Chapter Text
April 2022
There was a stack of papers on the passenger seat when Ilya opened the door to Shane’s SUV.
“From my mom,” Shane told him when Ilya looked up quizzically. “Immigration forms.”
There was a manila folder about an inch thick, along with colorful sticky tabs poking out from all sides. Ilya picked up the hefty pile so he could have a seat, and let the folder plop back into his lap with a thud. He began flipping through the forms, endless reference sheets and spots to fill out the same basic personal information over and over and over again.
Shane pulled out of Ilya’s driveway and headed towards the arena for that morning’s skate. “She said to not worry about it too much until the season’s over. She wants you right for the playoffs," he said with a smirk. “But if you, like, I don’t know. Get bored and want to start looking through them? Come up with specific questions? She wants to help you with this during the off-season. That is… if this is what you still want.”
Ilya finally looked up from his rifling through the stack. Shane was keeping his eyes locked in the road, holding the steering wheel in a white knuckle grip. “Of course it is what I want,” Ilya said, giving Shane a warm smile when he finally glanced over at him. “This is good. Tell her thank you.”
Shane’s body seemed to relax slightly. “Of course,” he said.
He stared down at the pile in his lap and took deep breaths through his nose as subtly as possible so he wouldn't alarm Shane. The image of Yuna Hollander sat at her desk, pouring over the government documents with a highlighter in hand and a stack of post-it's at her disposal constricted his chest. “It is, um,” Ilya started, his voice coming out a little rougher than he meant. “Very kind of her to help me. She doesn’t have to do this.”
Shane pulled up to a red light and looked hard at Ilya. “She wants to, Ilya. We all want to help. My parents have great contacts, my mom has the time and energy…” he told him softly. “We don’t mean to overwhelm you. I’m sorry.”
Ilya shook his head and reached to grab Shane’s hand. “No, no,” he quickly reassured him as the light turned green. “I mean, it is a little overwhelming, but not in a bad way, I think.” Ilya took a steadying breath. “I just am not used to having people wanting to help me in this way, is all. I am used to figuring things out for myself.”
Shane squeezed his hand. “Even if we were just friends, my parents would still fucking adopt you if they could.” Ilya saw the warm smile tipping up on Shane’s face. “You’re family, Ilya. They want to take care of you.”
Ilya swallowed the lump in his throat. “I am not used to that kind of family,” he tried to laugh, but it came out more as a gruff cough.
“Well, I hope you will learn to get used to it.” Shane brought their tangled hands together to kiss Ilya’s knuckles. Ilya's soft smile lingered on his face the rest of the drive, refusing to let Shane drop their hands until they pulled into the practice facility's parking lot.
* * *
With two weeks left to go in the regular season, the Ottawa Centaurs were sitting comfortably at the top of the Atlantic Division and the Eastern Conference. They had clinched their playoff spot with nearly a dozen games left to go, and the leading storyline across the league to wrap up the season was projecting which poor souls would have to step up against them in the first round.
Despite Montreal’s best efforts, it was shaping up to be a repeat of last year’s series. Montreal and Pittsburgh kept leapfrogging each other in the two Eastern Conference wild card spots as March wrapped up, but then Pittsburgh had a series of solid wins to start April and gave themselves some breathing room ahead of Montreal in the standings.
The Ottawa Centaurs locker room overwhelmingly welcomed the rematch. Not only did they want to make a deep run this year, more than anything they wanted to win for Shane. As the playoffs neared and the matchup was looking more and more likely, a couple of the guys on the team happily began to dole out their chirps and threats in the media.
“We’re not worried, especially if it’s Montreal,” said Bood.
“I mean, just take it one game at a time. At the end of the day, you can’t focus on the next game, otherwise you’ll lose this one. But yeah, it would feel good to beat them again,” said Hazy.
“I’m not concerned about whoever we end up playing, no,” said Troy. “If anything, we look forward to playing them. There’s a special kind of buzz that comes along with beating them these days.”
As the days ticked by and the end of the season loomed, Shane felt more and more a sense of impending doom. One-off games during the regular season against Montreal had been one thing; there were some league-wide eyes on their first game early in the season, but after that no one had paid too much attention when either team rolled into town. And Shane had settled in so quickly in Ottawa and felt so at ease with his relationship with Ilya that the sporadic one-night-only noise became easier and easier to drown out. Looking across the ice and knowing that every single one of his teammates had his back against his former team was enough to swallow any lingering anxiety he felt those nights.
Shane was quickly realizing that he may have been lured into a false sense of security. The playoffs were an entirely different beast. Their final regular season game against Montreal hadn’t helped, what with Comeau continuing to cause a racket, not to mention his uncomfortable outing with Hayden and J.J. that still caused a wave of irritation to rush over Shane whenever he thought about it for too long.
If you had asked him early in the season, Shane would have said that he welcomed a best of seven series against Montreal, eager to prove that he was better off. While that feeling still lingered, he hadn’t expected the accompanying inner uneasiness to stick around come April.
The night before their final regular season game, Shane and Ilya were lying side by side in bed. Ilya was scrolling through his phone while Shane read his book, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Wordlessly, Ilya shifted on the bed to press himself closer to Shane while holding up his phone screen. Shane looked over, putting his book face down on his chest to hold his place, and took the phone from his hand. It was an official post on the NHL Instagram, declaring Montreal had, in fact, solidified their matchup, and would be heading to Ottawa for the first round of the playoffs.
Shane instinctively raised his arm to allow Ilya to settle in against his chest as he curled around him like a koala with an arm and leg splayed over him, a welcome grounding weight on Shane’s body. Shane exhaled heavily and handed the phone back to Ilya, who aimlessly dropped it on the mattress behind him. Shane moved his book to the nightstand before settling further down the bed to lay flat, and the hand he had wrapped around Ilya reached up to let his fingers play along Ilya’s scalp.
“What are you thinking?” Ilya asked him after a few minutes of them laying in silence.
“I don’t know,” Shane said quietly, frustration seeping into his voice. “I just want to get it over with and move on.”
Ilya hummed and turned his face to press a firm kiss to Shane’s bare chest. “We will beat them, moya lyubov.”
“I know, baby,” Shane said so softly that he wasn’t sure he didn’t just mouth the words rather than speak them aloud.
Ilya must have heard him though, as he tightened his grip on Shane’s body. Shane maneuvered himself to turn the lamp off on his side, then pulled Ilya impossibly closer to him in the dark.
Shane woke to a text from Hayden the following morning. See you soon 😈, it read. He did not reply.
* * *
Shane fidgeted in his seat, perched on the platform in front of reporters and photographers. Ilya was casually bent over next to him, leaning into the microphone to answer a question about overcoming Montreal’s defense. Shane didn’t hear a word he was saying.
“Ottawa and Montreal have not gone easy on each other in the regular season, and we’ve seen a near record number of penalty minutes racked up between both teams. How do you guys plan on staying out of the box in this series?”
Ilya shrugged. “Refs will not call bullshit penalties, and we will be the better team. They know the only way they stand a chance of beating us is to piss us off and play dirty, and we will not fall for the bait.” Out of the corner of his eye, Shane saw Harris rub a hand over his face in irritation at Ilya’s bluntness and vulgarity.
“Ilya, you were ejected from the game against them just last month-”
He interrupted the reporter’s followup. “I will not fall for the bait,” Ilya said with a smirk. There was a small ripple of laughter from the press pool in front of them.
“Shane, this time last year you were on the other side of the ice. What are your feelings going into this year’s playoffs for the first time on a new team?”
Shane hoped the way he was startled at being spoken to directly wasn’t obvious. He dug his fingernails into his palm and leaned forward towards his own microphone. “Yeah, I mean, I think we’re all fired up and ready to go. It’s been a pleasure getting to play with these guys all season and I think we should all be proud of the momentum we’ve built up here, and we’re just ready to keep it rolling all the way to the end, no matter who we’re playing.”
Ilya side eyed him as he spoke. Shane watched as his fingers twitched on the table in front of him and scooted towards Shane barely an inch. To anyone else, it was just Ilya shifting his body casually. To Shane, he could see the way Ilya was instinctively trying to reach for him.
A different reporter cut in. “Shane, there’s been a lot of talk off the ice the entire season about your abrupt exit from Montreal. How do you think the animosity between you and your former team will fuel Ottawa's revenge streak against the Voyageurs?"
Shane’s brow furrowed, the question so odd to him he felt discombobulated. He opened his mouth as if to respond but nothing came out. Harris stepped away from his perch on the wall about to intervene, but Ilya beat him to it.
“Does anyone have an actual question about hockey? You must not have noticed, we are not talking about stupid fucking gossip,” Ilya responded to the reporter with an eerie level of calm. He glanced around the room before gently slapping his hand on the table. “No? Disappointing. That is enough for today, then. See you for the game tomorrow.”
Shane blearily followed Ilya out of the room and down the hall, ignoring both the few followup questions being thrown at them as they left and the bile rising up in his throat.
“Ilya,” Harris called after them once the door swung shut behind him, his voice laced with warning.
Ilya sighed and turned. “I know, Harris. I am sorry.”
Harris looked between Shane and Ilya, immediately locking in on Shane's discomfort. “Look, just…” Harris reached up to rub his temple, trying to keep the migraine at bay. “I get it. Just don’t fucking swear at them next time.” He leveled Ilya with a pleading glare before walking away.
Shane felt Ilya staring at the side of his face as they made their way towards the locker room to pack up their gear, but Shane refused to meet his eyes. Neither said a word as they grabbed their things and headed towards the car.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane finally said, gripping the steering wheel halfway through their drive home.
“If they aren’t going to ask about anything useful, then they shouldn’t get to ask anything at all.” Ilya shrugged, looking out the passenger window.
“It’s a normal thing to ask, Ilya-”
“First question was normal. Annoying, but normal. Second question was just looking to get bullshit soundbite out of you-”
“I can handle it on my own,” Shane snapped. The car was suddenly filled with a tense silence, causing him to feel immediate guilt. “Sorry,” he said softly with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Ilya finally looked over at him. “I know you can handle it. I did not mean anything by it.” As they pulled up to a red light, Ilya tentatively reached over and gently grazed his fingers over the back of Shane's hand. Shane heard a tiny sigh of relief when he turned his palm over to tangle his fingers with Ilya's and gave him a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
Shane glanced over to see Ilya giving him a heartbreakingly tender look. He bit the inside of his cheek and turned back to the road. “I don’t want anyone to call more attention to it, that's all,” he said. “It’s the biggest storyline going into the first round. Lashing out isn’t going to help anything, y'know? Just… let me answer their questions so I can divert it back to the game. Please.”
Ilya said nothing for a long moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably in the car. “I will try,” he said finally.
Shane was unconvinced, but didn’t push it.
* * *
The first game against Montreal was one of the most frustrating games of hockey Ilya had ever played in his life. A low scoring, physical game with the Voyageurs playing dirty as hell as expected, trying to eke out any modicum of retaliation from the Centaurs. Ilya nearly dropped the gloves with Boizaiu of all people when he got away with hooking Luca during the second period, but Shane ended up being the one getting in his face before anyone else had the chance.
“Watch where you’re fucking wielding that thing, J.J.,” Shane yelled, nodding at Boiziau’s stick and skated up to him so they were nose to nose.
“Relax, Hollander, he’s fine.” Boiziau gestured to Luca hoisting himself over the boards and laughed a bit uncomfortably, clearly not used to being on the receiving end of Shane’s fury. A ref skated over to wedge himself between them and pointedly ignored Ilya and Pike joining the fray.
“Are you fucking blind?” Ilya barked at the ref. “He tried yanking him off the stage like we are in fucking cartoon-!”
“Shut the hell up, Rozanov, it was a fucking stick lift,” Pike butted in, sending a wave of aggravation through Ilya. He had more or less tried to leave Pike alone over the course of the season for Shane’s sake despite him being one of the easiest targets to rile up in the league, but the man’s face was looking especially punchable that evening.
“Ah! Didn’t notice you, Pike. You are sneaky like a ghost. Invisible like one, too. Did not even know you were playing tonight.”
Pike’s face curled into a snarl so easily at such a weak taunt, and Ilya couldn’t help but smirk. “You are such a fucking piece of shit-”
“No one fucking asked you, Pike,” Shane spat, turning his ire on his best friend, and Ilya felt a rush of heat go through him seeing his boyfriend riled up. “It’s not like he’s fucking wrong, is he?”
Pike gave Shane an exasperated look as the ref broke up the scuffle and pushed all four of them back to their respective benches. Ilya climbed over the boards and plopped down next to Shane, accepting a tablet from one of the assistant coaches to review their play. He leaned close to Shane as if he was showing him something on the screen, then brought the tablet up to hide their faces from the cameras. “I am so fucking hard right now,” Ilya muttered to him.
Shane turned and glared at him, causing Ilya to lower the tablet with a chuckle. “Behave, asshole,” Shane said, knocking his padded knee against Ilya’s.
Ottawa squeaked out with a 1-0 victory in overtime once Troy managed to fake out Drapeau and chip the puck into the back of the net. Nothing about it was pretty, but the relief of getting out of the game alive was palpable.
Shane and Troy were sent out for press after the game. Ilya stood beside Harris and watched from the far side of the room as they delivered boring, polite answers to the reporters’ questions, flinching when the same journalist Ilya had snapped at yesterday once again rudely inquired about Shane’s personal feelings towards the Voyageurs.
“Shane, it seemed pretty tense out there on the ice between you and Boiziau and Pike. You’ve said you’re close with them, but that didn’t seem to be the case tonight.”
Ilya bit down a laugh at the dumbfounded look Shane gave them. “It’s the playoffs. We can be friends in the off season,” he answered steadily. “Boiziau got away with a minor there and he knows it. Doesn’t matter when Troy pulled through for us, though. We just have to keep our cool and keep finding ways to win.”
“Can’t we get that guy banned?” Ilya leaned over and whispered to Harris as Troy called on someone else for a question.
Harris glanced sideways at him and sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, but no promises.”
* * *
Game two wasn’t much better. Another chippy game won again by Ottawa 1-0, at least this time in regulation. Still, the Centaurs filed into the dressing room exhausted and relieved to have the two-game lead in the series.
Shane pulled his jersey over his head and mindlessly scratched at his cheek, the stubble of his early playoff beard beginning to irritate him. He caught Ilya’s eyes from across the room, his boyfriend’s eyes lingering on where his fingers met his skin. Shane’s stubble wasn’t too far behind Ilya’s, whose own dirty blonde hair cast a shadow over his face. He smirked at Ilya, his body warming from head to toe when Ilya winked at him in return.
His ogling of Ilya was interrupted by the vibration of his phone in his locker. Shane steeled himself before he even picked up the phone, knowing exactly what would be waiting for him.
Hayden Pike
Two days off - time for a drink tonight?
Shane groaned internally as J.J. emphasized the message in their group chat. He would have felt worse about completely blowing them off if they weren’t battling it out to advance to the next round, but that didn’t mean all the guilt was magically erased. He had barely spoken to them since their awkward get together in March, dreading having to hear another word about his love life or, god forbid, another word about Ilya.
But still. Catching up for a drink when they were in the middle of a playoff series against each other? Shane didn't think he would even meet up with Ilya during the playoffs if they weren't on the same team.
Shane Hollander
Sorry, can't. Probably shouldn't until after the series is over.
Shane tossed his phone in his bag without waiting for a response. Logically, he knew he couldn't keep his relationship from his friends forever. However, when Hayden had given zero indication that he would ever be accepting of it, Shane was in no rush to share that part of his life with them.
"Shane, you got a sec?" Harris appeared over his shoulder, startling him out of his internal spiral.
Shane nodded and followed him out into the hallway. Shane leaned against the cinder block wall, watching as Harris sighed and pulled something up on his phone.
"I just wanted to give you a head's up," he said. "You know that guy from Hockey East Beat that's been on your case about the series?"
Shane grimaced, already dreading what was coming. "Yeah…?"
Harris turned his phone around showing him a headline from Hockey East Beat, which was essentially a glorified NHL tabloid.
[EXCLUSIVE] Hollander Confirmed to Have DEMANDED Ottawa Trade Following ASSAULT of Teammate
Shane's stomach dropped and skimmed the article, swearing under his breath. The article provided vague yet not inaccurate details of Shane's final days in Montreal, including the aftermath of game four against the Centaurs.
A source close to the situation confirms that an unnamed player had a series of run-ins with the former Montreal captain, which caused a strain on the whole locker room. The player was particularly upset with Hollander following their elimination in the first round, causing Hollander to PHYSICALLY retaliate. As if that's not bad enough, Hollander wasn't even man enough to stick around and own up to it, demanding a trade less than twenty-four hours later. The Montreal front office was seemingly more than happy to cut the cancer out of the dressing room, which would explain why they shipped off Hollander for a handful of overpriced bottom sixers.
But what had prompted the outburst in the first place? The same source went on to say that the player had taken personal offense to some aspect of Hollander's personal life. The rumors flying around citing Hollander demanded a trade due to discrimination in the locker room weren't far-off, but we are hesitant to say that it had anything to do with his race as has been speculated.
Shane's heart was pounding so hard he thought it was going to jump up and out of his throat. There had been plenty of eyebrows and questions raised all season, sure, but any rumor about what had actually transpired had been based in pure speculation. He had told himself that it happened when any player on any team is suddenly traded, and there was no reason to think that it would get out. In hindsight, that may have been wishful thinking on his part.
"The good news is nobody really takes this guy seriously," Harris said sympathetically. "I know it's not ideal, but the best course of action here is to ignore it."
Shane nodded shakily, still staring down at the phone. "It's fine," he said, totally unconvincingly. "It's not specific enough to be spread around, is it?"
Harris shrugged. "I don't think so, but even if it does go around, it'll die out within a week. We won't add fuel to the fire. But," he grimaced. "That also means not revoking that guy's press credentials just yet. It will just make it look like you have something to hide."
"I do have a lot of shit I'd like to hide, Harris," Shane grumbled.
They both turned at the sound of the door to the dressing room opening down the hall. Ilya peaked his head out and looked around, his shoulders dropping slightly when they landed on Shane and Harris. "There you are," he said, then furrowed his brow at the tense looks on their faces. "Everything okay?"
Harris looked to Shane, not wanting to overstep. Shane hesitated before wordlessly handing the phone out in Ilya's direction.
Ilya's visible confusion deepened as he fully stepped out of the room and down the hall, dressed down to his compression shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. He took the phone from Shane and his eyes flew across the screen, the divot between his brows growing deeper and deeper as he read. When he finally looked up, Shane could see the anger nearly seeping out of his pores. He would have found it hot if he wasn't still leaning against the wall to keep his body upright. "The fuck is this shit?"
Harris sighed and took the phone back from Ilya. "It's a bunch of nothing," he tried reassuring him. "We can't call more attention to it, but I just wanted you to be aware." Harris turned his attention back to Shane.
Shane nodded again, feeling the telltale pressure of tears welling up behind his eyes. "Right. Thanks, Harris." Harris nodded and ducked his head and made his way back into the locker room, leaving him alone with Ilya. Ilya was watching him, searching for any kind of reaction. Shane just sighed and shook his head. "Ilya…"
"It's that same fucking guy, right? The reporter who has been harassing you for a story?"
"Yes, but-"
"No more press this series for you. Captain's orders."
Shane scoffed, already annoyed by the argument he can feel brewing. "You can't do that, Ilya, it's my fucking job."
"You can skip a few fucking games, Shane, they will live without asking you about whatever bullshit they come up with next-"
"Well, it isn't exactly bullshit, is it?" Shane snapped. "Clearly someone fed them the story."
He watched Ilya's jaw tightened as he stepped closer to Shane. "Solnyshko, please…" he whispered, bending his head so it nearly bumped against Shane's temple. Ilya's hand came up to gently cradle Shane's elbow, the small touch nearly enough to send the tears spilling over.
Shane took a stuttering breath and looked away as he stepped back out of Ilya's grasp. "Let's just go home, okay?" He ignored Ilya's pained expression as he walked back into the dressing room to shower and change.
* * *
Ilya was fully seething by the time they made it home. Harris had thankfully snagged Bood and Luca for the post-game press, allowing Ilya to stick close to Shane and get him out of the building without any fanfare.
Deep down, Ilya knew that there was nothing he could do. It was Shane's own battle, he had to remind himself. He had asked him to stay out of it, and there was only so much he could offer publicly as nothing more than a teammate and captain. The best he could do was to make sure Ottawa wrapped it up in a nice, clean four game sweep and get his boyfriend the hell out of dodge. But he could see the way the series was grating on Shane, the way the stress and anxiety continued to threaten to spill over every day that passed. The thought of Shane insisting on dealing with it on his own made his stomach roll.
Rage continued to boil up inside of him. His mind flicked through the entire Montreal roster, wondering which one of the players might have gone to the press and for what fucking reason. He honestly doubted it was Comeau, thinking he would rather die than have the world know that a queer had rocked his shit the way Shane had. Maybe it was a low-level assistant who sold the story, just looking to make a quick buck. Maybe it was Hayden fucking Pike, overcome by jealousy and irritation at Shane moving on to a better team, better environment, and better relationships.
Ilya internally rolled his eyes, accepting that Pike would never do that to Shane. Despite being a prick, he knew Pike was a prick who loved Shane and would be next in line behind Ilya to knock out whoever the leak had been.
Shane had been silent the whole drive home, his arms crossed and hoodie pulled over his head as he leaned his head against the passenger side window with his eyes fluttered shut. Ilya kept both hands on the wheel despite itching out to touch him, not sure if Shane would find it comforting or stifling in this moment. Ilya didn't think there was anything he could say in that moment, either. Him and Shane were similar in that way, he thought. Ilya knew that if the roles were reversed, anything anyone could possibly say would sound hollow and placating and just send him over the edge, even if it was the most well intentioned comment from someone he loved. Ilya wasn't skittish the way Shane could be, but he was familiar the bull-headed impulse to deal with the vast majority of his issues on his own in order to not worry the people around him.
So Ilya said nothing as they pulled into his driveway and Shane followed him into the house. They kicked off their shoes and bent down to greet Anya, who must have sensed the tension and pressed her body against Shane's legs. The small action was enough for Shane to make a small noise of distress, and Ilya watched as he fully sank to the ground and pressed his face into Anya's fur. The dog happily accepted the attention, nosing her way under Shane's arm to try to lick at his face.
"Anya, nyet," Ilya gently scolded, knowing Shane hated the dog slobber, but Shane gave a small, wet laugh and lifted his face up. Ilya gulped at the sight of the dried tear tracks on Shane's face, tsking as Shane stood up and Anya trotted away. "Oh, solnyshko…" Ilya said softly.
Shane looked to him and took a deep breath before pulling Ilya into a tight hug. Ilya happily wrapped him in his arms, one hand cupping the back of Shane's neck as he buried his face in Ilya's shoulder. They slowly rocked together back and forth in the entryway of Ilya's home, while Ilya intentionally took deep, steadying breaths in the hope that Shane would match his rhythm.
Shane eventually pulled away and pressed his forehead against Ilya's. Ilya couldn't resist leaning forward slightly and pressing a chaste kiss between Shane's eyebrows, feeling pleased with himself at the small smile Shane gave him. "What do you need, moya lyubov?" Ilya asked softly.
Shane clutched the front of Ilya's shirt with his hands and finally met his eyes. Ilya searched his gaze, begging for any hint of what to do. How he could possibly make Shane feel better, even for just a moment. "You," Shane finally said softly. "I just… I don't want to think right now."
Ilya's heart stuttered, understanding fully what he meant. He nodded and pressed his lips to Shane's, meeting him in a soft, languid kiss. He slowly dragged his tongue across the seam of Shane's mouth, dipping inside when Shane's jaw dropped open. Ilya was happy to lazily make out with him for hours if he wanted, but he soon felt Shane pressing his body closer and closer to Ilya's. He groaned against Shane's mouth and dropped a hand down to grab his ass, causing Shane to gasp and roll his hips up to meet his, their hard lengths pressing together. Ilya broke the kiss, grinning at the way Shane chased his mouth. "Shane…" he said softly, taking Shane's chin between this thumb and forefinger to force him to look at him.
Shane held his gaze, his eyes glazing over. "Ilya, please…" he begged.
Ilya searched Shane’s eyes, almost pleading, then firmly pressed his mouth to Shane’s. “Come on,” he said against his lips and forced his body out of Shane's hold. Ilya moved behind Shane and directed him up the stairs, gripping his hips with his fingers digging into the skin hard enough to leave behind bruises as he trailed kisses along the back of Shane’s neck.
Ilya roughly turned Shane in his arms as they stumbled over the threshold of his bedroom, cupping his jaw and bringing their lips together once more. Their tongues danced as Shane tightly gripped the sides of Ilya’s shirt, as if the fabric bunched in his fists would ground him back down to Earth. Ilya nipped his bottom lip before pulling away slightly to press his forehead to Shane’s. “I love you,” Ilya said firmly.
His heart fluttered at the shy smile Shane gave him in return. “I love you, too,” Shane said softly.
Ilya stepped out of Shane’s grasp. “Take off your clothes,” he said, thankful for how steady his voice came out. “Get on the bed.”
Ilya crossed his arms and watched as Shane obeyed, slipping off his sweatpants before sitting on the mattress and ridding himself of his hoodie and shirt, tossing them vaguely in the direction of the hamper. Ilya hovered over him as Shane looked to him for further instruction. Ilya looked down at Shane’s briefs before meeting his gaze and giving him a sharp nod. “Everything, Hollander.”
Shane held his gaze for a moment before lifting his hips to pull his briefs down. His cock bounced up as it was freed, the sight of it causing Ilya to make a low growling noise in the back of his throat. He stared at Shane, perched on the edge of the bed waiting for further instruction.
Still fully clothed, Ilya stalked forward to stand between Shane’s thighs. He cupped the sides of Shane's face, tilting his gaze up towards him. “You trust me?” he asked. "You will tell me if it is too much?"
Shane shakily nodded. “Yes,” he breathed. “I trust you.”
Ilya hummed and bent down to press a quick, wet kiss to Shane’s mouth. “You are so good, solnyshko,” he said softly, then with his free hand shimmied his sweatpants down just far enough to free himself. “You want to suck my cock?”
“Please,” Shane begged, his fingers twitching where they sat in his lap. “Let me make you feel good, Ilya.”
Ilya grinned and pressed another kiss to Shane’s lips, this one much softer. “Take what you need, sweetheart,” he murmured.
In one swift movement, Shane slid off the edge of the bed to his knees and took damn near Ilya’s entire length into his mouth. Ilya groaned at the sight of Shane gagging on his dick, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He brought his hands up to Shane’s head, one cupping the side of his face while the other ran through his dark hair. He tilted Shane’s head back slightly, forcing him to make eye contact. Ilya exhaled slowly as Shane pulled off of him, only to press his face into Ilya’s crotch and lick at the base. Shane ran his tongue from behind his balls all the way to Ilya’s tip, circling his tongue around the head of his cock.
“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya moaned, overwhelmed by the sight below him. He watched as Shane flattened his tongue and took Ilya back into his mouth, letting the tip tickle the back of his throat. “You love this, don’t you,” Ilya said. “You just wanted to be filled?”
Shane moaned around his cock, the vibration eliciting another loud moan out of Ilya. He began slowly thrusting his hips back and forth, softly fucking into the tight, wet heat of Shane’s mouth. Shane’s hands came up to grip the back of Ilya’s thighs for leverage and looked up again at Ilya, his eyes glazed over in bliss.
“So fucking perfect,” Ilya whispered, gently caressing the side of Shane’s face, relishing at the outline of his cock through Shane’s cheek. “You are so good for me, sweetheart.”
Ilya thrust his dick harder into Shane’s mouth, groaning at the lewd noises escaping from Shane’s mouth. He glanced down and saw Shane’s rock hard cock hanging heavy between his thighs, the angry red tip leaking pre-cum onto the floor beneath him. Shane’s eyes were shut in concentration, doing his best to keep Ilya’s dick inside his mouth, and Ilya wiped away a stray tear that had leaked from beneath his eyelids. Shane opened his eyes at the tender touch, gazing up at Ilya in adoration, the sight of it almost sending Ilya over the edge.
Reluctantly, Ilya pulled Shane off his cock. Shane groaned at the loss, trying to take him back into his mouth, but Ilya shushed him and tilted Shane’s head away. “I do not want to come yet, moya lyubov,” he said softly, pulling Shane up to his feet to kiss him. He eagerly licked into Shane’s mouth to taste himself as he awkwardly shoved his pants all the way off and kicked them away. Shane broke away to pull Ilya’s shirt over his head and immediately began sucking and biting down Ilya’s chest. Ilya let him for a moment, basking in the heat of Shane’s mouth before pulling his face back up to meet his. "On the bed. All fours," he demanded.
Shane scrambled to obey, presenting his pretty ass to Ilya and watching over his shoulder. Ilya watched as Shane impatiently wiggled his backside, begging for Ilya to do something, anything. He ignored it in favor of moving towards the nightstand, opening the drawer to grab a bottle of lube and smirking at the desperate noise Shane let out as he watched.
"Did you need something?" Ilya taunted, coming back to stand behind Shane. He gripped his cheeks in both hands, kneading and spreading them to expose his hole to the cool air. Ilya knelt one knee on the mattress and bent forward to ghost his breath over him. In one quick movement, Ilya spat directly on Shane's asshole and reeled one hand up and back down to smack hard against his cheek.
Shane lurched forward and loudly gasped. "Fuck, Ilya," he moaned before burying his face in a pillow.
Ilya hummed and dropped a sweet kiss to the ass cheek he just abused, heart thrumming at the splotch of red blooming over the skin. He kissed his way down and licked a wide stripe across Shane's hole, gripping his hips firmly to hold Shane in place when he jerked away on impulse. "Stay," Ilya demanded before diving in, licking the rim and messily dipping the tip of his tongue inside of Shane, moaning and sending vibrations against his skin.
Shane was damn near tears as Ilya ate him out; Ilya could hear his small cries of pleasure buried into the mattress, pressing his ass against Ilya's face and chasing the sensation of his mouth. "Mm, that's it, sweetheart," Ilya groaned and slid one finger inside of Shane, grinning at how easily it slid home from just his saliva and the loud moan Shane let out in response. He began slowly fucking his finger in and out and brought a hand down again to spank his other ass cheek. "You think you can come just like this?"
"Holy fuck," he heard Shane gasp above him. Ilya reached for the lube as he slid his finger out, coating two fingers before quickly sliding them slowly back inside of Shane. "Ilya-"
Ilya shushed him and gently scissored his fingers, stretching him further. Shane began rocking his ass back onto his fingers, letting out a sharp cry as Ilya crooked his digits just right and nailed his prostate. "Do not touch your cock," Ilya told him, hitting that spot over and over and over as Shane wailed. "Just like this, solnyshko. I've got you."
Shane gripped the sheets tightly under him, fucking himself on Ilya's hand as Ilya kissed and sucked along his ass. "Fuck, fuck, I'm gonna come, Ilya, please…"
"Come for me," he demanded, gasping when Shane's cock shot untouched underneath him. Ilya let Shane ride it out for a few moments before sliding his fingers out and flipping the other man over. He flung himself on top of Shane and met him in a messy kiss, roughly licking into his mouth and biting Shane's lip. Shane was a panting mess underneath him, admirably doing his best to keep up with Ilya, but the force of his orgasm was clearly winning and could only do so much before letting himself sink into the mattress with his eyes shut, his mouth dropped open for Ilya to do with as he pleased.
Ilya took pity on him and kissed down to Shane's neck, growling in frustration at the fact that he couldn't mark him up the way he wanted to. The last thing Shane needed right now was to show up for the next two games in Montreal with a smattering of dark hickeys across his neck, despite how badly Ilya wanted to parade Shane out in front of that arena and show the crowd that he was claimed, that he was taken care of and loved.
The thought shot a rush of heat down Ilya's spine. He quickly brought his mouth back up to meet Shane's, pressing a long, firm kiss to his lips. "Love you," he whispered against Shane's mouth. "Love you so much."
Shane's eyes remained closed but gave Ilya a small, sleepy smile. Ilya felt one hand come up to rest against his cheek, the most the blissed out man underneath him could give in response.
Ilya shifted back so he was leaning in between Shane's thighs, spreading his legs wide to show his opening. He brought his fingers back to the entrance and dipped inside, delighting in the gasp Shane let out in response. "Can you take me just like this?" Ilya asked softly. "Let me slide in with barely any stretch? Split you wide open on my cock?"
Shane's eyes fluttered open, meeting Ilya's heady gaze. "Please," he whispered so softly Ilya had to strain to hear it. "Fill me. Wanna feel it."
Ilya's mouth fell open, fully in awe of how good Shane was being for him. "Fuck, Shane…" Ilya moaned and reached for the bottle of lube, slicking up his cock before folding his body over Shane's once more. He pressed the head of his cock against Shane's entrance, groaning at the way he was pushing his ass down, begging for Ilya to slip inside.
Ilya obliged and slowly began pressing into Shane's impossibly tight hole, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at the sensation of his ass gripping his cock. Shane threw his head back against the pillow and Ilya watched his face contort in discomfort as he slid his entire length inside, but Shane gave no sign of him wanting to stop or slow down. Ilya dropped small, gentle kisses all over Shane's face as he adjusted to the feeling of his cock carving out a space deep inside of Shane's body, wishing he could leave Shane open like this forever, leaving an eternal brand within his body.
Shane let out a shaky breath and fully met Ilya's eyes, his gaze fully blissed out. Ilya captured his lips in a slow kiss before muttering against his mouth. "You are so fucking perfect, Shane. You are so fucking good for me. Letting me fuck you like this."
Shane moaned as Ilya began slowly rocking his hips back and forth. His arms came up to wrap around Ilya's neck, bringing him down in a tight embrace. "You make me feel so good," he whimpered. "I wanna feel you for days."
Ilya groaned at Shane's words and began fucking his cock faster, deeper inside of him. "Yeah? You just want to be filled by my cock?" Ilya leaned back and saw Shane bite his lip and nod, his eyes closed tightly shut as he was given exactly what he needed over and over again. "You are so beautiful, fuck, Shane," Ilya gasped, bringing one of Shane's legs up to wrap around his waist, the angle letting him fuck in that much deeper. "I can't believe you're mine, solnyshko. I'm so lucky to have you. I can't believe I have this perfect ass to fuck whenever I want."
Shane moaned loudly and buried his face in Ilya's neck. "Please, Ilya," he gasped.
Ilya shushed him and snapped his hips harder against Shane's ass. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm going to fill you, just like you wanted."
Ilya set a brutal pace, relishing in the small cries Shane was letting out at each thrust. Ilya could listen to Shane moan and beg like this forever; he desperately tried to memorize every gasp of pleasure he let out from Ilya's touch. It was the only sound he wanted to hear for the rest of his life.
Ilya reached down to grasp Shane's cock and his fist began flying over it. "Can you give me another one, sweetheart? Can you be so good for me and come again?"
Shane arched underneath him at his touch as his hands flew up to tightly grip Ilya's biceps. "Oh shit, fuck-" Ilya watched as more tears leaked out onto Shane's lash line as overstimulation overtook his body, his cock still sensitive from his first orgasm.
"Give it to me, malysh, then I'll give you what you need. I'll fill you with my come, I promise."
Ilya fucked his hips impossibly harder into Shane, and with an expert twist of his wrist Shane's cock was spurting out between them, plummeting Shane over the edge once more with a piercing cry. The sight of it was gorgeous, Shane's body snapping and clenching tight around Ilya. In no time at all Ilya was burying himself to the hilt, flooding Shane with his come.
Shane's grip on Ilya's arms loosened and his leg dropped from around Ilya's waist as the pair caught their breath. Ilya collapsed forward and kissed any and every part of Shane's skin he could reach, humming in content when Shane twisted his head to find Ilya's lips with his own. They slowly made out, tongues slipping over each other lazily, enjoying the taste of each other in the comedown of their highs.
Ilya slowly slipped out of Shane and made to stand up to find them a rag, but Shane quickly grabbed his arm. "Leave it," he said. Ilya met his eyes in confusion, but Shane just looked at him longingly "Just come here, please."
Ilya obeyed and slowly laid down next to Shane, gently collecting him in his arms. Shane buried his face in Ilya's chest, feeling him press small kisses against his sweaty skin. "Thank you," he heard Shane mumble against him.
Ilya held Shane tighter and dropped a kiss to his hair. "Do not thank me," he said softly. "I will do anything for you, you know this, right?"
He felt Shane nod against him. He tilted his head up to look at Ilya, his eyes glistening. "I love you."
Ilya felt his own tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and leaned down to press a soft kiss to Shane's lips.
* * *
The plane ride to Montreal for games three and four was a quiet affair. Most guys were spread out, headphones plopped over their ears and locked in on their own pre-game rituals. Shane and Ilya were tucked into the back corner, their heads bent low together as they reviewed game tape. Bood sat in the row directly in front of them and had exchanged notes for the first ten minutes after take-off before he quickly knocked out for the remainder of the short flight.
"You need to work on your edge control, Rozanov," Shane grumbled, watching a clip of Ilya stumbling in the neutral zone and nearly giving up possession of the puck.
Ilya turned to give him an exasperated look. "You turn into a piece of work when you're stressed, do you know that?"
Shane raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not fucking wrong, am I? One wrong move and the puck would've been on Comeau's stick."
"And yet it ended up on your stick two seconds later, Hollander," he spat.
Shane rolled his eyes. "You got lucky."
Ilya's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Shane," he admonished. "I know you are stressed, but do not take it out on me."
Shane shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. "I'm not taking it out on you!"
"That was your third nitpick about my skating in the last five plays," Ilya said. He sighed and bent his head closer to Shane's and lowered his voice. "Look, I know you are upset about that article-"
"I'm fine, Ilya," he snapped. Shane held his boyfriend's gaze for a long moment, silently begging him to drop it. In the twenty-four hours since that stupid fucking article's release, the gossip fodder surrounding Shane's trade had picked up extensively online. Even their teammates were checking in with him after seeing rumor after tweet after shitpost online talking about it. Bood and even Coach Wiebe had immediately agreed with Ilya to keep Shane out of the press scrums until they were at least through to the next round, much to Shane's chagrin. Harris and the rest of the Centaurs PR staff maintained that Shane was better off ignoring it, but he couldn't help the dread gnawing away at his chest as it continued picking up steam.
He wasn't the one he was concerned about addressing it, though. Shane had never seen Ilya's protective streak burn quite so bright before, and he worried about what may or may not come out of his boyfriend's mouth if prompted. The same boyfriend who was leveling him with an unreadable expression at that moment.
Shane sighed. "Can we drop it? Please?"
He watched as Ilya bit the inside of his cheek, holding back whatever it was he was clamoring to say. "Fine," he relinquished, turning back to the iPad to continue watching their tape in silence.
* * *
Game three against Montreal was a complete blowout in Ottawa's favor, defeating the Voyageurs 6-2. Ilya meant it when he said that all he wanted was to wrap this series up quickly for Shane's sake, and they were one win away from shutting out Montreal completely and heading on to the second round.
Ilya happily netted two of their goals tonight with Shane assisting on both. He returned the favor when he sent Shane a beauty of a pass to set him up for a wraparound goal that was so sexy Ilya felt himself chub up under his pads.
Shane seemed to be in a better mood in the locker room, smiling and riffing with the guys, eager to wrap this round up quickly and take in the extra few days of rest they would be granted before taking on their next opponent. Ilya smiled softly to himself, hoping to keep his good mood going.
"Bood and Roz for post-game tonight, please," Harris popped his head into the room and called out, eyeing Ilya and his alternate captain. Ilya saluted Harris as he headed for the showers.
Thirty minutes later, he and Bood were sitting in front a wall of press, cracking jokes and smiles with the familiar Ottawa beat writers along with the handful of national media members scattered throughout the group.
"Deja vu, fellas, huh? It seems like Ottawa is destined to repeat last year's first round sweep against Montreal. Is there anything that feels different this year that you believe will help carry this team towards a deeper playoff run this time around?"
"Destiny has nothing to do with it," Bood answered with a self-assured grin plastered on his face. "And we're not banking on a repeat of last year, right, Roz?" He eyed Ilya warningly.
"I will not shatter my knee in the next game, I promise," Ilya assured him, smiling at the soft ripple of laughter he got in return.
"We just have to take it one game at a time. Nothing is guaranteed in this game. I do think the energy this year is different, though," Bood continued. "I think we're definitely more prepared for what's to come, and there's more confidence than ever in the room."
"Ilya, big game for you tonight with two goals and two assists," a second reporter asked. "Each time you are moved to Hollander's wing, you two in particular turn into monsters. What is it exactly that is working for you guys so well up front?"
"Trust, I think," Ilya said. "We play slightly different styles of game, he is more analytical and I am more aggressive. I think that we compliment each other in that way, and I trust him to pick up the slack where I fall short, and he does the same for me."
"Zane, two assists for you tonight as well. How did you feel about the effort put up by Montreal tonight in allowing the defense to break through and put up some points?"
"Yeah, I mean, they're a great team still and they're fighting for their life," Bood shrugged. Ilya bit back a smile at the cookie cutter non-answer. "But you have to keep an eye out for those tiny mistakes. They just left enough space open for Dykstra and I to slip through the cracks and contribute."
"Gentlemen!" A fourth voice cut through, and Ilya immediately bristled. The same writer from Hockey East Beat who had published the bullshit about Shane was sticking his hand in the air to get their attention. "As we are in Montreal, there has been plenty of chatter-"
"No, not you," Ilya instinctively shut him down. Bood stiffened next to him. "Anyone else have any questions?"
"Oh, Mr. Rozanov, no need for that," the writer called out. "I only mean to ask what insight Hollander might be bringing to Ottawa in this series, having played in Montreal for so long."
Next to Ilya, Bood scoffed. "Considering it's been a year since he played there, he has just as much insight as the rest of us. We are both very different teams from last year."
"Surely he must have some kind of trade secrets he's sharing with the locker room?"
Ilya stared the man down in exhaustion as the rest of the room exchanged their own confused glances and went quiet. "Are you fucking stupid?"
The words flew out of Ilya's mouth before he ever had a fighting chance of stopping them. He couldn't see Harris in the room, but he knew he was somewhere nearby internally screeching at Ilya.
"Mr. Rozanov, I-" The man began in what Ilya could see was fake astonishment. Ilya was realizing far too late that he had walked directly into this guy's trap.
Well, in for a penny, or whatever the fuck that saying is, Ilya thought.
"I think we've heard enough out of you over the past week," Ilya said sternly. "You have been coming in here with some weird fucking agenda to get a bullshit story about Hollander to get people to click on your sad little website. There is no story. He has no trade secrets because he doesn't fucking play in Montreal anymore."
"I do not mean to offend-"
"No, no, no, you don't care to offend." Ilya waggled a finger in the air. "There's a difference there, you see. The only story here is that Hollander is the best player out there on the ice every single night, no matter which team he is on. He carries himself with dignity every day and night. You can not say the same, can you? His only crime here is apparently playing for a different team, something you for some fucking reason seem so eager to get to the bottom of. But there is nothing for you there. Trades happen all the fucking time for a million different reasons. So I do not want to hear from you again. I do not want to hear you asking bullshit questions about my teammates who are not even here in front of you. I do not want to see your snide fucking headlines online, begging for a single click because you are so desperate for attention."
Ilya could hear a pin drop in the room as he exhaled slowly, ignoring the roar of guilt in his gut. Not at the expense of the man's feelings, of course not, but for doing exactly what Shane had begged him not to. Ilya's eyes fluttered across the room, finally finding Harris leaning against the wall, looking aghast and absolutely drained. The overwhelming feeling of nausea was quickly becoming harder for Ilya to ignore.
Bood sat up straight next to him. "That'll do it for us, thanks guys," he said, clapping a hand on Ilya's back and motioning for him to stand. Ilya wordlessly followed Bood out of the room and down the hall. Ilya stopped halfway back to the dressing room and slid down the wall, burying his face in his hands with a loud groan.
Bood sighed and crouched down next to him. "Bro, what was that?" He shook his head. "I mean, I have never seen you lose your shit like that. Ever."
"Bood, just-" Ilya cut himself off with a sigh and dropped his hands from his face. He stared at his alternate captain for a long moment. "What the fuck else was I supposed to do?"
Bood grimaced. The sound of a door opening down the hall made them both look up, and they watched as Harris made his way down the hall towards them. Ilya stood up quickly and began sputtering out apologies. "Harris, I am so sorry. I do not ever mean to make your job harder, I just-"
Harris put a hand up, stopping Ilya's rambling. "You're not talking to anybody else until at least the third fucking round, Rozanov." Harris buried his face in his hands, and Ilya heard him counting to ten under his breath. "Look, it could have been worse," Harris finally said with a sigh, which was far more than Ilya deserved. "But I don't think I'm the one you will need to be apologizing to."
* * *
It took under thirty minutes for Shane to see the clip.
The Centaurs who weren't pulled for press had already headed back to the hotel, with a few making their way directly into the lobby bar and huddling around a table in the back corner. Shane was happy to stick around and chat with the guys, Troy at his side while he fidgeted with the straw in his ginger ale, both of them waiting for their partners to make their way back to the hotel.
"Uh, Hollsy? You seen this?" Shane looked over where Hazy was staring at his phone in slight concern.
He handed the phone over to Shane. A tweet from Sportsnet was on the screen, paused on a video with Ilya and Bood sitting side by side in frame. Rozanov sticks up for Hollander, has some words for the press following Ottawa's win over Montreal in Game 3 👀, it read.
Shane's heart immediately dropped to his gut. He heard Troy murmur "oh no," next to him, making Shane want nothing more than to simply just sink through the floor.
With Troy and Luca flanked on either side of him and Hazy, Dkystra, and Chouinard all coming to stand over this shoulders, Shane pressed play on the clip with a shaky hand.
He turned the volume up and his heart continued sinking all the way down to his ass, listening to Ilya lash out at who he assumed was the Hockey East Beat writer. Shane bit the inside of his cheek and tried to take deep breaths and handed the phone back to Hazy.
So much for not calling more attention to the situation.
"Wow, I have never seen him with that kind of temper," said Luca.
"Where the hell did that even come from?" asked Chouinard.
"Bro, is it bad if I say that was kinda hot?"
"Evan, you can't just say that-"
"No, he's right, it was kinda hot," Troy confirmed, avoiding eye contact with Shane.
Shane scrubbed a hand over his face and stood up, his drink forgotten. "I'm going to bed," he declared and headed towards the elevators without a second look back at his teammates.
As the elevator doors slid shut and he began rising to the twelfth floor, Shane pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets and let out a guttural scream.
Shane loved how loyal and protective Ilya was over his team. He knew that Ilya would, and has been known to, drop anything and everything for any single one of those guys. Coming to Ottawa and watching Ilya be the best captain Shane could possibly imagine is partly why Shane fell head over heels for him in the first place.
But in this moment, Shane cursed that part of him. All Shane had ever wanted to keep his head down and play some fucking hockey, but that had stopped being an option for this series before the first puck drop. The only thing Shane had control over was ignoring the whispers of "he punched a homophobic winger in the face and immediately requested a trade," and hoping, praying no one would think too hard about it, because why the fuck would that situation be plausible for Shane Hollander of all people?
It's a bit harder to do that when Ilya, as well-meaning as he might have been, opens his big, beautiful mouth.
The elevator doors dinged open. Shane stepped out and marched down the hall, past his own individual room and headed a few doors down. He fiddled in his pocket for the keycard Ilya had slipped him earlier with a wink and let himself into the room.
Shane had no idea how long he waited for Ilya to show up, pacing around the bed, sitting for a few seconds on the mattress before his anxiety forced him to stand once again. It felt like hours the way the dread continued bubbling up in his chest, as well as mere seconds as he tried desperately to get his thoughts in order and emotions in check. When the lock of the door finally clicked open and Ilya walked inside, Shane was perched on the edge of the bed with leg bouncing anxiously. He's sure the look on his face could strike any other man dead.
"Shane," Ilya breathed. His curls were at a level of unruliness that Shane rarely saw outside of their bedroom, likely from running his hands through his hair over and over. "You saw?"
"Yes." Okay, he said one word without screaming. Good start.
Ilya waited a beat for him to say more, his shoulders sagging when he realized he wouldn't continue. "I am so sorry, moya lyubov." He sounded defeated. "I know you wanted me to stay out of it, but-"
"But what?" Shane exclaimed. Okay, here we go. "The whole point in ignoring this was to make it go away. No one was asking questions about it anymore except for that guy. Why would you get so defensive and make it look like he's right in thinking there's a story there, Ilya!?"
"Shane," Ilya sighed, taking a tentative step forward. "You asked me not to get involved, and I'm sorry I went against that. But, I…"
Ilya trailed off and gave Shane a pleading look. Shane wasn't really interested in whatever 'buts' may be coming, but he didn't interrupt in favor of narrowing his eyes further. "I know you think that was too much, and maybe you're right. But I would stand up there and do it all over again for any other teammate. I would do it for Bood, I'd do it for Barrett, I'd do it for a fucking AHLer on a two-way deal sent here to do a lap on the ice before heading home. So why the fuck can't I do it for you of all people?"
"You know exactly why!" Shane was standing now, all but shouting in Ilya's face. "Look, there is a rabbit hole just waiting to be explored here. It just takes the one wrong nosy person digging into it to deduce pretty quickly that I'm gay, and if people know I'm gay, Ilya, then it won't take any time at all for them to look at you-"
"Who the fuck cares, Shane!?" Ilya threw his hands in the air in frustration. "The worst has already happened to you, has it not? Your teammates found out and they were useless fucking idiots about it, and that wasn't fair to you and I am sorry that it happened. But people knew you were gay, and it ended up not being the end of the world. It's not like you're getting fucking deported only to be declared an enemy of the state! You aren't the only one with a career on the line here, but I do not see how me snapping at a fucking moron will make people connect the dots."
Shane stared at him in disbelief, watching as Ilya's face hardened the more he spoke. He couldn't believe how deeply unfair the words rolling off his tongue were. "Are you fucking insane, Ilya? My teammates finding out versus everyone finding out are not the same thing and you know it. And trust me, I am very aware of the circumstances you are also facing here, because getting exiled from Montreal was not the worst fucking thing that could happen to me. The worst thing that can happen now is me inadvertently outing you, and then what?"
Ilya's face softened just slightly, and he had the decency to let a sliver of guilt flash across his face. "Shane-"
"I told you that J.J. already knows something is up here. Troy and Harris were on to us before we even got our shit together." Shane shook his head in frustration. "We are not nearly as subtle as we think we are, Ilya! We get to hide from the public behind the veil of homophobia in the NHL. We are hiding in plain fucking sight. If someone knows one of us is queer, it won't take a fucking genius to figure out what is going on here. So then what, you're going to go tell Roger Crowell to go fuck himself and get kicked out of the league? We fucking talked about this! I thought-" Shane cut himself off, swallowing and trying desperately to blink back the angry tears he could feel welling up. "I know you think I'm overreacting here, but it's because the worst thing that can happen is losing you, you fucking dumbass."
Ilya stood there in silence as he let Shane yell and scream. Shane was internally begging him to say something, anything that wasn't looking at him like he had just been bitch slapped across the face. Shane sighed and balled his hands into tightly clenched fists at his side. "I asked you not to make a big deal about it," he said, trying to keep his voice low and steady. "Because I was trying to protect us. But you went and did it anyway. And now I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do next."
Ilya opened and closed his mouth once, then twice. Finally, he gave Shane a small nod. "I am so sorry, Shane," he finally said softly.
Shane said nothing for a long moment, then looked away with a sniff. "I'm gonna go sleep in my own room tonight," he said, then quickly left the room before waiting to hear Ilya's response, letting the door slam behind him.