woke up in the middle of the night from that stupid recurring nightmare with the jungle cat, Shane would call Jordan. Then, he'd follow every one of Jordan's directions, whether that was adding seasonings to a dish he was making or edging himself until he had tears in his eyes.

Shane watched Jordan for a moment, his busy hand out of frame, but his shaky breathing was giving away the pace as he stroked. Flustered, he squirmed with his back against the locked door, praying that the locker room would stay empty.

“You like that I'm a pervert, I can tell.” Jordan teased, his eyes never leaving Shane's face.

Shane couldn't help but smile. “You're stupid.”

“You make me stupid,” Jordan was smiling at first as he said it, but within the same second, something dark clouded his expression.

He got very quiet, his hand stilled, and he looked as if he wanted to hang up the phone. Things like this would happen from time to time, and Shane wasn't sure why.

Sometimes it was when they were talking on the phone; everything would be fine, they'd be laughing and chatting, and then randomly Jordan would get quiet. For stretches of time, Shane was left waiting in silence, wondering if the call had dropped. Other times, it was when they had just finished having phone sex– Jordan would drop the phone or roll away from the camera, leaving Shane staring at a black screen or empty bed sheets.

Whenever he pressed Jordan to share what was bothering him, he'd come back with a smile and say that he was just tired, or that he was sore and needed to see his physiotherapist. Sometimes he'd claim there was some restaurant issue on his mind, but he'd never elaborate. He'd crack some joke and move on, leaving Shane wondering.

“Hey, it's okay,” Shane wished he could touch his boyfriend right now. “Two more weeks and then we have a long weekend together, right? Don't think I've forgotten about those places you want to take me.”

Whatever darkness that was lingering finally passed, and Jordan's face returned to normal, and he smiled. “Yeah, of course. I miss you, Holly.”

“I miss you more.”

“Are you as hard as I am?”

Shane swallowed thickly, giving his head a small shake. “No?”

“You're my favourite liar, Shane." Jordan purred, then, as a command, added, “Touch yourself.”

“That is such a terrible idea,” Shane closed his eyes, unable to still his hand, which was already fumbling with his zipper. “I don't even know where I am right now.”

Shane knew he was in the Boston Raiders arena and that somewhere out there, Ilya was walking around. That's why he had called; he was nervous.

Shane didn't want to think about Ilya anymore. He didn't want to think about anything, actually. He wanted to come with his boyfriend, and he wanted to feel better. He wanted Jordan to feel better, too.

“Ah, shit,” Shane muttered softly as he pulled his aching cock free, the head already slick.

“Please.” Jordan looked like he had stopped touching himself completely, his eyes fixed intently on the screen. “Show me.”

Pushing aside his embarrassment, Shane flipped the camera view to point directly across the small space to where a full-length mirror hovered above a small bench. It showed him head to toe.

“Go closer,” Jordan's voice shook. “Want to see your face, Shane.”

Shane double-checked the lock and then slowly took two steps forward, resting one knee on the bench and leaning in, his hand encasing his throbbing erection.

“Wow,” Jordan had thrown his head back against his pillows again, his mouth slightly open.

Shane could tell by the way his frame was shaking that he started stroking himself again, this time faster and more determined. Immediately, Shane was trembling from trying to match Jordan's pace.

“Bad influence,” Shane huffed, then pathetically found himself begging. “Please, talk to me.”

Shane really did like that Jordan was a pervert.

The way Jordan would talk to him when they were being intimate always lit a fire under Shane, especially when he would let Jordan take him too far. Like now, when he talked Shane into jerking off in a semi-public place.

“So perfect, Shane. You should look at yourself while you do this.”

Shane defied Jordan and squeezed his eyes shut, which only made Jordan laugh.

“Putting on a show for me. People would pay to see you like this, Hollander,” Jordan crooned. “A star centre wants all the attention, hm?”

Shane made an embarrassing noise in response to the teasing, cracking his eyes open slightly so he could watch Jordan taking focused breaths in and out.

“Out of all the spots I'm going to fuck you, where do you want to start?”

Shane felt his words catch in his throat as he tried to answer. “At Vicky's”

“Hm, dinner and a show. You'll really help my ratings.”

Shane flushed deeply at the idea of Jordan taking him on top of a table in his crowded restaurant, his hand picking up a bit of speed.

“I meant alone!”

“Liar.”

“I want you inside,” Shane teetered too close to the edge and had to let out a whiny breath. “Inside of me.”

“Who do you want?”

Shane opened his eyes fully so he could stare at him. Jordan looked drunk on lust, watching Shane with the same struck expression he had the night they first hooked up.

His plush mouth was slightly curved in a smile, and Shane desperately wished he could kiss him. He wished Jordan was with him, fucking him to tears in the locker room; or, at the very least, fucking him stupid until he couldn't think of anything beyond his own pleasure.

“You,” struggling to make his voice go above a whisper, Shane pulled the phone closer to his body so his boyfriend could hear him.

“Say my name, Shane.”

“Jordan,” dragging his hand from base to tip, Shane felt himself unravelling. The fear and exhilaration were pushing him harder and harder towards the brink.

“Again. Louder.”

It was a dangerous ask, but Shane complied.

“Jordan,” Shane trembled out, his head falling forward. “Jordan. I'm going to, oh fuck. Oh, Jordan–.”

Shane's mind went white, his words strangling and dying before they could leave his mouth as intense pleasure shot through him. He released into his hand carelessly, feeling it splash hotly against his fingers and seep into the hem of his t-shirt.

Somewhere in the haze, Shane heard Jordan gasp a 'beautiful' out softly.

By the time Shane could steady himself, Jordan was bringing himself over the edge, his entire torso lifting from his bed as he came. His head jerked away from the camera, and Shane could tell that he had finished messily, probably across his own thighs or stomach.

“Ah, Christ,” Jordan flopped back into frame with a soft thump against his pillows, his smile splitting his entire face. “Should've gone onto your face, Holly.”

Shane was glad that whatever had been on Jordan's mind had been chased away. He loved that they could do that for one another.

“You know,” Shane panted, struggling to tuck himself back into his pants with one hand. “You're a really bad influence. I just made a fucking mess on myself.”

Jordan let out a hearty laugh. “You make a mess of me, so we're even. Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” Shane said softly, not wanting to hang up but really needing to go. “Wish me luck against Boston?”

“Why? You won't need it.”

Shane hadn't needed it, actually. As soon as he lined up for the face-off, it was clear Ilya was sick. His eyes were hollow and sunken, and his skin was slightly ashen. Shane had watched him skate small circles while coughing hard into his gloved hand, unable to bend for the face-off until the fit had passed him.

Shane realized LeClaire had probably been yelling on the phone about Ilya playing while sick.

Rozanov's stamina was low; he was barely able to keep up with everyone and spent all his ice time passing the puck off or lagging behind. His shifts got shorter and shorter, and by the middle of the second period, he was benched. Sweat-soaked, he had taken his helmet off and set it beside him, watching his team with a semi-dazed look on his face.

Shane tried not to stare at him when he wasn't on the ice; it really wasn't his business whether or not Ilya was sick.

Shane did notice that his nose was looking better. His bruising had disappeared, and the swelling had gone down, but it was noticeably more crooked than before Jordan hit him. Ilya didn't have any scarring, unlike Jordan, who had an arrowhead-shaped mark in the centre of his bridge.

Jordan had told Shane that he broke his nose as a kid when he flipped over the handlebars of his dirt bike while trail riding with his brothers. Shane wondered what Ilya told people. Sure, he had gotten into a hockey fight, but over what? He doubted that Rozanov would tell anyone the true story on that part.

Winning the game six to five felt good, but it would have felt better if Boston had been playing at their full capacity. As a show of good sportsmanship, Ilya joined the lineup to touch gloves. Shane could hear him coughing as he joined the line at the very end, and it got louder and louder until he was next to bump hands.

“Good game, nice work,” Ilya's voice was hoarse and cracking, his words clipping off into a forced whisper.

Without realizing he was holding it in, Shane let out a quick breath as his glove met Ilya's.

“Nice job, Hollander.”

Shane's last name crumbled away in Ilya's mouth, and he turned his head away sharply to cough. Instinctively, Shane found himself reaching out towards Ilya.

“You okay, Rozanov?”

Shane heard his own sentiment echoed at the same moment by Cliff, who had circled back around to meet his captain.

The moment Marlow's eyes landed on Shane, he felt himself flush. Turning without another word, Shane skated off to join his teammates who were celebrating their first win of the season. Shane would be celebrating too, of course.

He'd get dinner, maybe even drinks with the guys. He'd go to bed early, call Jordan, have some more phone sex, and sleep.

That's what I should be doing. Shane chided himself. Nothing else.

And yet, two hours later, Shane was in a pharmacy staring down the aisle of cold medicine, a bottle of cough syrup in his hand.

Chapter 19: Chapter 18

Chapter Notes

Content Note: This chapter contains subject matter that some readers may find disturbing, including references to domestic violence and physical abuse. Reader's discretion is advised.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

18

October 2018

“Rook to E-one. You lose again.”

Scott watched as Kip, with little enthusiasm, won his third game in a row against Jordan.

Normally, Jordan would be wiping the floor with him in long, intense matches. Scott had to overhear them play weekly; usually, it was half an hour of Jordan toying with Kip until he was backed into a corner.

On the few occasions that he won, although he would never rain on his boyfriend's parade, Scott had the distinct feeling that Jordan had let him, always catching his teammate smiling, endeared, behind his hand as Kip hollered in excitement. Not today, though.

Today, Jordan didn't even seem like he was here with them. Scott thought he looked almost ghostly, curled up in their indigo lounge chair with the rising sun spilling in from the balcony.

He had his legs pulled to his chest, his grey socks poking out from the pyjama pants Kip had lent him the night before. Scott had given him an Admiral's team shirt to sleep in before he tucked him into the couch.

Last night, around one in the morning, he got a call from Jordan's phone. It had woken him and annoyed him, but it also worried him. Jordan hadn't called him drunk from a bar since he was an eighteen-year-old rookie.

When Scott answered, it wasn't even Jordan doing the calling; it was Jordan's friend Honey. Her real name was Angela, and she worked at the strip club Lemon Drop downtown.

“Hi, I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to call,” She had whispered while club music distantly thumped in the background. “Can you come get him? I don't think he should be left alone right now.”

When Scott pulled up to the club fifteen minutes later, he was sick with worry. He found Jordan sitting with the nearly naked blonde, his head down on the table. He was clearly drunk, but Jordan wasn't his usual self.

Typically, when he was plastered, Jordan was the person who was lighting up the room. The last time Scott had set foot in this club with Jordan and the rest of the team, he had to yank Bragg from one of the poles himself.

He was always doing stuff like that. On a previous birthday outing, they had only been there for thirty minutes before Jordan had convinced the clients and the girls to sing karaoke together instead of dancing, and then he orchestrated a push-up contest between the Admirals and the bouncers. Just last month, Scott had been blowing whipped cream out of his nose in the bathroom of Vitrue, thanks to his antics.

Jordan was, as cliché as it sounded, the life of the party. Scott knew he prided himself on that. It was important to him that everyone, whether they had taken a win or a loss, was having a good time. So seeing him last night with his head down on his arms, surrounded by empty glasses, completely miserable, was startling.

Angela had waved Scott over right away, her other hand was rubbing small circles along Jordan's back.

“Hey,” Scott said to her with a small wave. “I've got him. Thanks for calling, Honey.”

Scott wasn't sure if it was rude to call her by her real name at her job. She was a longtime friend of Jordan's, even attending some league events with him as his date before he came out. Angela's brown doe-like eyes were full of worry as she watched Scott slide into the booth beside Jordan and try to put an arm around him.

“I've lost, I know I've lost. Why can't I just laugh it off?” Jordan was muttering nonsensically as Scott got next to him. “It's over. I lost.”

“Hey, come on,” Scott managed to get him to his feet, although he was swaying heavily and needed support. “Come on, Jordan. Walk with me, buddy.”

Angela had led them through the club, and as Scott helped Jordan out the door, he heard her hiss something under her breath after kissing Jordan goodbye.

I fucking hate Shane Hollander.

So Scott brought Jordan home. Kip had been waiting up for them both, spare clothes in hand and the sofa already put together like a make-shift cot.

Neither of them could figure out what Jordan had meant. They won the cup, they took home gold at the New York Cancer Foundation event, and they had just won against Florida for their season kick-off game. It didn't make any sense, but Scott had a bad feeling the losing Jordan was referring to wasn't in regard to hockey.

Jordan wouldn't say anything else until he passed out. I've lost.

Now, it was just past ten thirty in the morning.

Scott and Kip had woken up to the smell of something delicious wafting into their bedroom, and they were both surprised to see Jordan was not only upright, but he had made an elaborate spread for them from the random stuff in their refrigerator.

But something was obviously wrong.

Jordan didn't make any jokes, he wouldn't smile, and he didn't respond to any praise about his smoked-salmon eggs Benedict. Scott even purposefully asked a stupid question about how to best microwave an egg, hoping to bait Jordan into flying off the handle about cooking, but he wouldn't do that either.

In an attempt to get something out of him, Kip offered to play him in chess, hoping that Jordan would have some fun kicking his ass. But then Jordan lost. And lost again. And lost again.

“You keep falling for the Greek gift sacrifice, man,” Kip reset the board between them and then stood up from his armchair, gently tapping Jordan's elbow as he passed on the way to the kitchen. “I'll get you some more coffee. Maybe you just aren't awake yet.”

As Kip walked past the sofa where Scott was pretending to read the New Yorker, he tilted his head to Jordan. A subtle gesture that Kip was out of ideas to get Jordan to talk; now it was Scott's turn. The three of them had been good friends for years, but it was Scott who knew Jordan the longest and the best.

Throughout the seven years they had known one another, Scott had only seen Jordan behave like this once before, the day after the Vegas awards in 2014.

During the night of the awards, Scott had heard someone whispering about an Admiral rookie who had just outdrunk everyone at his table, including a defenceman who was double his weight, on a dare. This said rookie was running his mouth about Boston, claiming their captain was a douche-canoe.

Whatever that meant. Probably some sort of Canadian slang.

Drunk himself but still feeling responsible, Scott had left his own table and found none other than Jordan Bragg, swaying in the hallway and trying to open the elevator doors by slamming his room keycard against the panel, like a moron. His tie was wrapped around his head, and he was loudly and poorly singing 'I Saw The Sign', by Ace of Base.

Scott figured as captain, the least he could do was make sure that Jordan died of alcohol poisoning in his room rather than in the hallway. He had sighed loudly, walking up to Bragg and taking his keycard from him.

“How did I know it was you before I saw you, loudmouth?” Scott flipped the card over in his hand, looking for a room number.

“Patterns,” Jordan slurred happily, followed by something incomprehensible in the tone of a complaint. “...totally blew me off for some other guy!”

“Who did?” Scott had raised his eyebrows at his teammate, who leaned heavily against his shoulder.

“For that ugly Russian dude? Are you kidding me?” Jordan blew a raspberry. “Whatever, man, I'm way hotter than him.”

Scott had to suppress a laugh. “Rozanov swept up your girl, huh? I wouldn't worry about it, there'll be others.”

Jordan's head wobbled on his shoulders, then he tipped it back so he could squint up at Scott through glossy eyes.

With a single word, Jordan flipped Scott's world on its head.

“Girl?”

There was something in the way Jordan flicked his eyebrow up and dragged on the word that made Scott's secret run its claws down his back.

Immediately, in sheer panic, he found himself slapping his hand over Jordan's mouth. Scott couldn't be sure, but he was spinning out of control at the mere idea that Jordan was implying he had the same secret.

It was that very secret being a secret that had driven a wedge between him and Kip, causing their breakup not even three weeks prior to this Vegas shit-show.

“Shh,” Scott had hushed, feeling his heart quivering. He could see his own wild expression reflected in Jordan's puppy-dog eyes. “Be quiet!”

“Mi mote like mirls.” Jordan tried around his hand.

Scott had valiantly shaken his head.

“Mi mon't!”

“Shut up, Jordan.” Scott whipped his head around, dismayed to find that two players were approaching them.

He had slammed the button on the elevator as quickly as he could. Jordan could crash in his room; he didn't give a fuck. He needed to keep an eye on this idiot who was so loudly proclaiming that he wasn't interested in women, surrounded by the league and all their administration and God himself.

“Putting Mr. Mouthy to bed then, Scott?” A Detroit left-winger had patted him hard on his back while his teammate leered behind him. “Good idea.”

“Yes,” Scott realized how insane they were looking, and took his hand away from Jordan's mouth. “Just a bit too much fun.”

“You taking him to bed, or fucking him?” The other Detroit player teased, gesturing to the fact that Jordan was being held upright by Scott, his hands were clutching Bragg's sides.

“Yuck, I hope not,” Jordan mumbled. “He's not my type.”

The Detroit players laughed loudly. “And other guys are?”

Scott had felt his heart hit the floor, and he gave Jordan a wide-eyed look. Please, be quiet. For once in your entire career, shut up. Jordan had smiled and opened his mouth while Scott flinched, preparing for the worst.

“Your mother's a guy?”

Scott yanked him inside and hit the button that would take them to his room.

“That explains her massive cock!”

Scott punched the button to make the doors close faster.

“Haha, okay, have a good night!” Scott had said as the Detroit players glowered at them, their view shrinking as the two doors sealed.

Once they started moving upward, Scott dropped Jordan to the ground, and he fell on his ass.

“What is your problem?” His body felt like it was on fire from fear.

Jordan gave him an inquisitive look. “I'm gay?”

Despite being alone and knowing so, Scott found himself looking over his shoulder again. He couldn't believe that the thing he had been trying to outrun his entire life was being thrown around so casually. Liquid courage or not, it was an insane thing to say around all their peers. Around all their bosses. Jordan was saying it like it had no consequences.

“But don't tell people that. It's between the three of us, okay?” Jordan pointed up at Scott when he turned back to him.

“Three?”

“You, me, and this fucking idiot with the tie on his head,” Jordan thumbed to the mirrored elevator wall beside him. “Now, where are we going?”

Jordan had insisted on sleeping in the bathtub in Scott's hotel room, claiming it was the perfect vomit-proof surface. Scott didn't care; he let him.

He had been fighting down panic since he locked Bragg in his hotel room. What the hell would have happened if Scott hadn't gotten to him first? What would people have done?

Scott prayed that if he had told anyone else, they would write it off as Jordan saying anything and everything to get a rise out of people. No way there'd be a gay N.H.L player for real.

No way.

As Scott fell asleep sometime after two in the morning, he hoped to God that Jordan was kidding. It would be easier for the kid if it weren't true. Scott knew firsthand how hard it was to hold that secret, and as much as Jordan pissed him off, he didn't want to watch anyone else shoulder such a burden.

He had woken up a few hours later to hear Jordan singing, his voice echoing from the bathroom. It was only eight-thirty.

“New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there's nothing you can't do.”

“Jordan,” Scott croaked out, his eyes still closed.

Between the stress and the liquor, his head had been screaming. He definitely shouldn't have been trying to drink away his heartbreak. Jordan shouldn't have been, either.

“These streets will make you feel brand new,” Jordan hiccuped loudly. “These lights will inspire you!”

“Jordan,” Scott thudded his fist against the hotel mattress. “Shut. Up.”

“...Scott?”

“What?”

“Why are you in my room?”

“You're in my hotel room, you asshole.”

“Why?” Jordan said, then immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Oh, eww!”

“Quit being fucking stupid.” Scott struggled to sit up; his head had felt like it was full of marbles.

“No, not that.” The horrible squeaking erupted like nails on a chalkboard as Jordan climbed from the tub.

He appeared in the main room a moment later, completely dishevelled and without his pants. “Someone threw up in your bathroom. I'm not a detective, but I bet the culprit hasn't gotten far.”

Scott found himself laughing, half genuinely, half in disbelief. Nothing seemed to affect this kid. He was truly indestructible.

Jordan had shuffled over to the bed, flopping face down on the unoccupied end. For a long moment, Scott hadn't been sure what to do; should he bring up what Jordan had said, or should he ignore it?

Jordan didn't give him the option.

“Am I in trouble?” He had asked, still face down among the sheets.

Scott hesitated. “For getting drunk?”

“For being gay.”

And there it was. Ugly and vulnerable, a secret still smelling like tequila from the night before. It was a good question. Scott had wondered the same thing his entire hockey career.

“No,” He had swallowed hard, unable to pull his eyes off his hungover rookie. “You're not in trouble for being gay, Jordan. It's alright.”

“You're not homophobic?"

“No, man,” And then, without meaning to, Scott had continued. “I'm gay too.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Scott jolted with shock. He hadn't meant to say that–he had never said that to anyone other than Kip. He hadn't ever planned on saying those words aloud again, if he could help it. Jordan was so unguarded and earnest, God damn him, it had made him slip up.

Mortified, Scott had waited for a response, feeling like the world was crumbling away like sand beneath his feet.

Would he be disappointed? Shocked? Would he even be believed?

Jordan had squirmed to his hands and knees, then he suddenly lunged toward Scott. His arms had been outstretched like he was going to grab and strangle him.

“Boo!” He had yelled at the top of his lungs.

Scott had recoiled, the back of his head and his shoulder colliding with the headboard behind him with a loud thump as he gasped.

Jordan's face split into a huge smile. “See, I knew you were homophobic.”

Later that same morning, Scott had invited Jordan to breakfast so they could talk just one-on-one, the first time doing so since he'd joined the Admirals.

He was still having a hard time wrapping his head around the idea that he wasn't totally alone– someone else in the league, on his very own team, no less, shared the same secret as him.

Scott was amazed that Jordan could keep a secret at all, since he loved to run his mouth and said just about everything under the sun, regaling people with his ridiculous stories and jokes until they were doubled over with laughter.

Until that night, Scott had been certain that Jordan had taken one too many hits to the head and was stuck on default loud, but at breakfast, he had been eerily quiet. It had forced Scott to lead the awkward conversation they kept in hushed tones.

All cleaned up with his hair still wet, Jordan had been poking absently at his scrambled eggs, looking a bit off. Scott had considered that maybe, regardless of the context, Jordan wasn't happy his secret was out.

“How long have you known?” Scott hadn't put too fine a point on anything since they had been in a semi-crowded restaurant.

“Since I was a kid. I had a big crush on my older brother's friend. I never told anyone outside my small circle of friends and family back home,” Jordan had raised one shoulder. “People I trust.”

“Did they take it okay?”

“Yeah, especially my family. My mom was really supportive. Still is.”

Scott's stomach twisted, wondering if his parents would have accepted him. It was a conversation he never got to have. He wondered if Jordan had been nervous, having to confide something like that in his mother.

“And your dad?”

“Dead.”

“I'm sorry,” Scott had said. He knew what that felt like.

“I'm not.”

The shocking comment was delivered with such a mundane tone of voice that it was scary. It made the hair on Scott's arm stand up. He wasn't sure what to make of it. As if he had sensed the shift, Jordan looked up from his plate and grinned at him.

“Why? When did you decide to be gay?” He asked Scott, cocking his eyebrow mischievously.

Scoffing at the whiplash, Scott found himself laughing softly. “I've always sort of known, I guess. Knowing and not telling anyone made me feel pretty lonely, like I was the only one.”

“If you think you're the only gay guy in New York, you're as delusional as you are old,” Jordan whispered, and Scott had kicked him under the table.

“Dickhead.”

“It's nice to have this, actually,” Jordan had sighed and gestured back and forth with a fork in the space between them. “To be, I don't know…”

“Transparent.” Scott finished for him, taking a long sip of his orange juice.

It was extremely nice. For the first time since meeting Kip, Scott had actually felt totally understood. While he had met other closeted people, he never had imagined he'd meet another closeted hockey player. They were on the same wavelength, and something about that had taken the biting edge off Scott's secret.

He couldn't assume the same for Jordan; he looked a bit miserable, and up until that point, Scott wasn't even sure he had the capacity to be sad. The sparkle he seemed to carry with him had died in the time they went their separate ways to shower and reconvene for breakfast.

“Are you hungover?” Scott had tried to guess, looking at the dark circles around his forward's dull eyes.

“Yeah, you could say that,” Jordan said, but he had sounded like he was far away. “Just a little beat up from this weekend.”

“We all got our battle scars,” Scott gestured to his own head, which had been throbbing still. “You included. You pissed off some Detroit players. I was worried they were going to rebreak your nose.”

Jordan had entertained the Admirals with his epic story of how he plummeted down a mountainside on his dirtbike when he was twelve, egged on by his two older brothers. Scott had watched Jordan reenact the move in the Admirals locker room in nothing but his boxers, describing the movie-moment he landed the front flip. But, alas, he went tits over his handlebars and landed flat on his face.

“My nose?” Jordan seemed out of it, like he didn't even remember.

“Yeah, from your dirt biking accident."

Jordan had raised his hand to run his two fingertips along the discoloured scar that stretched across the bridge of his nose.

“From when my dad beat the shit out of me.”

The correction had made Scott's stomach drop. That wasn't what he had told people when they asked. After a dread-filled moment had passed, Scott cleared his throat.

“Did he know?” It was a terrible reason, but it wouldn't be an uncommon one. “Is that why he did it?”

“No, he never knew I was gay,” Jordan dropped his hand. “He would just beat my mom and my siblings and I because he was a humourless bastard.”

He had said it like he was telling Scott the weather– so flippant. The pit that had opened in Scott's stomach got deeper.

“Often?”

“Till he died,” Jordan had moved his hand to his straw, clinking the ice cubes in his water around. “But that's not a very funny story, right? No one would laugh if I told it that way.”

“I'm so sorry,” Scott had been without parents for so long, his mind always filled with happy, would-be thoughts when he thought of other families. It was a harsh reminder that not all parents were good.

“You think this is bad?” Jordan thumbed towards his scar. “You should see the other guy!”

Jordan had tipped his head back and laughed, but it had a sandpaper edge. It had made Scott uneasy.

Scott recalled then how Jordan was the first to surrender, always willing to be hit but never willing to throw a punch. It was a habit the defencemen on the team had picked up on, so they always kept a careful eye on Jordan.

He would even go out of his way to defuse fights before they happened between their teammates and opposing players, encouraging people to take it as a joke. He let every nasty look, shove, and comment roll off his back, insisting it was never worth it.

Scott could never figure out why he wasn't willing to back up his mouth when he was clearly tough enough to do so; now it was starting to make sense.

“Is that why you don't fight?”

“It's more fun to use your words, don't you think?”

Another uncomfortable silence had descended on the table. Scott knew heartache and loss, but Jordan knew suffering. Not that anyone would ever be able to tell. Scott certainly hadn't.

“It's okay to not joke around about that sort of stuff, Jordan,” Scott couldn't imagine what else his teammate was shadowing with his smile. “Not everything can be laughed off.”

“Isn't everything miserable enough already?”

Scott watched his mask slip all the way off. This was a Jordan that people did not know. It was the first time that Scott realized Jordan wasn't as unaffected as he pretended to be.

Now that he was thinking about it, how realistic was it that Jordan had never had a bad day? Anyone could say that, but Jordan could make it believable, even though it wasn't true.

Conversations were never deep, and with Jordan, they were never dark for long. Scott had watched his teammate pull people out of their own pits time and time again; he had made it seem like he could float above it all.

Try to see the bright side! Just take it easy!

Looking at Jordan across the table with his jaw clenched and his eyes storm-dark, Scott had a hard time picturing his face when he was pretending. Was he always pretending? It was like he was two different people entirely.

“Sometimes I can't stand it. I need to laugh, or it feels like I'll die.”

The loaded comment had been barely audible over the clattering in the restaurant.

“Well, if you ever feel like you need to cry, I'm around.” Scott had offered weakly, unsure of how to give comfort to someone he thought would never need it. “You know me, chronically mopey.”

“When things are terrible, you should laugh, Grandpa.” Jordan smiled, but Scott noticed it didn't reach his eyes. They were still dark, the darkest Scott had ever seen them. “Life's more fun that way!”

Normally, Scott would have been charmed by the sentiment. At that moment, he had been disturbed. He hadn't believed him.

Scott was bothered by that ideology again, watching Jordan now.

While Kip was making coffee, Scott decided to try defusing Jordan, even though he had no idea how.

The last time Jordan was honest in Vegas, it had been of his own volition. Since then, his walls had only gotten higher and stronger. His laughs had gotten louder, his jokes had gotten funnier, but the shadow behind him stretched and stretched.

Still, Scott was determined to let Jordan know he was there for him, whether he wanted it or not. To him, Jordan was family; the closest thing he had to it besides Kip.

“So, what the hell is a Greek gift sacrifice? Sounds like a deranged sex move,” Scott swirled his remaining coffee in his mug as he took Kip's seat across from Jordan.

Jordan was looking out onto the balcony, the sun on his face. The way the light was hitting him made his eyes look pale, the gold in them becoming defined and sharp. He looked exhausted, too.

“I took the Bishop, even though I knew what would happen,” Jordan mused softly, as if he was talking only to himself. “I just didn't think it would happen so soon.”

Scott observed the Bishop piece that Jordan was palming in his hand, his thumb rubbing over the indented ridge near the top.

“What does that mean?” Scott was lost when it came to chess, and even more so when it came to metaphors.

“It means I knew I was playing the wrong move, but I did it anyway,” Jordan's voice was light, almost airy. “Why do I do that?”

“Jordan,” Scott took a deep breath. He wasn't sure where to start, but he decided he'd go off what Angela had said at the club last night. “If this is about Shane–.”

“Want to hear a joke?”

There it was. Jordan's impervious wall of humour.

“No, I think we should probably talk about what's got you so bent out of shape,” Scott said gently.

He had never had a sibling before, but based on how Jordan described his own brothers, he imagined their dynamic to be similar. Friendly but infuriating.

“Knock knock.”

Especially when Jordan was as stubborn as an ass.

“Who's there?”

“Shane Hollander.”

Scott knit his eyebrows together, feeling like he was between the jaws of a bear trap.

“...Shane Hollander, who?”

“Shane Hollander is going to cheat on me tonight, either before or after the Raiders game.”

Scott gently set his mug next to the board, swallowing jaggedly. “How do you know that?”

“Patterns,” Jordan sighed. He set the bishop back down on the board with a soft thud.

Pressing his hands together in his lap, Scott remembered how many times he had warned Jordan not to pursue Shane.

It was obvious that the kid had a crush on the Metro centre, even before either of them had come out. Scott didn't want to discourage Jordan, but something about Hollander had always screamed unavailable to Scott.

And then Scott had seen it with his own eyes at the All-Stars game; Shane Hollander standing and waiting in front of Ilya Rozanov's hotel room. He had gone to grab something from one of the vending machines in the hotel lobby and found himself hiding between a potted plant and a pillar, watching Shane waiting, his leg shaking nervously.

There was simply no other explanation for it. That's how Scott had looked when he was sneaking around with Kip.

Jordan and Scott didn't look at each other like Shane and Ilya looked at each other. They weren't friends like Jordan and Scott were friends. He doubted that Hollander was there to drunkenly crawl into Ilya's bathtub and start singing the greatest hits of the 2000s. There was always something heavy in the room when those two were around one another.

Scott had tried to tell his teammate this, but Jordan had shrugged him off, unconvinced.

Over the years, Scott was left to watch from the sidelines as his teammate nervously flirted with Hollander whenever he got the chance. Shane was totally oblivious. And then, after the All-Star games in Tampa, Hollander had come out officially, and Jordan was determined to seize the opportunity.

To both of their surprise, Shane had seized it first.

Scott could still remember how Jordan had whooped at the top of his lungs when Shane had texted him for the first time. It happened while he was watching some trashy reality show with Kip about servers hooking up and fighting at a restaurant in L.A.

“You see?” Jordan had jeered. “He came out, and then he came right to me.”

Scott hadn't been so sure. He wanted to be happy for Jordan, but he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Ilya shoe.

But then it didn't.

Jordan was sinking further into his crush, and Scott floated nervously on the outside, unsure if it was a good idea. He couldn't shake the feeling that Hollander wasn't as free as he appeared to be.

Scott was worried sick for Jordan when he confirmed that he would be taking Shane on a date. He had warned him one last time that if Ilya appeared around Shane, he should back off before he wound up hurt. Jordan had called him a paranoid old man.

But then, the shoe dropped. Ilya appeared right at Shane's hotel room door. Jordan sent him a text while lying on Shane's bed.

God damn it, Hunter. Do you always have to be right?

To Scott's dismay, Jordan didn't abandon ship. He even went as far as to call Jordan during his date to remind him that he was setting himself up to be hurt.

“You're being rude,” Jordan had a serious tone when he picked up Scott's call.

“And you're being fucking stupid,” Scott snapped at him.

“Thanks for your input, but I know what I'm doing.”

Jordan had sounded so sure of himself when he was jumping headfirst into it with Hollander in September.

Looking at him slumped in his recliner, Scott doubted Jordan felt sure of himself still. He looked heartbroken, and in response, Scott felt heartbroken for him.

“Well?” Jordan rested his head in his hand, the heel of it under his chin. “Aren't you going to say I told you so?”

Scott shook his head. “I'm really sorry, Jordan.”

God damn it. Ilya had said they weren't together.

“It's fine.”

Annoyance stabbed at Scott, right in his stomach. “No, Jordan. It isn't.”

“It'll be alright.”

Unable to control his volume, Scott found himself talking louder than he meant to. “How can you say that? He's your boyfriend, and he's fucking around on you. Do something!”

Jordan reached forward and snapped his fingers at the king piece, flicking it over. It loudly clattered to the floor. “Easy for you to say.”

“How's that?”

“You have the liberty to get angry.”

“And you don't?”

“No,” Something hot flashed in Jordan's eyes. “No, I don't. You're lucky, Hunter. You look like your mother; I've seen the photos.”

Scott flinched, but he wouldn't back down. He was determined to show Jordan he wasn't afraid of what was waiting on the other side of his smile. Lifting his shoulders, he waited for Jordan to crack.

“Why don't you guess who I look like when I'm angry?” Jordan started to splinter, his hand moving to the bridge of his nose.

Scott didn't move. It was clicking into place that Jordan wasn't afraid of Shane's reaction; he was afraid of his own.

“Who I sound like when I yell?” Jordan's voice pitched loudly.

Jordan slammed his foot down flat on the floor, hard enough to rattle the table, causing several pieces to topple and roll. “Who I act like when I get mad?”

Somewhere in the kitchen, Kip nervously dropped a spoon into the sink. By the time it stopped rattling, Jordan was leaning back, his mask coolly slipping back into place. Wordlessly and paired with a tired, humourless smirk, Jordan bent down and began picking up the chess pieces from the floor.

“You're not anything like him,” Scott said quietly, bending down to pick up a pawn that had landed near his foot. “I know you.”

“And isn't it terrible?” Jordan's hand was shaking as he fished a piece closer to him. He wouldn't meet Scott's eyes. “I don't even need to hit people to hurt them.”

“You only hurt people when you don't actually let them in,” Scott gently scooted his foot along the floor so it could tap Jordan's. “And you hurt yourself, too. I'm not scared of you, big mouth. You're all talk.”

“Ha,” Jordan huffed out a laugh, a sad but real smile twisting his mouth. “You got me there.”

“I'm glad I know you.” Scott felt the fondness he had developed for Jordan in Vegas all those years ago start to shine. “All of you.”

“Okay, man. Don't be gay about this.”

Scott rolled his eyes, but he felt relief wash over him at the same time. Jordan was a walking paradox; open and guarded at the same time. He had the ability to entertain and dazzle with shadow-puppets so well that people didn't realize he was standing in the dark.

“Coffee, coffee,” Kip skirted back into the living room, handing Jordan a ceramic mug before he gently fluffed his hair. “And not that I was eavesdropping, but I'm glad I know you, too.”

Scott watched Jordan's face soften. For once, he didn't seem shelled in faux-humour.

“Thanks.” His voice sounded a bit wobbly. “Thank you both for… thank you.”

“What are you going to do about Shane?” Kip placed a gentle hand on Jordan's shoulder.

“I'm not sure,” Jordan looked defeated. “I'm worried I'll just default to avoiding a conflict, like always.”

Scott felt a lump forming in his throat. For all the shit he had to go through, he just wanted Jordan to be happy; actually happy. Not a silly performance, not people-pleasing, but genuinely at peace.

“Can I tell you a joke?” Scott watched Jordan's eyes glitter a bit.

Scott rarely told jokes. In fact, he was the least funny Admiral.

“Okay,” Jordan gave him a slow, considerate nod over his coffee. “Hit me.”

“A guy goes to the doctor, and he says, doc, it hurts when I do this with my arm!” Scott rotated his arm awkwardly out beside him, watching Jordan smile and drop his head to his chest. “Do you know what the doctor said?”

“Don't do that?”

“Exactly.”

--

Bonus Content:

Unfinished sketch of Jordan drunk in Vegas, checking out Hollander. Tried Procreate for the first time, but it clearly has a learning curve. I'll redo this doodle later. :)

bro out here yearning for situationship hell hahaha.

Chapter End Notes

Whew! Scott P.O.V chapter. Ilya has nothing to say right now; he's too sick hahaha. Enjoy! Thank you for the wonderful comments & feedback-- I love seeing your discourse! -Mace

15/03/2026 — Update Hello hello! Very sorry but I'm abroad and unable to update. I'll be back in Canada in ten days :)

Chapter 20: Chapter 19

Chapter Notes

Content Note: This chapter contains explicit sexual content and mature themes.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

XIX

October 2018

Go home. Shane told himself as he grabbed cough drops. Go back to your hotel and go to bed.

Unsure if Ilya had a wet cough or a dry cough, he grabbed a bottle of each tonic.

Better yet, go back and call your boyfriend. Son of a bitch. He was putting vaporub into his basket. Jordan's probably waiting for you to call.

Shane had been telling himself as he shopped that he would do the same if it had been Scott Hunter who was coughing all over him during the face-off, but as he stopped at a grocery store for onions and carrots and ginger, he was beginning to doubt himself. Was this okay to do?

No. Absent-mindedly, Shane tapped his credit card at the cashier's counter. It's weird. I shouldn't be doing this.

He and Ilya weren't friends– not really. They had been friendly in small moments before and after their hookups, but the last time they hooked up, they weren't friendly at all. Although, to be fair, that was his fault.

Maybe that could be his excuse; he had been a pretty big asshole to Ilya last time they were together. As much as Shane hated how Ilya strung him along over the years, and despite what he had said, Shane wasn't sure he hated Ilya. Not really. He hated their situation and how Ilya shut him out constantly. He hated how Ilya could make Shane come running back with a single text.

Shane really hated how Ilya could break down his willpower, never letting him have the upper hand for long. Ilya Rozanov himself, however, was a different story.

Stepping into the rainy Boston night, Shane shivered in his hoodie while waiting on the curb for his oo-ber. He was having a hard time sticking to what he said in the Best Western a few weeks ago.

I hate you.

Shane crawled into the back of a silver car and watched raindrops race down the window as the driver pulled into traffic to head downtown. His feet were covered in bags from the pharmacy and supermarket.

Yeah, right.

He had been scared to see Ilya all day long, but when he finally did, he wasn't afraid of anything. Shane had only been worried that Ilya was going to cough himself blue in the face and die on the ice. The last time they saw one another, he looked rough, standing in the J.F.K airport.

It really shouldn't have bothered Shane, but he had paced around his hotel room while googling whether or not a broken nose and head-cold combination could cause pneumonia, and he didn't like what he discovered. He had fallen down a rabbit hole of WebMD, and the next thing he knew, he was in the back of an oo-ber, heading towards a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Then a grocery store. Then, because he was paranoid of the driver putting two and two together, Shane had asked to be dropped off four blocks away from Ilya's apartment building.

So now, here he was, trudging through Boston on the way to his rival's apartment in the rain, his hands aching from the plastic handles of bags filled with ingredients for soup and every type of cold medicine science could put together.

“What the fuck am I doing?” Shane muttered to himself as the elevator doors opened, and he walked the all too familiar path towards the end of the hall while dripping wet.

Realizing the magnitude of him being here now that Ilya's door was in sight, Shane decided it would be best if he dropped everything off at the door and sent a text.

Ilya was probably sleeping, anyway. He might not even be alone in there, for all Shane knew. He could have a girl over. Or a guy. Either could be dressed in a slutty nurse outfit. Shane decided he'd rather not subject himself to seeing that.

Stooping down to awkwardly pile the plastic bags in front of the door, Shane pulled out his phone while crouched and tried to draft a text that made sense. Something neutral and casual.

And then, because he felt weird, he sent an emoji of a cat. Something unserious; maybe even friendly.

10:12

89%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Lily

September 18th

1815

Today 10:12 P.M

You looked bad out there tonight. Haha.

Left stuff at your door. Feel better

🐱

He hit send just as one of the bags tipped over, and a bottle of nasal decongestion spray rolled to his foot.

“Whoops,” Shane muttered.

The sound of the door flying open above him made him freeze, just as he curled his fingers around the plastic bottle.

“Shane?”

Utterly caught, Shane had no choice but to look up at Ilya, who appeared a bit wild as he loomed above. His hazel eyes were wide in disbelief, and his curls were damp from sweat. Probably from a fever.

Had he picked up a thermometer? At the moment, Shane couldn't remember. He was too busy gazing up at Ilya, glossy-eyed and shirtless, his black sweatpants riding low on his hips.

“Hi,” Shane squeaked out, his heart hammering. “I was just–”

Before he could explain that he was only dropping things off, Ilya reached down and yanked Shane to his feet–nearly lifting him from the ground. Shane stood frozen as Ilya melded into him. He felt feverish to the touch, slightly damp and too warm, but Shane let him wrap his arms around him anyway.

Without meaning to, he slid his hands between Ilya's shoulder blades. He was so solid, even when sick. Ilya snaked his hand to hold the back of his head, the other tight across his back, his fingers pressing into Shane's hip. The pressure increased, as if Ilya was trying to crush him, and Shane heard a soft oh squeezed out of himself.

Finally freeing his voice from the chains of shock, Shane cleared his throat to speak properly.

“I just wanted to drop off some stuff for your cold, so,” he gently pushed Ilya back, his palms flat against his chest.

Ilya's heart was beating so hard, each thump was sending tingles through Shane's arm.

Tipping his chin down to his chest so they wouldn't have to look one another in the eyes, Shane took a small step back. “Feel better, okay?”

“Come inside,” Ilya's voice was hoarse. His eyes dropped to the ground, where a mountain of stuff waited for him. “Did you rob a doctor?”

Shane laughed tenderly. “Maybe?”

In silence, they both crouched down and packed the escaped items up into their bags, and then, despite his better judgment, Shane found himself on the other side of Ilya's apartment door. It clicked closed behind him, and Shane felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliffside.

Sheepishly, he followed Ilya to the kitchen, as if he didn't know where everything was, and placed the bags on the counter. He glanced around the dimly lit apartment, which he had been in and out of maybe twenty times over the years. It looked like Ilya was alone.

“So, uhm," Shane began as he clumsily unpacked. “I'm just going to drop this stuff off and head out, alright?”

“Do I take this all at once?”

Snapping his head up, Shane saw Ilya holding two bottles, his eyes darting back and forth between the near identical labels.

“No! Of course not!”

When Ilya met his eyes, he smiled slightly. “I'm kidding.”

Then another wave of coughing shook him so badly he had to hunch over. Shane watched helplessly from the other side of the island, forcing himself to stay where he was instead of walking over and touching him.

The desire to cross over and hold Ilya while he shook and to rub his back until he could breathe right again was so strong that Shane could picture it when he blinked. He hated how there was a different version of them that lived behind his eyelids.

“Thanks, Shane,” Ilya said when he regained his breath. “I'll take something and lie down.”

Perfect, a cue to go.

“Have you eaten?” The question escaped Shane before he could squash it.

“I stopped for chicken fingers,” Ilya raised his shoulders when Shane gave him a disapproving look. “What? It's protein!”

“You should be eating soup.”

“I don't have soup.”

“Go, lie down,” Shane flicked his hand over the living room sofa, and pretended not to remember what the two of them used to do on it. “I'll make you some.”

“What, from that stuff?”

The opportunity to make a natural exit flew out the door, hand in hand with Shane's dignity.

Shane felt his cheeks growing warm. He didn't look at Ilya; instead, he quickly unpacked the ingredients.

Carrots, onion, ginger. Ilya was walking over to him. Shane tried to ignore him.

Stock vegetable broth cubes, garlic, and honey. Did Ilya have salt and pepper? He couldn't remember. Shane turned to ask, but Ilya was behind him now, his clammy hands sliding onto his hips.

“Thank you,” Ilya muttered into Shane's shoulder, his head bent into the crook of Shane's neck.

Feeling wobbly, Shane placed a hand flat on the counter in front of him and closed his eyes, which were beginning to sting. He hadn't even cut any onions yet.

“Go lie down.”

Ilya was making Shane nervous as he started to cook. Despite the television being on, he was facing the opposite direction, his head perched on a pillow propped up by the armrest. He watched Shane intently as he began cutting down the vegetables into small cubes.

“Your knives are dull,” Shane complained quietly as he shredded the yellow onion with fast, careful cuts. Within seconds, it was broken down completely.

“Where'd you learn to do that?” Ilya was upright, an impressed glimmer in his eyes.

Shane didn't respond; his cutting slowed, and his head tucked guiltily in the opposite direction. The answer was his boyfriend. Jordan had taken the time to show Shane in person how to properly chop, which knives to use for which type of ingredient, and how to move quickly without losing a finger. This was even his recipe, the one Jordan created when he had a summer cold. The one he modified to fit Shane's diet, in case he ever got sick.

“Never mind,” Ilya said softly. Shane heard him lie back down across the couch. “I don't want to know.”

Besides the television and Ilya's ragged breathing, the apartment got quiet. Shane told himself he'd get some soup into his rival and then he'd go; really, this time. He'd go.

When it was finished, the entire kitchen smelled of warm ginger and honey. Shane carefully brought a bowl over to Ilya, then returned to the couch with one for himself. He hadn't eaten anything yet either; he had been too worried about Ilya. He skipped dinner with the Metros to go shopping.

Ilya smiled at Shane as he sat down on the sofa, comically far away.

“Afraid I will infect you?”

Feeling silly, Shane moved closer to a normal distance, about half a foot away. “No.”

Ilya set his cellphone down, catching Shane's eye. “Was only Cliff, making sure I'm alive.”

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. It was painfully reminiscent. A million years ago, they had eaten tuna melts on this couch side by side, just like this. It had been Ilya who had cooked for Shane.

“Wow,” Ilya said finally, a few bites into his steaming bowl. “This is good. It's making me feel warm from the inside.”

“It's an immune booster. The ginger is anti-inflammatory, the carrots have a ton of vitamin A, plus the honey is antibacterial.” Shane moved his spoon around, too nervous to look over at Ilya. “Soup is good for an irritated throat. It helps hydrate, too.”

Ilya laughed hoarsely. “I meant it tastes good, Shane.”

“How are you feeling?”

“My nose is stuffed up,” Ilya left his spoon behind to rub the centre of his face. “Why is it always my nose?”

Shane smiled, blowing steam from his spoonful. “Sorry about that.”

Ilya cleaned off his bowl quickly, probably starving for nutrients from his terrible diet. Shane had left him a whole pot full to see him through the next few days; he hoped there was enough to last until he kicked his cold. Chicken fingers probably wouldn't cut it.

Without meaning to, Shane let his eyes float to his foot, which was resting snugly against the side of Ilya's. Somehow, between their spoonfuls of soup, the distance between them shrank away.

It reminded Shane of when they were nearly debuting rookies, and Ilya was being bombarded with English questions at the media table. That was so long ago– but Shane could still remember how his heart tumbled around in his chest as he worked up the courage to move his foot just a few inches along the floor. A gentle tap.

A nothing gesture, really, but it held an important sentiment. I got you.

As if reading his mind, Ilya gently nudged their feet together. Shane looked up and met his eyes.

“You know, I was thinking about how nice it is to be eating next to you again.”

Guilt was flowering inside Shane as he reached the bottom of his own bowl. He had to look away from Ilya's eyes—it was all too gentle and familiar.

“It was nice,” Shane admitted quietly.

“Until it wasn't.”

Heat prickled up his neck. “Sorry about that.”

“I liked how you let me hold you afterwards,” Ilya took Shane's empty bowl from his hands and set it next to his. “That was the only time I ever got to.”

Shane's heart felt funny, like it turned into a paste. He watched Ilya slump back into the overstuffed cushions behind him; he placed his arm along the back of the cushion, outstretched beside him. Not an invitation, only the idea of one. Last time, Ilya had nudged him to his chest, planting soft kisses in his hair, letting his fingers run absentmindedly through Shane's short strands. Shane craved it now, but he would have to meet Ilya halfway. He wasn't sure if he could. Or should.

Quickly, Shane grabbed the two bowls from the table and took them to the kitchen sink. He heard Ilya let out a frustrated sigh, which then turned into a steady stream of low, breathless coughs. All his childish huffing and puffing wouldn't do him any good while he was sick.

By the time the sink was full of water and the dish soap was foaming, Ilya was still coughing, swearing in Russian between shaky breaths.

Shane rolled his eyes and dried his hands quickly on a nearby kitchen towel, snatching up the vaporub and returning to the couch.

“Put this on your chest.”

“What is it?”

“Topical ointment.”

“What is ointment?”

Shane unscrewed the cap as Ilya watched on, wrinkling his brows at the waxy, semi-clear gel that smelled strongly of menthol and eucalyptus.

“Put some on your chest and neck,” Shane instructed, tilting the little tub towards him, then tsked, annoyed, as Ilya hesitated to stick his finger into the unknown substance. “No, God damn it. Not like that.”

Shane shooed Ilya's hand away. He only had a tiny bit on the pad of his finger, and he was smelling it inquisitively while watching as Shane heaped a glob on two of his hooked fingers.

“Looks a bit like lube.”

“Ilya,” Shane warned. “Do not put this on anyone's asshole.”

Ilya smiled, but then recoiled with a whine as Shane smeared it across his bare chest in a broad stripe.

“That's cold!”

“Don't be a baby.”

Shane tried to unfocus his eyes as he pressed the ointment into Ilya's warm skin in soft circular motions. He wanted to distract himself from what he was doing. He wanted to explain how this stuff wasn't even a medicine; it was more of a placebo to help him breathe better.

He wasn't sure Ilya would be familiar with that term, and he was so exhausted he doubted he could explain it well enough. Shane opted for silence instead as he worked his coated hand across Ilya's pecs and then up his neck, stopping just below his Adam's apple, which was bobbing slightly.

“Mm,” Ilya had closed his eyes, and Shane took the opportunity to steal a secret glance.

Even sick, with a newly broken nose and greasy from vaporub, Ilya was gorgeous. Shane wanted to put both hands on him; he wanted to still his palm flat over his heart and feel it beating again.

Despite knowing it was wrong, Shane ached to revert to what they used to be. Temporary togetherness. Ilya was never his, but all those stolen hours when they were pretending had been some of the best moments of his life.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Shane flicked his eyes up to see Ilya staring at him, his own eyes hooded and a bit sleepy. “I breathe better with you around.”

Ilya captured Shane's hand in his, stopping the movement right over his heart. Just like Shane wanted. They stayed there like that for a while, hand over hand, staring one another down. Alarm bells rang out in his head as Shane felt himself growing warmer and warmer, the fluttering feeling in his chest moving to the pit of his stomach.

Ilya guided Shane's hand down to the curve of his chiselled abdomen, letting it rest for a moment before he tugged slightly, encouraging Shane to move in closer.

Shane didn't care that he was sticky or that it smelled too strongly of menthol; he folded himself into the curve of Ilya's arm, and the two sank into one another; it was like the closing of a circuit.

Immediately, the energy that was always there when they touched ignited, and Shane shuddered against Ilya's body. In response, Ilya wrapped an arm tightly around Shane, pulling him up close so he could kiss Shane through his hair.

“Not letting you go this time, Hollander,” Ilya muttered affectionately, the words curving his mouth into a soft smile.

Shane swallowed a pointed lump of guilt. This was bad. Sex was sex; this was worse—this was intimacy.

What was Jordan doing right now? Was he out with friends, or was he by himself? Was he eating alone at his kitchen counter? Was he waiting for Shane to call?

Shane turned his head away sharply, feeling his eyes starting to well up.

“Shane?” The couch shifted as Ilya tried to chase his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane swiped quickly at a tear that had wobbled free. “I'm good.”

“Is everything okay at home with Jordan?”

Shane flinched upon hearing his name; then he felt disoriented hearing Ilya refer to Jordan as home.

“He's great,” Shane cursed under his breath as another tear escaped. “We're great. I don't know why I'm crying– I think I'm just tired.”

Shane's body ached under Ilya's touch as he ran his hand up and down the top of his thigh. He felt feverish. He didn't want to leave, but he knew what was going to happen if he stayed.

“I'm tired too,” Ilya found Shane's hand and laced their fingers together. “Should we go to bed?”

The question twisted Shane's stomach. The reasons he should say no were obvious; he didn't come here for this. He had a boyfriend, and they were happy together. Jordan might not be home to Shane, but he wasn't nothing. Shane was pretty sure he was starting to fall in love with Jordan– or at the very least, he felt loved when Jordan was around.

Weakly, Shane looked back at Ilya; he looked tormented. Sharp surprise daggered Shane's heart. What the hell was Ilya upset about? He wasn't the one about to do something awful.

But it was inevitable.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, he knew he wouldn't be able to walk himself back; he jumped off the cliff, and now he was free-falling. It was all his own fault this time, too. Ilya hadn't texted him–Shane showed up on his own.

Shane tried to think of something to say. Obviously, this was a bad idea, but that was the thesis of their entire history. It wasn't enough to throw on the brakes now.

He could speak up and lie, telling Ilya he was uninterested in having sex with him, but their bodies were talking in a language of their own. From the moment Shane laid a finger on Ilya's bare chest, they had both been as hard as iron, their blood hot and their breathing synced in heaving huffs. The air around them was sweet and warm, sugary with honey and heavy with temptation.

Get up. Shane fought with himself, his limbs feeling like they were made of lead. Go home, Shane.

Shane reached up and cupped the sides of Ilya's face, pulling them closer together so they were nose to nose. Looking into hazel eyes with round, blown pupils made his head fill in a terrible gap he didn't know was there.

I am home.

Ilya hesitated, and Shane felt him swallow roughly under his hands. “I'll make you sick.”

“I don't mind.”

Sealing their mouths together, Shane found Ilya tasted of honey, with a bitter twinge of cough medicine like artificial cherry. He could feel more tears escaping, but his body was relaxing; even more so when Ilya curled his arms around him again.

Ilya held Shane tightly by the back of his head, his other hand firmly planted on his hip, a silent command to not run away. It was unnecessary– Shane wasn't going anywhere right now.

Being mindful of his nose, Shane twisted and deepened their kiss, causing them both to moan quietly into each other's mouths. They kissed until Shane's mind melted into putty, swallowing each other up until they were both breathless.

“I've missed you,” Ilya softly said against Shane's lips before moving to stand, taking Shane with him.

“I missed you too,” The words were a terrible betrayal, but they were also the truth. Shane had to say them, or he was worried something worse would come out. “Please, Ilya.”

Shane gasped when Ilya pulled him up and into him, forcing Shane to wrap his legs around Ilya. His hands were firm along the ridge of where Shane's thighs met his ass, cradling him preciously as Ilya walked without breaking their kiss all the way down the hall to his bedroom. Ilya was in no condition to be carrying him around, but Shane could tell by the way Ilya was clinging to him that this was something he wanted to do.

This time, there was no anger. When Shane fell into bed with Ilya, there was only softness. In Tampa, Shane had tried to be soft and was rebuffed. In New York, Ilya had tried to be soft, and Shane had blown him off in return. This time, they were on the same page; they both needed to be gentle with each other. When Ilya finally set Shane down on his bed, Shane noticed there were tears in the corner of his eyes.

There was no ripping at clothing or desperate need to pull anything apart, no blurring of starvation and frustration. The last time they had taken things so slowly had been the first time they ever had sex, only nineteen years old at the time. Ilya had been so careful with Shane, like he was made of glass. Now it was Shane's turn to be careful.

He undressed Ilya first, then himself more slowly, taking many breaks to kiss him along his warm mouth and across his shoulders. Ilya's eyes were round and full of bewilderment, as if he was etching each detail to memory. He seemed to be soaking in the moment and, by doing so, getting more emotional. Shane watched Ilya's expression twist with both lust and agony, undoubtedly a mirror of his own face.

By the time they were both naked and side by side, Shane had to brush a trail of tears from Ilya's cheek, and then his own. They kissed with no urgency; it was slow and indulgent, as slow as molasses. Ilya rolled on top of Shane and encapsulated their hands together tightly, pinning them up by Shane's head while he looked down at him, his eyes glossy.

“You're sure?”

The last of Shane's resolve turned to ash, burned away by the flame of desire. “I'm sure.”

Ilya nodded tightly in response, letting Shane guide his hand to where he needed to be touched. It felt like an injury only Ilya could heal. Shane tipped his head back as Ilya's finger ran along the border of his entrance, igniting him head-to-toe as if his blood had turned to gasoline.

“Oh,” Ilya's slicked finger opened him, entered him, and the simple pressure was enough to make Shane's legs tremble, his breath tumbling away from him.

It made no sense. Fingers were just fingers and a touch was just a touch, but when Ilya's skin connected with his, Shane felt strange. There was a completeness to it. It shocked him to his very cells, waking him to something he didn't realize he had been missing.

Shane fought to keep his eyes open. He didn't want to watch himself do this to Jordan, but he had to see Ilya. He had to. It was driving him insane.

Ilya's mouth was slack as he watched Shane open for him. He had thrown one of his legs over his shoulder, spreading Shane apart to get a better view as he worked. Shane thought he looked conflicted, both satisfied and enthralled, but also a bit cautious. He still looked emotional, more so than the last time they hooked up in New York. Guilt pushed into Shane like it was tucked between Ilya's curling fingers.

Shane felt himself slipping away under his touch, the edges of his vision becoming fuzzy with pleasure as he rocked along the rhythm Ilya set within him.

“I'm ready,” Shane rasped out as Ilya tested him with a third finger. He was clawing away at the bed, his heels digging down and pushing the sheets away. “Please, Ilya. Please?”

“You're sure, Shane?” Ilya whispered above him as his fingers slid away.

Shane sucked in a hard breath, his body crying at the sudden emptiness. “Yes.”

For a terrible, longing moment, no one moved. Shane could see the gears turning in Ilya's head; were they really going to do this?

“I need you, Ilya,” Shane whispered honestly. “Please?”

There was no turning back now.

Ilya crashed his mouth onto his, and Shane could feel his hard length along his thigh as he moved, reaching over to grab a condom from the nightstand drawer. As he pulled it over himself, Shane kept busy by raking his hands through Ilya's curls, his body thundering with need. So close but so far.

Shane found himself whimpering while he waited, then whining loudly in dismay as he watched the condom split open down the side, breaking as Ilya attempted to adjust it too quickly. He was almost too hard.

Ilya cursed in Russian, ripping it off and reaching for another.

Out of his mind, Shane heard himself sniffling, begging him to just forget it—if Ilya didn't get inside of him now, he was sure he'd die.

Ilya whipped his head around, his mouth falling open. After a second passed, he shook his head and snatched another from the drawer.

“Hold on, hold on, Shane.” Ilya quickly tore it open. “Hold on, sweetheart. Wait for me.”

To satiate him, Ilya had to pause and stroke Shane intermittently while he rolled a new one more carefully down over his twitching cock. If anything, that only made it worse. Shane could feel sobs of need brewing deep within his chest, like he was on the brink of exploding.

Shane detonated when Ilya pushed into him; the world shattered around him. Nothing beyond the borders of their connected bodies even existed. They shuddered hard at the same time as Ilya sank deeper and deeper.

Ilya's voice was crackly as he moaned out Shane's first name. Sinking down to the hilt, he leaned forward and kissed Shane warmly on his forehead, full of love and understanding.

Tears welled up hotly in Shane's eyes immediately at the gesture, and they fell shamelessly as Ilya thrust into him with a ruthlessly slow roll of his hips.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked nervously, like it was their first time all over again.

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, causing them to fall faster.

Crybaby. A teasing voice connected to a face he couldn't quite conjure right now mocked him.

“Yes,” His voice shook. “Please, Ilya. Please don't stop.”

After a second of hesitation, Shane felt Ilya lean down and intercept his track of tears with kisses, fluttering along his cheeks. He muttered something in Russian, which was lost to Shane, and then he began pushing deeply, each connection sending sparks up Shane's spine.

Wrapping his legs around Ilya's lower back, they stayed forehead to forehead until Shane could feel himself coming undone. Neither of them were going to last; it was like they were both parched for this. Ilya had begun to tremble above him, his eyes shining.

Beads of sweat were mingling with sparse tears, each falling from his jawline until Shane couldn't tell which was which. He was such a pretty crier.

Shane put his hands on both sides of his wet face, stroking Ilya's cheeks with his thumbs. “You're so,” his voice hitched hard at another thrust that perfectly hit his prostate. “Beautiful.”

Ilya's expression became softer for a moment, his eyes going round. He kissed Shane hard on his mouth, and when he pulled back, his face had changed to be more lustful, a bit drunk-looking. His hips picked up speed, and the snapping of his pelvis started to echo through the apartment in choir with Shane's moans.

The glint of Ilya's crucifix swinging between them caught Shane's eye as they moved together; it glowed in the low lamp light as it dragged up and down their flesh. Familiar and foreboding, Shane felt a thin, hot needle of guilt slowly pierce his pleasure like it was soft flesh.

“Ilya,” Shane choked out shamefully while sinking his nails into the flesh of Ilya's shoulders. “He can't know.”

“I know.” Ilya didn't slow his pace; he only punched himself into Shane harder, like he was trying to guarantee it.

“He can't.”

“He won't. I promise.”

“I can't take it,” Shane sobbed out between thrusts. “Oh my God, Ilya. I can't.”

“You can,” Ilya cooed to him wetly, his hand gently stroking through Shane's hair. “You can have me just like this, if it's all you want. Whenever you want, wherever you are.”

Shane gasped loudly and turned his head away, unable to look at Ilya and feeling a pit of fire open in his stomach. He dug his fingers hard into Ilya's skin, clawing him all over– he was flying apart physically, but crumbling mentally.

How could Ilya say something like that? How could he say something like that?

It was terrible. It was morally bankrupt. Worst of all, it was the opposite of what Shane wanted to hear.

He didn't want to spend his life on the arm of someone else, always looking over his shoulder to see if Ilya was close by. He didn't want Ilya to be a secret lover– he never had. Even when they were kids, before Scott Hunter made sure it was safe to do so, he wanted to have Ilya in the light.

Shane's ears burned hearing Ilya say that he was fine staying in the dark, waiting. Hadn't they been doing that their entire lives? Hadn't that been the reason all of this was such a mess?

This was the problem. More. Shane always wanted more and more and more from Ilya. He wanted to wake up next to Ilya every morning; he wanted Ilya to be the last thing he saw before he fell asleep. Even before he came out, even while he was someone else's, Shane was always crying out for Ilya. It was never enough. This could never be enough.

It didn't matter what Shane did or how good other things in his life were—they were temporary measures to force Ilya from his mind. The life Shane wanted to build with Ilya, founded on the starry-eyed fantasies of true love he developed when he was a kid, never went away.

When he was alone or with other people, those fantasies made him feel stupid, stuck, and small; but in the here and now with Ilya inside him, holding him like he could be actualized into the real thing, Shane felt absolved. All the self-loathing and shame he had held on so tightly since eighteen dissolved away sweetly, like sugar into coffee.

But this wasn't going to last forever. It wasn't even going to last for another ten minutes.

Shane let out a small sob of genuine misery. The moment they were done making love, the dream would be over. The fantasies would live on in the marrow of his bones; his body would decompose with them. They would die as fantasies.

“I know,” Ilya held him tightly as they rocked. “Me too, sweetheart.”

Completely defeated, Shane knew he loved Ilya too—too much. He loved him so much that he couldn't do this to them. He couldn't do it to Ilya. Not again.

“Shane,” Ilya's voice was thin, his face completely flushed. “Stroke yourself. Want to come with you.”

Shane obeyed and gripped himself quickly as Ilya started chasing his high. With steady strokes in time with Ilya's rhythm, Shane had himself on the very edge within the minute. It was a bittersweet sensation knowing this would be the last time he would experience this wonderful feeling with him. Shane knew he couldn't get it anywhere else.

“Oh, fuck,” Shane whined, feeling Ilya losing control inside of him. “Oh fuck, Ilya.”

“Yes, Shane,” Ilya's hip movements became choppy. “Say my name like that.”

“Ilya,” Shane couldn't keep his voice steady when it felt like Ilya was fucking their very D.N.A together. “I'm going to–, I can't– Ilya.”

“Fuck, Shane.”

Between Ilya pushing him to the brink and hearing his name spoken like something sacred, Shane came undone. His back arched from the bed as stars flooded his vision, his release roping across his stomach, his chest, and Ilya, too. Intense relief was poisoned by sadness, and Shane cried out loudly as he came, his nails scratching down the planes of Ilya's back.

In a distant corner of his mind, Shane wondered if any of the marks would refuse to fade; he wanted to bawl at the idea of being unable to leave a piece of him with Ilya. A mark of memory; proof that at one point in time, they had been something more than two people who used to know one another.

He tried not to think about it. For now, he wanted to make Ilya feel as complete and satisfied as possible. Shane had locked his legs tightly around Ilya's waist as he imploded, which seemingly pushed Ilya right over.

“Oh,” Ilya's voice dropped low. He gave Shane two more hard thrusts, and then his whole body heaved. “Oh, God, Shane.”

Shane gasped as Ilya emptied himself, his finger locked tightly in Shane's hair. Wanting to meet him there fully, Shane encouraged Ilya softly in his ear to let it all out of him; every last drop. Whatever he was holding onto, he could give to Shane– good or bad, Shane wanted to hold it one last time.

Ilya shook above him, his breath raspy and his body scorching. Shane rubbed his back and whispered loving nonsense to him until Ilya stopped with one final full-body tremble. They both pulled out of it for air, their bodies pressed together in a sticky mess of vaporub residue and their own drying releases.

Eventually, Ilya's head cleared enough to roll off of Shane, but he didn't go far. He stayed close, fumbling along the sheets until he could thread their hands together.

“I know you don't want to hear it,” Ilya said, not taking his eyes away from the bedroom ceiling. “But I love you.”

Something heavy clunked in Shane's chest. “I know.”

Ilya turned toward Shane, his eyes wet. Shane couldn't tell if it was because he was sick or if he was getting upset again.

“I have one of your socks back home in Montreal,” Shane hushed as he moved a damp curl away from Ilya's face. “I took it by mistake.”

“Hm,” Ilya gave him a small smile. “Bring it next time.”

Next time. A two-word death sentence. There couldn't be a next time.

Shane's hand began to tremble, so he quickly moved it away. “Ilya, listen…”

“Don't do that, Shane,” Ilya grumpily snatched his hand back. “Don't act like you hate this. Or me.”

Shane remembered how adamant he was about claiming to hate Ilya while letting him split him apart in the Best Western; his face flushed hotly. Then and now, it was obvious he had been bluffing. He wished he hated Ilya, it would be easier to do this.

“You always acted ashamed after we hooked up when we were younger, too.” There was a palpable bitterness in Ilya's words.

“I was!” Shane doubled down, not shrinking from Ilya's hurt expression. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to pine over someone who just wants to get laid?”

Shane felt his old heart wound throb. Was Ilya actually that oblivious? It seemed so apparent that Ilya had strung him across countless countries over a decade, always beckoning him in just to fade away from reach when both their bodies had come down from the high.

“Oh, believe me, I know.” Ilya gave him a look. “But that was then, Shane. This is now.”

Shane felt his stomach flipping over itself; he wanted to soar on those words. Instead, he clipped his own wings.

No. He scolded himself back into place. Don't do this again. It's too painful.

Rolling away and sitting upright, Shane swung his feet over the side of Ilya's bed and tried to shake his head clear. Every part of him was at war. There couldn't be another decade of sneaking around–it was destroying them both. It was cancer.

Shane couldn't bring himself to say the three words that were beating their fists against the walls of his throat. Instead, he swallowed them down, refusing to condemn them to this torture forever.

“I love you.”

I love you more.

“You'll get over it.”

“Shane, God damn it!”

I love you too much to let you be my secret.

“Call one of your girls, Ilya.”

“I don't have any.”

Move on from me.

“What about the girl from your New York hotel?”

“Stvetlana is a friend, I told you!”

“So you've never fucked?” Shane challenged him, glaring over his shoulder. He prayed to God that Ilya couldn't see through him right now.

Walk away from me, Ilya. Shane fought back tears, narrowing his gaze more. I can't walk away from you. I'm too weak.

Ilya's mouth fell open, but nothing came out, not even a cough.

“Right,” Shane scoffed, rolling his damp eyes. “There it is.”

Turning away, he fished his boxers off the floor and slipped them back on.

“It was a long time ago!” Ilya's voice raised slightly, and Shane could feel him moving across the bed. “She's nothing but a friend now; besides, you're the only one I sleep with.”

“Since today?” He tried to sound as inflammatory as possible.

Please. Shane couldn't take this. Tell me to go.

“Since July you–.” Whatever name Ilya was going to call Shane was interrupted by a few sharp coughs.

Shane felt his body go cold, goosebumps blanketing his still bare body. No way Ilya Rozanov hadn't gotten laid since they were in New York. That would be weeks. That would be unheard of.

“I don't want anyone to touch me but you.” Ilya's voice was firm, resolute, even.

No.

“I gotta go,” Shane found his voice to be thin and papery when he could finally speak.“I'm sorry. This was…”

Rotten. Reprehensible. Selfish. Absolutely perfect, and everything I wish we could have.

“Wrong.”

“You're doing it again,” Ilya pointed out, his expression disheartened. “You're running away.”

“I have to,” Shane tried desperately to put determination behind his words. “It isn't right. We already tried! We can't keep doing this; it doesn't get us anywhere.”

Ilya threw his arms out. “This is ridiculous! I love you!” Then, after an angry huff, he added, “I think you know you love me, too.”

No. No, no, no.

Shane bit into his lower lip hard, blocking a runaway sob of surprise. Ilya wasn't backing down, and if he said he loved him one more time, Shane knew he was going to crack. He had to leave now, before Shane let himself throw both their lives away to this mess forever.

Jumping off the bed, Shane focused on quickly getting his pants on and locating his shirt, which had been tangled in the topsheet. He felt panicky, hating how Ilya was punctuating the exact reason why this was all so terrible.

So maybe Shane could admit to himself that he was still in love with Ilya Rozanov. He never stopped. So what? He had been in love with Ilya since he was nineteen, and look where that got him. Loving and hurting one another in the dark was no way to love.

Why? Shane ground his teeth together, holding all his tension in his jaw. Why do we do this to each other?

Ilya groaned, his eyes never leaving Shane as he sat, arms folded and scowling on the bed.

“I don't understand, Shane. Why leave now? What's there to be ashamed of?”

As if summoned by Ilya's words, Shane's cellphone illuminated the dark bedroom with pale blue light. It had been left on the ground near his damp sweatshirt, and it was rattling against the hardwood floor.

There it was.

They both stayed very still, listening to Shane's phone ring. Neither of them needed to look at the display to know who was calling; the ghost of his relationship with Jordan entered the room.

When the call went to voicemail, and the room became dark again, the full weight of what he had done sank into Shane. It arrived slowly, like a small leak, but within a few seconds, Shane felt like he was drowning–up to his neck in disbelief at his own actions. At his words.

“Shane,” Ilya's tone flipped into pleading. “Don't–.”

Shane couldn't even hear what Ilya was saying anymore as he yanked his t-shirt over his head and fled the bedroom, his phone back in his pocket. His pulse was skyrocketing. He knew somewhere behind him, Ilya was fighting to get back into his sweatpants to try and change his mind, but he was too mortified.

He had been so caught up in his shit with Ilya and his own inability to take responsibility for his feelings, he hadn't even considered the biggest reason why he shouldn't have done any of this.

Not even a four-hour drive away, his kind, understanding, loving boyfriend had been waiting. He probably wanted to congratulate Shane on winning against Boston. He probably wanted to hear his voice, ask Shane about his day, and make Shane feel special.

Shane was supposed to see Ilya sick on the ice and ignore it. Shane was meant to go back to his hotel. Shane was supposed to call.

And what had he done instead?

Nausea thickly coated him, and he felt himself spiralling into tears as he slipped his shoes on.

Oh, God. I've ruined it. Shane swiped messily at his eyes that got blurrier with each tear. I've fucked things up with Jordan– and for what? To act like a fucking nineteen-year-old again?

To make soup and play house? To chase after a love I know is wrong?

In the distance, Shane heard Ilya attempt to shout after him, his voice breaking apart.

“I can't believe I did this,” Shane swore at himself under his breath. “How many fucking times until I learn?”

While pulling on his sweatshirt, Shane slammed the apartment door behind him. He could feel his face was wet, but he was too angry at himself to do anything about it anymore. His vision was a mess; everything looked streaky, and the pattern along the carpet smeared around him as he tried to quickly walk a straight line down to the elevators before Ilya caught up to him.

Shane felt his mind going to pieces.

What was he going to tell Jordan? What could he say to justify something as horrible as this? There was nothing.

He's going to break up with me. Shane sniffed miserably, then froze in his tracks.

Panic floored him as more and more obvious consequences bloomed.

What if he never forgives me? What if we never speak again?

A black hole opened within him. Without meaning to, Shane had become dependent on Jordan in many ways. He was a friend, someone who understood who Shane was both on and off the ice.

Jordan was there to listen and support him, even in all his complaints and neurotic tangents; he was there. He was always there— smiling, nodding, waiting. It was so rare to find someone with whom he could fully let his guard down.

Shane never worried that something he could say or do would drive Jordan away from him. Until now.

He didn't want Jordan to go.

I'm so selfish and weak. Shane felt out of body as he started to walk again, his eyes pinned to the floor. What have I done?

Gasping as he brought his head up, Shane almost crashed into a broad chest in front of him. He hadn't heard anyone coming his way; he was too in his own mind.

“Sorry,” Shane felt mortified at running into a neighbour of Ilya's while trembling pathetically, his vision still smeared with lingering tears. “Excuse me.”

Cliff was staring down at him, his eyes popped wide with surprise.

He was all bundled up against the cold, but Shane could tell it was him from his stature alone. Marlow was wearing a long black coat slicked with raindrops, his wavy black hair tucked beneath a dark grey toque with the Raider's logo embroidered on the fold.

“What are you doing here?” Shane heard his voice hitch and crack as a sob still wobbled in his chest.

Shane knew he must look insane: red eyes and damp lashes, tripping over himself in Ilya's building.

“What are you doing here?” Cliff glared down at him, his tone verging on outrage. “Or I guess I should be asking where you're going, Hollander.”

Embarrassed and with no defence, Shane lowered his eyes. He noticed Marlow was holding a white plastic bag, which was from the same pharmacy he had been at two hours prior. Shane could see medicine bottles pushing against the thin material; no doubt, they were duplicates of what he already bought.

“I'm leaving,” Shane turned his head away while he side-stepped Cliff, not wanting to be looked at any more. “Excuse me.”

“Hey!” Cliff snapped at him with his booming voice, his hand latching out to Shane's forearm.

Shane shook him off and kept moving. He didn't stop until he was forced to at the end of the hall, waiting for the elevator. Teetering on the edge of a panic attack, he tried to stomp down the anxiety that pressed inside him like steam in a kettle.

“Stop doing this to him.” Cliff carried on.

Shane debated running down the stairs. It would probably be less humiliating.

“Hollander!”

Click.

“Marlow?”

The sound of Ilya stepping into the hallway reverberated off the walls. Shane refused to look.

“Roz, why—?”

Jumping into the elevator, Shane tried to keep his expression as calm as possible as the doors closed in front of him. The last thing he saw was Cliff and Ilya staring back at him, their faces unreadable from the distance.

Shane kept his eyes closed until he was on the main floor, hoping that when he opened them, this entire mess of the night was all a dream.

Once outside in the chilled Boston air, Shane removed the cellphone from his pocket with trembling hands. His relationship was about to implode, and he was about to lose someone he loved.

He wasn't prepared to not have Jordan in his life, but what other choice did he have? Shane swallowed back tears and unlocked his phone. His fingers were trembling so badly that he could barely scroll through the three waiting notifications.

Missed call: Hayden Pike

1:32

Bell Network 33%

‹Messages

ⓘ

Hayden Pike

Today 1:32 A.M

Hey, buddy. Not in your room?

Please don't tell me you are where I think you are lol

Apprehension slithered around Shane as he checked the time. It was just past one-thirty in the morning. Since they started dating, not a day had gone by without Jordan texting or calling Shane to say goodnight.

But Jordan hadn't called.

Chapter End Notes

Home from travelling!

Unpolished chapter posting because you were all so good and patient I won't make you wait one second more. :)Thank you all so much, seriously 3

I'll slowly be editing existing chapters over the next few days, but hopefully I'll complete the next chapter by Sunday. I really want to rework the first 4ish chapters since I wasn't sure the final direction of Do the Wrong Thing back then._Mace

--P.SIf you say "Happy Birthday" to my dearest friend, Josephine, on March 31st, I'll consider writing a bonus chapter of Ilya and Jordan taking Shane to Paris [30].Wink wink.

P.P.SHey guys! The fic is literally tagged cheating, toxic, and homewrecking lol if you think those things are “jumping the shark”, go ahead and log off for me.

Not to be a bitch, but you can't just memorize words, you actually have to be literate. 💕💋 - Macy

Chapter 21: Chapter 20

Chapter Notes

Sorry for the delay on this chapter! I was super busy this week. See the endnotes for a special update!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

XX

October 2018

Ilya watched Shane disappear between the elevator doors with a heavy heart. He wanted to run after him, of course, but he wouldn't. That would go against the plan he'd made with Svetlana to put things right between them, although things had already gone a bit off track.

Svetlana had said not to chase Shane, to let him come on his own– and he had! But, fuck, now he was leaving again. If it wasn't for that phone call, they could have finished talking things through. There were a million things he still wanted to tell Hollander.

As ridiculous as it was, Ilya had nearly forgotten about Jordan entirely. It was always like that when he and Shane were together– everything else became background noise, but no sound was louder than the silence that followed the phone call.

Ilya wasn't supposed to have sex with Shane until they were both on the same page, but one thing had led to another, and now…

Fuck. Damn it.

There goes Shane. Again.

Cliff cleared his throat after Ilya had been staring down the hallway for an unnatural amount of time. It was obvious that Shane hadn't taken the elevator for a joyride–he was gone. Ilya turned his attention to his teammate. Marlow was creating a damp patch in the carpet from his dripping coat and shoes; Ilya followed the lines of his trench coat up to his scowling face, his nose a bit pink.

“Want some soup?” Ilya offered wryly.

He got an earful as he ladled Shane's soup into a bowl. Cliff had shed his damp clothes in a pile by the front door and turned on a living room lamp, washing the apartment in an orange hue as he settled onto the sofa.

“I know what I said about love and hate, but you can't let Hollander jerk you around like that.”

Ilya snorted, fishing a spoon from his cutlery drawer.

“I'm serious–handjob jokes aside, if he's not going to choose you, Ilya, you should cut him loose.” Cliff continued his lecture. “I wouldn't have encouraged you if I knew Shane was going to play you off his boyfriend like that. I didn't think he had it in him to be such a…”

Ilya knew Cliff well enough to know he was probably thinking the word whore or something in that category. The idea of dumping the soup over Marlow's head ungenerously crossed his mind, but Ilya tamped it down. He knew how it looked, and he also knew that Cliff was just trying to be a good friend. Ilya tried to keep the defensiveness from his voice as he brought the bowl over to the couch.

“It's not like that. He's not like that,” he insisted, sitting next to his teammate. “It's just a little complicated.”

“So you weren't screwing?”

“No,” Ilya lied, but he could feel his face tingling. “We were just talking.”

“Yeah, whenever I chat with my buddies, I usually leave all teary-eyed with my sweatshirt on inside out,” Cliff shot him a look before blowing on a steaming spoonful. “Seriously, Roz. I know you used to bang girls with boyfriends all the time back in the day; I'm guilty of that too, but look at your nose! Do you really think this is a good idea for anyone?”

Ilya pursed his lips. He doubted Shane would tell Jordan what the two of them did tonight, but on the off chance he ever found out, there was a real possibility that Ilya would end up black and blue. He and Jordan were the same height, but Bragg was massive too– especially his arms.

Moreover, Ilya had seen something in his eyes when they went head-to-head on centre ice in New York; something black and bottomless. It was as if he was truly willing to fight until one of them was dead. Ilya didn't have that–whatever that was.

So, no. It obviously wasn't a good idea to sneak around with Shane behind his boyfriend's back. It wasn't like Hollander and Bragg were on-the-road randoms. What they did tonight was probably going to catch up to them sooner or later since they all skated on the same ice and ran in the same circles.

“Oh, holy shit, that's good.” Cliff was nodding appreciatively at his bowl. “You made this?”

“Hollander did.”

“He made you soup?”

Ilya nodded. “And bought me all that medicine. And maybe he tucked me into bed, temporarily.”

The sound of Cliff clinking his spoon on the lip of the bowl jingled through the apartment. He sighed heavily, obviously conflicted.

“I told you, it's complicated,” Ilya found himself too shy to say what he was thinking, even though he ached to gloat about it. He wanted to holler from the rooftops.

Cliff seemed to understand, and Ilya turned his head so his darkening cheeks couldn't be seen as easily. He had never mooned so earnestly over the Montreal captain, especially in front of a friend. It was a little embarrassing how happy he was, especially since Hollander had still run away in the end.

He loves me. Shane loves me!

Despite him making an exit without saying the actual words, Shane had loved him in so many ways tonight that it was impossible for Ilya to stay mad at him for leaving.

Shane loved him with his actions: the soup, the medicine, the cuddling. It was all so sweet that it had made Ilya want to bawl his eyes out. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he felt so cherished and pampered.

But first and foremost, Shane had loved him with his presence. With his company. Ilya didn't have to lure or convince Hollander to come see him; he did it all on his own. Sure, he tried to chicken out and leave stuff at the door, but he still came.

For their entire lives of knowing each other, Ilya could count on one hand the number of times Hollander clumsily tried to initiate, usually leaving Ilya to be the one proposing the bad idea of hooking up that they couldn't stop doing. It meant the world that Hollander would do something so thoughtful, risky, and impulsive as to sneak away from his teammates, his boyfriend, and his careful judgment that he usually clung to in order to check on him. It had been Shane to reach out first.

Hollander and his cute little nervous texts.

Ilya had basically teleported to his door when he got it, in total disbelief that it was real– maybe it was a fever-induced hallucination of his deepest desires? But he threw open the door, and there he was.

Shane.

His hair was all slick and damp, and when he looked up at him in shock with his startled, rounded eyes, he reminded Ilya of a little wet kitten. That was the moment Ilya knew he would probably end up crying tonight, but he accepted it. He would wear his heart on his sleeve for the rest of his life if it made Shane stay.

They hadn't talked at the game, and knowing how Shane hated germs and illness and anything generally icky, Ilya had gone out of his way to not even raise his head to breathe on Hollander during the faceoff. He was glad when LeClaire finally gave up and benched him–it meant Shane was safe from getting sick. But then, Shane hugged him back in his doorway, and an hour later, they were kissing.

Ilya almost couldn't believe it when Shane husked that he didn't care about getting sick. Maybe Jordan had unwound him a little, but Ilya tried not to be weirdly thankful for it. Especially since Ilya had done a little bit more than just kiss the Admiral's boyfriend.

“So I trek my ass out here in the middle of the night, in the rain, mind you, because you aren't answering my texts. I bring you all this medicine thinking you're dying, only to find you nailing Hollander.” Cliff huffed. “Did he at least say he was going to break things off with Big Mouth after?”

He can't know.

A reasonable but gut-wrenching request. Ilya knew it must have killed Shane to ask for something like that. Maybe that's why he folded so quickly; he knew Hollander still wanted to feel safe as everything destabilized around him. As much as it sucked, Ilya wanted to be that safety.

When he was thrusting Shane apart beneath him, Ilya had promised that he would always be there for him, even if it wasn't enough. Even if Shane needed both.

Have me just like this, if it's all you want. Whenever you want, wherever you are. That was what he had said, and he meant it, but his heart broke when Shane sobbed under him in response, not asking for more.

Didn't Hollander want more? Ilya certainly did.

When Ilya finally put himself into Shane, it felt like coming home. Not Russia, not Boston, but home.

If all he was to Shane was a source of familiar temporary pleasure, why do the rest of it? Why bring the medicine or make the soup or hold him? There was no way it was only sex for Hollander–he just hadn't said as much.

Ilya knew Shane had felt it too. There was no shame or hatred when they were eye to eye. As much as Ilya was pushing into Shane, Shane was pulling Ilya into him. The pressure of Shane's legs wrapped around his lower back as he came would forever be ingrained into his muscle memory, pressed into his skin like a scar.

He and Hollander had hooked up plenty of times since they were nineteen, but making love to one another was something else. Ilya couldn't remember the last time he felt that good, but it was more than bodily pleasure. Ilya felt totally understood when Shane let him inside.

It was as physically close to his heart as he could get, and Ilya was drunk on the feeling. He wouldn't regret it. He hoped Shane, as guilty and torn up about everything as he probably was, wouldn't regret it either. It was beautiful. Shane had even said as much himself.

You're so beautiful.

No, Ilya had thought while cradling Shane to him. We're beautiful. Even when we're a fucking mess.

But then Jordan had called and fucked everything up. If only they had cleared the air first.

Damn it. Ilya kicked himself. That was why sex had to come second to conversation.

Ilya realized Marlow was still waiting for a response. He coughed into his hand in lieu of a good answer, and Cliff groaned.

“Dude.”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Tell me you'll quit him.”

“The opposite,” Ilya rubbed a hand across his chest, feeling the sheen of ointment or whatever the hell Hollander had been rubbing all over him. “I want to marry him, Marlow.”

“Okay,” Cliff clattered his empty bowl to the coffee table, clearly mad. “Now tell me you're kidding. You're fucking with me, right?”

Ilya grinned as Cliff's expression started to storm when he didn't refute.

“If this is about citizenship, I'll marry you if it means you'll drop Hollander. We can have a Raiders wedding.”

Ilya laughed scratchily and shook his head. “Last month, I applied for naturalization to become a citizen. I've finally been in America long enough.”

The problem of Russia had always sort of loomed over Ilya. After his father died, there was no reason to return aside from seeing Svetlana, who was spending more and more time in America for her business anyway. Moreover, Ilya didn't want to find out the consequences of his sexuality if he were to come out abroad and then be suddenly forced to return. He had to fight his jealousy repeatedly when Scott, Shane and Jordan came out, feeling like he was trapped on the sidelines of his own life, shackled to a country that hated him for who he loved. For what he was.

In 2009, he was drafted over on a P-1 visa, meaning that as long as he played, he could stay. He was on literal thin ice back then, and while it pushed him to perform better, it also stressed him out. All his family ties and financial threads tangled him up, forcing him to return more often than he would have liked.

Then, a few years later, in 2013, after Ilya proved he was a sure thing, he was issued an E.B-1 green card for permanent residency. Since then, Ilya had a countdown timer in his head of when he could take the last step to turn his back on Russia, and finally, as of this year, in the spring of 2018, he hit five years of residency in Boston. He was eligible to become a fully-fledged American citizen. He was finally free to leave.

A massive weight unlatched itself from Ilya when he scheduled his interview, and with it, a ton of hesitancy crumbled away.

When he received the confirmation letter last week in the mail, Ilya had done two things: he phoned Svetlana so they could cry together like the softies they had both become, and then he immediately went to the jewelry boutique to buy the ring in the window that always made Ilya think of Shane.

In the eight years Ilya lived in this apartment, he passed it hundreds of times while jogging or walking to and from his place, and every time he found himself slowing down to linger. It didn't matter if his hands were aching from carrying grocery bags or if he was standing in the rain. It didn't matter if he was late or tired or in a rush–it didn't even matter if he was with his friends or bringing a girl back to his place. He always had to stop, look, and wonder, his breath fogging the glass.

Ilya was done wondering. Ilya wanted it.

It was a gold ring coated with black rhodium except for a thin centre stripe; practical and solid but beautiful and slightly delicate, just like Shane. It was more durable than the modern ceramic bands, and it was resizable, unlike tungsten. The thin band of gold made it fancy without being flashy, which Ilya knew would be preferred by Shane. Plus, Ilya knew his own ring would be gold, to match his mother's crucifix. It was perfect.

The gold stripe detail and shiny interior of Shane's ring was like a piece of Ilya and his mother would always be with him, protecting and loving Shane even when they were apart. Ilya had to fight back tears as he saw it in the window for the last time before he bought it.

“Would you like to browse options for yourself while you're here?” The sales associate who had helped him pick it out and estimate the size sniffled a bit as she packed up Shane's ring. “We have plenty of gold options.”

Ilya had nervously been shuffling around the front display case. “Not sure. Not a guarantee that I'll need one.”

She sneezed into her elbow. “Excuse me.” Then smiled. “Is it a bit premature?”

“Maybe, in theory.” Ilya had replied wryly before handing her his credit card. “A no from him is still better than a yes from anyone else.” He was so excited he didn't even care that she got him sick.

In the current circumstances, it might look premature, but Ilya had wondered about Shane's ring size since the first time they held each other's hands. To Ilya, it was far overdue.

Ilya knew in the end Cliff would support him, but he felt a bit sheepish confessing to all this soft-natured stuff now, especially since he just saw Shane run out on him. Again. He made the decision not to gesture to the ring box that was half-hidden under a pile of mail from the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services on his television console.

“I have some things to do, like an interview and then the ceremony to be sworn in, but I can stay, Cliff. For life.” Ilya couldn't keep the excitement from his voice.

Ilya had wanted to share the good news with Shane first–or, second, since Svetlana technically knew first, but they didn't get around to talking for as long as he wanted before they fell into bed.

It was Shane's fault for rubbing that stuff all over him, with his huffy little breaths and his total lack of a poker face as he became hard from a simple touch.

Nervously, he wondered if he should update Svetlana on how he faltered from the plan, knowing she had warned him repeatedly not to have sex with Shane prior to talking, since it became an easy out. Which it had been.

Honesty about emotions and needs first, fucking second. That had been the course of action he and Svetlana had discussed over breakfast in New York; too bad Hollander had the troubling ability to completely derail him with a single heated glance.

Whatever, Ilya bit the inside of his cheek. Easier said than done.

No one but Ilya had seen Shane pushing his fingers into himself with tears in his eyes while he cried out impatiently, pouting and begging to be fucked, without a condom, no less. Ilya hadn't been so turned on by something since Vegas when Shane put on a show for him–but this had been better. This had been loving. Ilya had never had sex like that before.

All of it, Ilya. The sound of Shane whispering to him as he climaxed was still buzzing in his ears. Give it all to me. You're perfect. You're so perfect.

Yet, it somehow wasn't enough. Shane was going back to New York to run around with Jordan. A shiver ran down Ilya's spine.

Jesus Christ. He swallowed the memory down, not wanting to lose himself in it in front of Marlow. Way easier said than done, Svetlana.

Cliff's miserable expression shattered with a smile. “Oh yeah? Fuckin' finally! Let's go, baby!” He whooped loudly and clobbered Ilya with a hug, then pulled back with a start. “Why are you like, greasy? What's on you?”

“It's–”

“Oh, ew!” Cliff quickly wiped his hands down the front of his grey sweatshirt. “Please don't tell me that's Hollander on you.”

“...vapour rub.” Ilya gave him a look of vexation. “And you better warm up to Hollander, Marlow. I'm serious about marrying him, if he gives me the chance.”

“Why would you need to marry Hollander if you don't need a green card?” Cliff frowned, already knowing the answer.

Ilya failed to suppress a grin. “For love.”

“You think his boyfriend will have a problem with that?”

“I think so. Yes. Probably.”

Cliff let out a long, resigned sigh, but when it was all out, he tilted a crooked, disapproving smile at Ilya. “No shit.”

November 2018

Ilya was already agitated when he got the game reminder. He had just wrapped up selling his condo in Russia, which was a bit of a nightmare to do fully abroad. He still had some personal items over there, which Svetlana generously offered to pack up and send to him on her return trip, but Ilya was keen to just get rid of everything as fast as possible. His idiot brother, Andrei, was frothing at the mouth to scrape any cash he could from Ilya's stuff, and Ilya was more than happy to let him have it–on the condition he never called or texted again unless it involved his niece's well-being. It was an agreement that seemed to suit them both.

Now, Ilya was all dressed up and fidgeting constantly in his seat at the U.S.C.I.S Boston Field Office, waiting for his interview to start. He was already terribly nervous, adjusting and readjusting his maroon tie as people buzzed around him, shuffling papers and talking in low, hushed voices.

The last thing Ilya needed to think about was Jordan Bragg, but it was dropped in his lap with the upcoming game notification.

10:38

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AUTO-Reminder: Schedule Notification:

Cyrillic texteдoCyrillic texteCyrillic texte

14 нoCyrillic textpя

Reminder: Raiders V Admirals [Away Game]— 2 Day Notice.

Ilya closed the pop-up and flipped over to his text chain with Shane, feeling his heart fluttering around as he scrolled through their past few exchanges. They had begun to text a bit again. It wasn't very often, and it was never sexy, but they were talking, and that alone meant the world to Ilya.

2:47

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Shane

26 oCyrillic textpя

Are you feeling better?

Yes. Thank you for soup.

Glad to hear it.

Is it cold yet in Montreal?

Yeah, we just had our first snow.

Stay warm, Shane.

You too.

9:52

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Shane

3 нoCyrillic textpя

Did I get you sick?

Yeah.

I'm sorry.

My own fault.

I know how you hate germs.

It's okay.

I miss you.

I know.

5:06

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Shane

11 нoCyrillic textpя

Will you be in New York next week?

Yeah.

Can't see you though.

I know, sweetheart.

Let me know when you want me.

Ilya wondered if Shane always deleted their message history right after he sent the texts. Probably. Since Jordan had been brazen enough to answer Shane's phone that night in September, it wasn't beyond imagination that he would notice texts from Lily popping up and get nosy.

Ilya always felt a little bad about texting Shane. He wanted to call and text Shane constantly, but he also didn't want to cause any trouble for him. Hollander had a boyfriend.

One he cheated on. Ilya tried to squish the thought as it bubbled up. Nearly bareback.

Great. Now he was annoyed, and nervous and horny.

“Ilya Rozanov?” A woman with thick-rimmed square glasses approached him with a clipboard in her hand. “Do you have all your documentation ready?”

“Yes,” Ilya scrambled to his feet. “Hello.”

“Perfect, follow me.”

The process of becoming an American citizen wasn't nearly as scary as Ilya thought. He was worried that if he flubbed one question, they would cartoonishly eject him back to Russia, but his panel of interviewers were nice. They didn't ask him to sing the national anthem backwards or eat the American flag like they did in his nightmares; they actually looked pretty bored.

“Sorry about my accent. Gets worse when I'm nervous.” Ilya tried to keep still in front of the three people who each had a pad of paperwork in front of them, readying themselves to evaluate whether or not he was American enough to be American.

He answered a ton of similar questions. Nothing unexpected, and Ilya had studied to ensure he knew all the answers prior. How many senators?

One hundred. What is the supreme law of the land? The Constitution, of course. Has he ever been arrested? Ilya thought back to the New York Cancer Foundation team breakfast and how Jordan had winked at him.

No, but I once got very close.

After another ten minutes of being asked if he was a Communist and if he was willing to bear arms for America, should it ever come to that, Ilya watched the panellists all scribble something down in unison.

“I'm recommending your application for approval. You'll receive a notice in the mail with your oath ceremony date.” The woman in the middle of two bald men slammed a stamp down on the bottom of one of the papers in front of her. “Congratulations.”

They handed Ilya back his passport, his green card, and his driver's license, then showed him to the door. No firework show, no confetti cannon, nothing spectacularly American; just bureaucracy. Ilya still smiled like an idiot while texting everyone he knew.

11:54

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Svet ❤️❤️

14 нoCyrillic textpя

I passed.

Congratulations, Ilya! I love you.

I love you too.

11:58

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Ass-Captain Cliff

14 нoCyrillic textpя

You, me, all the guys, drinks to celebrate, Tonight!

American beer only.

Really!? 🦅

Of course not. I still have Russian blood.

Ilya wanted to text Shane the most, but he wasn't sure what to say. Ilya wanted to tell the man he loved that he no longer had to feel unsafe in his own skin, and that, if he was interested, he would forever be close by. He just wanted to share; he wasn't expecting to hear anything back.

12:01

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Shane

14 нoCyrillic textpя

I just became an American citizen. Sort of. I have an oath to take, but I passed my test. I don't have to go back to Russia, ever, if I don't want to.

Ilya remembered Shane asking him about Russia and his life there years ago while in Vegas, whether or not Ilya actually liked living in Russia and returning every summer. The answer was no, not really, but Ilya had shut himself down, afraid of getting too personal and even more attached to Hollander. He had blown Shane off instead, muttering about how Russia was home. How laughable.

I was such a liar. Ilya smiled, putting his phone in his pocket. I already knew where home was.

Four hours later, Ilya was drunk, his mind wobbling in a booth next to Cliff, who was swaying happily. They were at their go-to spot, Roxxy's, where they had become accustomed to the team's frequent and rowdy visits. Their vodka was pretty mid-tier, but as a nearly-new American, Ilya would let it slide.

The Raiders had already drawn the attention of the entire bar, dragging Ilya inside while singing Miley Cyrus's Party in the U.S.A loudly and out of tune. They were almost more excited about the citizenship than Ilya.

“U.S.A, U.S.A!” A few of the boys began chanting, arms locked round each other's shoulders as they sloshed frothy beer from the mouth of their pint glasses.

Ilya couldn't help but beam. He loved his stupid teammates.

“Western world at your fingertips now, baby!” Leon Guiochet, their goalie, was thumbing a lime slice into his third Corona. “All you need is a white picket fence, a wife, two kids and a golden retriever.”

“Boring, no way,” Kevin Kross, their recently traded defenceman, waved his hands in front of him. “We should go to a shooting range and then a strip club. Now that's American.”

“How about we just keep drinking?” Ilya furrowed his brows at his teammates, who were already plastered. He hoped no one noticed he was nervous.

Ilya wasn't sure how to come out, but he knew he wanted to. First to his team, then to the rest of the world. The most important person in his life already knew who he was, and Ilya wished that Shane was with him now. It would be so much easier to explain to people if they could only see him with Shane.

“So what are your plans, then? After the ceremony?” Leon asked, scooting in next to Cliff.

Ilya took a tight breath in. “I'm hoping to celebrate with someone.”

“Oh?” Leon crooned with a smirk. “With someone?”

Ilya inspected his crystal tumbler glass with vodka, as if it was something unfamiliar, feeling his face getting hot. The side conversations around the table quieted, and Cliff gently nudged Ilya in his side; a small encouragement. The words, however, were getting stuck in Ilya's mouth.

“Who is someone?”

“Has Ilya Rozanov actually found a girl to settle down with?”

“Hm,” Ilya replied, watching Cliff smile into his hand. “Close.”

Ilya had always kept his hookups with men on the down-low, never knowing how safe it was with his pending citizenship status. None of his teammates had ever seen him go home with another man, and Ilya never corrected his appointed title of 'ladies' man'. Until right now.

Kevin narrowed his eyes, drumming his fingers across the sticky table top across from Ilya. “Close, huh?”

“Is this someone we know?” Leon pressed.

Ilya nodded, deciding that if he was going to have this conversation, he might as well put it all out there.

“Ohh, shit!” The table erupted in chatter. “Who? Who is she?”

“Is it that waitress from Lloyd's who's been in love with you for years?”

“Please don't say it's that red-headed stripper from Rouge Roses with those big fake tits.”

“It's probably our media girl, Amy. It's totally Amy, isn't it?”

Ilya tapped the bottom of his glass with his thumb, not looking at anyone in particular. “It's not a woman.”

A pin-drop silence hushed the group of muttering men. Ilya knew that just because it was safe to come out, it didn't guarantee that the Raiders would accept him as Cliff had. Ilya wasn't naive; there was a culture embedded in hockey that existed long before him, and it wouldn't go away just because Ilya had led them to a cup and partied with them. As much as they were his boys, they were still heterosexual men–their acceptance wasn't a sure thing.

Beyond that, Ilya's situation was uniquely complicated. Being in love with Hollander didn't negate the fact that they were both pro-league players–if anything, it made it harder to accept. Ilya watched a few of his teammates exchange sideways glances, eyes nervously darting and daring each other to be the first to respond to such a wildly out-of-character confession.

After a terrible moment of uncertainty, Kevin cleared his throat.

“It's not Cliff, is it?” Kevin was already turning up his nose in disgust.

“No!” Cliff and Ilya shouted back at the same time in mortification.

“Oh, thank goodness.” Kevin pushed the heel of his hand to his temple, crushing black curls flat to his head. “You're both my buddies, but that would have been a hard image to get out of my head.”

“Jesus, what do you take me for?” Cliff grouched, his ears pink. “Besides, I already have a girlfriend.”

Ilya snapped his head over. This was the first he was hearing about that. Cliff avoided his gaze, his ears getting pinker.

Mouth still open, Ilya turned back to Leon and realized that everyone had more or less moved on from the fact that he was bisexual. Maybe a few of them were still mulling it over, but no one was looking at him like he was a freak. No one appeared angry or disappointed, and most importantly, no one was making Ilya feel bad or unsafe for saying so. Two seats down, Jonny McKay stood up to reach across the table, smacking Ilya on his forearm affectionately, mouthing good for you, with a sincere nod. Ilya felt his heart squish a little. The privilege of finally being able to say who he was so freely wasn't lost on him.

“Putting a pin in that,” Leon raised his hand towards Marlow, then pointed at Ilya. “Who's your boyfriend, Roz?”

“Ha,” Cliff threw his head back, happy to get the attention back on Ilya. “Yeah, Ilya. Who is he?”

“He's not my boyfriend right now,” Ilya nervously rubbed at the back of his neck as he clarified and stalled. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Why not?”

“Because he already has a boyfriend.”

The table sparked again, disapproving giggles and scoffs of exasperation rippling back and forth.

“Oh, shit.” Kevin mused with a grin. “I see. Doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman, you're still a bit of a dog, Rozanov.”

Someone further down the table snorted. “Typical.”

Ilya stomped down his desire to immediately explain that it was way more than what his reputation might lead them to believe, that this was something unique among all the things he had pursued before. He needed to say all that to Hollander first, however. No way was he going to spill his heart all over this dive bar before he had the chance to say it to the man he loved.

“Worth fighting for?” Leon purred at him mischievously as a waitress replaced his empty glass with a frosty new one.

Ilya reached up and touched the side of his healed nose, unable to control his smile. “Already have.”

Leon laughed for a moment, but then his expression fell into something more awestruck. A spark of recognition ignited in his goalie's blue eyes. “No fucking way,” His voice dipped to a near whisper. “This guy of yours, does his boyfriend happen to be an Admiral?”

Ilya found himself quietly laughing, half from embarrassment for being seen through so easily, and half from total relief. He took a bit of pleasure watching the pieces snap together in the minds of his teammates. Eyes got wide, mouths dropped open, and someone out of view threw their head back with a noise of disbelief.

“What?”

“Shane fucking Hollander?”

“Say sike right now.”

“Oh my God, that fight!”

Once the initial surprise wore off, Ilya immediately heard groans of dismay. After weeks of not knowing why Ilya and Jordan had beaten each other to a pulp on the ice during the charity event in September, it all became clear with a simple confession: it was no more than a school-yard fight over a boy.

Ilya pointed a finger upwards while blushing behind his nearly empty glass. “Bingo. Sorry about that.”

“Out of all the guys you could have–,” Kevin closed his eyes and slid out from his barstool, dramatically falling in a heap near Ilya's feet with a loud whine. “Oh, Rozanov. Why him?”

Cliff sighed loudly. “Don't bother. I can't wrap my head around it either.”

“Shh,” Ilya felt butterflies beating wildly in his stomach. “Okay, enough about Hollander. I know, alright?”

“But he's–.”

“I know.”

“And you've both been–.”

“I know.”

“Hang on a second,” Leon was pulling Kevin by his elbow back into his chair, getting him out of the way of a waitress with a full tray. “What's the timeline with all this?”

Ilya swallowed the bitter pill he had held under his tongue since Tampa. “I was with Hollander first, but then I fucked up. I'm hoping to…” he shrugged, not knowing how to better phrase it in English. “Un-fuck it up.”

“Oh!” Kevin drunkenly slapped his hand on the table, rattling the glasses. “You're way better than Bragg!”

“Suddenly you're on team Hollander?” Cliff gave him an incredulous look. “Okay, Kev.”

“If that Metro makes my captain happy, I will lay out big mouth as many times as it takes.”

“He would beat you like a rented mule, Kross.” Leon ruffled Kevin's dense hair. “Look what he did to our captain.”

Ilya grimaced slightly. It didn't seem right to make his defensemen take the fall because Ilya couldn't keep his hands off Jordan Bragg's boyfriend.

“Thanks, but I think I'd better take what I'm owed.” Ilya felt his nose twitch. “One way or another.”

“Right,” Leon gave Ilya a gentler look. “But we're still in your corner, cap. No matter what happens.”

Murmurs of agreement hummed from the other Raiders. Ilya mouthed the words thank you to his goalie, worried if he actually tried to say them, his voice would crack with emotion. Cliff bumped his shoulder against Ilya, making the stinging of his eyes worse. To conceal just how soft Hollander had made him over the years, Ilya quickly flagged a bartender to send over another round of shots.

Leon must have sensed the need for a topic change; Ilya watched him purse his lips and turn his attention on Marlow, who was nervously nursing his beer. Ilya followed suit, wrapping his arm around Cliff's shoulder.

“Now, Cliff,” Leon's face lit up with a wicked accusation. “About this girlfriend of yours. She wouldn't happen to be that stripper from New York, is she?”

On his drunk walk home, Ilya stopped outside the jewelry boutique to admire the empty spot among all the other wedding bands, his heart feeling full. Today was nearly perfect–the only things missing were Svetlana and, of course, Shane.

He had just started to turn away from the window when he felt his phone trembling in his coat pocket. When Ilya saw it was Shane calling, his stomach flipped. He wished he was sober. Ilya let it ring twice, worried he'd pick up and immediately dump his heart out all over Hollander, but ultimately his desire to talk to Shane and never stop overruled.

“Hello?” Ilya picked up on the third ring. “Shane?”

Silence. Maybe it was a pocket dial?

Then dread. Hopefully, it wasn't Jordan.

“Hi,” Shane's voice was so soft that Ilya had to plug his other ear to listen.

“Hi, Shane.”

“Hi.”

Ilya chewed the inside of his cheek. Were they just going to say hi back and forth until someone hung up?

“Hi, sweetheart,” Ilya couldn't help himself. The sound of Hollander's quiet breathing was making him dizzy. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just saw your text. I was out with Hayden, uhm–doesn't matter,” Shane rambled for a moment. He sounded nervous, and Ilya knew it was because they both were keenly aware they shouldn't be calling one another. “Congratulations on becoming a citizen, Ilya.”

“Thank you,” Ilya fiddled with his crucifix. “I'm glad the hard part is done.”

“You didn't like living there, right?”

“That was part of it, yes.” Ilya wished he could touch Shane along his freckles as he spoke. He mapped them from memory along the jeweller's window. “Most of it was because everyone I love is here.”

“In Boston?”

“Close.”

A pause passed before Shane spoke again.

“I'm happy for you.” The comment seemed contradictory. Ilya could tell from the wetness behind his words that he was trying not to cry.

“Shane,” Ilya hushed softly into the receiver, placing his hand flat on the boutique window to stabilize himself. “My love, I want to see you. I need to.”

“I know.” Shane sniffled.

“Do you want to see me?”

“I…”

Ilya held his breath, his chest aching to hear what Shane wanted, when suddenly a different voice cut through the tension.

Final boarding call for passengers travelling on flight 482, service to New York, J.F.K. This is the last and final call for all remaining passengers to proceed to gate eighty-eight.

Shane gasped. “I gotta go.”

Click.

Ilya thumped his forehead against the glass.

God damn it.

Two Days Later - New York

“Rozanov, quick press chat,” LeClaire poked his head into the locker room just as Ilya had thrown his jersey over his head. “No funny stuff.”

Cliff shot him a wry look, already knowing what Ilya had planned.

“Yes, sir.”

Unsurprisingly, the interviewer was interested in the fight that had gathered a lot of media attention back in September. It fueled the narrative of the New York versus Boston rivalry, and it also scratched the specific itch of New Yorkers in general despising Ilya. The feeling was neutral. This was the first time the Raiders were going up against the Admirals since that mess, and everyone on both sides was hungry to see what would happen.

“It's been a couple of weeks since the debacle of the New York Cancer Foundation event, where you and Admiral forward, Jordan Bragg, had it out on neutral ice. There's been some speculation about what happened then, and now the fans are all wondering–will there be a round two tonight?”

Once again, Ilya found himself jealous of Bragg; his demeanour had been so laid-back and effortlessly charming in his little coming-out video. Ilya decided he, too, could be funny. Hopefully, when Jordan saw this, he wouldn't mind being in on the joke.

The interviewer tipped the microphone towards him, causing Ilya to swallow roughly.

Okay. He took a single deep breath in. It's now or never.

“We just had a little disagreement about my taste in his men,” Ilya felt a crooked smile pulling at his mouth as he answered. “No big deal.”

The interviewer wavered a minute, nodding and smiling, then stopping to process, then shaking her head, stunned.

“I'm sorry, your taste in his what?”

Sorry, Bragg. Sorry, Shane. Ilya grinned all the way back to the locker room. A nice little P.R post just isn't my style.

Ilya knew he was in trouble before the puck had even dropped. There was something bad brewing in the arena atmosphere tonight.

Spitting and scowling and acting like Hell incarnate, Ilya wondered if Jordan somehow knew what went down between him and Shane last month. Bragg didn't joke around or even smile, his glower utterly sinister as he scanned the ice post stretching. The entire Admirals bench looked tense, and it all seemed to be rooted in the forward's attitude. Carter, the alternative captain for the Admirals, was patting Bragg's shoulder, but it looked more like he was trying to settle a vicious animal rather than provide comfort to a friend.

“I got your back,” Kevin muttered to Ilya after following his gaze to Jordan. “Stay by me.”

Lining up for the faceoff, Ilya mentally noted Jordan's position and tried to think of ways to avoid him, his attention momentarily drawn away. There was no way Jordan wouldn't be gunning for him this entire game. Ilya hoped he wouldn't be leaving New York worse than last time, although judging by Jordan's terrible attitude, Ilya guessed the Admiral wouldn't smile until he was being zipped into a body bag. Knowing Ilya's luck, he wouldn't make it to his oath ceremony in a few weeks.

“Hey,”

Ilya snapped his eyes forward to Scott, who had inched closer in a crouched position as they waited for the game to kick off. The left side of his mouth was cocked up in a smirk, but he didn't look playful.

“You should've quit.”

Swallowing down a ball of frayed nerves, Ilya shook his head and forced a smile. “I'm not a quitter.”

And then he lost the faceoff.

Ilya watched as Cliff possessed the puck, only to lose it and his stick a second later as Jordan spun on him with a backcheck. They collided so hard that they both got air. Jordan landed back on his feet, cat-like, using his right hand to catch himself against the ice, but Marlow was completely laid out. It was way too hard, but it was legal, so the play didn't stop.

The crowd gasped, and Ilya watched from the bench as Cliff stumbled while trying to get up, his hand on his chest as he struggled to breathe. Marlow gasped and rubbed his sternum, fighting for air as the wind was totally knocked out of him. LeClaire signalled for him to get on the bench immediately, and Ilya hung back to retrieve his stick for him before properly entering the play.

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya gave Cliff a sympathetic look as he handed the stick over the board. “You okay?”

Cliff nodded, red in the face and coughing slightly. “Yep,” he barely croaked out. “Don't go near him, Roz.”

Just as Ilya was about to push out, Jordan cracked the puck hard, and it hissed into the net between Leon's legs. The loud goal horn blared overhead, and Ilya groaned, irritated.

“Yeah!” Jordan bellowed before turning to spit at Kevin, shoving a finger into his chest. “Fuck you!”

“My God,” Ilya heard LeClaire huff behind him. “That guy's out for blood.”

Ilya had expected Jordan to be angry, so he was surprised that it was Scott who tripped him while on a breakaway in the second period. Hunter's blade hooked him right under the lip of his left skate, sending Ilya stumbling into a slide.

“Hey!” Ilya snapped, pulling himself to his knees as the ref's whistle shrilly chirped. “What the fuck?”

Scott merely glared down at him. “Take your fucking shot then, since you wanted it so badly.”

Ilya watched, befuddled, as Hunter skated to the penalty box before the ref had even called it. Between the glass, he and Jordan had a short back and forth, further grating on Ilya's nerves.

A team effort to fuck with me–real nice.

Agitated with the target on his back, Ilya could barely celebrate when he made the penalty shot, tying the score and forcing them to overtime. It seemed like every Admiral had it out for him–or maybe that was his imagination.

Ilya watched Jordan score the game-winning goal a minute and thirty seconds in, boxed out of the play by Matti, the giant defenceman who looked like he could bite Ilya in half.

Before he was swarmed and swallowed up by his celebrating teammates, Ilya saw Jordan's face. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his green eyes were dark, and he threw his stick down to the ice, seemingly out of frustration instead of victory.

“Good game,” Ilya hesitantly offered as they touched gloves in the lineup.

This was the first time they'd spoken to one another since Jordan answered Shane's phone all those nights ago.

“Was it?” Jordan cryptically shot back, not meeting Ilya's eyes. “I've played better.”

Back in the locker room, Ilya got changed and was immediately escorted by LeClaire out into the hallway, not dissimilar to a naughty schoolboy dragged out by his ear. He got lectured about the proper way to announce things respectfully, yelled at for causing more trouble in New York, and eventually, he received a hug.

“You are fucking annoying, Rozanov, but I'm proud of you.” LeClaire slapped him hard on his back. “Now get the hell out of my face–you piss me off.”

Ilya gladly followed orders, desperate for a cigarette. Plus, he was dying to check his phone. He couldn't care less about the media's reaction or the fans' opinions on his sexuality–he wanted to hear from Shane. They hadn't spoken or texted since that night after Roxxy's.

Slipping out one of the side doors that led to the fenced-off side of the arena, Ilya moved a few feet away, spotting a corner that could help shield him from the wind. He popped a cigarette into his mouth and began fishing out his phone, but as soon as he turned the corner, he was met with a cloud of smoke, minty and cutting. It stung Ilya's eyes.

“Argh, fuck,” Ilya grumbled. He hated menthol cigarettes.

Blinking a few times, the smoke dissipated into the frosty New York air, leaving behind Jordan. He was back in his civilian clothes too, a bit buried in an oversized grey woollen coat. He didn't move or even look over when Ilya jumped, slightly startled. Ilya put a hand over his drumming heart.

“You scared me,” Ilya grumbled, debating whether or not he should leave.

This was awkward.

It was almost more awkward because Jordan wasn't angry at Ilya–he hadn't even acknowledged him yet.

Would it be obvious that something happened with Hollander if I ran away with my tail between my legs right now? Ilya felt a bit self-conscious, but he leaned against the wall next to Bragg anyway. I don't want to fight, but I don't want to run either.

Ilya fussed for a second, realizing he might have left his lighter in his locker. That could be a good excuse to go. Before he could manifest the words, Jordan extended his hand out to him, silently producing one without taking his fixed gaze off the setting sun.

It was a cheap disposable one with a leopard on it, the kind found at any New York bodega.

“Thanks,” Ilya plucked it from the same hand that had busted his nose two months ago and lit his own cigarette.

Ilya was surprised Jordan smoked. Shane hated it, and he used to constantly get on Ilya's case when they hooked up if he could smell it. He had been subjected to hearing Hollander prattle about the long list of side effects on multiple occasions, as if they weren't already listed right there on the box. Every single time, it made Ilya smile. Yes, it was annoying, but it was Hollander making a fuss about his health because he cared. Ilya wondered if Shane gave Jordan the same preachy lecture. Jealousy snipped at him.

“He doesn't know,” Jordan suddenly said, pulling his cigarette from his mouth and gesturing with it. “That I smoke.”

Ilya nearly bit his tongue. Had he been talking out loud? How the fuck did Bragg read him like that? Embarrassed, Ilya worried his pettiness was all over his face.

As if answering that question itself, Jordan finally turned to look at him, making a vague gesture at his head. Immediately, Ilya thought of him standing in Hollander's hotel room door.

Ilya snorted, feeling himself smile. Oh, right. A psychic.

Looking directly at him now, Ilya noticed that, despite not taking a single hit all game, Jordan looked like he had the shit beat out of him. Exhaustion barely seemed a sufficient enough word. Ilya wondered if he was maybe injured, watching the Admiral twist his right arm at his side awkwardly while turning his eyes back to the horizon, as if he pulled something.

“Good overtime goal,” Ilya took a long drag. “That check on Marlow was pretty nasty.”

“Yeah, well, I owed him one.”

“How come?” Ilya narrowed his eyes.

If anyone had deserved an ass kicking from Jordan, it was him, not Cliff. Now that he thought about it, Jordan hadn't touched him once all game. Jordan had played like he was avoiding Ilya, too.

“Keep your friends away from mine,” Jordan grouched. “I don't want to keep running into you more than I have to.”

Ilya tried to piece together what Jordan was saying, but he couldn't follow. He shook his head.

“I don't want Cliff dating Angela.” When Ilya shrugged, Jordan scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes.“Honey.”

Oh. Oh.

Ilya remembered how Marlow was drunkenly carrying on about the pretty club worker in New York that stole his heart instead of his wallet. He looked a little guilty while explaining it. Ilya had assumed it was because he was embarrassed for falling for a stripper, but now his nervousness made a bit more sense. Cliff wasn't scared that Ilya was going to critique his relationship–Ilya certainly had no room to judge: he was worried because Angela was Jordan's friend.

Which, yes. That was far more controversial for Ilya than her line of work.

“So, the stripper really does like him?” Ilya playfully asked, twisting his mouth in a slight grin.

The side of Jordan's mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile back, but then all his features fell, as if a curtain dropped over his face. He let his cigarette tumble to the ground from his limp hand before crushing it under his foot.

“Haven't you taken enough from me?”

It was barely audible, folded into a sudden howling wind. But Ilya heard it. The charged statement sent a chill down his spine.

He knows.

The insane fear crystallized inside of him, even though Ilya knew it made no sense. Hollander had asked Ilya not to tell, and there was no way Cliff had, so then how? How was Bragg standing there, looking right through him?

Ilya refused to follow up on the comment, schooling his expression into something neutral to keep his promise to Shane. He wouldn't tell, even if Jordan guessed. Even if Jordan beat him bloody right now, he would deny it. He promised.

It took maybe three big steps for Jordan to put himself nearly nose to nose with Ilya, his jaw tense and working, like he was about to reveal literal fangs inside that big mouth of his. Instead, he released a long, slow breath through his nose, his eyes pinned to Ilya's. When he was empty of air, he smiled; it was more disturbing than when he had been hitting Ilya in September.

Jordan's expression was uncanny, like he was wearing the face of a happy person.

“Are you going back to Boston tonight?”

“Yes.”

“But you own a car?”

“Yes?"

“Then keep your day clear on Sunday.”

Ilya didn't realize his back was pressed against the metal exterior of the arena until the cold had started to seep in through his coat and chill his bones. He hardened his expression despite feeling a bit nauseous, not wanting to come across as startled as he felt.

When Jordan wasn't being funny, he was pretty frightening. Ilya wasn't some pushover, either, but it was more than their equal physical mass that made him nervous going toe-to-toe with Bragg; there was that thundering darkness that never seemed to subside, even when he was grinning.

Ilya wondered if Shane ever saw this.

“What's Sunday?”

He watched Jordan run his hand up the arm he had been moving strangely.

“I'll be calling you.”

Ilya couldn't think of a single good reason for them to do any more talking. This alone was torture.

“Why?” Ilya's voice broke, betraying how tense he felt inside.

The darkness ebbed away from Jordan's face, his eyes becoming a bit softer, almost more relaxed. The smile on his face became smaller, more genuine. More sad.

“I'm out of moves,” he whispered, tucking his hands into his pockets. “See you soon, Rozanov.”

Ilya rolled the strange comment around in his mind, still puzzled as Jordan side-stepped him, heading back to the arena door.

“You don't have my phone number!” Ilya snapped after him, realizing he was still holding Jordan's lighter.

“I'll figure it out.” Jordan didn't look back at him. “I always do.”

----------------

Bonus Content:

Thank you, everyone, for the birthday wishes for Josephine!! Here's a sketch of us from Sunday (we celebrated early).

I was waaaaaay to hungover to finish coding the text messages, so the chapter was delayed.

Thanks for being patient, guys!

-Mace

Chapter End Notes

✨Special Announcement✨

Hello, readers!After consulting my muse, my oracle, my best friend (and the recent Birthday Girl) Josephine, I have an update regarding Jordan Bragg's story.

We hear your love for the O.C Jo and I created together, and as a special treat, we would like to announce– drum roll, please.

🥁🥁🥁

Do the Right Thing! 🎉It will be a short sequel to Do the Wrong Thing, this time following Jordan's perspective as he navigates his life post-Hollander, jumping ahead two years.

Come back May 1st* to read about your favourite New York Admiral forward as he carries on terrorizing the ice, the streets of New York, and Scott Hunter; with cameos from Shane and Ilya, of course. ♥️

Again, thank you so much for reading and for all your love towards our silly little Canadian boy. Jo and I always joke that he's like our fictional son, so it means a lot that other people have come to love this character too (even if you also sort of hate him).

All our combined love,Mo & Jo.(Macy and Josephine)

-P.SBecause Jo is a dirty freak, there may or may not be a filthy non-canon one-shot where Ilya and Jordan settle their differences using Shane as a middleman.Literally. 👀

Chapter 22: Chapter 21

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

XXI

October 2018 - Boston

Shane avoided Hayden for as long as he reasonably could, but Pike wasn't being a very reasonable guy today. Shane wasn't expecting him to snatch his bag, forcing him to chase Hayden down the airport hallway until they reached an empty terminal. Shane was already exhausted without the detour, so he was prickling with annoyance when he caught up to Hayden, far from all the other guys who were waiting to board their flight from Boston back to Montreal.

Shane had barely slept last night. He showered and paced around his bed until he wore a track into the carpet, opening and closing Jordan's contact until he finally collapsed from exhaustion. He hadn't sent a single text to his boyfriend. Worse yet, Shane had that same stupid dream again.

It seemed like every time he had it, the leopard was inching closer, the space to run shrinking, and Shane's inevitable fate of being eaten alive got more certain. He always woke up with a lump in his throat after having that dream–and it seemed like recently he was having it more and more frequently. The same club lights, the same feeling of being disoriented, the same piercing hazel eyes.

Last night, Shane had dreamt that he was finally close enough to touch its fur, the animal's hot breath tickling his face. It startled him awake five minutes before his alarm sounded.

So, not only had he gotten less than two hours of sleep, it had been spent tossing and turning. He was in no mood for Hayden's hijinks.

“Give it!” Shane huffed out the demand as Hayden dropped Shane's bag at his feet. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Hayden raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing, dude?”

Shane's stomach twisted. “Nothing, I'm—” he shook his head. “I'm tired, alright? Let's go back. The flight boards in ten minutes.”

Hayden narrowed his eyes. “What's going on?”

Shane gestured to the empty terminal instead of the elephant in the room. “We're going back to Montreal.”

“Cut the shit,” Hayden said flatly. “First you sneak away, then you dodge me, now what–you won't talk to me?”

Shane licked his lips, glancing around briefly to ensure they were far enough away from prying ears. “I feel bad enough as it is, Hayden. Please. Can we just talk about this later?”

Hayden rubbed his hand along his jaw, sighing while watching a plane take off through an adjacent window. Even more guilt swirled in Shane's stomach as he realized that Hayden looked tired too; had he been waiting up all night to make sure he was okay?

“Sorry,” Shane found himself inspecting his shoes, unable to look up at his friend. “I should've called you back.”

When he didn't immediately respond, Shane pulled his eyes from the airport tile to see Hayden regarding him sadly. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders seemingly sagged in his blue Metros sweatshirt. It wasn't like Shane to duck his best friend like this, and they both knew it.

Shane's face must have been betraying how he felt, because Hayden's irritated expression fell away.

“Oh,” Hayden muttered, sounding genuinely disappointed before giving Shane a sympathetic but joyless smile. “It's Ilya, isn't it?”

Looking up towards the fluorescent lights above him, Shane hoped he could mask the wetness that was quickly developing around his lashes. He bit at his lower lip, shaking his head no.

No?

It was all so stupid. There was no point in lying when Hayden clearly already knew. Giving up, Shane let his entire posture fall away into a defeated slump, his head falling forward.

He closed his eyes and nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

Just as the confession escaped him, an announcement rang out over their heads.

'This is a boarding call for passengers travelling on flight 302, service to Montreal. Please make your way to gate eighty-one.'

Shane heard his bag being picked up off the floor, then footsteps as Hayden closed the gap between them. A warm hand encompassed his shoulder firmly, followed by two firm pats. He opened his eyes to see Hayden gloomily sighing.

“Ah, well. Fuck.”

A Few Days Later - Montreal

Shane hadn't heard a single word from Jordan since the night he cheated. For the first two days back in Montreal, he had been too scared to message him, unsure of what to say but wishing he could talk to him, even if just to hear that he was alright. That made Shane feel like a hypocrite. He texted Jordan a few times with no response.

4:41

ᯤ 81%

‹Messages

⌾ ⓘ

Jordie

Text Message

Yesterday

Hey, I'm back in Montreal.

Snow in New York yet?

Today 10:32 A.M

Congrats on that win against Florida!

2:11 P.M

Looking forward to seeing you next week.

Now it was the fourth day, and Shane didn't know what to think. It wasn't like Jordan to pull away like this; it was the longest stretch of not speaking to one another since Shane had congratulated him on coming out back in the summertime.

Before Shane went to Hayden's for dinner, he decided to give up and just call Jordan. He would think of the right thing to say when he heard his boyfriend's voice–probably. Shane wanted to explain himself in person, but the radio silence had him spiralling. He had even checked some sports news sites to make sure Jordan wasn't injured during a game or something terrible, but there was nothing.

It was only then that Shane realized he didn't know how to get ahold of Jordan beyond reaching out to Scott. He didn't know the phone numbers of Jordan's friends. He had no way of reaching out to his family, either. Shane never met any of them–he didn't even know their names. When it came to the details of his boyfriend's life, Shane was a little out of his depth.

An unhelpful worry buzzed into his ear.

Maybe he doesn't want to talk to you ever again. Maybe he knows what you did.

Shane shook his head; Ilya wouldn't tell. So what was up then? He paced around his kitchen, scrolling through their old texts from over a week ago.

They had made plans to spend a few days together, their schedules lining up just right so that Shane could land late on Thursday and leave on Monday. Jordan had made plans for a picnic date at Central Park, karaoke after the game against Boston, and a private dinner at Vicky's. It was all going to be so romantic and lovely, full of great sex and laughter and fun.

But then he had cheated. Now, Shane could barely stomach the thought of doing those things; he didn't deserve it. The weekend was fast approaching, and Shane was still unsure what to do. He had an awful choice to make: tell or don't tell. It made him feel disgusted with himself.

The most obvious choice was to tell Jordan what he did. His conscience was begging for it. Part of Shane still couldn't believe he went as far as he did with Ilya, but another part of him felt affirmed. Terrible, but affirmed.

After months of trying to push away the feeling and outrun his own heart, Shane could admit that, yes, he was in love with Ilya Rozanov. No, it didn't matter where he was or what he was doing; he would never be able to shake it.

It was something that he would have to carry with him for the rest of his life, but it didn't have to be his life. He could still choose to do the right thing. He could still choose Jordan.

Maybe if he kept what he did to himself, or if Jordan forgave him, he could have a different life. Maybe it would be peaceful. It wouldn't be the same as his fantasies, but it could get close enough to work.

Jordan was nice, he was funny, he was great in bed. Not once had he ever made Shane cry–or even upset him. They never fought, and up until a few days ago, they had no issues. Their relationship was always easy; it was always so controlled and contained. That's exactly what Shane felt he needed right now.

He hit the call button and immediately regretted it.

“Fuck,” Shane muttered to himself, panic rising in his chest with every ring. “Fuck, fuck.”

He was going to blow this conversation; his secret of what he did on Ilya's mattress felt like it was going to combust and come flying out of him. Rapid, anxiety-driven thoughts began popping up faster than he could squash them down. He was worried he was going to sink into another panic attack, like the one he had in the back of the oo-ber from Ilya's apartment to the hotel in Boston.

I should hang up. But he'll just call back, won't he? What do I tell him? He deserves to know. He can't know. Fuck. I asked Ilya not to tell him, but should I? Fuck. Fuck!

“Hello?” Jordan's voice sounded alive with sunshine.

“Hey,” Shane managed to cough out, his throat aching. “I hadn't heard from you in a bit. I just wanted to check up on you, make sure you're okay?”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shane struggled to swallow. “I missed hearing your voice. Listen, Jordan, I just…I'm sorry. I did something. In Boston.”

Shane's voice hitched. Fuck.

“I made…”

A mistake? Come on. That was no mistake.

“Look, I screwed up, and we can talk more in person in a few days, but Jordan I–.”

“...Are you done?” Jordan's voice was still sparkling, like he thought this was some sort of joke. He wasn't reacting like Shane thought he would; it was like he wasn't even listening.

Shane furrowed his eyebrows together. “What? Jordan, I'm serious, listen–.”

“Ha!” Jordan's voice abruptly cut him off. “Got you, sucker! Leave it.” his voicemail taunted before Shane was met with a loud beep.

Shane quickly hung up, not wanting to leave him a message of stunned silence. Staring at his black phone screen, he felt like he had just missed his chance to say something that wouldn't come out the same way again.

In a small way, he felt like he had been spared.

What the fuck am I thinking? I don't want to lose him.

Shane put his phone back into his pocket, making sure the ringer was on. He didn't want to miss it if Jordan called back. Jordan usually called once a day. Now he wasn't calling. Why wasn't he calling?

Unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, he did a bit of both while he drove to Hayden's.

Dinner with the Pike family usually made Shane feel better, but he just couldn't pull his heart together tonight. Jordan still hadn't responded to him, and even if he did, Shane wasn't sure what he was going to say now.

He was thankful that, after a delicious and balanced dinner, he was free to retire to Hayden's man cave with him to sulk openly. The so-called dad sanctuary was more of a second, smaller living room with a billiard table, couch, a small bar, and a flat-screen. It was, like most spaces in the Pike household, still littered with toys. Shane moved a few brightly coloured blocks and a teething ring so he could curl up on the couch while his best friend thumped around in the bar behind him.

“Boston plays New York in a few days,” Hayden said not so subtly as he turned on a soccer game, keeping the volume low. “How about that?”

“Hayd,” Shane whined, losing hope that he could ignore his problem.

Hayden took a seat right next to him, then jumped up sharply with a yelp, his hand on his ass.

“Ow! Fuck!” Shane watched him dig around the sofa grumpily, eventually dislodging the Barbie doll arm that impaled him. “God damn it.”

With a huff, he sat back down tentatively, as if he was unconvinced another toy wasn't going to attack him. Shane bit back a smile, taking the light-hearted moment in before things undoubtedly turned sour. Hayden had made it clear he wanted to talk tonight, and as much as Shane was grateful to have someone to lean on, he was dreading this conversation.

“Anyway,” he handed Shane a ginger ale before cracking a beer for himself. “Do you want to fill me in–ah, but, not the gory details, about what's going on with you right now?”

Shane felt his face flush, even in the absence of his name, rolling the cold can between his hands for a moment. Hayden already knew what had happened, but it was still hard to admit out loud. Shane was ashamed, struggling to talk about Ilya and himself so intimately.

“I slept with him.”

“Hm,” Hayden didn't meet his eye, taking a long sip before speaking again. “Why?”

“Because I'm a fucking idiot,” Shane tapped his finger along the rim of his soda can. “And because I'm… in love with him.”

Shane tried to keep his eyes on the players running back and forth across the long green field, shouting and skidding along the grass as they chased the ball. He could hear Hayden take in a deep breath, holding it while he scrubbed his hand through his hair.

“Have you, like, always been?”

Shane's throat felt scratchy as he replied. “Yep.”

“What are you going to do?”

The fizz of carbonation in the aluminum can seemed loud in the silence. Shane was fighting to keep his composure. “I don't know,” Shane's voice stretched thin. “Jordan and I make sense. It feels like what I'm supposed to do.”

“What you're supposed to do?” Hayden fiddled with the tab on his tallboy until it snapped off. “I know you're a pretty regimented guy, Shane, but I don't think it works that way.”

Shane studied his socks. Reebok, of course. In his apartment, all alone in his sock drawer was one of Ilya's, mateless.

Shane shook his head tightly. “I don't know what to do, Hayd. I keep making these bad fucking choices. I've wasted so much time wishing things could be different. That I could be different.”

The pressure that had been building since Tampa started to rise within Shane. No matter how he tried to blow off steam, it never worked. It never went away.

God damn it.

Embarrassed and ashamed, Shane hung his head, covering his face with a hand while the other held his ginger ale weakly between his knees. Hayden took the opportunity to slide his hand across Shane's back and leave it there.

“What do you wish could be different?” Hayden patted him. “Tell me.”

“There's a lot. What, do you want it all from the beginning of time?”

Shane turned his head to see Hayden looking at him, his calm expression inviting. He lifted a shoulder with a smirk, as if to say, try me. Shane was always so wrapped up in his head about his problems that he rarely shared them.

“When I was a kid, I wished I wasn't Asian,” Shane confessed quietly with a smile, since that was the least of his worries nowadays. “I spent a lot of time wishing I wasn't gay, too. Can't change either of those things.”

“Glad you can't,” Hayden smiled back at him.

Shane's smile broke in half, feeling words impossible to say forming deep within him. He had to look away from Hayden, blinking rapidly in an attempt to push the tears away. They started to run down the sides of his face when Hayden reached inside of him and pulled the words free.

“How long have you been wishing you weren't in love with Rozanov?”

“As soon as I realized I was.”

Using the sleeve of his sweatshirt, Shane pawed at his bleary eyes. He hated crying in front of people, but this was the second time he had cried over a boy in front of Hayden. The same boy. At least this time, he wasn't on a grubby hotel room floor.

“Sorry,” Shane shook his head at himself, wishing he could kill these feelings.

Hayden pushed Shane in closer, wrapping his arm around his shoulders. “You're alright, man. It's okay.”

“No, it isn't. It's fucking stupid. It's a nightmare.” Shane huffed wetly. He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I've been lying for so long about how I felt. I used to think that because things weren't always perfect that I shouldn't pursue it, that it wouldn't be worth it in the end, but…”

But I couldn't stop myself from doing it anyway. For years. I threw my relationship with Jordan into peril for it.

“It's worth it,” Hayden said, squeezing Shane's shoulder. “All this shit is a lot harder than it looks. It's a fight. You have to keep choosing it.”

Shane felt disheartened by that. Wasn't love supposed to be easy? It seemed like everyone had a handle on it but him.

“You and Jackie never fight.”

Hayden pulled his hand away and started fidgeting with his beer can in his lap. “Oh, believe me, we do.” A grim expression washed over his friend's face.

“You do?” Shane tried to conceal his surprise, sitting up straighter.

Since they met, it seemed like Hayden and Jackie were attached at the hip, smiling and popping out a new kid every two years or so. He couldn't recall a time when they didn't seem head-over-heels for one another. Shane couldn't even imagine them fighting seriously–the most he'd heard of it was their silly domestic squabbles about crumbs on the sofa, or who keeps leaving the garage light on. When Shane looked at them, they seemed perfect, in sync and always on the same page with the life they built together. Always so in love.

Hayden emptied his beer can, setting it aside before folding his hands between his knees, his eyes scanning the fibres of the oatmeal carpet in front of him.

“Shortly after Arthur was born, we got into this huge fight, and I said some stuff I shouldn't have. Nothing I meant, obviously, I was being stupid and prideful, but I really hurt her feelings. I made it seem like I didn't care that she was sacrificing a lot, too.” Hayden rubbed his hand slowly over his chest, not meeting Shane's gaze. “It got bad. Like, I was worried we weren't going to make it out, bad.”

Now Shane couldn't conceal his reaction; he felt his mouth fall open. “What, not like a…”

“Yeah, like a divorce.” Hayden grimaced, as if the word tasted horrible in his mouth. “I was scared I was going to lose her, that she was going to leave me. And she did. She stayed with her mom for two entire days.”

Hayden and Jackie weren't divorced; Shane already knew the end to this story, but he was still on the edge of his seat. This was unreal to hear about. It sounded so wrong, so different from what Shane had always assumed about their relationship.

“She came back because, as much as she hated me at that moment, she chose to love me more. That's what actual love is. It's knowing that things get ugly, but you stay and you work things out because it's the right thing to do.” Hayden turned his head away sharply as his voice wavered. “Loving someone is to be willing to persevere, even when it seems like it makes no sense. I'm lucky to have someone like her. I can be so hopeless sometimes.”

Shane felt ill. Hayden dragged his fingers across his cheek before he turned his head back, his eyes wet but his face dry. He smiled at Shane a bit shyly.

“Jackie's more than my wife; she's my best friend. She's my–.”

“Home?” Shane filled in the gap quietly with a single word.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Ilya and Shane had fought plenty. They fought their better judgment to see one another when the odds were stacked against them, they fought over pride, and they fought over dignity. They've had jealous arguments over who the other had in their bed. They fought and fought until they were both red in the face.

Shane had been so sure up until now that their arguing was a sign that they were doomed, stuck in a limbo of wanting and never getting. Cursed to temporary bliss in permanent instability.

His relationship with Ilya was the most chaotic part of his life; it drove Shane crazy. He worked relentlessly to ensure every other aspect of his life had straight lines, organized sections, and squared-off edges. Hockey, his family, his diet, his outfits; from his head to his fucking Reebok-covered feet, he had ensured that everything was exactly right. His love for Ilya was the only thing he couldn't place properly. It was wrong, all wrong.

So, when he first started dating Jordan, it felt right. At last, Shane had a relationship that made sense. Jordan fit neatly into the life Shane had maintained so far–it was uncomplicated. Anything that seemed like an issue, Jordan waved away, big or small. Even when Ilya had called Shane the night he had stayed at Jordan's apartment, he never let it be a problem.

You don't ever have to explain yourself to me.

When Jordan said that, it made Shane feel safe; now, he wasn't sure why it had.

Why didn't Jordan want the explanation? Why didn't he ask the harder questions when something was clearly off? Why did Jordan turn a blind eye instead of looking directly at him? The thought made Shane uneasy, especially since Jordan wasn't the only one guilty of doing that. Shane also didn't want to fight with Jordan, opting instead to withhold things that might rock the boat.

If real love was a messy fight like Hayden claimed, then what were he and Jordan doing?

Shane tried to shake the thought from his head. He had been sure he could have the easiest version of all the things he wanted out of a relationship with Jordan. Hypothetically, Shane thought he could be the best version of himself with Jordan, too. And yet, Shane was being the worst version of himself. He was lying more and hiding more, using sex with Jordan to clear his head instead of admitting how upset he really was. He was avoiding his friends.

He was hurting people. He barely even felt like himself.

For God's sake, he had cheated.

That was something he didn't even think he was capable of until Ilya was suddenly back in a way that was familiar– in a way that felt like…

Home.

The intrusive thought hit him so hard it made him feel sick. Shane pushed his hand against his mouth, distraught. He had been so sure that all his frustration with Ilya came from the gap between fantasy and reality, but now a horrific truth was coming to a head. Maybe he hadn't been wrong about Ilya; maybe he had been wrong about love.

Maybe love was just as much about crumbs on the couch as it was about breaking each other's hearts in a Tampa hotel room. If he had stopped running for long enough, maybe he could have realized it sooner. Maybe he could have realized that before someone else got involved–before someone else got hurt.

“I've made such a fucking mess of everything.” Shane sighed, sinking as far back into the couch cushions as he could, wishing he could be swallowed up completely.

Hayden smirked, flopping his arm over the couch's armrest. “You know I fucking hate him, right?”

Shane nodded, feeling his ears turn pink.

“And do you know what that means?”

Shane shook his head, afraid to look but nervously meeting Hayden's narrowed blue eyes anyway.

“It means jack-shit. It means you should let yourself feel what you feel.” As soon as he said it, Hayden furrowed his brows, looking a bit bewildered. “I can't believe I just advocated for your love towards Rozanov. What the fuck is happening?”

Shane started to smile, but it soured on his lips. It's not like his feelings existed in a vacuum.

“What about Jordan?” Shane asked, as if Hayden knew.

Hayden tilted his head back and forth, like he was rolling a thought around. “Do you remember in the Best Western back in September, before you and Jordan started going out, I said that he seemed to make you happy?”

“Yeah?”

“I said you seemed happy,” Hayden emphasized. “Are you? Are you actually?”

“Of course, he's great.” Shane felt weirdly defensive over the man he had just stepped out on a few days ago.

He and Jordan may not have connected like they should on every level, but there was nothing wrong with him. He wasn't mean or uninteresting, he wasn't bad in bed, he wasn't cruel, and he made Shane laugh. He never made Shane cry; only now, he wasn't sure that was a good thing.

Hayden pulled a face, then clarified.

“I didn't ask if he was great. I know Bragg is a good guy,” Hayden's voice softened. “Are you happy with him, Shane, or are you passing time until you can see Ilya again?”

Oh.

Shane flinched like Hayden just punched him in the stomach. Mortification filled his body, and he found himself clambering to his feet.

“I'm not sure. I think I need to go home. I need to think about…” Shane wrapped his arms around his midsection. “I just need some time to think.”

Hayden gave him an understanding nod, even though they both knew that Shane was going to New York soon. He had no time; all he had was an obligation to his boyfriend. Following him out of the billiard room and back through the house, he gave Shane a long hug goodbye at the door.

“Sorry for being such a mess,” Shane muttered into Hayden's shoulder. “I hope you don't think less of me.”

“Nah,” Hayden pulled back and gave him an affectionate slap on the side of his face. “I already knew you were kind of a slut.”

Shane started coughing halfway home, and he knew he had gotten sick from Ilya. He had taken an assortment of immune boosters as soon as he was home, hoping he had avoided it, but it was too late. As usual, Ilya had found his way into his system.

By the time he was ready to go to bed, he still hadn't heard anything from Jordan. Agitation dug at Shane. Wasn't this the easy option?

He should have waited for Jordan, or he should have tried calling again. He didn't. Without thinking, he clicked off Jordan's contact and flipped to Ilya's, the empty text box tempting him as his fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Ilya.

Shane shuddered thinking about how it felt being carried to bed by him, how warm and strong and loving he had been as he took care of Shane in just the way he had needed, regardless of how reprehensible it all was. How his head felt in Shane's hands as he brushed tears off his warm skin.

Ilya hadn't reached out, understandably, since Shane ran out on him again. Why would he? Ilya was probably sick of him. Shane was sick of himself.

Ilya had probably deleted his number. Ilya had probably blocked him. Shane hoped so; it would be for the best.

11:28

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Lily

Text Message

Today 11:28 P.M

Are you feeling better?

He was being fucking ridiculous, and he knew it. The guilt and absurdity wasn't lost on him as he hit send.

But Ilya had seemed different the last time they were together; more open and honest. He had said he had only wanted Shane, and even though it still seemed too good to be true, Shane had believed him. It was like he dropped his ego and his demands for things to be done on his terms; that was the main reason Shane found himself getting so…carried away. Literally.

When they were making love, it hadn't been about possession or competition like when they were in New York; there was no score-keeping. It wasn't the same sex they had when they were rookies, either. It felt different, like it was bigger than just the two of them bringing themselves and each other pleasure with their bodies.

That night, as wrong as it was, had been a glimpse into the life that Shane had always wanted. Still, Shane had walked away from it; it was likely he would never hear from Ilya again. Shane knew he should just come to terms with it.

Less than thirty seconds after thinking that, Ilya responded.

11:28

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Text Message

Today 11:28 P.M

Are you feeling better?

Yes. Thank you for soup.

They shouldn't have been talking about soup–they shouldn't be talking at all.

Not even a week ago, he had been hoping that Ilya would let their relationship only be about sex. Dirty, impulsive, horribly satisfying sex. He had begged for it not to be love while beneath Ilya, he prayed for it between their kisses. If it was love, it was all too messy and painful to handle; but after talking with Hayden tonight…

Shane gasped as his phone suddenly lit up.

Shane answered on the first ring, but nothing came out of his mouth when he opened it.

“...Hello?” Jordan hesitantly spoke after a moment. “This isn't a prank, Shane. It's not like my voicemail called you.”

“Hi,” Shane croaked out, closing his eyes. He slowly sat up in his bed. “How are…things?”

Why the hell haven't I heard from you in a week?

Shane swallowed the unanswered question, and it fell into the pile of others, all trapped under the weight of hypocrisy and guilt.

“Things are…okay.” Jordan didn't sound like his normal chipper self. “Are you still coming to New York on Thursday?”

Shane felt the hair on his arms stand up. “Of course–of course I am, why wouldn't I?”

Jordan paused. “I don't know. You tell me.”

Shane felt like he had stepped on a landmine, too terrified to move. Everything felt like a wrong answer, so instead he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

“Are you really?”

“I said yes, didn't I?” Jordan sounded bored. His tone flattened as he continued. “I don't even know why I called. It's late, I should sleep.”

Shane wanted to say something else, to interrupt Jordan and tell him he wanted to talk more. That he missed him. He took a deep breath and started to cough, his scratchy throat stinging with every exhale.

“You're sick.” It wasn't a question.

“A little bit. I must have picked something up.” Shane heard his voice getting hoarse halfway through his sentence.

He was sure that Jordan was going to tell him to make some soup, or recommend he blow his diet and have a few spoonfuls of straight honey. Instead, Shane heard Jordan scoff.

“Yeah, I'm sure you did.”

Worry prickled at Shane.

Ilya had been visibly sick to the point of being benched, and the game would have been televised. Had Jordan watched it? Even if he did, there was no way that he would put it together that he got sick from hooking up with Ilya, right?

“Hayden's kid is sick,” Shane said, then immediately regretted it. “So, you know…” Silence.

Shane looked to see if the call had dropped. It hadn't, of course. Jordan was pulling away again.

“Jordan?”

“Your flight gets in late, and I have some stuff going on, so just let yourself in. The key's in the lockbox. I'll text you the code.” Jordan sounded disappointed. “Just do whatever till I get back, alright?”

“Alright,” Shane's voice was small, and he felt the urge to cry twist inside him. “Are…we good?”

“Yep. We're right where I thought we'd be.”

Click.

No feel better. No goodbye. No goodnight. After Jordan texted him the code for the lockbox, he was back to radio silence.

A Few Days Later

Hayden had been nice enough to drop Shane off at the airport, and he was even nice enough not to comment on the fact that Shane had looked distressed about this upcoming weekend. He was obviously curious about what was going on in Shane's personal life, but he was giving him some grace, so at dinner, they talked about hockey, training routines, and which team was going to give them the most trouble on their way to the cup.

They steered clear of boys and love, opting instead to weigh the pros and cons of lateral sit-ups. Hayden even pretended he didn't hear Shane's phone vibrating with texts–texts that he was purposefully ignoring.

Most would be from Rose. Some could be from Ilya.

Jordan was still being distant, leaving texts unread for hours and letting his calls go to voicemail, so during the gaps, Shane found himself casually texting Ilya. Nothing serious, of course. Small talk, really. It was nothing–or rather, that was what Shane had been telling himself every time he did it. It was nothing scandalous, but he still didn't want Hayden to see, even if his cheeks flamed guiltily with every notification.

He was still going to New York. He was still choosing Jordan. The texts weren't a big deal.

And then, right before he was about to board his flight, he read the text from Ilya he received way earlier in the day.

10:36

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Text Message

Today 12:01 P.M

I just became an American citizen. Sort of. I have an oath to take, but I passed my test. I don't have to go back to Russia, ever, if I don't want to.

After reading it four or five times, Shane jumped to his feet, as if he could run to Boston. The sudden movement caused the people sitting around him at the terminal to shoot him an inquisitive glance, but Shane didn't care. He awkwardly picked up his bag and began walking to–anywhere. He wasn't even sure where he was going until he found a little corner with a cellphone charging station, completely empty.

Shane felt his heart leap into his throat, dialling Ilya's number in a blur.

The last time they talked about Russia was in Vegas, the night they didn't even kiss during their hook-up. That was almost five years ago. Ilya had been so tight-lipped back then about Russia, referring to it as home and shutting the conversation down. As far as Shane knew, Ilya had gone back last summer; he left right around the time Shane had gotten in touch with Jordan.

To hear that Ilya was suddenly free to stay in America was massive. Shane got the distinct impression that Ilya didn't like Russia, that he always resented having to return when the season came to a close; and, selfishly, Shane had always wanted him to stay. Not even for his company, but for the sheer peace of mind that Ilya was safe, that he was somewhere stable. There was something so permanent in him becoming American now, something so actualizing.

Shane acknowledged he shouldn't be calling on the first ring. He knew it was a bad idea on the second ring. Ilya picked up on the third ring, just as Shane considered hanging up.

“Hello?” Shane squeezed his eyes shut as Ilya's voice filled his ears. “Shane?”

Don't cry. Don't cry, stupid.

“Hi,” Shane wasn't sure how long his pause had been. His mind was blank. He had nothing appropriate to say, given their situation.

“Hi, Shane.”

“Hi.” Shane felt a surge of emotion zip through him like a lightning bolt upon hearing Ilya say his name so sweetly. It transported his mind back to their last night together, a blur of sex and love and vapour rub.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Ilya's voice was warm, and Shane ached to touch his skin. “Are you okay?”

Forcing himself to bite back a million other words, Shane focused himself to try and be normal about this conversation. He was just congratulating Ilya on his new citizen status; he definitely wasn't going to explode with all the hopes and dreams he had forged in the dark of hotel rooms for nearly a decade, pinning them up alongside the things they could possibly be if this day ever came. Those days were long behind him. Supposedly.

Shane cleared his throat. “Yeah, I just saw your text. I was out with Hayden, uhm–doesn't matter,” he ran his hand over his face, hearing how nervous he sounded. “Congratulations on becoming a citizen, Ilya.”

“Thank you, I'm glad the hard part is done.”

“You didn't like living there, right?” Shane wanted to put the silly idea of Ilya sticking around for his sake to death. This wasn't about him; this was about Ilya and his life–whatever that might look like now.

“That was part of it, yes. Most of it was because everyone I love is here.”

His team. His friends. Shane reminded himself, but he felt his heart swelling.

“In Boston?”

“Close.”

Shane thumped his head against the wall behind him, feeling an exhausted sob rumbling in his chest.

“I'm happy for you,” he managed to whisper out, but Shane knew he probably didn't sound happy. Happy was nowhere close to what he was actually feeling.

“Shane,” Ilya whispered his name back to him. “My love, I want to see you. I need you.”

Shane held himself tightly across his ribs, trying to calm himself down. “I know.”

“Do you want to see me?”

More than anything.

“I…”

I can't lie to you about this anymore.

Shane pushed his back against the wall behind him in an effort to ground himself. He was going to say it. He was going to tell Ilya all the things he had wanted to in Tampa.

Final boarding call for passengers travelling on flight 482, service to New York, J.F.K. This is the last and final call for all remaining passengers to proceed to gate eighty-eight.

Shane gasped, completely forgetting he was on track for a different destination.

“I gotta go.”

November - New York

Shane went to grab the key from the lockbox next to Jordan's apartment door, but found it was already open; the key was gone, and the front door was ajar. Jordan had said that he wouldn't be home when Shane got here, that he had something to do tonight, but someone was inside.

Nervously, Shane pushed the door open. “Hello?”

He was on edge as he crept through the doorway and into the dim apartment, a single lamp in the corner lit the space in a wash of orange. He dropped his bag on the floor and moved further in until he felt eyes on him.

Across the living room, a woman with blonde curly hair turned to face him, looking surprised. She was holding a little blue watering can, tilting its spout into the pot of a monstera plant near the patio door. She was beautiful, thin with long lashes and warm brown skin, and the biggest doe eyes, like a doll. Shane wondered if she was a model. Shane was also wondering who she was and why she was in Jordan's place so late at night.

“Oh, hi,” Shane self-consciously repeated as she regarded him from a distance. “I'm Shane. Hollander. I'm Jordan's boyfriend.”

The woman took in the information and frowned at him, which made Shane a bit worried. He watched in silence as she finished watering, then walked to the kitchen sink to fill the can again, her boot heels clicking along the hardwood.

“Yeah, I know.” The response sounded unimpressed. “I'm Honey.”

“Friend of Jordan's?” Shane watched her water the parlour palm plant next to the television, moving a stack of D.V.D's. Saw, Scream and a bunch of other ones with gruesome-looking covers.

“Yeah, he hasn't told you about me?” When Shane shifted on his feet, unsure of what to say, she smiled and turned her eyes back to the plant. “I'm the stripper.”

“Oh, he's mentioned you, yeah.” Shane felt his cheeks tingle a bit. “It's good to meet you. Sorry if hockey players tear up your workplace.”

Jordan never told Shane her name, but he did mention that he was friends with a stripper a while ago. Come to think of it, Jordan never told Shane the name of any of his friends or coworkers at Vicky's. They were long-distance, so it made sense why they hadn't met, but Shane probably should have known more about them.

Honey's smile became softer. “I don't always mind.”

“Is he coming back soon?” Shane put his hands into his pockets, unsure of what else to say or do. “I don't even know where Jordan is right now.”

“Well, it's Thursday, so he'd be at Saint Pat's, right?”

Shane racked his brain and came back with nothing. The name didn't ring a bell. “Is that a bar?”

Honey scoffed, and Shane watched as she shook her head while walking back to the kitchen. She tucked the watering can beneath the sink, then turned to lean against the counter.

“What, are you serious?” Honey's tone was incredulous. “That's our church.”

Shane felt his face go blank.

“He didn't tell you what church he goes to?” she folded her arms in front of her, a humourless smirk on her shiny, full lips. “The one he goes to every week, twice a week?”

Shane felt his cheeks sting in a bad way this time. He knew Jordan wore a cross, obviously. He had seen it in his coming out video, and it dangled along his collarbone when they had sex–but Jordan never talked to Shane about religion or God. It surprised him, but he already felt guilty for not knowing as much as he should, so he concealed his expression and shrugged.

“We don't really talk about that kind of stuff.”

“And what do you talk about?”

Shane felt tense, like she was putting his relationship under a microscope; as if he wasn't really Jordan's boyfriend, but some random guy off the streets who found his way up here to his place. That was ridiculous, but for some reason, Shane sort of felt like he was.

“Everything else?” Shane offered, but it didn't sound as confident as he wanted.

Honey shook her head, not looking convinced. “Whatever. I don't understand why he keeps doing this to himself.” With that loaded comment, she turned away, snatching a black studded purse from the countertop before she began walking to the door. “Tell him I'll call him later.”

Shane nodded tightly. Why was Jordan's friend being so standoffish towards him right now? Had he done something wrong?

Well, yes. Guilt enveloped him once again. Obviously. But Honey didn't know that. They just met two minutes ago.

Shane spotted a pack of cigarettes on the counter near where her purse had been and flagged her down. “Oh, hang on a second.”

Then, because it was a force of habit from being around Ilya, he began to ramble as he brought the pack to where she was waiting. He extended the cigarettes to her by the front door.

“These are really bad for you, you know. Even short-term smoking can lead to lifelong problems.” Shane's nose twitched at their scent, which lingered from the box, fragrant even when unlit.

“I do know. I don't smoke.”

Shane squinted at the package in his hand. Marlboro menthol cigarettes. “Then whose are these?”

When her eyes met Shane's, her face fell from disbelief into disappointment. “You really don't know him at all.”

Her comment lingered long after she slammed the door, leaving Shane holding the menthols that were apparently Jordan's.

Indignation lapped at him. What a stupid thing to say; of course he knew his own boyfriend. He knew the code to his lockbox, that he had bamboo sheets, and that he thought a lot of French food was overrated. He knew how Jordan tasted, how he felt inside his body, how he liked to be touched.

But Jordan never said he smoked.

Walking out to the balcony, Shane glanced around at the sectional seating and small side tables, and sure enough, there was an ashtray hidden. It was tucked away on the table's lower shelf. Had Jordan crept out here to smoke in the middle of the night, the last time was Shane over? How many times had Shane answered his FaceTime calls to see him sitting out here? He never thought to ask why.

Guilt tapped his shoulder when Shane remembered that he snuck out to this balcony to hide something, too. His phone call with Ilya.

Why did you call me back, Shane?

Heading back inside, Shane closed the door on the ghost of that conversation, determined to prove to himself that he was a good boyfriend–or that he could be. He had chosen Jordan. He was here, wasn't he?

He knew Jordan plenty, just not where he was right now. Or who his friends were. Or what he had been up to the past two weeks.

While he waited for Jordan to come home, Shane made his way around his apartment, taking in details he missed or things that had changed since the last time he was here. Admittedly, Shane didn't notice a lot of stuff when he first visited. He had been…preoccupied. Maybe a little distracted.

Shane scanned the walls and shelves slowly now, finding family photos of his mother, his siblings, and their dogs. Hadn't Jordan only mentioned one dog? There was a fluffy golden retriever in a red bandana, and a black and white collie in a blue one.

Which one was…Checkers, was it? And one of his brothers was named Will–or was it Wyatt? Shane rubbed the back of his neck. Why didn't he know the names of the people he was looking at? How come there weren't any photos of him and his dad? He would have to ask; he felt bad for not knowing, and worse for not bothering to ask sooner.

Spotting his bookshelf, Shane lingered close by, tilting his head to read along the spines. Shane wasn't snooping; he was merely confirming what he already knew about his boyfriend. Honey had no idea what she was talking about.

Jordan liked to read; he knew that much. Shane crouched down, expecting to see cookbooks or horror novels, like stuff from Stephen King. He was surprised to see nothing of the sort. One shelf was entirely math.

Theoretical math, math and biology, biomathematics. Bioinformatics?

Shane furrowed his brows, plucking a thick textbook from the shelf and flipping through its glossy pages. It was dense and academic. Jordan had read it, too. Shane ran his fingers across the notes in the margins, finding himself smiling at his boyfriend's sloppy penmanship, but nothing in the book made any sense to Shane.

Sequence Alignment. The Needleman–Wunsch algorithm performs global alignment by constructing a scoring matrix that accounts for matches, mismatches, and gap penalties across the entire sequence length.

Image summary: This diagram illustrates the Needleman-Wunsch algorithm for pairwise sequence alignment using a scoring matrix. The grid displays numerical values representing matches, mismatches, and gaps, with a scoring legend indicating match equals 1, mismatch equals -1, and gap equals -1. Arrows within the grid cells trace a path through the matrix, visually demonstrating the calculation process for aligning two DNA sequences.

Figure. Pairwise alignment scoring matrix.

In contrast, the Smith–Waterman algorithm focuses on local alignment, identifying regions of highest similarity within subsequences…

Shane shook his head; that small paragraph was enough to give him a headache. Why the hell did Jordan even have all these? Was it for hockey? It didn't seem like it. They were all referring to D.N.A, like all this jibberish somehow connected back to real people.

It just looked like numbers and patterns. Shane didn't understand it all.

As he moved to put it back in its spot, a piece of paper slithered out between the pages, landing with a soft noise at Shane's feet.

Shane picked it up and unfolded it.

Date: March 2nd, 2013

Dear Jordan Bragg,

On behalf of the Admissions Committee, I am pleased to offer you admission to Johns Hopkins University for the Fall 2013 term.

You have been admitted to the Whiting School of Engineering with an intended area of study in Bioinformatics. Your academic record, intellectual curiosity, and demonstrated ability in quantitative and analytical disciplines distinguished your application within an exceptionally competitive pool of candidates.

Please confirm your enrollment by submitting your acceptance and enrollment deposit no later than May 1st, 2013. Additional information regarding housing, orientation, and course registration will be provided upon receipt of your enrollment confirmation.

If you have any questions, the Office of Undergraduate Admissions would be happy to assist you.

Congratulations on your achievement. We look forward to welcoming you to Johns Hopkins University.

Sincerely, Dr. N.M. Cartwright Associate Dean of Undergraduate Admissions

Office of Undergraduate Admissions Johns Hopkins University 3400 N. Charles Street Baltimore, M.D 21218

“What the fuck?” Shane muttered out loud as he re-read the letter one more time before he folded it up, slipping it back into the book.

Jordan never mentioned getting into such a prestigious school. It was dated the same year he was drafted, too. How come he never brought up such a life-changing decision?

What made him choose hockey over university? Shane had no idea. Shane didn't even know that he was good at math.

Jordan acted silly on the ice, he liked his nickname Big Mouth, and he seemingly didn't care when people wrote him off as stupid. Shane knew he wasn't stupid; he didn't know about this, though. He didn't know that Jordan was smarter than he ever let on. Shane wasn't sure why, but that unnerved him. Why did he act like he was dimwitted and lean into the narrative so much in public? What was the point? Was it some kind of joke?

And if it was, why hadn't he let Shane in on it?

He continued to look along the shelves and found himself more confused. Some things made sense, like a very worn-out-looking Bible, and other things didn't, like the two self-help books stacked under a small bonsai tree. The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk looked worn through, the cracks along its spine deep and faded. Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma had a bunch of pages dog-eared, like there were spots Jordan consistently went back to. These weren't really casual reads, more like the type of book someone read when something was…awry.

Shane had no idea what that something could be. Jordan never went there, always quick to turn a negative into a positive or to change the subject completely. Unless he was chirping someone on the ice, he never spoke negatively about…anything. Or anyone. Not in a serious way, anyway.

Shane remembered that night in Virtue when Jordan briefly spoke about his family, his sadness palpable through the noise of the club. He had pulled it back so fast that Shane had felt like he imagined it, but maybe Shane had been too slow.

Taking a step back away from the bookshelf, Shane felt like he was intruding suddenly. Then, he felt agitated that he felt that way.

He's my boyfriend. Shane tried to talk himself up before Jordan got home. I should know who he is. I do know who he is.

Shane's eyes drifted to Jordan's bedside table, where he spotted the last book he had seen him reading. Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. It had been open on his chest during their FaceTime call when Shane was in Boston. A small drop of apprehension ran down his spine

Don't I?

Picking up the book, there was only one page with a folded corner. Shane flipped to it, his eyes falling to the centre where a paragraph had been underlined several times.

'That is the only way in which you can sustain my idea of you. Because you have gotten, as you see, tied up with something so vital to me, I do not think I shall ever shake you off. Nor do I wish to. I want you to live more vitally every day, as I am dead. That is why, when I speak of you to others, I am just a bit ashamed. It's hard to talk of one's self so intimately.'

Shane's eyes drifted to the bottom of the page to Jordan's barely legible handwriting.

its checkmate. I lose.

Closing the book, Shane set it back on Jordan's bedside table, perplexed. The more he tried to learn about his boyfriend, the more confused he became. Flopping onto his back, Shane heard something softly thump next to him in the sheets; it was Jordan's cellphone. Wherever he was, he had left it behind.

Shane had no way of reaching Jordan even if he wanted to.

He fell asleep around one-thirty in the morning, alone, and when he woke up, he felt Jordan curled behind him. Shane reached back and touched him as he breethd softly along his neck, still fast asleep. Shane hadn't heard him come in or felt him crawl into bed, but he liked being in between his massive arms, half-conscious and warm. Eventually, he dozed off, only opening his eyes when Jordan began to stir next to him hours later.

“Oh,” Jordan said quietly, and Shane rolled over to smile at him. “Hi, Holly.”

“Hi,” Shane said shyly, curling his hand around the side of Jordan's face so he could run his thumb along his smooth cheek.

For a split second, it was like they were new again, just two guys from the N.H.L who stumbled while laughing into bed together. Light and easy, co-workers and competitors, not yet lovers but more than friends.

The secret of what transpired in Boston dragged its claws along the mattress beneath them like there was a monster under the bed, and Shane stiffened. Jordan's expression darkened, and then, as per usual, it drifted away. Shane watched it all transpire within a few seconds, then closed his eyes as Jordan leaned in to kiss him along his face.

Shane threaded their hands together, trying to steady his rapidly beating heart. “I've missed you.”

When Jordan only nodded in response, Shane continued.

“I met Honey last night.”

Shane felt Jordan tense under his touch. “...Did you talk long?”

“Nah, she was just here to water some plants. She seems nice!” She hadn't, but she was one of Jordan's good friends. He'd rather lie to keep things smooth.

“I'm not really used to…” Jordan cleared his throat. “I don't really introduce people I'm seeing to my friends, usually.”

“Oh.” Shane didn't know that. Shane didn't even know Jordan had ex-boyfriends. “How come?”

“I don't know,” Jordan shook Shane's hand away. “Glad everything was chill, though.”

It wasn't, but Shane didn't want to fight with Jordan. Things were already tense for some reason, and they had just woken up. In an attempt to change the mood, Shane sat forward and pushed Jordan onto his back, rolling over and straddling him with a smile.

Relief washed over Shane when Jordan smiled too; he looked like he was back to his normal self. When Shane firmly grabbed his huge biceps to playfully pin him, Jordan flinched, hissing in pain. Shane pulled back one of his hands to see that he had what looked like plastic wrap rolled over his right arm.

“What the hell is that?” Shane jolted in surprise.

“A tattoo.”

“You got a tattoo?”

“Yeah.”

“...What is it?”

“A salmon. On my arm. For–.”

“Salmon Arm?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn't mention you were getting a tattoo?”

“Didn't think it mattered.”

Shane wasn't sure why, but that answer annoyed him. “I didn't know you wanted tattoos.”

“Yeah, I want way more. This is my second one.”

“Second one?” Shane narrowed his eyes. “I've seen you naked several times. Where's the other one?”

Jordan used two fingers to pull down his lower lip, where Sk88 or Die was printed in slightly wonky capital letters. A small pink scar from when Ilya punched him ran between the words or and die.

Shane sat back, unsure what to think. “When did you get it?”

“I got my lip one last year, and I got this one yesterday.” Jordan drummed his fingers on Shane's thighs. “That's why I got back so late. My buddy was booked all day long, so I just went after.”

What buddy was he talking about? Where had he gone, and after what?

Jordan was always interested in hearing about what Shane was doing, chatty and inquisitive and listening when he rattled off his plans of doing anything, routine or novel; but Jordan was pointedly vague about his own life. Jordan was always doing stuff, things, or errands with people.

Shane had yapped his ear off about real estate and the renovations he was doing to his cabin and so on, but Jordan didn't mention his restaurant once, not until they were in New York when it seemed unavoidable that Shane would find out anyway.

Shane wanted to bring up what Honey said–had Jordan gone to church, too? What was he doing for those two weeks when he was ignoring Shane's texts, and why was he being so cagey?

Shane grinned instead. “Very cool.”

As Shane brushed his teeth, he watched Jordan remove the plastic film from his arm, the skin around the ink still irritated and red. It wasn't just a curled salmon in black ink; there were words around it, too. Can't Run From Where You Come From. It seemed like maybe there was more to the tattoo than Jordan was letting on, but Shane didn't want to push him too much–he already seemed a bit withdrawn, even after Shane clumsily got them both off with a nervous handjob. He hoped Jordan would open up over breakfast, but that went as awkwardly as the frotting.

They still joked around and made small talk while they waited at their table, but things were a bit stilted. Jordan took him to one of his favourite breakfast spots, a Turkish place called Sorfa 17, and Shane made it a point to try–really try to get to know Jordan beyond the careful measures he shared with everyone else.

But it wasn't easy.

Jordan dismissed all the math books on his shelf when Shane brought them up, saying it was just something he read when he was bored. That clearly wasn't true. They weren't easy reads; they were neesh, and probably weren't even carried at normal bookstores.

Shane kept the letter he found within the textbook to himself, seeing as it was tucked away from view. He hoped Jordan would bring it up on his own, wanting to go a little deeper than the covers of his books. When he didn't, Shane googled what the hell bioinformatics even was when he got up to use the bathroom to try again.

“I'll just bore you,” Jordan tried to wave Shane off again as he sat down, checking his watch. “Let's just talk about you instead.”

“No!” Shane said, then felt himself flush a bit.

He still felt defensive after his run-in with Honey. Plus, he had accidentally shaken himself by proving her point when snooping through Jordan's things. Jordan knew everything about Shane, but Shane hardly knew Jordan. He only knew Jordan the way everyone else did, with the exception of his bamboo sheets.

“I mean, I want to talk about you. Tell me what it means, or like, why you're into it. Math. Math-science? Whatever it is.”

Jordan looked uncomfortable, for a moment, rubbing a hand up his arm. Then he sighed and gave Shane a small smile.

“It's the study of biological data, sort of like if computational biology had a baby with statistics. I like understanding people that way, through sequencing and patterns. It's easier on me when I know from the start how something's going to end.” Jordan must have seen his eyes widen, because he suddenly stifled a laugh. “See? You're snoring. This is why I just stick to being the funny guy. No one cares about this lame stuff.”

“Don't say that!” Shane tapped Jordan's foot with his own under the table. “Just because that sounded like Greek to me doesn't mean it isn't cool! I sucked at math growing up. My mom had to put me in Kumon.”

“You know, I actually…” Jordan started, his voice going soft.

Shane leaned forward, hoping that this was it; Jordan was finally giving him an in. Something for the both of them to share, something real. Something to prove that Shane was doing the sensible thing by choosing Jordan.

He watched Jordan's face closely. There was a momentary bashfulness, but it melded into something troubled, and then eventually it disappeared into total neutrality.

“I play Boston tomorrow,” Jordan finished flatly, like he was bored. “We can catch up afterwards, alright?”

Shane leaned back in his seat, disappointed. It felt like an emotional door was slammed in his face. Jordan looked out the window, back in his own world, while Shane was in his.

When they first got together, Jordan had seemed so chatty, but Shane realized too late that he wasn't really saying much, especially about himself.

Shane nodded, pulling his foot away beneath the table. “I'll just chill at your place.”

A heavy silence opened between them. They both knew why Shane wasn't going to watch Jordan play against Boston–but neither of them were willing to say it. There might have been two chairs at the table, but the haunting presence of Ilya made it a party of three.

Neither of them wanted to talk about it, so they took a walk through Central Park instead.

It was a relatively sunny day for early November, but there was a cold wind coming in that had New Yorkers bundled up in trench coats and long woollen scarves. Jordan had dressed for the unpredictable blusters, but Shane hadn't. A few minutes into their walk, Jordan pulled them off to the side of the path so he could take the dark ruby scarf off himself and put it around Shane, kissing his cold nose once he was sufficiently wrapped.

“There you go, Holly.” Shane thought Jordan seemed a bit sad. “I don't want you getting sick again.”

Guilt flickered in Shane. He prayed it wasn't on his face. “Thanks.”

He pulled down the scarf just enough so they could kiss, gently and sweetly in the chilly air. Shane wrinkled his nose, pulling out of the kiss to glare at a man walking by who was smoking a cigarette. As he passed, he left a swirling, pungent trail behind him that clung to the air.

“I thought you couldn't smoke in parks in New York?” Shane grumbled, tucking his nose into Jordan's scarf.

“You can't, but people don't take that by-law too seriously. It's only a fifty-dollar fine.” Jordan said, then took his own turn to look guilty, skirting Shane's disapproving look. “I mean, so I hear.”

Shane raised an eyebrow before nudging Jordan with his elbow. “You shouldn't smoke, it's bad for you.” he reached for Jordan's hand, but it wasn't there anymore; he had slipped it into his coat pocket.

“I know.”

“So why do it?”

“Like you said, because it's bad for me.” Jordan regarded him with a strange look, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Why else would I do it?” his voice sounded small and distant, like he was on the other side of the park.

Shane wasn't able to hold Jordan's hand for the rest of their walk. When it wasn't in his pocket, he was checking the time, or he was rubbing it along his arm.

For the remainder of the day, while they floated around New York together, the vibe was similar. Lighthearted and fun, but noticeably shallow.

It got worse when Jordan tried to introduce him to a few of the workers at Vicky's over dinner. Shane saw him get physically tense, like he had been this morning. Jordan decided at the last minute it wasn't worth the fuss, opting instead to invite over only one of his chefs to the table instead of taking Shane back into the kitchen to meet everyone. It was a complete one-eighty from how relaxed he was when meeting Shane's friends. He looked a bit miserable in the booth across from Shane, the candlelight illuminating his clouded eyes.

Between the appetizers and the main meal, a woman appeared next to their table. She was lean but muscular with stern-looking features and hair so blonde it nearly looked white. Jordan mumbled out an introduction, explaining that her name was Charlie and that she was his second in command here at Vicky's.

Shane found himself a bit intimidated by Charlie. She was rough in the way that hockey players were rough; all angles and antagonism. Her eyes were shining with amusement as she stood by Jordan's table. Shane noticed she had an A sewn into her apron, similar to the alternate captain A on hockey jerseys.

“It's a bit of a joke, since I'm the alternative head chef when Jordan's not here.” Charlie winked after shaking Shane's hand way too hard. “As Mumbles said, I'm the Chef de cuisine. I'm also an asshole; hence the A.”

“Nice,” Shane nodded. “Have you worked here for a while?”

“First person Jordan ever hired.”

“When did this place open?”

“It used to be a burger joint called Bits, but Jordan's owned it for about four years.”

Shane was surprised by that. It meant Jordan became the owner at twenty, which was pretty young. Now that he was thinking about it, Jordan never mentioned how long he had been into cooking for, he never told Shane why it appealed to him. Shane wanted to ask, but then he glanced at Jordan, who hadn't said a word during their entire exchange.

Jordan looked like he wanted to disappear, avoiding eye contact with both of them.

Shane looked back at Charlie, who still seemed entertained; her hands on her hips as she slowly shook her head. In an attempt to lift the strange mood, Shane cleared his throat nervously and spoke.

“Jordan must bring all his boyfriends here, hey?” It was meant to be innocent teasing, but Charlie's expression became as sharp as the rest of her.

“Nope.” Charlie folded her arms across her chest. “You're the very first.”

Oh. For some reason, that didn't feel like a good thing.

Maybe I should leave the jokes to Jordan.

Back in his bed that night, the sex with Jordan was as disjointed and awkward as their conversations. It had taken a while for things to get going, and when Shane was finally able to let him in, he felt…off. Shane found himself accidentally clenching up despite nothing physically hurting, then mumbling apologetically. Likewise, Jordan was seemingly affected by whatever was floating around their atmosphere, pausing randomly and then shaking his head, like he was confused or irritated.

It was also painfully quiet.

Jordan normally ran his mouth the entire time, filling Shane's head with erotic dirty-talk while he drove Shane into the mattress, but he barely said two words as he maneuvered inside Shane.

All the silence between them created space for Shane's mind to wander, and as it did, it started to fill with thoughts of Ilya. When he closed his eyes, Jordan's silver cross scraping along his collarbones became Ilya's golden crucifix, the hair between his fingers morphed from brunette waves to blonde curls.

You love me. Ilya's voice, thick with lust and purred with an accent, rang in his ears between Jordan's ragged breaths.

Shane felt his stomach drop like he was on a rollercoaster, but not in a fun way. He felt like he was cheating on Ilya.

The bizarre sensation flooded him, making Shane gasp loudly, his eyes flying open as Jordan thrust above him. He was supposed to be choosing his boyfriend, not thinking about his ex-lover. He couldn't be fantasizing about Ilya while Jordan was inside of him; it was wrong.

Yet the more he tried to push Ilya out, the deeper his claws sank into his psyche. Shane felt himself clench up again, like his body was rejecting what he was doing, totally discordant with his mind.

I'm choosing Jordan. Shane chastised himself in his head.

Trying to relax so he could do what he needed to do, Shane took a deep breath and pushed his nails down into Jordan's shoulders. He threw his head back and moaned loudly as Jordan snapped into him again, hoping his heart would follow his voice.

For the first time since he entered him, Jordan tilted his head to look at Shane, his eyes wandering all along Shane's face. Shane moaned again, because it did feel good; it just didn't feel good. He was definitely going to come soon, because Jordan was fantastic at fucking, but something else was going to stay inside of him, trapped behind an invisible wall.

“Ah, holy fuck,” Shane whimpered as he locked his ankles behind Jordan's neck as he was bent further in half. “Feels so good.”

He felt a little shy being the only one saying anything. In truth, he had been quiet so far because he was worried he would moan out the wrong name. Just as Shane was praying that it wasn't noticeable, he saw Jordan roll his eyes before turning away again.

Shane's heart sputtered. What the hell?

Panic bubbled in Shane's chest. It was beginning to feel like Jordan knew what he did two weeks ago in Boston. As if Jordan could feel Ilya had been inside him–as if Ilya was still in there now.

“Fuck me just like that, Jordan. It's yours. I'm yours,” Shane hated the way he sounded in his own ears; he wanted to cringe at how obviously he was overcompensating. “I'm all yours. I'm—.”

Shane was suddenly muffled as Jordan pressed his hand firmly over his mouth. No more talking.

They fucked in silence until Shane whined against the salty skin of Jordan's palm, finishing on himself after imagining he was being appraised by sharp hazel eyes, a gold crucifix scraping his chest just above his heart.

Usually, after they had sex, Shane's mind was empty, and he felt relaxed, but not tonight. Tonight, Shane's senses were raw and loud–his cells all screamed.

Cheater, his body wailed. Traitor, his head cried back.

Shane felt like bawling. All the remorse he should have felt in Boston, he was feeling now, in his boyfriend's bed. It made no sense.

Liar, his heart whispered.

Shane was lost in thought, not realizing Jordan had left and returned until he felt the warm wetness of a damp towel on his skin.

“I'm going to read a bit before bed,” Jordan said quietly as he gently cleaned Shane off. “Are you tired?”

Shane yawned back at him, hoping his torment looked more like exhaustion. “No.”

“Hm,” Jordan hummed softly before kissing his forehead, tucking Shane tightly beneath the covers. “You're my favourite liar.”

Shane noticed Jordan rubbing his arm again. He had no idea what getting a tattoo felt like.

“Does it hurt?”

“Only when I do this.” Jordan moved his arm out beside him in a silly gesture.

“Then don't do that.” Shane smiled, feeling his eyes getting heavy.

Today had drained him, and he knew the only way to quiet his mind was to go to sleep. At least when he was unconscious, he wouldn't have to think of Ilya; he would just have to face the leopard.

Jordan smiled too, but his eyes seemed cold. He turned his back to Shane before he spoke, grabbing his Henry Miller book from the nightstand. Shane watched his shadow from the lamp light stretching out in front of him; it grew tall and warped, blackening the wall.

“That's really good advice.”

They had planned to spend the morning together before Jordan went to practice, but when Shane woke up, he was all alone. He called out Jordan's name a few times and did a lap around the apartment, eventually wandering out to the balcony. The ashtray had been empty when Shane first spotted it on Thursday, but there were several crumpled, discarded ends in it now. He wondered how long Jordan sat out here alone last night.

Wandering into the kitchen, he noticed a note pinned to the fridge.

Morning Holly, Healthy boring breakfast in the fridge for you. Decided to hit the gym pre-practice, probably won't come home before the game this evening. I left the key in the lockbox in case you want to go out. See you later! 8=D -Jordan

P.S You still toss and turn like crazy.

Shane was confused. Was Jordan going to be gone all day? After he was so excited to have him over for a long weekend, it seemed strange. He opened the fridge and pulled out what Jordan had made for him: an acaí coconut yogurt bowl with granola and berries, poached eggs over avocado toast with sprouts on sourdough.

“How long did this take?” Shane asked into the empty apartment as he set the tray on the kitchen counter, glancing at the time on his phone.

It was only eight-thirty–what time had Jordan gotten up? Did he even come to bed? Shane couldn't shake the feeling that he was being avoided, in more ways than one. He walked into the bedroom, as if Jordan would magically be there curled up under the covers waiting for him, and sighed.

If Jordan didn't want to talk in person, Shane would text him.

8:35

62%

‹Messages

⌾ ⓘ

Jordie

Text Message

Today 8:35 A.M

Thanks for breakfast.

You should've woken me!

We didn't even kiss goodbye. 🙁

As soon as Shane sent the text, he heard a buzz from the other side of the bed. Sure enough, as Shane walked around to look at his nightstand, he saw Jordan's cellphone there, left behind. Again.

Frustrated, Shane sat down and ran his hands through his hair. He wasn't getting anywhere with Jordan, and worse yet, he was starting to lose his grip on his feelings for Ilya. He was trying his best to battle them back and keep them in his head, but last night they slipped into his body, making him feel dirty for touching Jordan, as if having sex with his boyfriend was somehow immoral.

But Shane couldn't help it. Ever since he found out that Ilya was going to permanently stay in America, he started thinking like a rookie again.

What if this? What if that? What if, what if, what if.

It was a constant background noise that got louder every hour, and his restless sleep hadn't helped at all. He was already sick thinking about Jordan and Ilya playing against each other tonight, the last thing he needed was to revert back to the pathetic, starry-eyed boy he was when he was nineteen.

He had chosen Jordan, and he had told himself he was happy with it.

But what if…

Shane jumped off the bed. He was eating breakfast, taking a shower, and then he was going out. He was going to get a coffee. He was going to pick up groceries and make his boyfriend a terrible dinner because he was a shit cook. What he wasn't going to do was sulk around his boyfriend's apartment and think about Ilya Rozanov.

Well, first, he was going to get rid of his erection from last night's leopard dream.

But then, coffee.

“There are, what, nine million cafes in this city?” Shane felt his mouth getting dry as his Americano melted hotly into his hand through the paper sleeve.

He couldn't believe his fucking eyes.

“And you're in this one… because?”

Cliff Marlow was slowly sipping from a brown paper coffee cup, sitting at a table near the cafe's front door. They had made stunned eye contact as he was trying to leave, and after rolling his eyes until they disappeared into the back of his head, he waved Shane over begrudgingly.

“Because it's near my girlfriend's place,” Cliff drummed his fingers on the tabletop in front of him. “Why are you in New York?”

Cliff looked surprisingly cleaned up, his hair slicked and styled, and his face clean-shaven. For once, he wasn't wearing a sweatsuit or decked out in Raiders gear–opting instead for a chocolatey brown sweater, taupe slacks and a long black coat. It was almost cute seeing him dressed up for a date, if only the circumstances weren't so terrible. And if only he weren't Cliff Marlow.

“Why do you think? I'm here to visit my boyfriend.” Shane snapped, heat rising up his neck.

He didn't even pretend to hide his fear as he glanced around, scanning the moving line and shifting bodies as all kinds of people filtered in and out, buying coffee, pastries, and talking loudly to each other, or into their cellphones. Shane didn't see curly blonde hair or feel warm hazel eyes; he didn't spot Ilya's powerful silhouette cloaked in a peacoat while waiting for an over-priced latte.

“He's not here,” Cliff confirmed disdainfully, looking at Shane like he stepped in something terrible.

Shane wanted to feel relief, but he felt a twinge of disappointment instead. Then, he wanted to pull his hair out for feeling that way. He hoped it wasn't noticeable that he was at war with himself, but his fidgeting sure was.

“Sit down, Hollander. You're stressing me the fuck out.” Cliff gestured to the seat across from him.

Shane turned to leave instead, but he heard Marlow continue.

“I'm not like Roz. I have no patience. I swear to God, you run out of here and I will chase you down through the streets of New York and kick your ass.”

Shane glared at him over his shoulder.

“Sit. Down.”

Shane sank into the seat across from him, feeling both defenceless and defensive. The last time they spoke, Shane had been running out of Ilya's apartment, sniffling like an idiot post-hookup. If Cliff wanted to throw it in his face, then fine. Shane just hoped it was quick; he had groceries to buy and a terrible meal to make.

Cliff took another sip of his coffee, shaking his head. “This is total bullshit, you know. I can't believe I'm going to be stuck hanging around with you for life. You suck.”

Shane didn't follow, so he merely frowned back at Cliff. “We don't have to talk, ever, actually. You don't have to see me off the ice if you would just leave me alone.”

“That's what you think,” Cliff snorted, his blocky brows coming together in a disapproving scowl. “But you also think you're in love with your little boyfriend, don't you, Hollander?”

“No I–.” Shane started, then let out a small gasp.

No, I don't.

No. I don't. I don't think I'm in love with him.

He slammed his mouth shut, feeling himself turning beet red. He didn't love Jordan–yet. But he could one day, right? They only started dating a little while ago; it was normal not to know yet.

That was a completely normal response to being put on the spot like that. So why did Shane feel totally see-through when he met Cliff's satisfied and smug expression?

“Wow,” Cliff sounded both impressed and unimpressed. “And people think I'm stupid.”

“You are, and I'm leaving.” Shane stood up, no longer wanting to be a participant in his own torture.

Just as he did, he heard a knock on the window beside their table. Honey was looking in at them, smiling at Marlow. She was all dressed up in a long white fur coat, her blonde curls springing out from beneath a black Raider's toque. Cliff's toque.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Honey was Cliff's girlfriend.

“Hi, Angela,” Cliff said, as if he could be heard through the glass. “I saved you a seat, come on.”

Shane only then noticed Marlow had two cups with him, not one. He had called her Angela, but there was no doubt it was the same woman from Jordan's apartment. Adrenaline swarmed his body, but he was stuck between fight and flight, freezing instead.

Why? Why out of all the women in New York did it have to be Jordan's friend? Why out of all the cafes in New York did it have to be the one near Jordan's place?

As Angela–Honey, whoever, made her way to the cafe's front door, Cliff stood up. Shane gave him a pleading look as Marlow leaned over the table, shrinking the space between them so he could drop his voice low, nearing a whisper.

“I didn't tell her anything, but just so you know, it's not because I like you,” Cliff explained coolly. “It's because I promised Ilya.”

Shane let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, only to have it catch in his throat a second later when Marlow continued.

“It's also because I didn't have to.”

Fear wailed on Shane's nerves. What the fuck did that mean? He had no clue what his face was doing, but it seemed like his expression prompted Marlow to spell it out for him.

“Everyone knows that you're in love with Ilya,” Cliff inched closer so he could talk right into his ear. “Everyone but you.”

Shane walked the streets of the city with no real destination in mind, wishing what Cliff said was true. It was so much easier to pretend when he was lying to himself.

Later that afternoon, Shane turned on Jordan's television and listened to the pre-game broadcast as he examined the strange array of groceries he bought.

He got a bunch of individual things he liked, and a bunch of things he knew Jordan liked, but all together on the counter, it seemed like a random assortment of nothing. Shane figured that because most of the ingredients complemented each other, the perfect meal to make would spring to mind, but nothing did. It was just a bunch of stuff.

Shane listened to the sports anchors talk as he slowly chopped an onion, unsure of what to do with it when it was cut up. The hosts talked about how Boston hadn't been playing great this season, stumbling early on in their match-ups, and how Ilya was down with a cold not too long ago when the Raiders played against the Metros.

They talked about the Admirals too, and how they were kicking ass, already speculative final contenders for winning the cup. If they did, it would be the second year in a row. They talked about Hunter for a while, and then how Jordan was showing an impressive change of strategy this season; more aggressive, more goal-focused. Shane had noticed, too, of course. Jordan was really going for it this year.

“But he seems to have lost his sparkle recently.” One announcer was commenting, stopping Shane mid-cut. “No doubt, the pressure to bring home another cup may be getting to him. The higher the bar, the more it hurts to lose. No doubt, that's taking its toll.”

“Agreed. Of course, the season is only just ramping up, and tonight for Boston versus New York, everyone is buzzing. You can feel it in the arena, and no doubt it's due to people still talking about that unexpected fight back in September during the N.Y.C Cancer Foundation event, where New York's Jordan Bragg went head-to-head against Ilya Rozanov for reasons that still aren't totally clear. I think everyone will have a close eye on Bragg and Rozanov tonight.”

Shane felt his stomach knot. He hated thinking about that night. About that fight.

“We actually have some pre-game interviews coming in live from Megan, who is with our teams. Megan, are you with us?”

Shane abandoned his knife on the cutting board, moving his way from behind the kitchen counter and into the living room so he could see Ilya. He was shirtless, half into his gear and giving the interviewer a lopsided smile. Shane thought he looked a little bit nervous, watching intently as Ilya's fingers moved up the length of his chest to gently brush against his crucifix. Shane felt the tips of his own fingers tingle when he did it.

“It's been a couple of weeks since the debacle of the New York Cancer Foundation event, where you and Admiral forward, Jordan Bragg, had it out on neutral ice. There's been some speculation about what happened then, and now the fans are all wondering–will there be a round two tonight?”

“We just had a little disagreement about my taste in his men,” Ilya grinned, his hazel eyes twinkling with laughter. “No big deal.”

Shane sank down onto the sofa, his ears burning.

What did he say?

“I'm sorry, your taste in his what?” Shane heard the reporter echo his own stunned confusion.

“In his men.” Ilya raised a shoulder.

“Does that mean–are you implying you're also…I'm sorry, can you maybe clarify what you mean, or–?”

What is he saying right now?

“All fighting aside, Jordan has very good taste in men.” Ilya looked directly into the lens of the camera and winked, and Shane's breath caught in his throat. “I'm not afraid to love who I love. I hope you hear me this time, sweetheart.”

And he did. Shane heard Ilya loud and clear.

While the commentators cut back to a lively discussion about how Ilya Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders, had just come out on live television, Shane pulled his knees to his chest and cried. He cried like he had that night when he saw Ilya in the club in Montreal, until the front of his shirt was soaked with frustrated and exhausted tears. That was almost exactly a year ago. Things were so different back then.

Everything had been fragile; the two of them constantly cracking under the pressure of their feelings. They would take turns hurting one another, back and forth, both being too scared to be certain. But now, there was Ilya, looking right at him through the lens of a camera. Sure. Certain. Staying. No longer wanting to hurt Shane for the feelings he couldn't control. No longer punishing Shane for turning him away. He had laid all his cards on the table, folding with a smile.

Shane was happy for him. Not only could Ilya finally get away from Russia after so many years, but he could also finally be himself in the light. He could do what he wanted, just like Shane. He was free to live a life outside of hotel room hallways and back alley entrances and codenames. He could have whatever he wanted.

And he still wanted Shane. Even after everything, Ilya still wanted to do it with Shane.

The fighting, the making up, the slow dance of getting to know one another without the rush of stolen time or the weight of secrecy. He wanted to laugh with Shane as much as he wanted to cry with him; he wanted to lay down his weapons and be bare. Ilya wanted to sleep in the same bed, breathe the same air, share the same cold, and spend the same time together as it passed, no longer wanting to waste even a second more.

Just like Shane.

When he left Montreal a few days ago, he thought he could do the right thing by choosing Jordan. Now, Shane knew for certain, he had to do the wrong thing.

Even with all the changes he made to his life and all the time apart, Shane couldn't move on. He was still there, looking across a dance-floor, watching, waiting to dance with Ilya.

Fuck Montreal Clubs.

Shane packed up the few items he had lying around Jordan's place, and when he was finished, he carefully removed the Admiral's shirt that Jordan had given him the first time he stayed the night. He folded it carefully, holding it to him tightly before setting it down in the middle of the bed.

He had made a fucking mess of things on his way back to Ilya, and now, for the second time, he was going to hurt Jordan. But there was no way around it anymore.

A long time ago, when she was breaking up with him, Rose had once said something along the lines of not wanting to pretend anymore. Shane thought he was done pretending when he came out. Then, he thought he was done pretending when he confessed to Hayden and himself that he had been and still was in love with Ilya. But Shane was still pretending; he was pretending he could do the right thing.

He couldn't. He had packed Ilya's sock in his bag before he left Montreal. There had never really been a choice; Shane had been pretending.

Chapter End Notes

Damn, this is so sad. Alexa, play Thinking of You by Katy Perry.

Sorry that this chapter is so dense and unpolished. I got worried during my re-read that one of the main themes of Shane/Jordan's relationship wasn't coming through enough. This chapter went through the re-write wringer; hopefully, it doesn't show too much.

Wait actually. Hey Alexa, play Pushing It Down And Praying by Lizzy McAlpine. Ah~ that's better. __ P.S I see you, r/heatedrivarlyfanfics, I'm just too shy to interact. I might link my twitter if you want to keep up with my shitposting-- i mean, my super professional writing updates.

Ok bye bye love you be good.

-Macy

Chapter 23: Chapter 22

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

22

New York

Ilya flicked Jordan's lighter open and closed as he walked back into the arena. Since New York and Boston were so close together, no one bothered to organize to stay; they'd fly back together as a team. Sometimes, when they were in a fun city and had a few days to spare, the team would hang back and party. But not tonight. After another hard loss, the Raiders were going home to lick their wounds.

Ilya knew that he had been a bad captain lately. He was moody and all over the place in the locker room, unable to rally his boys the way he should. When Ilya was shaken, his team was shaken, so the last few months weren't the best. He was thankful for Marlow, who often stepped up in his place when Ilya was too far into his own head.

If the Raiders were going to secure one of the sixteen qualifying spots, Ilya had to stop worrying about the future and lock in—if not for himself, then at the very least for his dedicated teammates. Or even just for LeClaire, whom Ilya had put through the wringer over the last few weeks with his shenanigans.

As for his relationship with Shane, Ilya had done all he could after tonight.

He had laid his heart on the line in every way possible. He was out, he was staying, and he was in love with Shane, loudly and unapologetically. That was it—that was all the cards he could play. Whatever happened next was out of Ilya's control; it was both terrifying and freeing.

The door was left wide open for him, but now Shane had to decide for himself to walk through it.

Ilya was sure he was going to see Shane tonight, and he mentally prepared to have his heart broken. Again. But Shane was nowhere to be found. He wasn't sure what was worse—not seeing Shane at all, or being forced to watch him cheer for Jordan from the stands.

Again.

The memory of Shane and Jordan at the New York charity event popped into his mind, and it slowed Ilya in his tracks as he made his way to the arena's back exit, where the team bus was waiting.

That day had been fucking torture.

It was in this very arena that Jordan held a sign up, declaring Shane Hollander was a sloppy drunk. Ilya watched Shane see it and laugh, the skin around his freckles turning rosy and his nose scrunching up as he giggled. His eyes had gotten shiny, glinting while he mouthed something to Jordan in the stands. Ilya couldn't be sure what he had said, but the fear that had shredded him to pieces was that Hollander had mouthed I love you.

Please, God. Anything but that.

Jordan had blown Shane a kiss in return, and all Ilya could see was red. Not only had it fucked with his game, but it also made Ilya feel like he had never stepped on the ice before in his life, making him tremble like a newborn lamb. He couldn't even look at Shane during the faceoff—he knew his grief and envy were as visible as his jersey number; he had feared people could see it up in the stands. It was the first time Ilya had to face the realization that he was really losing Shane to someone else.

And it just got worse. And worse. And worse.

Listening to Shane and Jordan laughing together in the infirmary. Jordan waving the shirt he had Shane wear to breakfast in his face in front of everyone. Ilya having to sign Bragg's fucking jersey, which was now floating around somewhere in the world.

The following day, he had been forced to watch Shane and Jordan cuddle up in the stands together, as if Ilya hadn't just been inside Shane hours earlier. Jordan had clocked Ilya staring at them from the rafters right away, and that motherfucker had smiled at him. Jordan had mouthed, Nosebleeds, get it? Before leaning over and kissing Shane through his hair. Ilya had no idea what the hell that meant, but he couldn't stomach watching it—he had left to smoke outside, holding but not inhaling a cigarette. He watched it burn down, paralyzed. He had no idea what to do with all the love he had for Hollander; it had nowhere to go anymore. His seat was literally being filled.

Cliff later clarified that what Jordan had mouthed at him was some sort of pun.

Like it was all a big joke to him. Like all of this wasn't burying Ilya alive.

Fucking Bragg.

Jordan had barely accepted his gold medal before he was kissing the pout right off of Shane, who hated losing. While the whole arena was watching Hunter and the rest of the Admiral's celebrating their win, Ilya had been looking at Shane hook Jordan into a kiss on the sidelines. Slow and sweet, like they were the real thing. Ilya had turned to stone, unable to move his gaze off them until Cliff had covered his eyes.

I think you've been hurt enough for one day, captain.

It made him nauseous just to think about it. Somewhere in this God-forsaken city, Hollander was walking around with Ilya's heart stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

What are you doing right now? Ilya wished Shane could read his mind. Are you happy? Do you ever think of me?

Without noticing it, Ilya had tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He blinked them away, sniffing. There was a real possibility that Shane would choose Jordan, despite the fact that Ilya knew Shane loved him too.

Was it possible to be in love with two people at once? Ilya had no idea. He had only ever been in love with Shane.

Ilya's heart jumped into his throat as he approached the doors, his phone buzzing in his pocket.

6:34

ceCyrillic text 48%

‹CooCyrillic texteCyrillic text

⌾ ⓘ

Svet ❤️❤️

Love you. Proud of you.

The game was a mess.

Does LeClaire let you take L.S.D between periods now? You guys just hallucinating where the puck is?

Ilya smiled as he responded to Svetlana, stepping out through the player exit and into the pickup zone where a shuttle was waiting to take the Raiders to J.F.K.

He was surprised to find Scott was still waiting around, his gear bag at his feet. Ilya strolled up next to him, unsure if he should taunt him or not. Hunter had seemed a bit pissy tonight. All the Admirals had. They probably didn't take too kindly to Ilya's little media stunt.

“Rozanov,” Scott said, barely looking his way. “Sorry for tripping you.”

Ilya smirked. “No, you're not.”

Scott regarded Ilya coolly. “No, I'm not.” He turned his gaze back into the private lot.

“Are you waiting for your caretaker?” Ilya adjusted his duffel bag strap along his shoulder. “Is your nurse on her way?”

Ilya had come around to Scott. He was a mild-mannered old man when they weren't playing against each other, and despite the tension on the ice tonight, Ilya really didn't mind talking with him. The more they bumped into one another, the more Ilya enjoyed his company.

“I'm waiting for Kip. He's finished class, so we're going to get dinner,” Scott shrugged. “We're probably going to catch a late movie or something, since our original plans got cancelled.”

A knife of jealousy twisted in Ilya's side, dissolving his smile. He could make fun of Hunter all he wanted for being old, or slow, or bad at hockey, but at the end of the day, he got to go home to the man he loved. That was all Ilya wanted.

“Ah,” Ilya pursed his lips. “Must be nice.”

A despondent quiet settled between the two men. Ilya couldn't help but feel like Scott had the type of life he wanted; if only Ilya had the courage to live in his truth before Hollander got so far away from him. If only he hadn't played off how he felt about Shane that day he first whispered his name–when he had Shane right there, in his hands.

Would his life look like Hunter's if he had doubled-down? Would he be heading home to Shane, and his horribly disgusting macrobiotic dinner of sad chicken and steamed greens? Would they be talking about their day, making love, and arguing about what to watch on television?

Ilya felt nauseous with envy.

“Knock knock.”

Ilya stopped sulking, snapping his head over to Scott. He was smirking, an eyebrow raised as he waited for Ilya to take the bait.

The Admirals' captain had the world's biggest stick up his ass—was he actually trying to tell a joke right now? Ilya couldn't miss this.

“Who's there?”

“He knows.” A smug smirk graced Scott's lips.

Ilya grinned back. That made no sense. Maybe Scott was so old he forgot the basic setup and punchline of a knock-knock joke, but Ilya decided to humour him. Scott Hunter having a senior moment was almost funny enough on its own.

“He knows who?”

“He knows you and Shane slept together in Boston.”

Ilya felt his blood run cold, his earlier suspicions confirmed.

Ilya didn't need Hunter to spell out who he was in this situation. Ilya also knew his expression was giving him away, the smile sliding off his face and shattering on the ground. He made a concerted effort not to look horrified as Hunter hit the nail right on its head.

But Scott was bluffing. He had to be bluffing.

There was no way that Jordan would let him walk away unscathed if he knew for sure that he and Shane had slept together. Ilya would have been crumpled on the ice if it were true. And how the hell would he know, anyway?

It's not like Shane would have told him. Jordan just had him pinned to the arena, not even five minutes ago. If he knew, Ilya would have been maimed.

Unease and agitation made Ilya squirm in his skin.

“If that were true, he would have killed me, no?” Ilya challenged, watching Scott's face shift slowly.

“He wouldn't do that,” Scott wasn't smirking anymore. “He doesn't believe in using violence that way.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. Now he knew Scott was full of shit. “Tell that to my nose.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“He wasn't being cruel when he hit you. I think he was trying to knock some fucking sense into you,” Scott narrowed his eyes at Ilya. “And from the sounds of it, it seems like it finally worked.”

Ilya felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

If Jordan knew, is that why Shane didn't come watch him play tonight? Had they broken up? Were they fighting? Was Shane okay? Or had Jordan not even told Shane that he knew?

A black mur-say-dees pulled up next to them as Ilya considered bombarding Scott with his barrage of questions. Hunter picked up his bag, shaking his head, as if preemptively denying Ilya.

“Go home, Rozanov,” Scott walked around the car to the passenger side. “Let Jordan finish what he started.”

“But he–.”

“Go home.”

The shuttle ride to the airport was miserable. Everyone was already gloomy from the loss, so when Ilya boarded looking like he had seen a ghost, the atmosphere only got worse. No one knew whether Ilya was taking the loss against New York hard or if he was depressed over Hollander.

When the wheels of their plane left the tarmac, Ilya heard his pre-game interview clip from earlier that night being played off someone's cellphone—it was the last thing anyone heard before they all lost Wi-Fi for an hour and a half.

Ilya groaned internally. He knew his team was going to hear it—he had wanted the whole world to hear it, but he didn't want to talk about it. At least not right now. He was too worried about Shane, too stressed out about the possibility of what Scott had said being true.

The idea of Shane being heartbroken and alone in New York was killing him. What was Jordan going to do? Had he already done it? How long had he known?

The shadow that Bragg seemed to carry around with him fried Ilya's nerves. He didn't want whatever that was to touch Shane.

Miserably, Ilya sank low into his seat, shooing away the offer of a drink. Ilya didn't regret sleeping with Shane that night in Boston, but he regretted the problems it had caused for Hollander. If Ilya had done the right thing and waited until he was single before he touched him, maybe Shane could have been spared that inky darkness that followed Jordan around like a raincloud.

Ilya brought his fingers to his nose, rubbing along the bridge to where Jordan had hit him.

“Hey, Cap.” As soon as the seatbelt sign turned off, Kevin was beside him, patting his shoulder. “Don't sweat it, we'll crush the next game.”

“You played well,” Ilya assured him right back, then turned to speak to the other boys. “You all did. Leon, you blocked some crazy shots tonight, and that assist, Jonny? Mental. I'm proud of all of you. New York might be on a tear right now, but we are going to fucking murder Buffalo next week.”

“Yes, sir!”

“You know it.”

“They won't know what hit them.”

Ilya leaned back in his seat, swallowing the lump in his throat. If he couldn't make himself feel better, and he couldn't text Shane, at least he could cheer his teammates up. Hopefully, they were now sufficiently distracted from…

“And about Hollander…”

Ilya grimaced as Leon cleared his throat.

“It's too bad he didn't come tonight; he doesn't know what he's missing.”

Cliff knocked his shoe against Ilya's from the next seat over, giving him a wary look.

“Yeah, if he wants to date that loser Admiral instead, then forget him.” Kevin piped up from a few rows down, back in his seat. “It's his loss.”

“Well, actually, Kev, he won tonight.”

“Oh, who cares. You know what I mean.”

“Our captain could pull anyone.”

“Yeah,” Jonny thudded on Ilya's seat from behind. “There's plenty of fish in the sea, Roz.”

“Good for fishermen,” Ilya rubbed his hand over his aching heart. “I want Shane.”

His comment extinguished the mood, and another cloud of gloom settled over the plane.

“I wish you'd move on,” Cliff muttered grouchily at him, shaking his head.

“Where else would I go?” Ilya replied quietly while looking out the window as New York shrank under the plane.

Boston

Back in his apartment, Ilya kept his phone glued to his hand while he did some mundane chores. He wanted to hear from Shane; he ached for confirmation that he was alright. Whether he and Jordan were still together was beside the point–now that Jordan apparently knew what Shane did, what would Jordan do?

Ilya doubted that Jordan would break up with Shane over the cheating. If he really did know, he didn't seem that bent out of shape by it. At the very least, Ilya had expected to get into some altercation with Jordan, but he hadn't touched Ilya once during the game.

In a strange way, Ilya got where Jordan was coming from. If he were in Bragg's shoes, he wouldn't want to let Hollander go either.

Ilya knew he wouldn't break up with Shane over something like that, but he did know it would destroy him. He was absolutely miserable about it when he thought Shane was using him to cheat on Rose in Tampa, but he still showed up to that hotel room, pissed off and ready to give Shane what he thought he was asking for.

God damn it. Ilya wanted to be mad, but he found himself smiling. He's such a little brat.

Ilya wondered if Jordan felt that way, too. That it was somehow a privilege to be destroyed by Shane Hollander.

As Ilya hung up his coat, he felt the lighter Jordan had given him in his pocket. Fishing it out, he rolled it in his hand for a moment. The leopard looked back at him, its expression unreadable. Ilya set it next to the ring box, feeling himself being torn in two. Maybe the engagement ring was more than preemptive. Maybe it was unnecessary.

If someone loved Shane as much as he did, Ilya should be happy. He wouldn't be, but maybe he could pretend to be, for Hollander's sake. Darkness aside, if Jordan was good to Shane, then Ilya was glad it was him.

They really looked like they were in love.

Ilya took a shower between cycles of laundry, his tears mingling with droplets of water until one was indistinguishable from the other. He would wash his hair and fold his clothes. He would go to bed alone and wake up alone. He would let Hollander love who he wanted, and he would try to be happy about it. He would somehow find peace in knowing the man he loved had the life he deserved.

But…please.

Ilya found himself silently praying as he took his clothes out of the dryer, tossing them onto his bed. He found the only sock without a match immediately; it sat lonely at the top of the pile.

Please. Please. Please.

Ilya folded up his pants and cleaned the clutter off his bedside table, collecting the cold medicine bottles he had left around the place from when he was sick. He wore the one sock, feeling ridiculous but comforted.

Please.

Ilya was nearly done tidying up when he spotted the container of vapour rub near the sofa. Sitting down, Ilya popped the lid open and was immediately assaulted by the sharp smell. Menthol. His skin burned with the memory of Shane's loving touch, the heat of his body and the comfort of his affection. But in the next breath, Ilya thought of Jordan.

Jordan and all his darkness, swirling in a haze of menthol cigarette smoke and foreboding. The strategist. The psychic. Standing in the shadow of the arena as if it was born from him, his eyes fixed far ahead at nothing.

Jordan had seen through him and Shane all along, but now what was he going to do?

Ilya racked his brain for why Jordan hadn't said anything. Why had he only mentioned that he would call, asking if Ilya had plans for the following day and whether or not he drove? Whatever Jordan was up to, Ilya prayed he wasn't taking it out on Shane.

Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me what you're planning. Just please… Ilya hung his head, squeezing the vapour rub container in his hands.

Don't hurt him. Don't treat him how I used to, when I was a fool.

Please. Please.

As if in answer to his prayer, Ilya's phone began to ring a second later; it vibrated loudly on the living room coffee table, between the lighter and the ring box. The caller displayed an unknown number.

Ilya picked it up and stared at it a moment before answering. It felt unnaturally heavy in his hand.

“Hello?”

“Grab a pen, I'm going to give you an address.”

Ilya pulled back the phone to check the time. It was eight minutes past midnight. It was technically Sunday.

Could it be? His heart started to thump loudly in his chest, so hard it felt like it was rattling his ribcage.

“Who is this?”

A long, irritated sigh wafted through the line.

“The toothfairy.”

A cocktail of relief and panic flooded Ilya. He could finally get some answers.

“Jordan, is Shane okay? Where is he? What happened?” Ilya couldn't help but blurt, his words running together in a mess of inquiries. “How'd you get my number?”

The line went quiet. Just as Ilya began to worry that Jordan had hung up, he heard the sound of a heavy door closing.

Jordan cleared his throat.

“Do you have a pen, or not?”

Ilya tripped over himself as he ran to the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and fumbling around, eventually finding one next to his mail pile. He flipped over the closest piece of paper and waited.

“Yes.” Ilya tapped his pen anxiously.

He had no idea what this could possibly be. Maybe it was a setup, and Jordan was telling him to drive off a cliff. Maybe Jordan wanted to get him far away enough that Ilya couldn't ruin his proposal to Shane. Maybe it was a wild goose chase, a big fuck you for sleeping with my boyfriend, type of run-around. Ilya knew whatever it was, he wouldn't win against Jordan if he fought against him; he had already tried that and lost.

“It's a black glass building with gold doors. Park along the street and wait there.”

Ilya scribbled down the address quickly, muttering the numbers back to himself to ensure he got it down right. When he finished, he paused, his heart pulsing in his ears.

“...Wait for what?”

“I took something from you. I'd like to give it back.”

Ilya closed his eyes. Shane.

“Listen, Jordan, I…” Ilya wasn't even sure what he could say.

The truth was that Ilya didn't regret it, but he did feel bad. He wasn't sure if there was a word for how he felt in English, and even if he found it, he was certain Jordan didn't want to hear it. The fact was that Ilya was in love with Jordan's boyfriend, and he hadn't waited to act on it. There was no excuse, and Ilya wasn't going to make one up for Jordan's sake.

“I understand,” was all Ilya ended up saying, because he did.

He knew how fucking bad it hurt to lose Shane Hollander.

“I assume I've given you enough time to get your shit together?”

Huh?

Ilya glanced at his apartment; it was much cleaner than it had been when he had left it yesterday. There were no more dishes in the sink, no more dirty laundry piled up, and no more clutter all over his countertops.

It was tidy, just the way Shane liked.

Ilya's heart fluttered as he tiptoed back into the living room so he could hide the ring box. He felt weird, like Jordan could somehow see him. With nowhere better to put it, he shoved it under one of the couch cushions.

“...Yes?”

“Great,” Jordan said dryly. “It's a three-hour and forty-five-minute drive back to New York.”

“When should I come?” Ilya glanced at the digital clock on his microwave and did some mental math.

Would Shane even be awake if he got there so early? Would he even want to see Ilya? He still had little clarity on the situation, but if Jordan was giving him the opportunity to see Shane, he wasn't going to pass it up. He would drive to the moon if he had to.

“That depends,” Jordan sounded impatient. “Are you done wasting time?”

Ilya's mind flashed to that overcast afternoon in Saskatchewan, 2008. Eighteen-year-old Shane's hand, unfairly warm, fitting perfectly into his. Ilya had looked right into Shane's eyes for the very first time, and the clock had been ticking ever since.

He had wasted so much time.

“Be here by five-thirty—and don't dick around. I hate being late to mass.” Ilya was surprised until he vaguely remembered Scott mentioning how Jordan was religious.

“Okay, I'm leaving now.”

“Good, that even gives you fifteen minutes to go put gas into, what I can only assume is some stupid, flashy sports car?”

“No,” Ilya felt his ears burn. “...Maybe.”

He had purchased an orange McLaren a few months ago; it was a badass car, a downright predator. Svetlana had helped hook him up as a late birthday gift. It was head-turning and luxurious; it practically purred when it drove. Ilya had been giddy when he bought it, but now Jordan was making him feel lame and predictable. He even heard Jordan sort of laugh at him softly, like he already had a guess for the make and model.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ilya mumbled through a small smile of his own. “I'm on my way.”

Ilya didn't even bother to untie his shoes, slamming his feet into his sneakers with only one sock on and throwing on a jacket, his car keys in hand. He moved to hang up, but heard his name coming through the receiver softly.

“Ilya?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you love him?”

Ilya closed his eyes, his hand wrapped around the handle of his apartment door.

“Yes, Jordan, I do. I love him so much I don't even know how to put it into words.”

After a pause passed between them, Ilya heard Jordan make a sad but triumphant sound.

“Looks like I don't have anything to worry about after all.”

Click.

-----

I can't believe it's almost done omg.

Come get ur free t-shirts

Image summary: An illustration of a person wearing a white t-shirt featuring the text, I SURVIVED READING DO THE WRONG THING AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT, with a red hand-drawn symbol resembling a stylized logo above the text.

Chapter End Notes

Short Ilya P.O.V chapter like old times.Another rough one bc work is killing me lately. I barely have time to do like two reads of my writing; so heavy on the unbeta, sorry friends!!

Jordan really said, "Clean up ur house, get in ur stupid ass car, and come get ur soulmate the fuck outta my city" 😭 rip jordie, victim of a 4-month situationship; we've all been there.

--P.SI'm on twitter @MacyFletcherFic and reddit u/Internlost if anyone wanted to throw rotten fruit at me, boo me, or tell me my writing is stinky.Jo is very anti-social media, so you're all stuck with me, terrible Macy!

Love you & thank you for the support as alway!!! We read each one of your comments and Jo and I squee over them. 💕-Macy

Chapter 24: Chapter 23

Chapter Notes

Content Note: This chapter contains subject matter that some readers may find disturbing, including mild references to domestic violence. Reader's discretion is advised.

Please always keep yourself comfortable. ❤️

See the end of the chapter for more notes

23

New York

The game had been over for hours, but Jordan still hadn't come back. It was Saturday night in New York, and Shane was all alone in his boyfriend's apartment.

Well, soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.

If he had really chosen Jordan like he thought he could, he probably would have been at karaoke with the Admirals right now, but instead, he was anxiously putting his weird groceries into Jordan's fridge, reflecting on how he had been the worst possible boyfriend.

Jordan was going to fucking hate him.

There was no way he hadn't seen Ilya's pre-game interview clip by now, but with Jordan's cellphone still here, Shane had no way to get ahead of it and apologize. He knew he would have a lot of explaining to do when Jordan got back, but as time ticked by, Shane wondered if he was going to come back at all.

Despite their plans to spend all weekend together, Jordan had done his best to dodge Shane as much as possible, and when they were together, it was like he wasn't really there. He seemed preoccupied, his eyes clouded over, looking through Shane instead of at him. It was impossible to guess what was going on inside his head, and he wasn't telling.

Three hours after he was supposed to be home, Shane decided he was tired of guessing. Tired of waiting. If Jordan wasn't going to come back, then Shane was going to go find him, whether he wanted to be found or not.

Shane put Jordan's cellphone into his pocket and set out into the city.

The easy way out of this mess would have been to pack up his things and send Jordan a break-up text, then head to Boston and try to talk things out with Ilya—but Shane owed Jordan more than that. If he had learned anything since Tampa, it was that running away and taking the path of least resistance only caused more problems down the line. All that ever did was hurt people, and Shane was tired of hurting people. Himself included, but Jordan most of all.

Maybe Shane did the wrong thing by jumping into a relationship with Jordan when he still had feelings for Ilya, but he could still confess to what he did. He could still apologize. He could, for the very first time in this relationship, be totally honest. He just had to find Jordan first.

Shane tried the most obvious spot, navigating through the streets to Vicky's. It was packed, and there was a line through the hallway that Shane had to awkwardly sneak through. He apologized the whole way up to the front as he cut past women in silky, low-back dresses and men in crisp, collared shirts. Shane was, as usual, too underdressed to be here.

“Hi, welcome back!” The hostess from last time greeted him brightly. “Your table is ready, Mr. Hollander.”

“My table?” Shane's heart quickened. “Is Jordan here?”

“No, I'm sorry,” The pretty girl looked apologetically over her shoulder as she motioned at him to follow, guiding him to the back of the restaurant. “He stopped by earlier tonight, but Mr. Bragg informed us you would be dining alone.”

He did?

Shane wanted to turn back and head out to continue looking, but as soon as he slid into the booth, he realized he was starving. Between his shit-show of random groceries, his run-in with Cliff, and becoming distracted by Ilya's coming out, he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

“He went ahead and placed your order for you.”

“What is it?”

“Something special he had Charlie put together. I'm sorry, I don't really know much beyond that.”

Shane watched nervously as the hostess disappeared into the kitchen. Charlie appeared fifteen minutes later at Shane's table with a tray in her hand. Unlike yesterday, her chef's coat sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and Shane could see that both her arms were covered in tattoos; their styles were similar to Jordan's salmon tattoo. He wondered if they went to the same artist.

Charlie placed the tray down ceremoniously, watching Shane intently the entire time. Her expression was just as taunting as yesterday.

“Ta-da!” she lifted the silver dome lid to reveal something that looked sickeningly familiar. “One donut-burger on top of a cotton-candy milkshake. It's the chef's special, a little dish he's called the sweet facade. Bon appétit.”

Shane pressed his lips into a thin line, slowly looking up at Charlie, whose eyes were narrowed and gleaming. She seemed to be waiting, hanging on his reaction. Was he going to have to explain why he didn't want to eat something so…silly? Would he have to choke this down to not offend anyone?

Shane anxiously rubbed his hands up and down his pant legs. Trying to think of something to say, he forced a wobbly smile on.

“Uhm…”

“We're fucking with you.”

Shane's mouth popped open as Charlie threw her head back and laughed, rough and loud, like a sailor's laugh. It caught the attention of the neighbouring tables, much to Shane's embarrassment. Everyone else had very nice, very normal-looking food in front of them; they eyed Shane's strange meal with curiosity.

“Fuck, he was right. Your face is hilarious." Charlie snickered more quietly.

Shane laughed a little too, despite being the target of their teasing. “Very funny.”

“It's actually just a regular hamburger. We made the buns look like donuts by glossing them up with egg white; it's just brioche with a hole cut out of the top. The milkshake is a goji berry smoothie with almond milk, so it's all probiotic—or whatever your problem is.” Charlie flicked her hand over the plate with a dramatic flair.

“Just a preference,” Shane corrected her testily, feeling his ears burn.

So Jordan's friends were allowed to know about him, all the way down to his weird diet habits, but he didn't know anything about them in return. It didn't feel fair. It wasn't fair.

“Certainly not what I would have served you tonight, but I guess Jordan has a soft spot for you.”

Shane tossed her an inquisitive glance. “What would you have served me?”

“Probably clam chowder in an old boot.”

Charlie was the second of Jordan's friends to seemingly not be a fan of his. Shane tried not to take it to heart, although he did find it strange that someone as optimistic and happy as Jordan would surround himself with such rough people. It didn't seem like him—but then again, Shane was almost certain he didn't know Jordan as well as he thought he did.

Shane carefully took the strange burger off the top of his smoothie glass as Charlie slid in across from him. Her expression softened from amusement to pity. He couldn't tell which was worse.

Shane swallowed his pride and opened his mouth. “Am I really the first guy Jordan's brought here?”

“Yep.”

“Why?” he felt stupid for having to learn about his boyfriend second-hand this way. “He's dated before, hasn't he?”

“Nah. Not seriously, anyway. Short flings. He used to sleep around a lot; said he wasn't cut out for dating and shit.” Charlie folded her arms on the table in front of her. “That's why the other guys and I were so blown when you were here a few weeks back. He's never brought anyone around before.”

“Other guys?”

Charlie cocked her slitted eyebrow and tilted her head tightly to the right. Shane peeked around her to see several pairs of eyes on them, peering out of the expo window that glowed orange from the overhead heat lamps.

There was the hostess from before, a short, tan girl with purple hair, an extremely tall blonde man with a squarish face, and a guy who had long brown hair pulled up into a bun on the top of his head with patchy facial hair. They were people Jordan spent time with and were close to, but whom he had deemed were better off at arm's length from Shane.

The moment Shane glanced at them, they scattered, except for the blonde man who tried to crouch and hide, several feet too tall to disappear.

“We see you, Louis.” Charlie looked over her shoulder as she barked in the direction of the kitchen, causing the blonde man to slink fully out of sight. “They're nosey, but cowards. I'm the only one brave enough to come talk to the guy who somehow got a seat at Jordan's table.”

“Doesn't he bring anyone here?” Shane couldn't conceal his surprise. “What about the Admirals, or his other friends?”

He had a hard time picturing Jordan doing anything alone. Everyone loved Jordan; to know him was to like him. It seemed like Jordan was always surrounded by people, making them laugh or getting them worked up with his taunting. He thrived off people.

Shane was shocked when Charlie shook her head.

“Normally he has a book with him or whatever—'cause you know how he is with people; he prefers to keep it tight.” Charlie lifted a shoulder and nodded. “The more you try to get outta him, the more he can…” she made a wobbly gesture with her hands.

“Only his family has ever eaten here with him a few times. Nice folks. Weird, like him. All stoic and serious n' shit.” Charlie turned her head when the sound of something clattering to the floor in the kitchen caught her attention. She popped to her feet the same second, slapping her hand once on the tabletop. “Gotta bounce. Like I said, Bon appétit.”

Shane wasn't sure if it was her Brooklyn accent or if they were speaking completely different languages. He watched her go, feeling like he was left on an alien planet. Had they even been talking about the same person just now?

A small card fell into his lap as he unrolled his napkin. He picked it up and read the sloppy lettering across it, knowing who it was from right away.

Sorry, I couldn't join you for dinner. Enjoy dessert. •͜• - Jordan

Shane ate slowly. He was hungry, and the food was delicious, but he was quickly losing his appetite.

Jordan knew that he wasn't coming home, and he knew that Shane would probably go looking for him and wind up here. But where the hell was he, and why was he so adamant not to speak to him right now?

If it was such a big deal for Shane to be here, why was he here alone?

He knows.

Shane tried to shake the thought from his head. Ilya wouldn't tell. Cliff hadn't told. There was no way.

When he was finished eating, Shane tried to pay, but of course, no one would take his money. Instead of a bill, the waitress brought him a martini glass full of whipped cream.

“Excuse me,” Shane spoke up as the waitress turned to leave. “Would you happen to know where Jordan is tonight?”

The waitress gave him a strange look, then delicately slid the glass towards him across the tablecloth. “Enjoy your dessert, Mr. Hollander.”

Shane hesitantly stuck his finger into the pile of whipped cream. He was expecting a shot of gin to be buried beneath, but there was nothing there.

I rigged the game for you.

Jordan's voice pinging from the Virtue bathroom walls was ringing in his ears as Shane stepped back outside into the cool New York streets.

He decided to give up and call Hunter. Vicky's had obviously been some sort of pre-planned setup, and at this point, he wasn't sure he could find Jordan on his own, especially if he didn't want to be found.

It was a bit embarrassing to call, but Shane hoped maybe they were together. Scott would have been one of the last people to see Jordan tonight.

“Hello?” Scott croaked, sounding groggy.

“Uhm, hi,” Shane bit back nervous laughter. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah, I go to bed at like, nine.” There was shuffling on the line. “Hollander, what is it? Why are you calling?”

“I was wondering if you knew where Jordan is?”

There was a small pause. “What? He's not at his place?”

“No.” Shane felt his face starting to warm.

“I haven't seen him since he left the arena. He cancelled on tonight's plans and headed out right after,” Scott cleared his throat. “Have you tried calling him?”

“He left his phone behind.”

Shane heard more rustling, followed by Scott's voice that was softer, distant from the receiver. “Did Jordan come around for chess at any point today? Did he call?”

“No, he didn't.” Shane could faintly hear Kip respond sleepily.

He had no idea Jordan played chess, let alone with Kip.

“Sorry, Hollander. I don't know. Try the club his friend Honey works at, he goes there some nights when he's–,” Scott hesitated. “When he's not feeling great.”

“What's it called?” Shane began looking around, certain there were at least twenty strip clubs in the nearby area.

“It's called Lemon Drop, it's on 33rd Street.”

“Okay,” Shane looked around for the nearest street sign. He was pretty sure 33rd Street wasn't too far. He started walking, hoping he could catch up to Jordan. “Thanks, Hunter. Sorry for waking you.”

“Hollander?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know how Jordan broke his nose?”

Shane stopped in his tracks, furrowing his brows. “Huh?”

It was a bizarre question to be asked, especially right now.

Shane recalled how he had laughed until his stomach hurt when Jordan told him over FaceTime during the summer the story. He was trying to impress his brothers, whatever their names were, by bombing a massive hill onto a makeshift ramp to attempt a front-flip. According to Jordan, he wiped out in a real Jackass fashion, but waved it off, saying it wasn't too bad; he was covered in bumps and bruises all throughout his childhood.

“...Yeah?” Shane wasn't sure why Scott was talking about this now. “He fell off his dirtbike.”

Scott muttered something Shane didn't catch, then sighed heavily. “I guess it isn't entirely your fault.”

And then he hung up.

Shane frowned at his phone as he pulled up directions to Lemon Drop. How would it be his fault Jordan fell off his dirtbike when he was twelve? That made no sense, but then again, nothing about tonight did.

As soon as Shane paid the exorbitant door fee at Lemon Drop, he had done a few laps around the dim club in search of Jordan, including the seating that was right along the main stage. He felt weird being in here, having only gone to one or two strip clubs in Montreal with the Metros before he came out. Thankfully, they started sparing him invites after he told them he was gay.

He avoided looking at any of the girls, too embarrassed that he didn't even know where he was supposed to be looking. But then he noticed one of the girls was looking at him. A lot. It was a girl he sort of knew—one who didn't like him very much.

In awe, Shane watched Honey, who was wearing glitter and high heels and not much else, spin off the pole gracefully. She landed like a ballerina on a carpet of bills, perfectly balanced on the very tips of her shoes. Shane thought it was a little physics-defying.

Flipping long blonde braids out of her face, she had glared at Shane before stepping off the glowing platform, but also gestured for him to follow her as she moved toward a roped-off V.I.P area at the back of the club.

Shane caught up to her as she flopped down between two other naked girls, one was texting rapidly while the other thumbed through a stack of cash, her long pink nails expertly fanning through the bills at rapid speed.

“Well, well,” Honey sounded almost bored as Shane shifted with his hands in his pockets. “If it isn't the Metro's star-centre. You're not here to rip my club apart like the Raiders did, are you?”

Shane shook his head. “I'm looking for Jordan.”

“He was here earlier, but he's left already.”

Disappointment sucked at Shane. He couldn't help but let his shoulders sag.

“He's avoiding me, isn't he?”

“Yes and no,” Honey folded her arms, covering her bare chest. “He didn't really say a lot when he was here.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“It's Sunday.”

Shane realized the time must have tipped past midnight a while ago. “So?”

“So he probably went to church.”

“What, in the middle of the night?” As soon as he said it, Shane realized he wasn't sure if churches... closed?

“Saint Patrick's has a chapel for perpetual adoration—He's probably there for Holy Hour.” Honey sighed, reaching between empty champagne bottles to grab a cocktail napkin. “Angel, do you have a pen?”

Shane felt similar to when Jordan was explaining bioinformatics to him, like he was way out of his depth. He did remember Honey referring to Saint Patrick's as their church.

“You're Catholic too?” Shane asked while watching her scribble an address down.

“Yeah, that's where Jordan and I met.”

“What's Holy Hour?”

“You just chill with God for a while, in the presence of the Eucharist.”

“...The what?”

“The Holy Communion.”

Shane shook his head.

Honey let out an exaggerated sigh. “The bread and wine.”

“How come?”

“People do it for all sorts of reasons; to reflect, to repent, to look for comfort,” Honey finished writing, clicking the pen a few times before meeting Shane's eyes. “But I know Jordan does it because he feels alone.”

Shane didn't get it. If Jordan felt alone, why didn't he just come home?

Frustrated, he bit at the inside of his cheek. “I've been waiting up for him all night, and he's barely spent time with me at all this weekend.”

Honey gave him a long look, crumpling the napkin slightly like she was having second thoughts about handing it over.

“Then he probably feels alone when he's with you.” She smiled sadly.

Ouch.

Shane swallowed bitterly. He couldn't argue with that—he had been an awful boyfriend. Honey extended the napkin to Shane, but when he reached to take it, she yanked it away, leaving Shane's hand hanging in the empty air. A familiar gesture.

“You know, I think at first he was just having fun, like always, but then…” Honey trailed off, her expression clouding beneath the flashing lights. “He's not perfect, but I think he was actually trying for you. He's not a bad guy, you know.”

Shane didn't follow. Honey was making it sound like Jordan did something wrong, but it was Shane who had fucked up and cheated; if anyone was going to burst into flames for not being good when he went into Saint Patrick's, it was going to be him.

Honey stood up, handing Shane the napkin with the church address.

◌ ◯ ◌

St. Patrick's Cathedral 631 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y 10022

“Thanks, Honey.” Shane was glad that, despite their first icy meeting, she was willing to help him.

“Forget it,” Honey waved him off while walking past him. “I gotta get back to work. See you never, Shane Hollander.”

Honey took the main stage again as Shane was walking out. He had just passed the bouncer at the door when he heard the song that she was dancing to, its unmistakable melodic intro and low synth vibrated through the air.

Would you believe me if I said I'm in love? Baby, I want you to want me.

Shane's hand trembled as he hailed a cab.

The Saint Patrick's Catholic church was intimidating. It was stark white stone, a total contrast to the sleek mirrored buildings surrounding it; its ornate spires climbed high into the night sky. It was massive and beautiful, but Shane had never noticed it despite undoubtedly passing it several times before.

Walking up the steps, Shane saw a security guard yawning by the door, a paperback book in his hand. He felt weirdly nervous, never having stepped into a church before, let alone a massive one like this. He wasn't sure what to expect.

Compelled to explain himself, Shane awkwardly cleared his throat as he reached the top step. “I'm, uhm…I'm here to see someone?”

“Yeah?” the guard's thick moustache twitched as he answered flatly; he didn't even look up from his page. “Most people are here to see the same guy.”

“Oh, right. For sure.” Shane wavered in front of the massive doors.

He noticed a little yellow sign off to the side; This is a place of worship. Please no flash photography or cellphones at any time.

Oh.

Shane muted both his and Jordan's cellphones and then nervously looked back at the guard.

“If you're waiting to be invited in, you'll be out here all night.”

Shane slipped inside, the bronze doors whooshing loudly as they closed behind him.

Immediately, Shane was struck by the beauty of the interior. The architecture of the exterior alone was incredible, but the inside was absolutely breathtaking. Stained glass windows glowed softly, illuminated by dozens of lit candles in all sizes beside rows and rows of dark brown wooden pews. Shane felt utterly struck by the detail and magnitude, only pulling his eyes off the altar at the other end of the aisle when he heard echoing footsteps bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.

Shane watched a form take shape from an adjacent hall as a man appeared, tall and clean-cut, wearing dark slacks and a black button-down, the glint of a gold crucifix winking as the man strolled by a cluster of candles. He was flicking through keys on a key ring and humming, stopping a few feet away from Shane. He didn't look like a priest, but he also didn't look like he was here to pray. He acknowledged Shane with a small smile.

“Are you lost and looking to be found, son, or are you just regular lost?”

“Regular lost,” Shane said quietly, hyper-aware of how quiet the church was and how every sound was amplified tenfold. “Can you direct me to…”

He really wished he had been more observant and asked Jordan more questions. Shane blanked on where he could be in this massive church.

“What are you looking for?”

My boyfriend. Forgiveness. Peace.

“Answers, I guess.” Shane felt warm as anxiety chewed at him. He began to wonder if he actually was about to burst into flames.

“I know just the place,” the man gestured to the hallway behind him. “Follow this hall past a set of stairs marked choir space, turn left, and it will be a wooden door. It's the oldest section of the church, but it's open twenty-four hours, and it's a bit less intimidating. It's a good place to start.”

“Thanks,” Shane said in a small voice, still feeling wildly out of his element.

“Peace be with you,” the man offered as he began walking away.

Man, Shane's stomach was in knots. I sure hope so.

Before Shane even opened the small wooden door in front of him, he knew Jordan was in there.

Maybe it was because he was overly tired, since it was nearly two-thirty in the morning, but Shane swore that what he always thought was a woody, musky cologne that Jordan wore was emanating from this small chapel.

How long would someone have to sit in here for the scent of the room to transfer onto their clothing? Shane felt a lump in his throat form as he wrapped his fingers around the handle.

Probably a very, very long time. Maybe even all night.

“Hi, Holly.”

Jordan didn't open his eyes as Shane quietly walked toward him, stopping at the end of the first row pew. He was the only person inside, sitting with his head back and his eyes closed. Jordan was so still that Shane had wondered if he was asleep.

“How'd you know it was me?” Shane whispered, feeling like his tongue was made of lead.

“I've been blessed,” Jordan moved his hand so his fingers rested against his temple, his eyes still closed. “With a terrible, terrible gift. He won't take it from me, no matter how much I ask.”

The pew creaked a bit as Shane sat next to him.

“You never told me you were Catholic.”

“Well, I'm also gay and Canadian.” Jordan opened one eye and peeked at Shane. “But you knew that already.”

Shane smiled, but his eyes were getting blurry. “Have you been your whole life?”

“Mhm. It's the main religion in Portugal.”

“In Portugal?”

“I'm Portuguese."

“You told me you were English.”

“I am. On my mother's side.”

Shane took that to mean his father was Portuguese. Jordan never spoke about his dad; he didn't have any photos of him in his apartment, either. Jordan never elaborated on how he died, only that he had, and Shane never had the courage to ask.

For some reason, Shane was only now realizing how Jordan was good at saying things without saying things, divulging the bare minimum and obscuring the details. In a way, it was sort of like how Shane ate—picking around the bits he didn't like.

“You're always telling me half the story,” Shane nudged him with his shoulder. “Do you speak any other languages?”

“Não importa qual a língua que eu falo; ainda assim não nos entenderemos.”

[It doesn't matter what language I speak; we still won't understand each other.]

“I like the way Portuguese sounds.”

“Eu sei que preferes russo.”

[I know you prefer Russian.]

Shane took his hand out of his lap and grabbed Jordan's, feeling his heart thump harder. “Switch back to English, please? We need to talk.”

Jordan finally opened both of his eyes, turning his head slowly to look at Shane.

He took a deep breath, his head filling with the musky wood smell. “Is this where you disappear to all the time?”

Jordan nodded.

“Why?”

“He's the only one who sees me for what I am.” Shane watched him fidget with his hand in his lap, running his thumb over the ridges of Shane's knuckles. “And I don't like being alone.”

Shane shifted his weight, the wood beneath him creaking. It echoed in the empty room. The empty church. The seemingly empty world that Jordan lived in.

“Besides,” Jordan sighed, letting Shane's hand go completely. “He's the only person I can be mad at, besides myself.”

Shane flinched, feeling the familiar pull to run away. Run away like when Ilya first said his name in Boston. Run away like he had in the Best Western. Run away like he had in Ultraviolet. Up until now, when he knew something was going to hurt, Shane ran. Not this time. He wasn't the same person he was a year ago.

“You can be mad at me, too.”

“I don't want to be.”

Shane pursed his lips and nodded tightly, the urge to cry pushing on his lungs. “I know.”

Jordan held Shane's hand as they walked out of the church.

“Goodnight, Jordan. See you later.”

“Goodnight, Pauly,” Jordan waved to the guard as Shane sheepishly followed behind. “Peace be with you.”

“And with your spirit.” Shane noticed the guard was reading a book from Jordan's shelf. “And with your little friend, too.”

They didn't say a word to each other as Jordan led Shane down a side street. He opened the passenger door of a dark red Aston Martin and, with a light hand at Shane's back, guided him inside. He leaned over Shane and buckled him in, giving him a gentle kiss on his temple before he pulled away.

Shane should've been surprised—at Jordan driving, at the car—but at this point, he'd come to terms with how little he actually knew about the man he'd tried to love.

Jordan slid into the driver's seat, the door shutting with a quiet thud behind him.

“...Is this British?” Shane asked, the silence too suffocating.

“Yeah.”

“Nice.”

“Right?” Jordan smirked, easing the car into the slow slide of New York traffic. “Owned by a Canadian, too.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. Lawrence Stroll. From Montreal, actually.”

“Huh.” Shane leaned back into the leather. “Cool.”

They lapsed again, the city dimmed by tinted windows. There were pretty girls in party dresses and high heels stumbling down the sidewalk, drunkenly hollering and laughing loudly. It reminded Shane of the first time he ever noticed Jordan, in Vegas in 2014, helping that drunk woman to her feet.

What did the drunk girl say to the hockey player? Shane's stomach knotted at the memory. Boo hoo, I'm single.

At a red light, Shane glanced over. Jordan caught him looking—and grinned. Shane grinned back before he could stop himself. Then he laughed, softly, his head shaking in disbelief.

It was ridiculous.

They were laughing like they weren't in the middle of a breakup. Like they weren't about to dive into something terrible together.

“Are we going to fight?” Shane asked quietly, his eyes dropping to his feet.

“Yeah,” Jordan replied, just as simply. “We are.”

“Feels overdue.”

Jordan took one hand off the wheel, checked his watch, then reached over. His hand was warm as he threaded his fingers through Shane's.

“It's actually right on time.”

Jordan held Shane's hand until they were back inside his apartment. He stepped around Shane's packed bag without acknowledging it, instead opting to guide Shane gently to one of the breakfast nook stools while he turned to the fridge. He opened it and, upon seeing all the strange ingredients inside, threw his head back and laughed.

“Interesting.”

“Shut up,” Shane huffed back with a weak smile. “I was giving it my best try.”

“Thank God for hockey. You'd have to be a whore before you could be a cook.”

Shane smiled into his lap.

“What the fuck, dude…” Jordan giggled as he moved a red onion away from a yellow onion, then found green onions underneath them. Shane had been pretty out of it in the grocery store.

When Jordan turned to look over his shoulder at him, Shane felt his face warming, turning pink in the dim apartment. He looked as tired as Shane felt. The sky peeking through the balcony window was starting to lighten under the threat of dawn.

A tiny part of him wished they could crawl into bed and go to sleep. It would be easier if this were all a bad dream. But, no. Shane had made up his mind. No more dreaming—it was time to get back to reality.

He and Jordan were over. This wasn't what he wanted anymore.

Shane was trying to organize his thoughts, searching for a way to start this conversation as Jordan dug out a container from the bottom of his freezer. He had no idea how to approach something so ugly and shameful.

His eyes were prickling with tears when Jordan slid a bowl of ice cream across the counter to him, the spoon sticking out of it chiming against the wavy glass ridges as it wobbled to a stop. The scoops were weird but familiar-looking—orange with black ripples.

“Tiger Stripe, a classic Canadian throwback.” Shane looked up from his ice cream to Jordan, who also had a bowl in front of him. “This is a test batch from Vicky's, so you'll have to keep it a secret.”

Shane smiled. He liked oranges, but he hated licorice. He ate the good with the bad tonight instead of picking around it. It was surprisingly delicious.

A few bites in, Shane was crying a little, sparse tears trailing from his jaw and onto the countertop. He had held it together relatively well in the church, but now that the dust was settling, the dam within him was starting to crack.

“Yeesh,” Jordan muttered around his spoon. “That bad, huh?”

Shane shook his head, frustrated that it only made his tears fall faster. This mess was his to clean up, but the words were stuck in his throat.

I'm sorry felt weak—it felt cheap. It was practically meaningless. Sorry was something said when you stepped on someone's foot in an elevator, not when you betrayed the trust of someone who cares about you. Shane put his elbows on the kitchen counter, digging the palms of his hands into the concaves of his eyes.

What the fuck can I even say for myself?

In the fuzzy darkness, Shane heard Jordan laugh. Quiet at first, but then louder. A bit harsh.

“Climb down off your cross, Hollander. I don't care that you fucked Ilya, alright?”

Shock sent Shane's heart to the bottom of his stomach.

He pulled his hands away from his face, Jordan's blurry image coming into focus beneath the kitchen's overhead lights across from him.

He knew. Of course, he knew.

“Jordan, I–.”

“Save it, Holly.” Jordan's voice dipped icily, like it had when he answered that phone call from Scott. “I already told you, you don't ever have to explain yourself to me.”

“Please,” Shane shook his head slowly. He knew he probably looked as pathetic as he sounded, grovelling for forgiveness he didn't deserve. “Please just let me try.”

“What's there to explain?” Jordan rolled his eyes with the same indifference he had the last time they had sex. “You want to explain why you walked past my room in the infirmary to go see Ilya first? Or how you slept with him the night before you slept with me?”

“That was before we were together!” Shane felt his ears burning.

It was all true, but he was still embarrassed that right from the start, Jordan had seen through him. Jordan had seen it all.

“Yeah? And what about after we got together?” Jordan tilted his head, his eyes narrowed darkly.

Shane opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“What about last month, in Boston, Shane? What happened then?”

Shane dropped his chin to his chest, and he heard Jordan laugh.

“It was always going to be Ilya. I'm not some kid you duped, Hollander. I knew what I was getting into.”

“If you knew that from the start, then why?” The coals of guilt heated the pit in Shane's stomach. “Why'd you even bother with me?”

“It was predictable. I liked you, you liked me. It wasn't going to last, we both knew that.” Jordan's unhappy smile twitched.

A chill slithered down Shane's spine.

Something beneath the surface seemed to split his normal demeanour apart, tearing away at his features until he looked like a completely different man. He had never seen this side of Jordan before; he didn't know it existed. Flippant and angry. Cynical.

“...What?” Shane felt the warmth that usually emanated from Jordan ebb away fully.

“Love is just a bullshit excuse people use to be awful to one another. I don't ever want that.”

Shane flinched.

Maybe he was being a hypocrite after what he did with Ilya, but he couldn't help it. This still stung to hear.

“So, what?” Shane's voice was thin. “I'm just a pre-calculated loss to you?”

“You can't lose what you never had. That's the point.”

Shane was in disbelief at what he was hearing.

“Come on, don't act like you weren't doing the same to me. I wasn't anything more than a distraction,” Jordan pushed himself off the counter, crossing his arms. “You liked that you didn't have to actually know me.”

Shame sank its teeth into his neck. Shane had liked it. He liked that Jordan was uncomplicated and easy for him. He liked that they never had a difficult conversation, until now.

Until Shane realized that it wasn't compatibility or luck; it had all been intentional. It was premeditated. Jordan was playing pretend, too.

Jordan had only ever given him pieces, precut into the digestible things he knew Shane would like.

“Look, I admit I fucked up here,” Shane felt his heart tumbling around in his chest as he watched Jordan. His jaw was twitching. “But it's not like you let me in, Jordan. Not really.”

“You wouldn't like what you found.”

Unease rubbed Shane's already raw nerves. “Shouldn't I be the one to decide that?” he paused, watching Jordan's entire body swell as he inhaled deeply before he continued. “It seemed like you didn't want to be let in, either.”

“That was the point. Because I knew there was no room for me!”

Everything on the countertop jumped when Jordan's closed fist punched down on it. Shane also jolted, instinctively leaning back into his chair, his breath catching in his throat. He could practically hear Jordan's flesh tightening as he clenched his fist, the intense pressure of the action causing white blooms to blanch his hand.

Shane held his breath as Jordan opened his eyes. Any curve of softness was gone, blackened. They stayed that way, storming and bouncing aimlessly around for a moment, until he finally lifted them enough to meet Shane's. It was frightening.

“Fucking bullshit,” Jordan muttered before turning away from him. “I don't even know why we're arguing about it. We both knew it was going to end this way.”

“No, I didn't! Jordan,” Shane sprang from his seat, following him as he walked out through the kitchen and towards the living room. “Hold on, just talk to me.”

“I have nothing funny to say. Go away, Shane.”

“Jordan,” Shane caught up to him at his bookshelf, finding him with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. “Stop it. I want to know you.”

“You don't.”

Frustrated, Shane raised his voice, unable to contain it any longer. “Don't tell me what I want! I hate when you do that!”

“I can tell you exactly what you want,” Jordan raised his voice right back, spinning on his heels to point a finger into Shane's chest. “You want me to make you laugh and fuck you until you decide to go back to Rozanov. You made up your fuckin' mind in Boston like I knew you would, so just go already.”

“I know what I did, and I will never forgive myself for it, but,” Shane felt his eyes getting wet as he tried to hold Jordan's hand, but he ripped it away. “I want to talk about you for a second. I'm worried about you. You haven't been acting like yourself lately.”

To Shane's dismay, Jordan dipped his head back and laughed. “How the fuck would you know?”

“Then just be honest with me,” Shane begged, his voice hitching hard. “Let's both just be honest with one another.”

“What do you want to know, Shane? That I'm not really happy? No, I'm not. I'm not fucking happy.” Jordan took the smoke from his mouth and stepped forward, the space between their chests shrinking. “I held up my end of the deal, pretending to be someone you could like. Why can't you hold up yours? Why do you need to know me, especially now?”

“I'm sorry,” Shane reached out to him with both hands, but Jordan smacked them away. “I never meant to–.”

“You're still thinking I'm stepping aside because I'm some good guy,” Jordan tapped at his temple sharply. “Open your fuckin' eyes. This isn't about that.”

“You are a good guy,” Shane shook his head, his voice breaking into a shaky sob. “You are–.”

Shane felt his back meet the wall behind him as Jordan both pushed him away but closed in on him. He hadn't realized he was being moved until he had nowhere left to go.

“Don't do that,” Jordan warned.

“You're too good for me, and I–.”

Shane flinched as Jordan slammed his hand flat against the wall, inches away from his shoulder.

“That's bullshit, Shane.”

“I never meant to pretend with you.”

“Don't fuckin' lie to me. That's bullshit, and you know it.” Jordan practically snarled, almost nose to nose with Shane. “It's all bullshit. Bullshit.”

As soon as Jordan's hand met the wall for the third time, the framed photo of him with his family jumped off the wall. It hit the ground with a thud. They both turned their eyes downward to the floor where the picture sat, broken.

A crack shot through the glass, splitting like a bolt of lightning between the image of Jordan and the rest of his family. Shane pulled his gaze from the frame up the wall to where it had previously hung, hiding a fist-sized hole in the drywall behind it.

Agony twisted together with fear, nauseating Shane.

With a heavy sigh, Jordan pulled away from him. He picked up the photo and hung it back up, covering the hole again before he slunk over to his sofa and collapsed onto it. Shane watched him close his eyes, take in one deep breath, and then recompose himself, his tense shoulders falling slack. When he reopened his eyes, Jordan froze, his gaze dropping to his hand like it was something alien, like it wasn't something that belonged to him.

It was the same hand that snapped Ilya���s nose like a toothpick.

Shane swallowed his dread and peeled himself from the wall, walking over so he could sit next to him. Even though he was scared, his hand didn't shake when he reached over to thread his fingers through Jordan's.

That was also the same hand that opened every door for Shane, pulled his chair out for him, and tucked him in at night. That was the hand that held him gently, even after he knew what Shane had done.

It was hard for him to stay afraid when Jordan had cut those same hands on the jagged pieces of Shane's broken heart, knowing that when it was put back together, it still wouldn't belong to him.

“I'm sorry,” Jordan blinked a few times, unable to meet Shane's eyes. “I don't want to be… I don't want to do that. This is why I need you to just go, Shane. Go back to him, don't go back to him, it doesn't even matter to me. I just need to be alone. I'm not meant to be with anyone—not like this.”

Shane nodded slowly.

For the first time tonight, it felt like he and Jordan were on the same page. Shane remembered feeling the same way as Jordan, a year ago, in a dim hotel room in Tampa. The horrible realization that he wanted more—that he needed more, but to get it, he would have to be vulnerable. He would have to have the courage to love, and he would need the bravery to admit that he wanted to be loved back.

Shane didn't have it then. Jordan didn't have it now.

Their situation was inevitable; the price of intimacy was conflict, and neither Jordan nor Shane were willing to pay for it.

To Jordan, the cost was too high, and Shane had already given everything he had to Ilya. Cheating or not, this relationship was never going to work. Neither of them had entered it for the right reasons, and it had led them both to make the wrong choices. To withhold. To lie. To do the wrong thing.

But still. Shane's heart wobbled at the idea of Jordan isolating himself. He wanted to know why.

“Even before I did what I did, it felt like you were shutting me out.” Shane knew it was a moot point now, but the ache of Jordan's absence had still been real. “How come?”

“I like knowing how things begin and end. It was supposed to be a controlled loss, one that I was prepared for, but I…” Jordan wouldn't meet his eyes; he rubbed his hand flat over his chest, his voice dropped to a thin whisper. “...I may have miscalculated. I think I liked you more than I realized.”

Jordan had hedged his bets this entire time on Shane and Ilya getting back together; he hadn't accounted for anything else. Jordan hadn't considered that, along the way, he could want more. But it was too late. Shane couldn't give him anything.

Shane winced, dropping his head. He knew how it felt to be on the receiving end of a blow like that. He knew how bad it stung.

Jordan gave him a small, sad smile. “If it isn't obvious already, we aren't over because of what you did, Shane. Tell me what you want.”

With a hard swallow, Shane took a moment to organize his thoughts. He had spent his entire life overthinking everything, from school to hockey to his own perception, but nothing was more overthought than his love for Ilya.

From the moment they met, Shane had been trying to rationalize, minimize, hide, or deny his love, and it left him scared and in a constant state of unrest. Shane was tired. He wanted to surrender to the leopard in his dream; he wanted to put this to bed. He wanted to go home.

The words arrived quickly and simply, without a second thought.

“I want Ilya. I choose Ilya,” Shane forced his eyes on Jordan's. Even though he was scared, he wasn't going to run. “I want to be with him. I love him.”

Jordan nodded back.

“What about you? What do you want?” Shane asked, watching Jordan rub his hand over his arm, pausing along his tattoo.

“I don't know,” Jordan said quietly. Earnestly. “To be better than what I am. To be different from who I am. To do the right thing, I guess.”

Shane pinched his face in an effort not to cry. “Me too.”

Jordan sighed loudly, falling back into the cushions of the sofa. “This blows.”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“You're an asshole.”

“I know.”

“But I am too. An asshole. And sorry. This is why I don't usually do this sort of thing.”

Shane dropped his head onto Jordan's shoulder. “I can't believe we just broke up.”

“Called it.”

“Not funny.”

“Sorry,” Jordan tilted his head so it could rest on Shane's. “I really am sorry. It felt like I was being the best version of myself when I was pretending to be the type of person you could love.”

“I do love you, just not in the right way.” Shane sniffed. “I care about you, but I just can't choose you. I'm so sorry, Jordan.”

He felt Jordan's body trembling with a laugh. “Do you tell everyone you break up with that you love them, dickhead?”

Shane considered for a moment, thinking of his breakup with Rose. They were drunk and shining like gold, swaying in the Montreal frost. Liberated from the pressure of false pretenses, they laughed and slurred, and he had told her he loved her, because he did.

Shane smiled, closing his eyes. “I guess so.”

When he opened his eyes, Shane found himself naked beneath pink and purple lights. He had hoped to be pinned between the paws of a leopard, but he was all alone in the small jungle clearing. There was no woman, no low growling, no sharp hazel eyes. No glint of a crucifix.

He looked around, feeling an ache of loneliness; it sang in his bones as he climbed to his feet. Shane picked a direction and started walking, colliding with jungle foliage; fat leaves in varying shades of emerald softly rustled as he weakly pushed through them.

Where are you?

He wasn't sure if he was speaking out loud or if he was only asking in his head. The jungle hushed back at him. Pushing more leaves and a few branches aside, Shane eventually came across a grey metal door; the sign above it glowed brightly in neon pink.

Exit

Shane wasn't sure what was in store for him, but he turned away, walking back into the darkness of the jungle. He didn't want to run—he didn't need to. He wasn't afraid anymore. He wanted to see what else could be waiting for him.

Shane woke up with a start as Jordan came back into his apartment, the door closing loudly behind him. He twisted awkwardly on the couch for a moment, dazed. He hadn't remembered falling asleep, only that their breakup had bled into the morning, and at some point, Jordan had started to run his fingers through his hair as Shane fought to keep his eyes open. Blinking a few times, Shane smiled a little when Jordan's face came into focus, just a few inches away.

It took a moment for Shane's brain to catch up with his heart—for a split second, he thought Jordan was going to kiss him. He smelled like menthol and his church.

Oh, that's right.

Jordan inched back, dropping his eyes to his watch.

We're not together anymore. I need to go see…

“Time to go home, Holly. Your ride's here.”

Groggy and unsure of the time, Shane glanced around the empty apartment. “My ride?”

“Yeah, I called a…friend.”

He paused. Jordan's friends hated him. Shane couldn't think of a single person who would be willing to take him to the airport so early in the morning so he could fly back to Montreal.

“Who?”

“Lily.”

Shane gasped.

Ilya? Ilya was here, in New York? Now?

Shane's thoughts crashed down like a tipped China cabinet. Ilya drove here from Boston in the middle of the night? How did he even know how to get here? He would have left hours ago to be here now—before Shane had even found Jordan at Saint Patrick's.

His head reeled when he realized that Jordan must have known that, not only were they going to break up, but that Shane would want to go see Ilya right after. He probably knew before Shane even got to New York, before Shane even packed Ilya's sock.

“Jordan, you…”

Shane was waved off, left by the front door as Jordan briefly tucked into his room. Fear and anticipation drummed his heart as he watched him disappear.

“What am I going to say?” Shane muttered to himself as he put his shoes on, fumbling with his laces.

Everything that's been eating me alive since I was nineteen, I suppose. And then anything else that comes to mind, for as long as he wants to hear it.

Shane knew he didn't need to be scared, but he was anyway. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pant legs while he waited for Jordan to return from his bedroom, his eyes welling with hot tears.

Ilya was in love with him, and Shane loved Ilya back. There were no logistical barriers left to hide behind; there was no more smoke and mirrors with how they felt. There was a single elevator that led down to one exit—Shane couldn't run from it if he tried.

A nervous sob was bubbling in his chest. He should be happy. Shane was finally getting what he always wanted, but it cost him everything he had. He had only just pulled himself together as Jordan reappeared, stopping a few feet away and giving him a sympathetic look.

“Come on, crybaby. I thought this was what you wanted?” Jordan took his hand and led him towards the elevator, Shane's bag thrown over his shoulder.

Shane swiped at his eyes sheepishly. “It is.”

He had to go, but before he did, Shane needed to ask the one question that was still weighing on his heart.

“Can you ever forgive me for this?”

Shane wasn't expecting a yes. It was incredibly selfish and a terrible thing to ask for, especially after what he did, but if he had learned anything over the past few months, it was that he needed to say it all. He had to ask for everything he wanted, even if it seemed impossible. Even if it was unfair. Even if it was the wrong thing to do.

“Sure, why not?” Jordan let his hand go for the last time, and a pang of sadness jabbed Shane in his heart. “I'm friends with everyone. Everyone loves me.”

“I'm serious,” Shane hushed as the elevator doors opened in front of them. “I know I don't deserve to miss you, but I'm going to miss you.”

Saying goodbye to Jordan was almost as hard as pretending he didn't love Ilya.

In the fraction of a second it took him to hand Shane his bag, Jordan's face changed. He looked scared, almost childlike, for a fleeting moment. He looked like he might cry.

Shane moved to touch him, but he pulled his hand back. He didn't want to make this worse for either of them, if that was even possible.

Jordan turned away, and when he turned back, he was smiling. He placed his hands on Shane's shoulders as the doors opened, forcing him to turn around and stare into the empty elevator.

Jordan gave him a gentle shove forward, and Shane stumbled inside.

Shane knew he shouldn't turn back around, or he was going to start crying again. He took the risk anyway and saw Jordan grinning, wiping a tear from his cheek as the doors slid closed.

“Too slow, Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

Is someone cutting several varieties of onions in here, or what?R.I.P Jordan x Shane, doomed from the start.

My sweet, wall-punching, avoidant-attachment style, religious and parental trauma angel, Jordan Bragg💔 who did this to you....(me. it was me, the author of this story).

Someone go post that meme of the dude on horseback with a lantern to the H.R fanfic Reddit page, because yes, it is in fact.....Hollanov ending.

Jordan haters rejoice. Jordan lovers, crash out.

We got three chapters left, folks, one of which is an epilogue.

Waaah.

As always, we appreciate each one of you. ❤️-Mo & Jo

Alexa, play Favorite Crime by Oliva Rodrigo.

----P.SI need to push back Do The Right Thing because my work is sending me abroad again soon.It'll probably come out on May 8th now. Sorry, ya'll, I wish Kudos paid my rent.-Macy

Chapter 25: Chapter 24

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

24

New York

Ilya felt like he was going to have a heart attack. He was worried that, at any moment, he would get another call from Jordan. Or perhaps one from Shane.

He changed his mind. We smoothed things over. Don't bother coming.

Instead of listening to music, Ilya drove in silence, waiting for a notification to come through. When it didn't, he pulled up curbside to where his G.P.S directed, his fingers white around the steering wheel, his palms slick with sweat.

He was early, having sped faster than he needed to the entire way down. Maybe he blew a red light or two—he could hardly remember. The drive was a blur.

As he was leaving Boston, he considered some gas station coffee, but he was already too wired. It felt like he never needed to sleep again. His mind was jumping around all over the place, from elated to anxious. From flying to falling. It was a struggle to keep his expectations at bay, pushing them down mentally as he left one state and crossed into another.

It felt like he blinked, and he was on the I-84, the purring engine of the McLaren and his heartbeat muddying together in his ears. Boston had dissolved behind him before he could even wrap his head around what was happening.

They had broken up. Shane and Jordan had broken up.

Jordan hadn't said so explicitly, but Ilya could read between the lines. He wanted to call Shane and see if he was alright, but Jordan had given him instructions on where to be and when, giving him the distinct impression that he shouldn't push it.

Let Jordan finish what he started. Scott's advice had echoed in his head as he merged onto the I-95 to New York.

But what had Jordan done? He had said he wanted to return something to him, but had he really meant Shane? He doubted it. Just because Jordan wanted Shane gone didn't mean Shane would want Ilya back. They both knew Hollander better than that—he would do whatever he wanted.

But that's why Ilya was going to New York: to find out whatever that was.

One last time.

Squinting through his tinted windows into the street, Ilya looked around Jordan's neighbourhood as the sun started to rise. Typical. Jordan had to live in some upscale, fancy neighbourhood in one of the most affluent parts of New York.

Ilya bet his apartment was cool too; full of whatever neesh crap he was into. Probably something pretentious. He probably lived on the penthouse floor with all the windows, so everyone in the surrounding buildings would be forced to watch him bang his boyfriend on a mattress full of money. Or something equally as irritating.

Douche.

Ilya put the car in park along the street in an illegal spot right in front of the building, indifferent to getting a ticket should a cop roll by. He had bigger things on his mind.

Bouncing his leg anxiously, he wanted to do something. Text someone. Hit something. Most of all, he wanted to hold Shane. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he checked the time again. Then he put it back. Then he pulled it out again, as if twenty-five minutes would have magically passed.

“God damn it,” Ilya said to no one as he jumped out into the cold morning air.

He didn't care that the temperature had dipped overnight, causing goosebumps to coat his arms even inside the sleeves of his jacket. He just wanted to be closer. Even if by an inch or a couple of seconds. Just a little bit closer to Shane while he waited.

He felt like he was on the brink of exploding. Ilya slammed his car door and leaned back against it, trying to take a few deep breaths, his eyes drifting to the gold doors with black-tinted glass. Somewhere in there was Shane. Maybe heartbroken. Maybe relieved. Ilya stared into the dark windows, and the empty darkness stared back. His reflection was all warped and weird; it looked as disoriented as he felt.

Ilya would have killed to be a fly on the wall inside, listening to the conversation between Jordan and Shane. Was it good news? Was it bad news? He raked his fingers through his curls, anxious to the point of feeling sick.

To distract himself, he checked out the cars parked along the street around him. Ilya liked seeing the cooler cars millionaires drove in cities like New York, but these were all boring. Mainly black B.M.W's, dark-coloured Audis, a few mur-say-dees. Rich-guy-with-no-personality kind of boring; they made Ilya's car stick out like a sore thumb.

Looking down the other side of the street, he spotted a sleek, low, cherry-red vehicle. Its body was sculpted with clean lines, so glossy it stretched the reflection of the surrounding buildings along its curves. Intrigued, Ilya took a few steps forward until the license plate came into view.

bigmwth.

Ilya huffed, the flame of irritation growing hotter in the pit of his stomach.

Of course. Of course, it was Jordan's fucking car.

Jordan Bragg. Jordan fucking Bragg. The sexy hockey player with a big mouth, who was into rap music, luxury cars, and getting under people's skin. He lived in a stupidly overpriced building, had a stupid show-off reputation, and was stupidly obnoxious in every conceivable way.

Ilya scoffed, shaking his head. Then he chuckled. Then he was outright laughing, leaning back against his car for support, one hand clutching his side. He knew he probably looked insane; alone on the street in the earliest hours of the morning and giggling with tears in his eyes, but he just couldn't help it. Maybe it was from the lack of sleep. Maybe he had lost his mind.

He couldn't help but see the humour in the tragedy of it all. Shane Hollander had a fucking type.

“Something funny?”

Ilya's soul shot out from his body as Jordan spoke. He hadn't even seen him come out of the building.

“Jesus Christ,” Ilya clutched his shirt's fabric right above his screaming heart. “You scared the shit out of me.”

For an uncomfortable stretch, they stared one another down. Ilya wasn't sure what the hell to do. He had never been in a situation like this before. Curious if he was about to get the shit beat out of him, he decided he had better take his hands out of his coat pockets if it came to that.

But Jordan didn't seem all that angry.

He strolled casually towards Ilya with a neutral expression, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. But Ilya knew better than that; his nose vibrated when he remembered how quickly Jordan could flip on a dime, becoming a totally different man. As far as Ilya could observe, Jordan didn't even have a tell—it was like a hairline fracture in glass moments before it exploded, virtually untraceable. A flip of a switch attached to an explosive. That version of Jordan made Ilya cautious. And curious.

Normally, Ilya could read people—exceptionally so. That's how he figured out Shane's interest in him all those years ago in some shitty hotel gym. It was a skill he prided himself on, but when he looked at Jordan, he couldn't read a thing. It was like the pages were turning too fast.

Admiral's favourite forward. Lovely boyfriend. Admired restaurant owner. Funny, disarming, charming.

For some reason, I just don't believe that's all there is.

Ilya noted the dark purplish half-moons beneath his eyes as Jordan got closer, as if he hadn't slept in a week. Stopping at the curb, Jordan gave Ilya a once-over; neither man spoke for an uncomfortable moment.

Ilya's mind rattled. What the fuck can I even say for myself?

“Shane's inside,” Jordan spoke first, gesturing with his head toward the direction he had just appeared from. “I'll send him out in a minute, but first I wanted to talk to you.”

Ilya felt his mouth grow sticky. Maybe he would have preferred to be punched after all.

“Jordan,” Ilya started to shake his head. “I'm sorry.”

Jordan grinned, and Ilya felt his stomach sink.

“No, you're not.”

Ilya couldn't decide if this was a trap, but he walked into it anyway.

He wasn't the same man he was in Tampa. He didn't come this far to stop here. He loved Shane more than he feared the consequences of doing so, and he was going to love him as loud as possible.

“You're right. I'm not sorry.” Ilya met Jordan's eyes; his voice was level despite how vulnerable he felt. “I could never regret doing anything that brought Shane back to me. I would do it all again if it made him understand. But I am sorry that I hurt people in the process.”

He was expecting his nose to pay the price for his honesty, but Ilya was shocked to see Jordan's entire body relax. He released a long exhale, and when it was finished, he looked almost content.

“You probably know this already, but Shane and I have a history and it…” Ilya struggled to swallow. “And it never went away. Since our rookie season—no, the summer before, we've just been crossing paths. Over the years, Hollander meant more and more to me. I didn't realize until I thought I lost him that I—That I…”

Heat flooded Ilya's face. Jordan already knew why Ilya was here; that's probably why he looked so bored. Like Ilya was reading off a script but Jordan had skimmed it all the way to the end.

Hadn't Jordan been the one to say he wanted to talk? Bragg had barely said three words, and Ilya was pouring his heart out all over his shoes, making a fool of himself.

Disarming little shit.

Jordan popped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. Ilya noticed his lighter right away; it was silver and rectangular, embossed with the image of a heart surrounded in flames, engulfed in thorns, a cross sitting atop it. It looked a bit heavy and expensive, its intricate design glinting like the cross around his neck. It was way nicer than the other lighter he had been using.

Ilya put his own cigarette into his mouth, hoping it would shut him up, and gestured to the flame. “Very fancy.”

“Thank you.” Jordan admired it for a moment, rubbing his thumb along the pattern. “It was my father's.”

Ilya patted his pocket and closed his eyes.

God fucking damn it.

“What, are you serious?” When Ilya opened his eyes, Jordan was smiling at him. “No sock. No lighter. What's your problem, Rozanov? You rush over here or something?”

Ilya felt his blush starting to extend down his neck. Of course, Jordan noticed his missing sock, his bare ankle peeking from his white low-top sneaker.

“Sorry, do you mind?”

“Better not,” Jordan slipped the lighter into his pocket and took a step forward. “It brings really, really bad luck.”

Ilya hesitated, surprised to hear that Jordan believed in such a thing. He seemed too practical for luck.

Inching forward, he tilted the unlit end of his own cigarette to the burning ember on the end of Jordan's menthol. The last time they had been this close to one another, they were beating the shit out of each other. The orange glow of burning tobacco reflected briefly in Jordan's eyes as Ilya's end smouldered; when they made eye contact, it felt a bit strange. It felt a bit like empathy.

“Are you okay?” Ilya asked after he exhaled a thin line of smoke from the corner of his mouth.

Jordan stepped back out of Ilya's space and ashed on the concrete between them with a smirk. “Always am.”

“You are a masochist.” Ilya quietly noted, more for himself than anyone else.

How else could Jordan be so calm? If it were him dealing with all this, Ilya knew he'd be in shambles. He'd be inconsolable. Jordan's face didn't move, but Ilya swore his green eyes darkened by three shades. His smirk broke into a wider smile, and he flicked his eyebrows up in amusement.

“That's a big word for you.”

“Fuck you, big mouth.”

“Listen, Ilya,” Jordan leaned in a smidge, still smiling, his voice dropping low. “If I find out that you're treating Shane badly, make no mistake, I won't hesitate to put him right back in my Admiral's shirt.”

He held his gaze. “If you can't be the better option, I will be.”

The comment was said with laughter, but it floated across with an edge of danger. A real warning.

Ilya nodded. That was fair. “I would expect nothing less.”

“And believe me,” Jordan put one hand to his temple, gesturing slowly in front of him with the other, the scent of menthol ribboning into the air. “I'll know.”

Ilya squinted. He couldn't get a read on this fucking guy.

Jordan had been majorly fucked over, but he still called Ilya; he didn't have to arrange any of this, but he did, even knowing what it meant. Even knowing he had lost. Ilya couldn't tell if that was careful manipulation or generosity. Either way, it didn't matter now.

“You're really giving him back to me?” Ilya said at last, his voice betraying how soft he was feeling inside.

“I'm not giving you him,” Jordan rolled his eyes. “I'm giving up on something I can't have.”

“What's that?”

Ilya couldn't think of a single thing Jordan Bragg couldn't get if he wanted it.

Jordan took another long drag and then dropped the smoking end to his feet, crushing it with his foot. His face betrayed nothing. He smiled slightly and tilted his head, as if Ilya had just asked the most obvious question in the world.

It seemed there was a lot more going on with him than he let on, but he wasn't keen on telling.

Ilya blinked a few times as Jordan reached out, his hand entering the space between them right in the middle. He felt strangely heavy-hearted as he reached to shake it. He was finally getting what he wanted, but it didn't feel entirely good.

Just before their fingers met, Jordan sharply pulled his hand away.

“Fuck you, Rozanov.”

Ilya bit the inside of his cheek, but he knew he was smiling anyway. Now that the dust was finally settling, he could admit it to himself; Jordan was fucking funny. Weird and cryptic and an asshole—but funny.

Jordan turned and started to head back towards his apartment building, causing Ilya's heart to skip a beat. If that was all Jordan wanted to get off his chest, then that meant he was going to go get…

Could it really be this easy? After all this time of fighting for it, was it actually happening?

“Are you sure?” Ilya tested warily, calling to Jordan just as he reached the doors. “I didn't take you for a quitter."

Jordan threw him a look that was somehow both smug and sad before he slipped inside.

“Then you don't know me at all.”

Ilya waited, burning his cigarette down and leaning back against his car as his heart ached from how hard it was pounding in his chest. His senses narrowed down to a fine pinpoint, blocking out any noise of people or traffic, and locking onto the door in front of him. Until finally, finally. Movement. The door opened with a soft creak, and he appeared.

Shane.

Right away, Ilya could tell he had been crying. His under eyes were puffy, and his speckled cheeks were rosy, but his features were schooled, determined. He had his brows knit together like he was having an imaginary argument, but he also looked sad.

And sleepy. The hair on the side of his head was ruffled up like he had woken up from a bad dream. His gaze was fixed sullenly on his feet as he shuffled forward until he was a foot away.

Shane stopped and lifted his head, his eyes glassy and round. He looked so miserable, it broke Ilya's heart. But it also made Ilya feel like he was eighteen again, free-falling into the dark onyx pools of Shane's eyes, lost in the constellation of his freckles.

He wanted to fall to his knees. He felt himself wobble as he slowly unfolded his arms from across his chest. Wordlessly, he extended them out, hoping that Hollander wouldn't run away.

Hoping Shane would… Praying Shane would…

Thump.

Shane gently collided with Ilya's chest, his head bent. He was warm. Solid. Real. Finally real.

Ilya slowly wrapped his arms around the man he loved, closing his eyes. He could feel damp spots soaking through where the fabric of his t-shirt was catching Shane's tears.

“You're not supposed to smoke here.” Ilya followed Shane's weak pointing hand to a nearby sign.

A moment later, Shane's warm hands moved beneath Ilya's jacket, clinging to the cotton material of his t-shirt along his shoulder blades as he trembled. Shane was pressing to him as if Ilya was going to evaporate.

“I know,” Ilya kissed the top of his head. He smelled like his fancy shampoo. “I never learn.”

“Sorry,” Shane said softly, his hands shaking. “Sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Ilya wrapped himself tighter around him, feeling the material of Shane's sweatshirt absorbing tears as they fought their way past his lashes. “I forgive you, my love. Thank you for coming back to me.”

“I should have never left,” Shane wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, his voice croaky. “Can we go? I want to get away from here.”

“Anywhere.” Ilya would drive to the moon if Shane wanted him to. “Boston, or Montreal?”

“Wherever you're going.” Shane thudded back against Ilya's chest. “I want to go home. Please, Ilya, just take me home.”

Ilya bit hard into his lower lip, feeling his eyes burning. With a simple nod, he opened the passenger side door for Shane, letting him slip inside. Ilya reached in and buckled him into the seat, kissing him softly on his cheek. The gesture seemed to make Shane sob once, quietly.

Home.

After nearly a year of suffering, a year of fearing he had lost Shane forever, they were finally going home. Ilya had no idea what that might look like, with their schedules, with their individual lives intertwining, but it didn't matter anymore. They would make it work. They would make a home together.

“You drove all this way,” Shane mumbled as Ilya pulled away from Jordan's apartment. “Are you sure you want to drive all the way back?”

Ilya wiggled his eyebrows a little. “It's either that or the Hilton.”

Shane gave him a small smile, as if he was going to laugh, but in the same second it snapped apart. He was crying in shallow, shaky breaths, his hands over his eyes.

“Don't,” Shane's face was pinched when he dropped his hands into his lap, emotionally raw. “Don't make this fun.”

Ilya shot him a worried look. “Sorry. I know this is… less than ideal.”

“No, it's okay. I'm sorry, I'm–.” Shane swallowed jaggedly as tears welled up more slowly. “I've had a terrible night.”

Ilya reached over and grabbed Shane's hand, always unfairly warm. “Did it not end on good terms, then?”

Shane looked conflicted, chewing his lip for a brief moment. “I'm not even sure.”

“Do you regret it?” Ilya vocalized the biggest fear he had since that night in Boston.

“I don't regret choosing you, but I do feel bad.” Shane's voice was a hoarse whisper. “I just feel like…” Shane scrunched in his seat, fiddling with the strap on his bag. “Are we being rewarded for bad behaviour? Do we even deserve to be happy?”

Ilya had considered this on the drive down. The concept of deserving; it was a fickle thing.

Jordan didn't deserve to be cheated on. Shane had deserved a real relationship over the last ten years. Ilya deserved to get his ass kicked. People didn't always get what they deserved. Things weren't always fair that way—there were always winners and losers, and very rarely did it have to do with deserving.

In many ways, Shane and Ilya deserved each other; both had made terrible choices that had hurt people. In other ways, Shane and Ilya deserved each other; they fought like mad to be together, ever since they were kids, battling against impossible odds.

To hell with deserving.

Ilya's mind was made up; he was going to take Shane home and love him as long as he could. Ilya hoped it would be until his dying breath.

“I don't think it's a reward for bad behaviour. I think it's a reward because we changed.” Ilya gripped Shane's hand a bit tighter. “I changed. You changed. We came out alive on the other side, and now it's…”

Different. It's honest, and it's ugly, but at the same time, it's beautiful. It's real. Things will get shaky from time to time, but the fear of being left with nothing is gone, because we're not fighting the wrong battles anymore. It's stable, even in its instability.

Ilya had a hard time moving his words over to English. Plus, if he did, he was going to cry. A pull-over-and-park-on-the-side-of-the-road kind of cry.

“Better?” Shane offered, his eyes still wet.

“Yes, much better.” Ilya swallowed hard and moved Shane's hand to his mouth so he could kiss it. “It's how it should be. We had to do the wrong thing to do the right thing for us, I think. What do you think?”

“I'm going to be honest, Ilya. I have no idea if this is going to work out—you and me. I'm not going to sit here and act like I know for sure.” Shane gave him a sorrowful look. “I'm not like Jordan, I can't predict how things will go.”

“That's okay.” Ilya agreed quietly.

He wasn't like Jordan, either. He couldn't see that far ahead and be certain—he could only hope and dream. The future wasn't laid out on a straight path, but every twist and turn he hoped would be with Shane. He wasn't sure of the specifics of their life together, but it gave Ilya all the more room to dream.

A pang of sadness twisted Ilya's heart. How did Jordan hope or dream if he already knew how things would go? Wouldn't it be boring, always knowing the ending? It would also be a bit suffocating, Ilya thought.

The one thing Jordan Bragg couldn't have…

“But I'm willing to try.” Shane's determined stare and resolute words brought Ilya's attention back into focus. “I'm willing to give it my best shot from now on.”

Ilya nodded seriously. “Me too.”

“I'm not going to run from how I feel, but don't expect it to be perfect, either.”

“Of course not.”

“And we're probably going to fight. A lot.”

“That's okay.” Ilya tried to sound assuring.

“Over everything. And sometimes over nothing. It'll be exhausting, and you'll get sick of me.” An edge of worry creeped into Shane's voice.

“Do you promise?”

“...What?” Shane blinked slow.

“Do you promise to fight with me every day? To stay with me long enough for me to get sick of you?”

“Is that what you want?” Shane asked quietly, his eyes going soft.

“More than anything. I want to fight with you, Shane.” Ilya blinked back hot tears and smiled instead. “Should we start right now, or…?”

Shane's face scrunched, and he huffed, something between a laugh and a cry. “Yeah? How much time do you have?”

“The rest of my life.”

It came out closer to a proposal than Ilya had meant. He didn't want to rush anything—he really did have the rest of his life. One day, probably mid-argument, he would drop down to his knee and ask Shane to marry him.

And then they could fight some more over things like a macrobiotic caterer or what rap music not to play. Ilya already had about a thousand battery-operated candles in his Amazon shopping cart. And a ring in his couch.

Ilya couldn't fucking wait.

“Why'd we have to make such a fucking mess to get here?” Shane pursed his lips, his cheeks turning pink. He was looking less miserable now, fighting back a smile. “What is wrong with us?”

“We were both very stupid,” Ilya smiled harder. “And irresponsible.”

“And petty.” Shane added, his mouth twitching.

“And jealous.”

“We suck.” Shane laughed gently. “We suck so much. I think I hate us.”

“Mm, yes.” Ilya had to agree. “We are the worst.”

“You're an asshole, Rozanov.”

“And you are an asshole, Hollander.”

“This car is fucking stupid.” Shane squeezed Ilya's hand, tucking his chin to his chest.

“And you're a brat.” Ilya squeezed him right back.

As they pulled out onto the I-95 highway headed for Boston, Ilya looked over at Shane. He looked tired, maybe as tired as Ilya felt. Even though his desire was frothing like a rabid animal within him, Ilya was more excited to take Shane home and just…sleep.

Sleep without the worry of Shane being gone in the morning. No sneaking out, no sneaking around, no regret—and no more God damn hotel rooms.

“What made you so pissed off in Tampa?” Shane asked before breaking into a yawn.

Ilya felt his ears turn red. “Mike Brophy showed me a…”

Fuck. Ilya gave his head a shake. Embarrassing.

He cleared his throat. “A video of you telling Rose Landry that you love her.”

Ilya watched Shane knit his eyebrows together from the corner of his eye.

“...What?”

“Mike Brophy showed me a video of you drunk outside of a bar in Montreal, running your mouth about how much you loved Rose Landry, alright?” Ilya grumpily slouched, feeling a tad bit mortified. “It was all over T.M.Z that day.”

“Oh, Ilya, that is….” Shane snorted, his hand flying to his mouth. “So fucking dumb. I told you, I'm gay, dude. If that wasn't obvious.”

“Well, I know now.” Ilya gasped and rolled his eyes as Shane shook with quiet laughter. “You didn't have to run off and date an Admiral to prove it!” He waited for Shane to stop giggling before he continued. “I've said it before, and I'll say it over and over until you get tired of hearing it. I love you.”

“I will never get tired of hearing it,” Shane said, almost as if it were a fact he was correcting. “And I love you more.”

“Is not even possible,” Ilya's cheeks ached from smiling. “Shut up, Hollander.”

“Look at us,” Shane tsked, grinning wider. “Fighting already.”

Boston

Ilya was relieved when he pulled into his building's parking garage. The eight hours of driving in the past twenty-four hours was kicking his ass—the forty-minute plane nap, RedBull, and adrenaline rush were no longer cutting it. He was going to crash. Hard.

As much as he wanted to fuck away all the time he lost with Shane, his desire to curl up next to him and sleep was greater. Their relationship had done a one-eighty since they first met. Ilya thought that, if he could go back in time and tell his nineteen-year-old self that he would be elated to sleep a Sunday away next to Shane Hollander, he wouldn't have believed it.

Shane fell asleep on the drive back. Whenever traffic allowed, Ilya looked over and watched him. He looked like an angel, sighing softly and mumbling as he dreamt. Long red lights meant he could lean over and kiss Shane on the side of his head, or count his freckles, or shift close enough to hear his gentle breathing.

Ilya tried his best not to wake him up, wanting to carry Shane all the way back to his apartment and put him to bed. He stirred as Ilya was attempting to slide him out of the passenger seat clumsily, Shane's bag already over his shoulder.

He was pleased when, instead of asking to be put down or making a fuss about being carried, Shane willingly went along with him. With his cooperation, Ilya was able to gather Shane up in his arms and kick the passenger door shut. Shane wrapped himself around Ilya tighter, steadying his posture by linking his ankles together on the small of Ilya's back.

He seemed half-awake, only fully opening his eyes as Ilya pushed him back against the elevator wall as they started to climb. It wasn't all that long ago that Shane had bolted from him, running to the very same exit he was now being carried through.

“I dreamt of you all the time,” Shane said sleepily into the crook of Ilya's neck. “Did you ever dream of me?”

“Could barely sleep without you,” Ilya laid his heart out, bruises and all. “My dreams were bad when you were gone. I only had one nice dream, that night I slept in New York with you, in that horrible hotel.”

“What did you dream of?”

“Of you and me. We were out and together, dancing in a club. It was so busy and bright, but all I could see was you. Everything else was a blur."

Shane squirmed happily against Ilya as the doors to the elevator opened, wriggling to his feet.

“You were a leopard in mine,” Shane yawned sweetly, scrunching his nose like a little bunny. “I was afraid you were going to eat me at first.”

“Well?” Ilya purred against Shane's ear as he guided him down the hall. “Did I eat you up, sweetheart?”

“No, you were gentle all along.”

After they brushed their teeth side by side, Shane dragged Ilya to bed, pushing him playfully down as the comforter and pillows fluffed beneath him. It was past ten in the morning now, but they had closed the blinds and left the room dark, both too exhausted to do anything other than dream in each other's arms.

“Love you so much,” Shane slid himself into bed wearing only his boxers next to Ilya, clicking into place like a missing piece beneath his arm. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Ilya almost felt like he was dreaming already, hearing Shane say those words.

“What do you think tomorrow will be like?”

“It could be easy, or it could be very hard,” Ilya rolled on top of Shane, cradling his face gently. “But whatever it looks like, I'm happy, because it's with you.”

“Same here,” Shane melted into Ilya's touch, his eyes fluttering closed. “Good or bad, I want to share it with you.”

Ilya felt a lump forming in his throat. “I will be a good boyfriend to you. I will be a good husband too, if you ever wanted that one day. Or not. You can have me just like this, if it's all you want.”

“Hey,” Shane's face scrunched up, and Ilya felt his breath getting hitchy beneath him. “Don't. You know what I want.”

“Tell me again?”

“Ilya,” Shane's eyes fluttered closed, and Ilya took his cue to lean down and kiss him, slowly and lovingly. “I want this forever.”

“You're sure?” Ilya asked, then pulled back as Shane rolled away, nearly off the bed.

He watched inquisitively as Shane dug around for something in his bag that he had dropped near the nightstand. Ilya only became more curious when his shoulders began to shake as Shane laughed softly, quietly muttering to himself.

“Hollander, what is—.”

Ilya couldn't believe his eyes when Shane waved his sock in the air. The one Ilya thought he lost in the Best Western in New York; the one Shane had accidentally stolen and taken home to Montreal. The missing mate to the solo sock he wore the entire drive down to get Shane earlier today. He had packed it and taken it with him, days before Ilya received the call.

Shane really had been sure. He had been more sure than Jordan.

It was so ridiculous—so shameless. It was very…them.

Ilya threw his head back in disbelief, laughing hard. “No way. Hollander!”

“It's perfect, isn't it?” Shane shook it, as if it were a white flag. Like he was surrendering. “This. Us. It's not perfect, but it's…”

“It's perfect.” Ilya said fondly, looking at Shane and seeing forever. “Totally perfect.”

Chapter End Notes

I present to the readers: Hollanov, free of (most) angst.Poor boy. Poor sweet boys.Alexa, play the Hozier cover of Do I Wanna Know by the Arctic Monkeys. 😎

Thank you for all the wonderful comments, kudos, reddit posts, bookmarks, tweets--All of it. You're all my other sock, fr. ❤️🧦

Jo and I will be crawling the comments & trying to respond to people because we see you and we.... Love You!!!!!!!!!!! ok i gotta go the hell to bed for now. -Macy -----Small Posting Update:Due to work (ugh) I will have to push the timeline back.I have one more chapter after this, then the epilogue. I'm hoping Do The Wrong Thing is wrapped by May 8th.

Jordan's sequel story will be pushed back by about a week; I'm hoping I can release the first chapter on May 9/10th. Hopefully I can consistently post one chapter of Do The Right Thing a week on a schedule, since Do The Wrong Thing was uploaded pretty randomly.

Also, I have a wack amount of edits to do to the entire story, still planned for a later date. If you see continuity issues honestly idk what to tell you. squint or close your eyes. I'll get to them...in a few months lmao.

Ok Bye Love You be Good. 💕💕

Chapter 26: Chapter 25

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

X.X.V

Five Days Later

New York

When Scott found out what had happened, he had no idea what to expect for the fallout. Jordan dodged his calls for days, which had happened before—but then he ignored Kip's text messages. That was less like him. He asked Carter, but he hadn't heard anything either.

Scott knew better than to ask Shane, whose fault this was.

He had been so fucking annoyed with Hollander for what he did, of course, but Scott had also been pissed at Jordan.

He had told Jordan not to go after Hollander, over and over, trying to walk the line between Captain, brother, and friend. Scott felt like he had watched their entire relationship through his fingers, certain it was going to explode—and man, had it ever.

Right in his face.

Right in everyone's face before the Boston match started.

Last Saturday, Scott had such a hard time getting the Admirals back into focus after Rozanov's little interview stunt; the locker room had been pandemonium. He always tried to persuade the guys not to watch livestreams or look at social media before hitting the ice for that exact reason. It was all fun and games watching New York rip Ilya Rozanov apart, until Ilya Rozanov hit back.

No one had given a flying fuck that Ilya was gay, or bisexual, or whatever he was running his mouth about. Between Scott and Jordan, no one batted an eye of surprise; it was why Ilya had said it that lit a fire under everyone.

Jordan had already been in such a terrible mood the past few weeks, his usual cheerfulness eroding worse and worse the longer he and Shane were together.

It was bizarre.

People were expecting him to be all lovey-dovey, talking nonstop about whatever the hell he and Hollander were getting up to. Or, at the very least, they had expected to hear the crass, raunchy details of their sex life, which was virtually inescapable from Jordan during his earlier hook-up years when he was first drafted by the team. But he was tight-lipped. Jordan didn't mention Shane at all—no date talk, no bedroom stories, nothing. He was…quiet.

At first, Scott was glad not to know, since Shane was essentially a coworker. He had to look Hollander in the eye semi-frequently; he did not have any interest in what Jordan was doing to or with him behind closed doors. But it had made Scott suspicious. Jordan didn't bring Shane up to Kip, either.

“He's dating the number one guy in hockey, and he won't gossip with me.” Kip had pouted in late September, flopping down next to him on the couch after Jordan left. He hadn't won a single chess game against Bragg that day. “Jord loves gossiping! What the hell?”

Scott had glared at Kip over the edge of the New Yorker, lowering his reading glasses. “...I thought I was the number one guy in hockey?”

“You're my number one guy in hockey,” Kip smiled guiltily. “Don't act like you don't find it weird that he's not saying anything about Shane, either.”

Scott had found it weird.

The day after Hollander had paraded him around as his boyfriend, before returning to Montreal for the season, Jordan had barely said anything. When the other guys would ask, prod, or playfully tease him, Jordan wouldn't met their eyes.

It's fine. It's whatever. I don't know.

He had consistently mumbled his way out of any conversation that was focused on his relationship, changing the subject as quickly as he could to dodge the Shane topic.

People had shrugged it off as him being shy, but Scott knew better. Jordan was a lot of things, but shy wasn't one of them.

Scott had been refreshing the tape on his stick, half listening to Rozanov's accented voice from Robbie's phone, when he heard it. The lit match connecting to the fuse on a stick of dynamite.

'We just had a little disagreement about my taste in his men. No big deal.'

“What?”

“Is he serious?”

“Oh, fuck him!”

The locker room had erupted in outrage, some guys jumping to their feet to walk over to Robbie, surrounding the phone as if they were in disbelief over what Rozanov had just implied. If Scott didn't know better, he would have thought that this was a cleverly timed distraction to throw the Admirals off their game—only he and Jordan knew the truth. It was far less of a chirp and far closer to a declaration of war.

“Cool it, guys,” Scott clapped a few times, trying to reel them back in. “Hey, come on. Focus up, we play in ten.”

No one had listened to him; they just got more pissed by the second.

“Chill,” Carter had tried to help Scott. “Rozanov is just shit-talking, as per usual. Right, Jordan?”

The volume in the room had reduced to a simmer, all eyes turning to Bragg. He had been slumped with his back against the lockers, his eighty-eight jersey in his hands. Jordan was regarding it like he was considering not putting it on. When he lifted his gaze, he looked directly at Scott, his eyes dark.

Fuck. Scott's stomach had dropped as Jordan shrugged in wordless confirmation.

Shane really had cheated on him in Boston.

When they took the ice, Scott had been sure that Ilya was going to be a dead man. To his surprise, Jordan avoided him. Scott had watched him check Cliff Marlow into oblivion, for some unclear reason, before he returned to normal. Goal-focused. Assisting. Puck swiping. Madder than a kicked hornet's nest, but keeping at least three arms' length from Ilya unless he was pulling the puck from him.

But Roz wasn't in the clear.

After overhearing Robbie and Carter conspiring on the bench to lay Rozanov out, Scott jumped in, telling them he would handle it. If they were serious about making it to the play-offs again this year, then Scott couldn't risk having either of them get a multi-game suspension for illegally turning Ilya into a pile of broken bones—even though he definitely deserved it.

So, Scott had tripped him. It was a far lesser punishment, but it satisfied the other guys enough to let Ilya slide through the rest of the game unscathed.

And then, after the game had ended, Jordan cancelled karaoke night abruptly and disappeared. It broke his heart to see Jordan so dejected, but there was nothing Scott could do. He had told Jordan not to get tangled up with Shane, tried to talk him out of dating him, and then encouraged him to break things off before the cheating occurred, but it was like Jordan was dedicated to letting things play out this way. Like he'd rather have the control than the happy ending.

Still bitter with him, Scott had knocked Rozanov's stupid smile off his face outside the arena, letting him know that he hadn't gotten away with anything. That Jordan knew.

“Not like Jordan to cancel on karaoke,” Kip had said as they pulled away from the parking lot. “What's he up to tonight?”

Scott had caught a glimpse of Jordan walking in the opposite direction from his apartment as they pulled out onto the main street. His eyes had been turned up to the sky, fixed, as if he were looking for something.

“I have no idea.”

When Scott turned up unannounced at his apartment after three days of radio silence, the door was unlocked. He was two steps inside when Honey nearly tackled him to the ground.

“Oh gosh, sorry!” She said, disappointed and flustered after realizing who he was. “I thought you were Jordan.”

“Wrong Admiral,” Scott glanced around the dim room. “I take it he's not here?”

Honey shook her head, her two symmetrical buns of curly hair bobbling as she frowned. “No, I came by to water his plants. I haven't seen him or heard from him since Sunday morning.”

“Almost a week,” Scott confirmed grimly. “Me neither. Have you talked to anyone at his restaurant?”

“Yeah, I stopped by and talked to his head chef, but she said she hadn't heard from him either. He even skipped his volunteer rotation on Thursday at Saint Patrick's. He's never done that before.” Honey's doe eyes had gone round, her voice pitching slightly.

“How was he on Sunday?” Scott gently put a hand on her arm, trying to ease her distress. “Did he say anything? Did he seem alright?”

“He said he was tired, that he wasn't feeling like himself. He went to the confessional after mass, and I lost track of him. I didn't see him leave.” Honey fiddled with her little cross necklace that sat between her collarbones. “I don't know what to do, Scott. I'm worried about him.”

Scott sighed heavily. He was worried too.

Jordan had skipped non-mandatory practice earlier this week, and then he skipped the mandatory one. He had ignored the team group message invite for drinks after tomorrow's game. Carter had pulled him aside after practice, showing him all his unanswered messages to Jordan—mostly invites to hang out or go drink.

Bragg doesn't wanna party? Something must be seriously, seriously wrong.

Scott racked his brain, but just like when Hollander had called him last week, he had no idea where Bragg could be.

He loved Jordan; he just wished he knew him better.

Scott knew the things that everyone knew about him, like how Jordan's favourite colour was green, that he liked scary movies, and he hated cilantro because it tasted like soap to him. Scott also knew a few things that most people didn't, like that his celebrity crush growing up was Pierce Brosnan, that he didn't think blondes were attractive, and that he ate mustard on his pizza.

And that his father was a monster.

But what about the real him? Jordan had only ever given him brief snippets, and it hadn't let Scott in enough. He wasn't sure what Jordan did when he felt like the world betrayed him. He didn't know what Jordan needed when he felt alone.

“Fuck,” Scott said into the dark apartment. “I'm not sure either.”

Scott exchanged phone numbers with Honey and hugged her goodbye in Jordan's lobby. They promised to keep each other in the loop if they heard anything.

Just as it was starting to look like he was going to be a no-show for their game against Detroit, Scott paused, his hands stilling as he pulled his socks on. The unmistakable sound of Jordan's singing voice in the distance was pinging off the arena halls, just outside the locker room.

“Don't go chasin' waterfalls,”

Jordan got louder and louder, accompanied by the groovy beat from the actual song itself, blasting from a speaker.

“Please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to.”

“Jordan!” Carter whooped, jumping to his feet just as Bragg slid into the room.

All the other guys began clamouring happily.

“Hey!”

“There's our boy!”

“We almost sent out a search party, Big Mouth! Where the hell have you been?”

Jordan didn't acknowledge anyone's pointed questions; instead, he cranked up the volume on his speaker, singing over people until they were laughing and shoving him as he danced towards his locker.

“Jordan, where the fuck—,” Scott took a few steps towards him, but Jordan ignored him, wiggling to the song enthusiastically as he got undressed.

“I know that you're gonna have it your way or nothing at all,”

“I called you like forty fucking times.”

“But I think you're moving too fast.”

Irritation grated Scott. He waited until Jordan was done yanking his shirt over his head before he grabbed him by the shoulder, forcing him to turn around. He wanted Jordan to be serious, even just for a second.

“Oh, ouch!” Carter gasped behind him. “What the hell, did you get that twenty minutes ago?”

Scott took a step back and looked at the cross tattoo that sat in the middle of his chest. It started below his collar bones, and it sat squarely between his pecs, the bottom stopping just before his ribcage. It was ornate, shaded with depth like it was pressed into his flesh; each end of it tapered sharply, unlike the blunt ends of typical crosses.

Scott didn't know anything about religion, being agnostic his entire life, but he thought it looked more like a weapon than a sign of faith. It also looked like it really, really hurt. The border of where black ink met flesh was tender-looking and pink.

Scott also didn't know anything about tattoos, but he was pretty sure that it would be agony to play hockey with a fresh one.

“Fuck dude, it looks sick!” Robbie strolled over and hung off Carter's shoulder. “Did that shit hurt?”

Jordan paused, his face going slack for a moment before he beamed brightly, his gap-tooth smile lighting up the entire locker room. “Nope!” He turned back to his locker, shooting Scott a quick wink before throwing his jersey on.

He skipped his compression shirt, probably because it would rub against the sore skin. Scott sighed and shook his head.

I don't believe you.

He wanted to keep talking to Jordan; he wanted to ask how he was doing—really doing, not his little bullshit happy act. He wanted to ask where he had disappeared to, or what went down between him and Ilya and Shane. He wanted to make sure Jordan was okay, or, at the very least, that he knew it was okay to not be okay.

But Jordan went right back to singing happily as he tied his skates on, changing the music to something faster and more upbeat. Scott watched him smile and sing to 'Pocketful of Sunshine' by Natasha Bedingfield.

“I got a pocket, got a pocket full of sunshine. I got a love, and I know that it's all mine, oh, whoa-oh. ” Jordan wobbled up off the bench, forcing Matti to dance with him. “Wish that you could, but you ain't gonna own me, do anything you can to control me no, oh no.”

Everyone laughed, a few people sang along with him or danced, but Scott felt something cold in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't watch Jordan and not feel the dark sarcasm underpinning everything he did. Every smile, every prom dance twirl, every hockey-stick-air-guitar solo. It wasn't real.

“Take me away, a secret place, a sweet escape,” Jordan hollered the lyrics as Robbie twirled and then dipped him. “Take me away, to better days, take me away!”

Jordan noticed, while upside down, that Scott was the only one not laughing along; his green eyes clouding dark. An unhappy smirk graced his lips, the scar running down the side of his mouth, healed and faded, lifted with the gesture. Since he was tipped back, his smile looked like a frown to Scott.

“Lighten up, Hunter.”

June 2019

The goal horn was surely deafening to the crowd, but to Scott, it was a distant sound—lost between the rush of his blood and the thundering of his heart.

Just like last year, there was a moment of surrealness, like he was floating above it all and looking down from a third-person perspective.

He could see his teammates skating in a rush towards him, spilling off the bench and flying to centre ice. He could see the crowd exploding, the mass of bodies blooming upwards as they cheered. He could see himself getting swallowed up by it all, just a small piece of something much bigger.

He could see Kip with his dad in the stands, hugging one another tightly, their cheeks pink from the cold. Just like last year, he hoped his mother and father were seeing him, somehow.

All at once, he was back in himself, blinking sweat from his eyes. Checking the scoreboard just in case he had imagined it, but there it was. Five to four. He did it. They did it. The Admirals had taken the Stanley Cup for the second year in a row; the 2019 championship belonged to New York.

Sticks and helmets and gloves were tossed down like confetti. Somewhere overhead in the cloud of noise, the announcement was declared, and then Scott was absolutely dogpiled from every direction as the Admirals crushed him in a heap.

“Fuck yeah!” Robbie was hollering in his face with tears in his eyes.

“Let's fucking go, baby!” Jess was jumping all over him.

Carter, Matti and Jordan were smashed into a hug beside him—Matti's huge hand reached over to smack him affectionately.

“Oh my God, oh my God!” Scott yelled back, stuck between his teammates who were both hugging him and pushing him with delight. “Holy fuck, boys!”

The big clump of them started to disperse slightly after a few minutes. They pulled apart and started more calmly hugging one another individually, congratulating each other while out of breath, their emotions in shambles.

“Fucking fantastic goal, Scott.” Jordan hugged him tightly. “I'm so proud to be on your team, man.”

“Fantastic assist, Jordan.” Scott choked back a lump in his throat and patted Jordan right back. “We couldn't have done it without you.”

Boston was left to skate off in defeat, rejoining their teammates on the bench to swallow the loss.

Scott made the rounds, thanking each of his teammates for all their hard work over the season. Everyone had put in a hundred and ten percent to make this dream a reality, and it finally paid off. In the disorganization of it all, Scott almost didn't see Jordan drifting, standing apart from everyone else. He was looking out across the rink; Scott followed his gaze to Ilya's jersey number.

Rozanov had taken his helmet off, his curls dark with sweat and his head hanging low. He was probably devastated that, despite his ability to turn the shaky season around for Boston, they just couldn't bring it home in the end.

Ilya slowly stopped by the boards where someone was waiting for him. Dark hair tucked beneath a Canadian flag toque and flushed, speckled cheeks. Hollander was clapping for him, a small encouragement in the face of a big loss.

Scott watched as Rozanov's face brightened, his disappointment melting away. Shane beamed right back, his hand flat against the glass. It was like watching two suns colliding into something unbelievably bright and unfathomably warm.

Sliding back into the invisible shadows that surrounded him, Scott wrapped his arm around Jordan's shoulders tightly.

“You won.” Scott tried to assure him, but it felt like he could hardly reach his teammate, despite the fact that he was right beside him.

“No,” Jordan said quietly before skating off to join his place in the handshake line-up. “He got me. It's checkmate.”

“Incredible game,” Scott overheard Ilya say when it was his turn to shake hands with Bragg. “Congratulations, Jordan.”

“Thank you, Ilya.” Jordan confidently met his eyes and smiled back. “It was a good one, wasn't it?”

Scott had just finished the last of the interviews when he remembered he had to grab his bag from the locker room. He left it behind in the whirlwind of cameras, reporters, and sports news anchor microphones being thrust in his face the second he stepped off the ice. He answered the same questions and repeated the same comments, which mainly consisted of him regurgitating the same three talking points over and over.

No, he couldn't believe it. Yes, they were still hungry for more. Obviously, he couldn't have done it without his boys. There was only so much he could say before he was left laughing and shaking his head.

They had won back-to-back cups. They felt untouchable. They felt like gods.

High on the sentiment of it all, Scott turned down the empty hall and slipped through the heavy door, making a beeline for his stuff.

The locker room was a complete mess, even after everyone cleared out. Pieces of confetti were glued to the walls and floor, stuck down with sticky champagne residue. Coach Harv had been generous enough to supply the expensive bottles, and Robbie and Carter were irresponsible enough to sabre them, hosing Scott down until he was drenched through his jersey.

Scott couldn't wait to get home and properly shower. Hopefully with Kip. Most of the boys were making a quick stop at home to clean up before they reconvened for the club.

Scott groaned inwardly at that thought. Tonight was going to be a long one.

Before he could dwell on how hungover he was going to be tomorrow morning, the sound of glass breaking from around the corner caught Scott's attention. He let the strap of his bag slither out of his hand and slowly turned around, hearing another small shattering sound.

“Hello?” Scott cautiously walked across the sticky floor towards the row of showers, toilets, and sinks just beyond the concrete bend.

There was no answer, but there was the sound of running water rushing as someone flicked on a tap.

Scott pushed on, turning the corner to find Jordan holding his hands under the water, his head down and low in front of a mirror that was obliterated. Razor-edged pieces were falling into the porcelain basin, crumbling from the crater that sat dead centre.

“Jordan…” The water rushing down the drain was tinted red. With a shaky breath, Scott leaned over and turned the tap off. “Talk to me.”

Jordan was still for a moment, his shoulders barely rising and falling with his shallow breath. When he lifted his head, Scott could see that he had been crying—his eyes were rimmed pink, and there was still wetness in their corners, his long lashes darkened and damp.

“You think this is bad?” Jordan used the back of his hand to rub a stray tear from his cheek. It left a watery, bloody smudge on his face. “You should see the other guy.” he nodded to the remnants of the mirror.

“Jordan,” Scott kept the fear he felt out of his voice, forcing it to be steady and soft instead. “Come on, man. Let's go.”

Jordan's hands were tight around the lip of the sink, like he was anchored there. His left one was dripping blood and water onto the floor. Scott stepped close to him and put a hand on his back, but Jordan couldn't pull his eyes off the remaining pieces of the mirror in front of him, his shattered reflection staring back.

“I look more like him every year.”

Scott leaned against the wall of the infirmary with his arms crossed as the medic finished patching up his hand. He didn't say a word; instead, he just observed.

Jordan was giggling, making jokes while small pieces of glass were tweezed from his knuckles. Scott watched his face closely as he lied, telling a tale about how he hurt his hand trying to sabre a champagne bottle that turned on him, exploding out instead of foaming up. The injury was pretty inconsistent with the story, but the nurse didn't seem to notice; she was too enthralled by Jordan's charisma.

It made Scott wonder if Jordan had to make up a lot of stories throughout his childhood, weaving a tapestry of fantastical explanations for how he got his black eyes and broken bones.

Once the medic left the room, Jordan smiled at Scott—it was devoid of anything real. Scott fucking hated when he smiled like that. Crossing over to stand in front of Jordan, Scott folded his arms again and waited.

They were back in the same infirmary room from when Jordan had his tooth punched out in September. Scott remembered how he found Jordan in here with Shane, flushed and mischievously coy, as if it wasn't blatantly obvious that they had been hooking up. Jordan had smiled at him as Scott lectured about how things were only going to get worse if he continued to go after Hollander. And now, ten months later, here they were, standing in the worst.

“Well?” Jordan's smile twitched, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “Aren't you going to say I told you so?”

“No, Jordan.” Scott softened, pulling him in tightly to his chest. “Come here, dude.”

For a moment, Jordan didn't cry; he only shook. It was a full-body tremble that Scott could feel reverberate in his bones. It was like he was terrified of something. Scott patted his back, only stopping when he felt a few cold tears pressing into the side of his chest.

“Scott?” Jordan's voice sounded small. He sounded fragile, like a little kid.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I'm not having a lot of fun.”

Scott felt a dull soreness in his heart. “I know.”

“I'm sorry, by the way.” Jordan sniffled and lifted his head. “Did I scare you?”

Scott considered the question. The answer was yes—it was always a bit off-putting seeing his mask slip off, but Scott wouldn't be deterred. Jordan was someone worth knowing, ugly parts and all. Even if he had to climb his walls before he found a way to knock them down, he would do it. To Scott, Jordan was family.

“A little,” Scott answered honestly, patting his shoulder.

To his surprise, Jordan met his eyes and smiled a bit, his dark eyes glinting with humour.

“See, I knew you were homophobic.”

Two Weeks Later

Scott was parked illegally along the street, looking up at Jordan's apartment building, hoping and praying that he was on his way down.

Carter was yammering about some article in the back seat—something about Rozanov. Scott was barely listening. He was too focused on the building's front door, the tinted glass not hinting at whether or not Bragg was on his way.

Scott had arranged a boys' trip to New Jersey to celebrate the cup win with a few of the Admirals, including Jordan. He was going to drive down with him and Carter, while Robbie drove down with Matti, Nolan and Jess. It was an Admirals' dynasty celebration—at least, that's what Scott had told people. The other, hidden motive was that Scott wanted to get Jordan the hell out of New York for a bit. And hopefully, out of his own head.

After Jordan had broken down post cup win, he had refused to leave his apartment. He laid in bed for days, uninterested in everything and everyone. He wouldn't cook, read, play chess, or party. It was bad—but at least this time Scott knew where he was.

Scott had gotten his apartment padlock code from Angela and let himself in at least once a day, checking in on Jordan, who barely responded to his presence. He had no idea what Jordan needed, but he wanted to be there, however he could.

Sometimes Angela would join too, and they would hang out with Jordan's ghost as he floated aimlessly around, zoned out and hardly speaking. She would water his plants and kiss his head while Jordan sulked wordlessly on his couch next to Scott. He once heard Angela sing Jordan to sleep with a Catholic hymn.

“Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord? I have heard you calling in the night.” Angela's gentle voice had warmed him from head to toe.

A few days later, Kip had come over with him and laid in Jordan's bed, giving him gossip and reality television updates in one-sided conversation. Vanderpump Rules this, Drag Race that—Scott couldn't follow any of it. Those shows gave him a headache. He sat on the end of the bed and watched Jordan give Kip an occasional small nod, or an even smaller smile.

Two days later, Scott had sincerely thought that someone had broken into Jordan's apartment when a pale blonde woman nearly busted down his door. He had been coming out of the bathroom when she stormed through without so much as a knock—her hands full of aluminum-wrapped containers.

“We'll need you, once your balls grow back.” The stranger had barely acknowledged Scott, stepping on his foot without an apology on her way to the kitchen. “Who's the old fart?”

Jordan hadn't given her a response, but he did grin for the first time in nearly two weeks from the sofa, his eyes following her like she was a tall platinum hurricane.

“I'm Scott, I'm…” Scott had stopped trailing after her, giving Jordan a what the fuck glance. “Who are you?”

“I'm fuckin' late is who I am.” Dropping her stuff on the counter, she had promptly rolled up the sleeve of her stained white shirt to check her watch. Her arms were covered in tattoos. “Tonight's rush is going to be a serious cunt-whack. Okay, gotta bounce. Bye, Jordan. Love you. Quit being a bitch.”

Scott had opened his mouth to say something, but his mind was blank. He wasn't sure he could even process what the hell this loud, crass woman had just said, but it didn't matter. Scott threw his hands up in defeat and shook his head as she slammed the front door behind her. Whoever she was, she was pretty—for a Tasmanian devil.

He had hesitantly investigated what she left behind, hoping it wasn't a bomb. Or drugs. Jordan seemed like the type of guy who could have a drug dealer.

It turned out to be Jordan's comfort food, which was grilled cheese on sourdough and tomato soup. That woman was a chef from Vicky's. He and Jordan ate together until Scott couldn't hold his laughter in any more.

“Cunt-whack?” he had whispered in disbelief, turning to Jordan with a befuddled expression. “Who the hell are these friends of yours?”

Jordan had laughed softly into his hand—it was the sweetest sound Scott had heard since the winning goal buzzer.

Then, two nights ago, Scott brought him Chinese takeout. He had cracked a beer and picked a random movie from the stack of Jordan's D.V.D's. Scott absolutely hated horror movies, but it was all Jordan owned. He put on The Shining and hoped that Jordan would crawl out of bed and join him. Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn't—Scott didn't mind, so long as Jordan knew he wasn't here alone.

“This is my favourite romantic comedy.” Jordan's remark startled the piece of orange chicken out of Scott's chopsticks. It was the first full sentence he had heard him speak since the infirmary.

“Hey,” Scott had replied gently, scooting over slightly. “Grab a beer, man.”

Scott could tell that he had recently showered; Jordan's chestnut waves had come back to life, and his skin was softer, his patchy facial hair shaved clean off. He smelled like incense, meaning at some point during the morning, he had gone to church. Scott's heart flipped over in his chest with excitement, but he didn't let it show on his face. Jordan was easy to spook from intimacy.

“Thanks,” Jordan sighed, grabbing a container of fried rice and flicking condensation from the styrofoam lid off his hand. “Ever notice how Wendy is reading The Catcher in the Rye in this scene?”

Scott turned his eyes back to the television. “I never notice when people are reading books in movies.”

“I always do.”

They ate in silence for a bit, Scott picking away at his chow mein. This was the most lively Jordan had been since the season ended, and he wanted to tread carefully—but he also wanted to do something. Offer encouragement, maybe? He didn't mind sitting in Jordan's darkness with him, but he also wanted to try to pull him from it.

“You feeling okay?” Scott tested the waters cautiously, knowing Jordan was a bit like an injured animal; quick to bite or run.

“Yeah, I'm cool. I'm better—or whatever.”

Scott knew that wasn't true, so he changed the subject. “Your movie collection looks like it belongs to a mental patient. Why not try watching something nice for a change?”

“I don't like romance movies,” Jordan said around an egg roll. “They're unrealistic.”

“But getting sawed in half by killer clowns isn't?” Scott picked up a horrible, creepy-looking D.V.D and turned the cover to Jordan. The Terrifier.

“Art doesn't even saw anyone in half in that movie,” Jordan scoffed at his utter lack of slasher film knowledge. “And statistically speaking, it's more likely to happen.”

“Then what?” Scott laughed loudly. “Falling in love? I don't think so.”

“Not for you, maybe.” Jordan smiled a genuine smile. “But definitely for me.”

“You're warped.”

“And you're old.” Scott felt hopeful as Jordan bumped him with his shoulder. “I like that we can just exist around each other, Hunter. Thank you for that.”

Scott relaxed into the couch with a small smile. He hadn't cooked for Jordan, he didn't know any fun news about celebrities, and he certainly didn't know how to sing gospel. Still, he was glad that, somehow, he had helped Jordan back onto his feet.

“No worries, Big Mouth.”

Just when Scott had started to think things were getting brighter, the underlying sadness Jordan carried with him pressed in on the room. Between that and the domestic argument between Jack and Wendy playing out on the television, Scott had started to feel antsy—like he was suffocating.

What did Jordan do to help other people out of their slumps?

He didn't want Jordan to backslide. Scott thought for a minute as Wendy screamed, swinging a bat at Jack's head while walking backwards up a staircase. Jordan's philosophy of laughing through miserable times wasn't sustainable long-term, but for a weekend…?

“I think we should go to New Jersey for three days.” Scott blurted out as Shelley Duvall's character ran for her life through the hallways of the Overlook Hotel. "Bars, casinos, D.J's and boardwalks. You know, a real bender. To celebrate and have some...fun."

Jordan had turned the volume down a smidge, then pivoted to look at him strangely, like he had grown another head. “...You hate fun.”

“I do not hate fun,” Scott playfully shoved his shoulder, and to his relief, Jordan smiled again. “Say you'll come. I'll invite the boys who are still bumming around New York—it'll be great."

Scott had no idea if it would make him feel better or not, but God damn it. He was going to try.

"I don't know..."

“Oh, come on, Jordan.” Scott had ruffled his hair. “Lighten up.”

Despite his pestering text messages, Jordan hadn't confirmed or denyed whether or not he was down for the New Jersey trip. Scott had merely texted him a time for pick-up, booked him a room, and hoped.

Some of the guys whined that they should go to Vegas instead, but Scott shut it down. Jordan might not have the most pleasant memories of Vegas. Besides, New Jersey was close, greasy, and just the right type of fun Bragg needed. A little rough around the edges. A bit trashy. Slightly troubling. It would be perfect. Scott got the impression that maybe Jordan was growing tired of acting so...polished. The goal of this weekend was to let him be himself—whoever that was.

“Damn, they really did it.” Scott's attention was pulled away from Jordan's apartment door as Carter pushed his cellphone into his face. “Look, out together and everything. Shameless, dude.”

The article he had pulled up was from some celebrity tabloid website, a photo of Ilya Rozanov, Captain of the Boston Raiders, hand in hand with Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Metros. They were smiling and strolling down the street somewhere in Boston, only partially recognizable behind sunglasses and ballcaps, but it was definitely them. Ilya was pressing his mouth to the side of Shane's head, like he was kissing him or telling him a secret, and Shane's face was scrunched up in a laugh, his cheeks pink.

'Long-Time Rival Turned Lover: Shane Hollander Spotted Again with Ilya Rozanov. Fueling more romance rumours, the pair have been spotted together more frequently since February. Although neither has publicly commented on the speculation, fans are all on board for this star-crossed romance…'

Damn it. Scott thought miserably. It was likely Jordan had seen that—and if he hadn't, it was only a matter of time.

Shane and Ilya had kept their relationship lowkey for the first few months, especially since the timeline with Jordan made it look...well, a bit bad. But the more time passed, the more comfortable they were being out together. Now that the season was officially over, Scott guessed he'd be hearing a lot more about it. He just hoped Jordan wouldn't.

“Screw these guys,” Carter muttered, ever faithful to Jordan. “Talk about tactless. Hollander is such a—.”

“Don't,” Scott warned. “You know he wouldn't want you to.”

After unconfirmed rumours started spreading that Ilya and Shane were an item mid-season, everyone wanted to throw dirt on their names. The Admirals' locker room had been a swirling vortex of nasty insults. Jordan, however, had intervened with a simple rule: anyone could say whatever they wanted about Rozanov, but they had to leave Hollander out of it.

To Scott, it had seemed backwards; Shane was the one who cheated. But he didn't argue with Jordan. For whatever reason, Bragg was too soft towards Shane to let his name be dragged through the mud.

“Put that shit away,” Scott hissed over his shoulder as Jordan approached the passenger side door suddenly, sneaking up on them.

Carter quickly tucked his phone into his pocket and painted on a smile to hide his guilt. “Hey, dude!”

“Yo,” Jordan yawned as he slipped into the car, throwing his bag at his feet. “Nice car, Hunter. I didn't know they sold these to men.”

“Haha,” Scott rolled his eyes. “Sorry that it's not cool like yours. I prefer safety.”

“I could've driven us, you know,” Jordan offered as he clipped in his seatbelt. “What, do you think I'm so depressed about Rozanov and Hollander that I'd drive us off a bridge?”

Scott winced, and Carter coughed into his hand. It seemed too soon to joke about it for most people, but that never stopped Jordan before.

“Okay, fair point.” Jordan threw his head back and laughed when no one else did. “Are we going to sit here and add to New York's pollution all day, or are we going to go party?”

The three of them chatted excitedly about the weekend ahead of them as they inched towards the George Washington Bridge to jump onto the I-95 towards New Jersey. Carter had broken up with his last girlfriend mid-season and was excited to be single at the same time as Jordan again, deeming him the world's best wingman.

“Best assists in the league, on or off the ice!” Carter shook Jordan's shoulders from behind him. “Let's go, baby!”

“I'd like to prove to Kip that gambling is more than a total waste of time,” Scott smiled into traffic. “If I can just break even, then I can go home with my head held high. What about you, Jordan?”

“Your Portuguese ass needs a tan,” Carter teased. “All that time inside has you looking like a vampire.”

“I guess I'll try to keep my bed and my liver warm.” Jordan's small smile wavered a bit. “I left my cellphone behind so I can, uh, focus on fun.”

Carter gave him an atta-boy pat on the shoulder. “That's the spirit, man. Let's get loose.”

Scott noticed Jordan's eyes clouding slightly, his shoulders sagging against the passenger seat. It was clear he had seen all the stuff about Shane and Ilya—and while it wouldn't have been a surprise to him, it probably still hurt. A heavy silence blanketed the car as they crawled to a stop in traffic, and Scott saw Jordan rest his head against the window, his eyes glued to the sky.

Scott handed Jordan the aux cord, prompting him to play some of his terrible music. He would take horribly graphic rap or annoying 2000s pop songs over the hush of his teammate's heartbreak any day.

Jordan blinked at him in disbelief. “What, really?”

“Yes, really.” Scott smiled and rolled his eyes. “Do your worst, Big Mouth. Take it!”

Jordan grinned and connected his phone, scrolling through his catalogue. But then, he paused for a moment, like he wasn't satisfied with anything he was seeing.

“Do you mind if I play some breakup songs? I'm not trying to bum anyone out, but I'm feeling sort of…” Scott watched whatever Jordan was going to say dissolve on his tongue.

“Sure, man.” Scott encouraged him gently. “Whatever you feel like.”

Scott had no idea what he was in for. Was Jordan going to belt his tortured soul out to Since You Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson? Would he and Carter be subjected to miserable heartbreak ballads like Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri for the next hour and a half? Did rappers even do breakup songs?

Jordan cranked the volume and rolled down his window as a surprisingly upbeat and sunny-sounding song started to bounce through the sound system. The vocals were high, backed by a synth-heavy and punchy track that made it sound like it should be playing in a club. It didn't sound like a heartbreak tune to Scott.

“Is this…?” Scott shared a confused, narrowed glance with Carter from the rear-view mirror.

“...Justin Bieber?” Carter shouted around Jordan's headrest. “Seriously?”

Of course. Jordan was fucking around.

“Yeah, man, he's a Canadian icon!” Jordan whooped with a huge smile, hanging himself out of his window while singing along loudly—much to the enjoyment of a group of girls in the red convertible next to them in traffic.

Scott tried to hide, mortified, as Jordan attempted to serenade them. He was shrinking down in his seat while Carter rolled his window down to flirt too. It appeared he and Jordan were both starting early on their shenanigans.

This is going to be one hell of a long weekend.

Scott tried to be annoyed, but he was far too happy.

Jordan seemed a bit like Jordan again. Not the fake, overly happy one—the real one. The silly, cynical, loudmouth with a self-sabotaging streak. He seemed a little more honest than he was a few months ago.

Scott really liked the real version of him.

The one thing he didn't like was that Jordan loved making a circus of things. Including being stuck in traffic on the way to New Jersey.

“Oh my God, Jordan!” Scott scolded him, grabbing him by the material of his t-shirt. “Get back in the car!”

He was unbuckled, his entire upper body now out of the window as he flirted with girls he wasn't even attracted to, purely for the love of the game. Scott dipped his head around Jordan's torso to see the four young women losing their minds, smiling and laughing. One of them was filming him on her cellphone.

“I just need somebody to love. I don't need too much, just somebody to love,” Jordan had singled out the girl in the driver's seat, a gorgeous brunette with freckles.

He was singing to her passionately, as if he was convinced they could have a future together for real. Jordan reached out to her, but their fingers just missed; the distance between the cars was too great. It left him dramatically reaching towards her as he belted out the lyrics, loudly and enthusiastically.

“Is she out there? Is she out there…? Oh, I just need somebody to love!”

Scott smiled and shook his head, relieved and concerned all at the same time. In a few hours, he was sure he'd be woken up by worse. It would be way too early, and he would be hungover. It would be something from the greatest hits of the 2000s—an earworm that would be stuck in his head for the rest of the trip, no doubt. And it would be coming from his drunk teammate, who passed out in his hotel room bathtub.

Jordan would be okay.

You know. Probably.

Chapter End Notes

Alexa, play Justin Bieber's Somebody to Love because that song unironically slaps. 💕

Whoooaaaaa. Scott chapter to close us out before the epilogue.Fear not! The final chapter is back in Shane's P.O.V.

And then we're…done? Isn't that weird? Well, technically, then we have the sequel story, but Still. Damn. Crazy.

My hotel Wi-Fi is total Butt, so I'll edit this chapter when I'm back home.

Be good. Be brave. Do not hang out of moving car windows on the I-95 like Jordan Bragg, and if you ever feel like crashing out over a man, just know that my version of the New York Admirals support you 100%. Go to New Jersey and party like a dynasty team, baby. 😎💕

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go do financial forecasting for my company as if my life does not exclusively revolve around writing stories about fictional gay hockey players.

I Love You. Thank You for Reading. 💕💕💕-Macy

Chapter 27: Epilogue

Chapter Notes

This chapter contains interactive elements. To open the letters on mobile, you'll need to tap. Desktop reading should open automatically when you hover or scroll over it (unless it explodes and breaks again, in which case I'm going to scream-cry).

Enjoy! :)-Macy

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Epilogue

June, 2021

Post-ceremony, Ilya and Shane were both love-drunk. There was simply no other word for it.

They were sober, but they were still stumbling all over each other, smiling and kissing as they snuck back into their house while their guests were preoccupied.

Their backyard was absolutely packed. The last Shane saw, Hayden was bouncing Amber in his arms while Jackie fed him a bite of cake. A few of the Metros were mooning nervously over Rose, who was busy chatting with Svetlana. His mom and dad were talking the ear off their officiant, and Cliff was regaling some of the younger Centaurs with glory-day stories about him and Ilya. Hopefully something appropriate.

Somewhere in the garden area, Shane had spotted Jade and Ruby, who were trying to put little sparkly butterfly clips on Anya's ears. They kept sliding off her silky reddish-brown fur, much to their frustration. Lucky for the Pike girls, Anya was a good and patient puppy—the best puppy. She even wore a tiny bowtie for the ceremony.

Even though Shane had never felt particularly drawn to animals, he couldn't picture their life without her in it. She completed their home here, in Ottawa. The three of them were a little family, especially now that he and Ilya were married. As of an hour and twenty-six minutes ago.

It had been a long time coming.

Amazingly, after an endless decade of wanting, the last two years of getting felt like a total blur to both of them.

At first, they decided to slowly drip-feed the media hints about their relationship. A few dates here, a bit of hand-holding there—it turned out that Shane really did like public affection, after all. Once a few months had passed, they started getting more brazen, testing the waters as they ramped up to the first big obstacle: the official statement.

It caused a massive media stir. While most fans had speculated for a while, some still felt totally blindsided.

It was headline news in the sports world for what felt like a full calendar year, drawing both support and criticism. The public whirlwind was a storm he and Ilya weathered together happily, because they wanted this—they needed this. They couldn't wait a second longer.

After coming out as a couple—an engaged couple, at that—things began moving so fast that Shane sometimes felt like he missed important details. It felt like one minute he was doing something simple and mundane, like labelling the food in the pantry in Russian so he could pick up the language faster, and the next minute, Ilya had signed with Ottawa, closing his chapter with the Boston Raiders.

If Cliff Marlow hadn't liked him before, Shane knew for a fact that he had hated his guts for at least a few months after that.

Luckily, Marlow had come around. He seemed more than willing to bury the hatchet today, looking handsome and all cleaned up in his dark brown suit. Shane watched him stand behind Svetlana and get misty-eyed while their officiant, Nancy, went through the standard matrimony motions.

Cliff had come stag despite being offered a plus-one for his girlfriend. It appeared Honey actually couldn't stand Shane. Which was reasonable, all things considered.

Shortly after Shane and Ilya's first kiss as a married couple, Cliff had shaken his hand firmly and teased him slightly.

“Good luck running now, Hollander.”

Shane had squeezed his hand back, surprised by how thankful he felt. In a strange way, Cliff had always been in their corner, even when Shane thought there was no corner to be had.

Embarrassingly, Shane felt himself get a little teary. Especially when Marlow stated the obvious.

“I told you he loved you.”

He had. How many times had Shane heard that fact and still failed to believe it? Maybe a small part of him still couldn't, despite how they had just legally declared it in front of everyone they loved. How could something this good be true?

Every day since Ilya picked him up from New York, Shane felt like he was living the impossible dream. He loved every minute of it.

He loved the endless paperwork to get Ilya into Canada, how difficult Russian was to learn, and the highs and lows of couples counseling. He loved how, after every argument, big or small, they slept in the same bed. Shane loved Ilya telling him that he was a pain in the ass. He loved telling Ilya he was being an asshole. Most of all, Shane loved how, when either one of them left and slammed the door behind them because they needed time or space, the other person would still be there waiting on the other side.

Shane thought that, if he had the eloquence to put that into words, he would have written them for vows. But he knew he didn't have to. He and Ilya were more than vows.

They were dog walks at sunset and lovemaking at sunrise. They were kale smoothies Monday to Friday and slurpees on warm Saturdays. They were lazy grocery shopping on Sundays, strolling hand-in-hand down the cereal aisle while bickering about which one made the milk afterwards taste the best.

The wedding was really just a bonus to them.

A permanent mark on a calendar. A legal decree. Two rings and a promise of forever—the forever they had been inching towards for ten years.

They were both so excited about just being together all the time that the wedding date snuck up on them, and both he and Ilya realized they had barely planned anything at all. They were lucky to have remembered to send out the wedding invitations.

Shane and Ilya had both fumbled in trying to plan the event. Shane had been too picky about the caterers, and then he accidentally deleted the spreadsheet he had with everyone's dietary restrictions. Ilya had crashed out over the florals because he was worried some were poisonous to dogs, and he realized too late that almost all his music was explicit rap songs, which didn't work for a wedding.

Thankfully, Shane's mom had stepped in to assist her two helpless sons. For God's sake, they hadn't even considered chairs. And his mother, of course, did a fantastic job; everything was beautiful.

The backyard was alive with small string lights, bright floral centrepieces of animal-safe flowers, nicely organized tables and chairs. He and Ilya couldn't have asked for anything more intimate and lovely.

With all of the details out of the way, Shane and Ilya were given a chance to settle into each other fully. Surrounded by everyone who cared about them. Supported. In love. Married.

They were fucking married.

Now, at long last, the two of them could be together, and just…breathe.

“Oh,” Shane gasped, all the air tumbling out of him as Ilya picked him up and threw him down onto the bed. “Wait, hold on, Ilya.”

They had managed to sneak away after the cake cutting. To create a bit of a distraction, Ilya asked one of the Centaur rookies, Luca Haas, to hop on D.J duty and play something to make people dance. Shane had asked Rose to hand out the glasses of champagne to every guest who had an empty hand.

“Why?” Rose had clocked him immediately and wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Are your hands full?”

“Shut up,” Shane had blushed before giving her a quick kiss on the side of her head. “And thank you.”

“Hey, you told me you loved me first, jerk!” Rose had teasingly called after him as Shane slipped through the shuffle of people towards Ilya.

He looked so fucking perfect. His suit was a deep mahogany, his curls were neatly combed back, and he was smiling so brightly it made Shane's head swim.

Forever. Ilya was his forever.

Shane was spinning out of control with the thought when he finally reached him.

“Can you help me with something inside for a second?” Shane had asked sweetly, hoping he could kiss Ilya more indulgently in the privacy of their kitchen for a while.

There was a thin line between public affection and public indecency.

No one noticed he and Ilya sneaking away—or, maybe they politely ignored it. They had snuck around plenty of times in their life, but this time was different. This time was special.

“We've only been married for a few hours,” Shane gasped warmly against the side of Ilya's head as he rolled his hips up, grinding himself ruthlessly against his husband. “Can't you wait?”

“Seems like it's you who can't wait.” Ilya took a break from abusing Shane's neck with rough but tender kisses to smile down at him.

They were back in the guest room Shane had gotten ready in this afternoon, only now he was getting undressed, quickly, by Ilya's frantic hands the moment they released Shane's wrists.

“We already had sex this morning.” Shane grinned dizzily as his dark navy suit pants hit his ankles.

“Yes, but you were my fiancé then!” Ilya said matter-of-factly as he finally got his belt undone. “I want to fuck my husband, now, please.”

Shane's head swam again, and he closed his eyes, feeling the deep warmth that lived in his heart blush onto his cheeks. With shaky hands, he unbuttoned his dress shirt while Ilya swore at his uncooperative tie.

“Say that again?” Shane whispered the plea as Ilya stood completely naked in front of him—starkly bare, except for the wedding ring on his finger.

And his socks, which made Shane's eyes prickle.

Neither Shane nor Ilya thought of themselves as traditionally romantic. They hadn't written vows for one another, and instead opted for the standard ones that Nancy prepared. Shane's mother had picked out the flowers to be pinned to the lapels of their suits: a sprig of baby's breath for Shane, a soft orange carnation for Ilya. They didn't make a big mushy public show of their marriage online, either. It was just a flat statement, like saying the sky is blue, or my steak is rare.

'We are getting married.'

A simple caption for a simple conclusion, posted under a photo of him and Ilya. It was taken at their cabin last summer at sunset. Ilya was kissing him on the side of Shane's head, and Shane was smiling so hard his whole face was scrunched. He hadn't even been aware Ilya was taking the photo until Ilya was scrolling through his camera roll, looking for a good photo to use for the announcement.

The public and the media were all over them for months. Shane and Ilya both turned down countless press offers up to a million dollars for the opportunity for anything—a photo, a video, something of the wedding. Neither of them had any interest.

They were both already overwhelmed with the guest headcount. Thankful, of course, but also overwhelmed. They had been a secret for so long that both of them had to adjust to everyone knowing. But it was nice, sharing their story and their truth with everyone.

Although secretly they did keep one thing for just the two of them.

Today, Ilya wore one of Shane's socks, and Shane wore one of Ilya's. It wasn't jaw-droppingly romantic, but it was a little nod to all they overcame to be here today. Together in the sun, surrounded by the people they loved, with their entire lives ahead of them. An impossible dream coming true. Inevitable mess. Unrelenting love. The joining of an unlikely pair.

Ilya leaned down, kissing him slowly as he worked lubricant over his fingers.

“My husband,” he murmured in Russian. “My love.”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut. He had barely made it through their vows without crying, so now seemed like as good a time as any to let the bursting tears of happiness fall. He locked his legs tightly around Ilya's waist, crossing one ankle over the other. One foot in his sock, the other in Ilya's.

“I love you,” Shane whispered back in Russian as Ilya kissed the wetness on his face.

It didn't matter what language they were speaking; they always found a way to understand one another.

“I love you more.” Ilya worked his slicked fingers carefully inside him, his eyes pinned to Shane's lust-struck expression.

He's so beautiful. Shane felt his heart trip over itself like it had in that crappy hotel gym when he was just a lovesick kid. If only he could go back and tell his nineteen-year-old self everything that was to come. That somehow, despite everything, it had still led here. It all ended like this.

Oh well. No spoilers.

Ilya worshiped Shane's body sweetly with fluttering kisses, inching down teasingly before swallowing Shane's cock into his mouth. When Shane groaned and bucked his hips up off the mattress, he met Ilya's gaze briefly, intense and scolding hot.

Instantly, he was reminded of the dream he had when Ilya had driven them back to his old apartment in Boston after leaving New York that cold, miserable Sunday morning.

It had been the last time he had dreamt of the leopard.

In his dream, he had turned his back on the exit he previously stumbled across, its sign glowing neon pink unnaturally in the dark.

That's the easy way out, Shane had thought to himself in a haze as he moved slowly through the jungle foliage. There was a time when he would have died for it, but now…

I don't want that. I want…

He had been struck with a profound loneliness; it had nearly carried him off his feet like a wave as he searched around. Previously, when he dreamt of this strange place, the leopard's presence was inescapable. Now, in the wake of his absence, Shane felt utterly lost.

The club-jungle hybrid had begun pulsing like it had its own heartbeat. Panic surged within him as he fought back against the leaves that blocked his view and the vines that threatened to tangle his feet.

Where are you? Shane had begged desperately, feeling more disoriented the faster he ran. Please, come back. I don't want to do this without you.

Breaking through a dense patch of greenery, he fumbled into a small clearing, totally breathless.

There, before him, curled up and asleep like a giant housecat, was the leopard. Its tail and ears twitched as Shane came crashing forward, but he didn't open his eyes. Shane's heart fluttered with both nervousness and relief.

There you are.

Pushing caution aside, Shane had closed the gap between him, frustrated by how slow he moved in his dreams. It felt like the few feet to get to him took years, or decades. How was he always so close, yet still just out of reach? By the time he sank down next to him, the leopard's eyes were open, staring deeply into Shane's.

Thank God. Shane had reached to run his fingers through the spotted fur along the sides of his face. I thought I lost you.

To his shock, the leopard recoiled. His hazel eyes went wide, as if he were afraid.

I'm not going to hurt you.

Shane tried again. The tips of his fingers brushed against the metal of the animal's gold crucifix, shockingly cold against the otherwise warm body. Shane closed his eyes as the leopard shifted to sit up, its large head twisting into the crook of his neck.

He thought, briefly, back to the first time he ever had this dream. The woman in the black dress, limp and lifeless in this creature's mouth. Those same deadly fangs were less than an inch from his jugular now, the hot breath escaping between them making the hair on the back of Shane's neck stand on end.

I won't run. Shane wrapped his arms tightly around the animal and felt warmth explode from within him. He never wanted to let go—but then the sharp, unmistakable call of a loon howled overhead.

Shane gasped and looked up in his dream for the very first time. There was no industrial club ceiling, and there was no blue jungle sky. It was a clear, star-filled blanket of navy with the blackened silhouettes of birds flying overhead—just like at home, in Ottawa.

Shane's mouth fell open in disbelief, and he had slowly lowered his gaze to meet Ilya's, who was softly smiling at him. The leopard was gone. The leopard never was. It was only the two of them, naked but unashamed in this bizarre place. They held on to one another like it could anchor them to the turning world beneath them.

I think this entire thing has just been one big nightmare.

Shane wasn't sure if he was speaking out loud or not, but it didn't matter. Ilya had heard him anyway. He leaned forward and kissed him gently, so warm and electrifying it no longer felt like a dream. It didn't seem possible that his mind could create something so real.

Then maybe it's time to wake up, Shane.

And Shane had. The jungle-world, washed in neon lights, unspooled around them, as if someone had pulled a loose thread. He had woken up in Ilya's arms, in Boston, unsure if it was night or day. It seemed like the past seventy-two hours were nothing but one long, chaotic dream, bathed in neon light and stars.

A few months later, when they were about to move in together, Shane had gone to help Ilya pack up his Boston apartment. While boxing up his closet, Ilya had pulled out the shirt he wore that night all those years ago in Ultra Violet. It was a designer piece by Jean Paul Gaultier—it was very Ilya. The pattern on the front and down the sleeves was that of a leopard's pelt.

“Want me to throw it away?” Ilya had offered when he snuck up behind him, catching Shane holding it and running his hands over the fabric. “Does it bring back bad memories?”

“Nah,” Shane had turned and kissed him on the cheek. “I like it.”

Since then, all of Shane's dreams had been sweeter. Softer. But none could ever compare to the waking world, where every day with Ilya was better than dreaming.

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya gently held his face in his hands, and he kissed him breathlessly as he moved inside of him, his golden crucifix brushing gently against Shane's chest.

“Ilya,” Shane couldn't help but whine his name, already gone from pleasure. “Ilya. Please?” He wasn't even sure what he was asking for anymore. He already had everything he wanted, right here, in this moment.

“I'm here,” Ilya pressed his mouth close to Shane's ear as he frantically thrust them together. “I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

“Love you,” Shane clung to his husband with all his strength as he began to break down. “So much.”

Shane really hoped everyone was still in the backyard. Neither of them were making an effort to be quiet.

“I love you more,” Ilya winced as he began chasing his high, his fingers locked tightly in Shane's hair as his hips snapped against him harder and harder.

“Not possible,” Shane managed to grit out just before he completely unravelled, crying out in sobs as he came.

Ilya was quick to follow, shuddering to a stop only a moment later. When he laid himself flat against the mess between them, Shane took the opportunity to run his hands through Ilya's curls, which were no longer neat and tidy. Ilya hummed happily against the crook of his neck in response to the touch.

“You're purring.” Shane teased him, keeping his eyes closed as he soaked up the blissful moment.

“I am happy,” Ilya murmured, his soft lips brushing against Shane's jugular. “Happy enough to eat you.”

By the time they were cleaned up and back into their suits, they had been gone for a suspicious amount of time. Shane bickered with Ilya about how they should have waited—people would know what they had been up to in here.

“Then they should have cheered for us outside the door,” Ilya remarked back sarcastically. “Oh, great. Where the hell is my sock?”

As they slipped out of their guest bedroom, Shane heard the sound of the patio door opening and closing, followed by two voices floating down the hall.

“Act normal,” Shane smoothed the front of his dress shirt quickly, but it did little for the wrinkles it had developed while balled up on the floor.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Act normal in my own house. Yes, I got it. I can't let people know I have sex with the person I'm married to.”

Shane shot him a wary look before heading toward the living room. He thought maybe the champagne tower went badly and someone needed the first-aid kit, or maybe his mother was looking for them so she could have the photographer take a million more photos. To Shane's surprise, he found Scott and Kip in their living room.

“Oh, would you look at these!” Kip was pointing at the framed photo Ilya had given Shane for Christmas last year; the one from their campaign shoot when they had both been rookies.

Nose to nose, smiling, so unprofessional, and blatantly head-over-heels for each other. How no one guessed sooner that they were totally in love with each other was lost on Shane.

“How cute!” Kip beamed.

“Their whole house is like a shrine to hockey and each other. Fuckin' weirdos.” Scott laughed softly, then turned with a caught expression as Shane and Ilya entered the space. “Oh, hey. We were just talking about you two. Congratulations, fellas.”

“Hey,” Shane smiled and crossed the living room to hug each of them quickly. “Thanks for making the trip up here, you guys. It means a lot.”

“Yes, you travelled a long way to make fun of our decor.” Ilya shook Scott's hand at first, but then gave in and hugged him too.

Shane's heart felt full watching the exchange. He felt unbelievably lucky to have so many people here who cared about them. For years, he had been certain that a reality with Ilya and a reality where his life wasn't destroyed couldn't coexist—and yet, a few feet away in their backyard, it was happening.

Raiders were drinking with Metros, their ex-girlfriends were discussing the most versatile heels, and his mother was bullying the Centaurs about something, he was sure. Against all odds, it worked out. Ilya was even bear-hugging an Admiral.

A sharp sting briefly pinched Shane's heart. Scott wasn't the only Admiral they had invited.

After a long conversation about it, Shane and Ilya agreed that, despite the disaster of it all, they wanted to invite Jordan. Shane was floored when Ilya was not only amenable to the idea but strongly encouraged it. He confessed that, as much as he irritated the fuck out of him, Ilya found Jordan to be funny. Strange, but funny. Moreover, Ilya believed that Jordan was an important part of Shane's life, even if his role had changed. He had assured Shane that the petty jealousy that used to run away with him like a wild animal was tamed now.

So, after making Ilya promise there would be no punches thrown during the wedding, Shane had nervously sent Jordan the invite.

Jordan Bragg

350 W 57th St

New York, N.Y 10019

Hi Jordan,

Long time no talk.How have you been? I hope you've been good.I'm writing to let you know that Ilya and I are getting married this summer, on the 20th of June.

I wanted to send you a hand-written invitation myself. Our address is 1148 Laurier Ave W, Ottawa, Ontario.The ceremony starts around 3 pm, but people can show up whenever.It would mean a lot to me if you came, but no pressure.

I've missed you.This is Shane, by the way.Hollander.

Time had ticked on, and they still hadn't received any confirmation of whether or not Jordan was coming. Shane had sent Jordan a few texts; one wishing him happy birthday last August, then another to check in when Jordan was taken out of the season due to a back injury he got while playing against Minnesota. Both went unread.

They had only seen each other in person twice since they broke up—both times during a game against one another. The first time, Jordan looked right through Shane, as if he wasn't even there. The second time he looked almost startled, like he forgot Shane was the captain of the Metros. Both times Shane had tried to smile or pluck up the courage to say something to him, but both times he failed. They ended up skating past one another like they were strangers.

Then, about two weeks ago, the wedding invitation was returned with a stamp on it.

[Not at this Address]

Jordan Bragg

350 W 57th St

New York, N.Y 10019

Shane called the number on the bottom of the stamp, confused. Had Jordan moved? And if so, would the old place have his forwarding address on file? He would hate for Jordan to think that he wasn't getting an invite—whether he wanted it or not.

Shane's confusion only deepened when he reached the building's superintendent.

“I'm sorry, no one with the last name Bragg has residency here.”

“Oh, alright.” Shane had stepped out onto the patio since Ilya was playing some loud-ass video game in the living room. “He lived there just over a year ago. Did he leave his new address?”

“No, I'm sorry, sir. We have no Jordan Bragg on file. No one with that name has lived here.”

Shane flipped the envelope around and double-checked the address. He had it correct. “That can't be right.”

“I have our tenants' file in front of me, pal.” The super had huffed. “Maybe you have the wrong building? Or the wrong last name?”

“He's a very famous hockey player!”

“I know who he is, but I'm telling you he's never lived here. Not according to my file, anyway. Look, I'm a busy guy, and you can't even verify any information about your so-called buddy. Legally speaking, I can't go rattling off our tenants' names.” Shane had heard the impatience in his voice increase. “If you're some sort of stalker or fan, I'll have you know our building has twenty-four-hour security and—.”

Shane had hung up on him. He thought about calling Scott, but decided he had pulled Hunter into enough of their messes. So Shane tried to let it go. But he still included him in the headcount of guests. Just in case.

“Your place is so cute, Shane!” Kip smiled, then extended the box he had in his hands forward. “There was no table outside for this, so we came in here.”

“Guys,” Shane gently scolded. “We said no gifts! Seriously, just coming here is more than enough.”

Shane watched as Kip and Scott exchanged a nervous glance.

“It's not from us,” Scott said, his eyes wandering without a destination between him and Ilya. “It's from Jordan. Since he couldn't, um…be here.”

“Oh…” Shane heard his voice grow thin, crackling slightly. He shook his head quickly and shrugged. “Oh, okay. Thanks for bringing it.”

So he knew we were getting married after all. He knew the time and the place—but he still didn't come.

Shane concealed any ounce of disappointment from that fact and graciously took the gift. There was no telling what Scott and Kip knew, and Shane wasn't about to get into it. Not on his wedding day of all days.

Scott awkwardly cleared his throat. “I think I need another drink. How about you, love?”

“Dying for one,” Kip curled his arm around Hunter's. “See you two out there!”

“Bye-bye,” Ilya held open and then closed the sliding patio door behind them, then watched them rejoin the mingling crowd.

Shane groaned after he was sure both men were gone. “I'm still so awkward about it.”

“Yes," Ilya said, partially sympathetic, partially amused. "You looked like they handed you a bomb.”

“Well!” Shane felt his cheeks turning pink. “I still feel…”

Guilty. I was horrible. And I miss him. And that makes me feel even worse.

Ilya stood next to him and kissed the side of his face. “I know, sweetheart. But maybe this is like an olive branch. Comes in peace, or whatever. Open it.”

Shane slightly rotated the box. It was pretty. The paper was a glossy light pink and had a massive white ribbon bow in the centre, with a small card tucked behind one of the pretty loops.

Hesitantly, Shane took it over to the kitchen island and plucked the envelope free, his hands shaking slightly. He relaxed a little when Ilya put a comforting hand along the small of his back. With a deep breath, he unfolded the delicate stationery and immediately wanted to cry. Jordan's handwriting was as bad as he remembered it.

Shane Hollander

1148 Laurier Ave W, on K1Y 2Y5

Ottawa, Canada

Holly,

Congratulations on tying the knot! Can't say I'm surprised.

I'm sorry I couldn't attend; I'm getting a gold tooth put in today.

Have a drink or ten for me, sloppy. If your suit is Reebok, please don't ever tell me.

Enjoy the broken-nose snoring, now you're stuck with it for life.

P.S., Here's something sexy to wear on your wedding night. Treat it with care.

I love you, too, by the way. But you knew that already.

-J.B

Shane swallowed stiffly, his eyes blurring with tears that threatened to spill before he got to the final line on the card.

He had wanted Jordan to show up today so badly, but he understood why he didn't come. It was still too hard, at least for now. Perhaps one day, when the sting was gone, they could reconnect properly, and Shane could love Jordan as the great man he was, as a friend.

Shane handed the card to Ilya, who was trying to peer over his shoulder, nosy and impatient. While Ilya read, Shane pulled on the white ribbon's tail to unravel the large bow, then lifted the lid and set it to the side.

He wasn't sure what to expect. With Jordan, it could have literally been anything. It could have been one of those confetti traps that made a huge mess upon opening. It could have been a coupon to that disgusting restaurant with the donut burgers. It could have been his knocked-out tooth.

“Ha!” Shane couldn't contain his shocked laughter, his hand flying to his mouth. “No fucking way!”

“What?” Ilya stopped reading the card abruptly, peering down into the box.

There, folded neatly amongst the pretty white tissue paper, was Jordan's Admirals jersey from the charity match in New York. The one Ilya had been forced to sign. His incriminating signature was scrawled just beneath the eighty-eight, in permanent marker.

Ilya had tried to bid on the shirt himself when it went up for auction, but lost in the bidding war. He had been pissed that someone else was willing to pay an arm and a leg for the stupid thing, and in the end, it went to an anonymous buyer for a ridiculous price. For weeks, Ilya had monitored eBay and other places to see if it would pop up for sale, but it never did.

Over the past year and a half, Shane had heard him complain about it once in a while, wondering where it had ended up. Ilya hoped it was tucked away in some private collection, never to see the light of day again—and yet, here it was. Hand-delivered back to him.

Ilya sucked in a long, irritated breath as Shane began to laugh uncontrollably, his tears falling for a different reason now. Ilya tried to hold it in, but then he cracked, and he started laughing too. He was almost laughing harder than Shane.

“Son of a bitch.”

“What do you think?” Shane wiped at his eyes and lifted the jersey from the box, holding it against his chest. “Should I put it on?”

Ilya's face dropped into a stern expression, but his eyes were still dancing with laughter. “No.”

Shane put it back in the box, smiling down at it as he ran his fingers over his ex-boyfriend's last name.

It seemed like Jordan always got the last laugh in the end.

Chapter End Notes

Hello everyone!

I hope you liked the long-awaited epilogue. Sorry for the delay, I've been abroad again for work in America, but now I'm home!

If you've come to see how Do The Wrong Thing finishes, and have no interest in reading the sequel story or related one-shot stories, then I bid you adieu! Thank you for reading and taking a chance on a story that has two unlikeable concepts: Original Characters and Cheating!

I hope you enjoyed your time here. I appreciate each of you, even those who didn't dig it.

For those who plan to stick around, I went ahead and made this story Part 1 of a Series called 'Mo & Jo Expanded Universe', if you wanted to subscribe to it.

This is where Do The Right Thing, Jordan's sequel story will live, as well as several shorter one-shot stories exploring other dynamics I find funny/interesting. Like, for example, what would the engagement dinner for Cliff and Honey look like when everyone gets thrown together? Probably ridiculous. What shenanigans do the Admiral Trio (Scott, Jordan, and Carter) get up to when they're together?

Probably nothing good. What would happen if Shane actually agreed to a threesome with Jordan and Ilya? ….. Hm.

Anyway, for those who are into it, stick around! Work should be slowing down soon, which means more time for writing! I'd like to stock up on a few chapters of Do The Right Thing so I can release them on a consistent schedule, like every Friday or something. One-Shots will likely appear randomly when inspiration strikes.

As for Do The Wrong Thing, I'd like to expand Ilya's earliest chapters and add in other fun coding dynamics. I'm having a lot of fun learning C.S.S! So if you find new content on your re-read, don't be surprised hahaha.

I'll plug my socials one last time—I'm faster to answer questions/comments there than I am here, just because I'm trying to go back and respond to my earliest comments first on Ao3.

Twitter: MacyFletcherFicThreads: MacyFletcherFictionReddit: U/InternLost (idk how to change my username lmao)Tumblr: MacyFletcherFiction

We love ya.Macy & Josephine. ❤️

You've reached the end of the book.