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2029, Montreal
Shane stands in the kitchen of his house, the late afternoon light slanting through the wide windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. It’s quiet in the way it only ever is when he hasn’t scheduled anything to fill it—no coaching session, no call, no dinner plans. Just stillness. The hum of the fan. The ticking of the wall clock. The birds perched on the branches of the trees outside.
The envelope in his hand is heavier than it should be. Cream cardstock, thick, textured. Expensive, and the kind of thing that’s meant to feel important in the hand. Shane thumbs the edge of it absently, sliding his nail along the seam and bending it just enough to feel the resistance. He’s already opened it once, already read the words printed in elegant serif font, but he hasn’t put it down since. It rests against his palm like a question he doesn’t want to know the answer to.
A charity exhibition game, it says. One night only. Proceeds going to youth hockey programs, accessibility initiatives, the whole carefully curated list of good causes that would make declining feel selfish. A gala afterward—black tie optional but implied—celebrating the “golden era” of the sport. Whatever that meant. His era is the implication, though no one writes it that plainly. They never say ‘your generation’ in these invites; it’s always a defining chapter, an unforgettable period, the players who shaped the game. Just so no one feels left out.
Shane snorts quietly to himself and shifts his weight, leaning a hip against the counter. He flips the invitation over again, rereading the names of the organizing committee, the sponsors, the venue. Montreal, of course. They always come back to Montreal for these things.
Fair enough, he supposes. The ghosts are already here. Might as well invite them to dress up.
He feels a twinge in his leg and frowns. Late thirties. Thirty-eight. The number sits oddly in his head, like a jacket that doesn’t quite fit the shoulders. He still feels young most days, right up until he doesn’t. Until his knee aches in the cold after a flight, or his back complains when he sleeps wrong, or he catches his reflection in the darkened microwave door and sees lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before. Laugh lines, people call them, as if laughter has ever been a dominant force shaping his face. There are times—plenty of them—where Shane feels like he’s never actually been happy.
He turns the invitation lengthwise, rests it across his fingers, and then looks down at his hands.
They’re different now. Bigger, maybe, or just rougher in a way that feels permanent. A dot on the page. A physical bookend to a relatively perfect career. The knuckles are thick, the veins more pronounced. There’s a faint scar near his thumb from a stick incident that he barely remembers, and another on his index finger from a kitchen mishap that he definitely does. He flexes them slowly, one finger at a time, counting years without meaning to.
One. Two. Three.
He knows who will be invited. The images arrive in his mind, fully formed and undeniable. They settle in his chest with the quiet certainty of a checked box. Of course they’ll invite everyone who mattered. Of course they’ll cast the net wide and nostalgic enough, careful not to leave anyone out who might still sell a ticket or two or make a wealthier-than-fuck donor smile.
So, all that to say, of course Ilya Rozanov would be on that list.
Shane exhales through his nose and closes his eyes briefly, his head tipping back until it rests against the cabinet behind him. He stays like that for a moment, breathing, counting heartbeats instead of seconds. Days. Months. Years. He wonders, not for the first time, if there will ever come a day when Roz—Ilya’s name doesn’t arrive like this: sharp-edged and carrying a weight no matter how gently it’s set down.
He opens his eyes again and stares at the ceiling. Looking at the minute cracks he’s been wanting to repair.
It’s been almost three years since the last time they played against each other. Not an exhibition, not a ceremonial puck drop or a smiling photo op. A real game, with real skates and real contact. Shane could swear, right now, that if he closes his eyes he’d remember the crack of sticks, the echo of blades against ice, the roar of the crowd rising and falling like a living thing. He won’t even have to try hard. It’s always there in the back of his mind. The way Ilya skated across the rink, visor fogged slightly, mouthguard half out of his mouth in that familiar, infuriating way.
Three years is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Three years is also an eternity. Long enough for routines to change and for habits to calcify like bone. For absence to become a kind of presence all on its own.
Longer than that—much longer—is the last real conversation they had.
2017, Tampa. The year settles in his mind with the dull thud of something heavy being set on a table. Over a decade ago now. Shane does the math automatically, because he can’t ever help himself. He has always been good with numbers, with timelines, with keeping track of things that other people let blur. The highest IQ for hockey, they used to say about him. Well, he’s got a high IQ here too: 2017 is a different fucking lifetime ago.
He shifts, pushing himself off the counter, and walks toward the living room, the invitation still in his hand. The house opens up around him—high ceilings, clean lines, furniture chosen, finally, for comfort rather than display. He’s built a real life here that makes sense, one that fits and doesn't ask too many questions. There are photos on the walls, but not many. Team shots. Family. A few candid moments with friends. Nothing that might ambush him on a quiet afternoon like this, no. Those kinds of photos are better reserved in places where he doesn’t have to confront them at all.
He drops himself onto the couch and lets the invitation rest against his thigh. His leg bounces once, twice, then stills as he consciously forces it to stop. He presses his palm flat over the paper, feeling the faint impression of the embossed lettering beneath his skin.
Ilya would have gotten an invitation too. The thought is steady, almost gentle in its intrusion. There’s no spike of adrenaline, no sharp twist of panic. Just awareness. Like noticing a storm on the horizon and knowing it will either pass or it won’t, regardless of what you do with your life after.
Shane imagines Ilya receiving his envelope. He can picture it with an irritating and fond clarity: the size of the paper, the weight of it, the way Ilya would turn it over once before opening it, as if checking for a trick. He imagines the quick, bright flash of understanding in Ilya’s eyes as he reads, the way his mouth would curl up—not quite a smile, not quite anything else—at the phrase golden era. The scoff he would let out. The pride he’s going to feel anyway over being included.
He imagines Ilya thinking of him. The idea is both comforting and unsettling, and Shane isn’t sure which feeling wins.
Here’s one of the many things he tells himself, all the time: this is ridiculous. They are grown men with long careers and full lives and plenty of history that has nothing to do with each other. An invitation to a charity game does not require this level of internal inventory. That nostalgia is a trap best avoided.
Shane also knows himself well enough to recognize when he’s lying.
He leans back further into the couch cushions and stares ahead, his gaze unfocused. He lets his thoughts drift backward despite his better judgment, tracing familiar paths he’s worn smooth by repetition. The amount of times he’s replayed the same things over and over in his head would be embarrassing if anyone else knew about it. Fortunately enough, Shane is almost always alone in his misery.
The last game against each other comes back in fragments rather than a coherent narrative. The smell of the rink stands out the most; the press of bodies along the boards a close second. And then Ilya’s laughter would overpower everything else—the way the noise carried, the way Shane had chirped something in response. The brief, electric moment when their eyes met after a particularly rough shift, something unspoken flashing between them before the game swallowed it whole.
They hadn’t spoken after. Not really. A nod, maybe. A look. Something that could be dismissed as coincidence if anyone bothered to examine it closely.
Florida is harder. Florida is always harder.
The memory arrives entirely unbidden, so vivid in a way that surprises him even now. The heat of the air outside, thick and damp, clinging to his skin. Montreal was always cold. Tampa was hot in a way that was almost physically painful to Shane. He thinks of the artificial chill of the hotel room, the buzzing of the air conditioning too loud in the silence. The sense of something about to tip, to finally give way under the accumulated weight of years.
Shane shifts on the couch, his jaw clenched. He doesn’t usually let himself linger there. He’s had more than a decade to learn which doors in his mind to keep firmly shut, which memories to file away and label ‘do not open unless necessary, like when you’re drunk and your first-and-last ex-girlfriend gets you to spill your guts literally and metaphorically all over her bathroom floor’. The invitation feels like someone has come along with a master key and a smile, unlocking things without asking. Like Shane’s opinions don’t matter.
He presses his lips together and exhales slowly. Oh well.
Then, he thinks that Ilya probably won’t go.
The thought brings with it a strange mix of relief and disappointment, a familiar enough cocktail of sadness for Shane. He imagines Ilya reading the invitation, doing the same mental math and arriving at the same conclusions. He imagines Ilya deciding, with that particular brand of stubborn logic he’s always had, that it’s better to stay away. Better not to reopen old wounds. Better not to complicate things.
Better, perhaps, not to see Shane Hollander again.
His fingers curl slightly against the paper in his lap.
It’s an easy assumption to make. They’ve both made a career out of avoidance when it comes to each other, even before they actually drifted apart. Years of circling, of almosts, of deliberate distance they’ve managed to spin and disguise into professionalism. Rivalry, Shane scoffs in his head. There was a certain comfort in the pattern, even now. Predictable and contained.
Shane tells himself that if Ilya doesn’t go, it will be for the best. He also knows that if Ilya does go, he will almost certainly find a way to show up. The thought settles in him with quiet inevitability, and he hates how unsurprised he is by it.
His phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting cleanly through his steady spiral. Shane startles despite himself, his gaze snapping down to the screen. For a moment, there’s a ridiculous flicker of expectation—an impossible hope that has no business existing.
But it’s just Hayden.
The message is short, casual, the way most of Hayden’s messages are these days. Asking if Shane’s going to attend. No pressure, no assumptions. Just a question lobbed into the quiet of Shane’s afternoon, perfectly timed to land right where everything already feels both sore and tender like a freshly acquired bruise.
Shane stares at the screen without picking it up.
Hayden would go. Of course he would. Hayden has always been good at these things—at showing up, at smiling for the cameras, at playing the part expected of him without losing himself in it. Shane envies that sometimes. Other times, he’s grateful for it. It makes people like Hayden easy to love, easy to keep.
He reaches for his phone and lifts it, the invitation sliding off his thigh and onto the couch cushion beside him. His thumb hovers over the screen keyboard. For a long moment, he doesn’t type anything at all.
He thinks, once again, of Tampa. The dim hotel room that was lit only by the lamp near the bed. The curtains were half-drawn, light bleeding in from the street below in smears of neon. Shane sitting on the edge of the mattress, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between him and Ilya. The tension in the room—how it felt like static. How every breath that passed between them felt emotionally charged.
Ilya, standing near the window, arms crossed. His reflection ghosted faintly in the glass. Exhaustion on his face. They were both so tired. Neither of them spoke for the longest time, and when Ilya finally turned, his expression was open in a way that made Shane’s chest ache. No bravado, no biting humor to deflect with. Just his honesty, laid bare, lips spilling things Shane has waited years to hear.
Did I say something back? Shane asks himself now. He probably did. Low and careful, like he always was and will be, afraid that the wrong word would shatter the moment completely. He remembers, at least, that they talked. Really talked. He remembers that the words tumbled out in fits and starts. Admissions layered with defensiveness, longing braided tightly with fear. They circled the truth until there was nothing left to circle, until it became unavoidable, pressing in on them from all sides.
Ilya, in bed with him later, the space between them disappearing. When will I have you for as long as I want?
The memory fractures there, as it always does, dissolving into sensation rather than a descriptive account. Heat. The brush of fingers. The taste of regret and relief tangled together in that last kiss they shared. The knowledge, even then, that they were on borrowed time, sharing a moment they were stealing from the future. How it will have a cost neither of them were quite ready to pay.
When Shane blinks, he’s back in his living room, the light outside noticeably dimmer than it was a few minutes ago. The house feels much quieter. He shakes his head, swallows, and then looks down at his phone again. The message from Hayden is still there, patient. Waiting. Shane types a reply slowly and deliberately. He doesn’t dress it up, doesn’t hedge more than necessary. Doesn’t commit to anything. He tells the truth, or, at least, a version of it.
He says he doesn’t know.
The message sends with a soft whoosh, gone before he can second-guess it. Shane sets the phone back on the table and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together.
He stares at the invitation lying on the couch, all crisp edges and careful wording. So innocuous, as if it hasn’t sent Shane into the worst spiral of his year so far. He imagines himself on the ice again, under bright lights, surrounded by familiar faces aged in ways both subtle and stark. He imagines the gala afterward, the speeches and the laughter and the clink of glasses raised to memory.
And, because it always leads back to him, he imagines Ilya across a crowded room. Imagines what it would be like if he finds that he’s looking for Shane too.
The thought sends a shiver through him that has nothing to do with the cold.
Shane straightens slowly and reaches for the invitation again, picking it up as if it might vanish if he hesitates too long. He runs his thumb over his name, printed there in black ink, official and impersonal.
Late thirties, he thinks again. Not young, not old. Somewhere in between, balanced on a line that feels thinner every year.
He doesn’t make a decision. Not yet. Instead, he folds the invitation carefully and sets it on the coffee table, next to his phone. He stands and walks toward the window, looking out at the quiet street, at the city he’s made his home. The light outside fades from gold to blue, evening settling in. Somewhere, maybe, Ilya is holding the same envelope, thinking the same thoughts, counting the same years on his hands. Or maybe he isn’t. Either way, Shane rests his forehead briefly against the cool glass and closes his eyes, letting the uncertainty wash over him. He’s lived with it before. He knows how to carry it, how to make room for it without letting it consume him.
For now, that’s enough.
The restaurant is one of those quiet, softly lit places that Shane’s mom prefers—linen napkins, low music, nothing clattering or rushed. It’s one of their better alternatives whenever the usual is full or, as in this case, shut down for a reservation. It smells like bread and roasted garlic, which Shane is usually comfortable with. He sits across from his mom in a corner booth, the table small enough that their knees almost touch whenever they shift.
He has his phone in his hand, thumb moving in idle, habitual motions. He’s not really reading anything. He scrolls, locks the screen, unlocks it again, as if that would somehow make something worthwhile magically appear. The glow paints his knuckles faintly blue.
His mom watches him over the rim of her water glass, expression mild and observant. Yuna Hollander has always had a talent for saying very little and still managing to be heard, though Shane does not know how much of that is her and how much of that is mothers in general dealing with stubborn sons.
She brings up the gala—of course she does—the way she brings up most things that matter: indirectly and wrapped in practical considerations. She mentions the charity game first, the good it would do. Mentions how nice it is that people still remember him and still want him involved, which gets an eyeroll from Shane because he only retired two years ago. He’s not so ancient that people have already forgotten the three Stanley Cups, among others, he’s won.
When that strategy fails, she pivots to a new one. She talks about how visible events like that can be good for maintaining relationships. Sponsors, donors, all those people who have quietly helped him transition into coaching without making him feel like he’s asking for charity. It’s framed all so perfectly. The Yuna Hollander Special: advice that isn’t quite advice, but not so much like pressure either.
Shane nods along, eyes flicking down to his phone again even though the screen is dark now. He tells her he’s still thinking about it. He says his schedule is a little up in the air. He mentions travel, timing, minor commitments that sound ridiculous even to his ears. The excuses—because that’s what they are—land between them, fragile and translucent.
He knows she can see straight through him. She always has. There’s this particular look she gets that’s halfway between disappointment and impatient. A quiet awareness, one she has perfected after years of watching him dwell on things he doesn’t want to name.
She doesn’t call him on it.
Shane sighs, and then she says it would be a good idea. Says it gently, like she’s placing the thought on the table between them and letting him decide whether to pick it up. She reminds him, without saying so outright, that this next phase of his career matters. That visibility matters. That staying connected isn’t the same thing as staying stuck. Shane shrugs, noncommittal. He takes a sip of his drink, buys himself a moment. He says he knows. He says he’s weighing things.
They move on after that. Talk about mundane things. A friend’s new job. His parents’ mean neighbor who finally replaced their fence. The food when it arrives—how the new sauce tastes better than expected, how the portions are always too big when it’s just the two of them but too little when Shane’s dad is around. The conversation settles into familiar, well-worn grooves. When the check comes, his mom reaches for it out of habit and he intercepts it without comment. They both smile, the ritual unchanged even now.
Outside, the air is cooler, evening pressing in with the promise of rain. They stand on the sidewalk for a moment, neither of them in a hurry. She smooths the sleeve of his jacket, an old instinct she’s never quite shaken. He leans down and kisses her cheek.
She reminds him to think about it. He tells her he will. She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.
They part with a wave, her walking toward her car, him turning the opposite direction. Shane doesn’t look back. He knows if he does, he’ll catch her watching him, and he doesn’t want that mirror right now.
The city vibrates with life around him as he walks back to where he parked his car. He pulls his phone back out, willing it to say something new. His thumb hovers, then scrolls.
That’s when the message comes in.
It’s a link from J.J., nothing more. No commentary, no warning. Just the digital equivalent of a tap on the shoulder.
Shane stops walking.
The sidewalk keeps moving around him—people passing, a bike zipping by, a car honking somewhere down the block—but he’s suddenly very still, rooted in place. He stares at the message, at the preview text that loads beneath the link. An interview. Recent, partnered with a clean headshot.
ESPN: Ilya Rozanov Joins List of Names Attending the NHL Charity Bowl.
The words settle into him slowly, like sediment sinking through water. There’s no dramatic spike of emotions, no sharp intake of breath. He wishes there was, just so he’d get over it quickly, but no. There’s just a quiet, full-body pause, as if every system in him has decided to recalibrate at once.
Then, as if his hands are on autopilot, he opens the link. The video loads, buffering just long enough to be cruel. A few seconds pass, and then there he is.
Ilya Rozanov. Older, yes, but unmistakable. The lines around his eyes are deeper, his hair cut a little differently, flecked with silver at the temples whenever the light hits it just right. He’s dressed well—tailored jacket, crisp yellow shirt—but relaxed, posture loose, one ankle resting casually over the opposite knee. He looks comfortable. Nice.
Shane watches without really blinking, absorbing details he tells himself he doesn’t need. The way Ilya’s hands move when he talks, expressive but controlled. The tilt of his head as he listens to the interviewer. The familiar half-smile that appears and disappears like it’s on a delay.
Ilya talks about the gala. About honoring his past and about giving back. How meaningful it is to reconnect with people he hasn’t seen in years. His tone is easy, charming, polished in a way that comes from long practice. Shane thinks to himself, ah, I see. Something in his chest twists, and it has nothing to do with surprise. He knew this was possible. He told himself as much. He just hadn’t let himself believe it.
He lets the video play all the way though, even when his instincts urge him to close it, to pretend he never saw it. When it ends, the screen freezes on Ilya mid-expression, mouth tilted faintly upward, eyes bright.
Shane locks his phone. Takes a deep breath. He stands there for another long moment, staring at his own reflection in the glass. He looks tired. Thoughtful. Like a man caught between decisions he doesn’t want to make.
Eventually, he starts walking again.
His steps are slower now, more careful, like he’s pacing himself through a hair-thin line of thread. The city feels different now, which annoys him, because he’d been having a lovely time so far. Every sound seems amplified—the scrape of shoes on pavement, the murmur of conversation drifting from an open bar door, the distant rumble of traffic.
Ilya is going to the game. To the gala.
The phrase repeats in his head, over and over, each iteration pulling something loose.
He reaches his car and unlocks it, sliding into the driver’s seat with movements that feel slightly disconnected, as if he’s watching himself from a few feet away. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, pulls out into traffic. The drive home is a blur of red lights and familiar turns. Muscle memory takes over, steering him through streets he’s driven a thousand times. His mind drifts backward despite his best efforts, pulled by a current he recognizes all too well.
The memory of their rookie years surfaces first, so bright and unpolished, full of awkward conversations and raw emotion. He remembers being young and hungry and certain in ways that feel almost embarrassing now. Everything mattered then. Every game, every round, every look across the ice. Ilya had been impossible to ignore from the start, and Shane was always doomed. Loud, brilliant, infuriating. A presence that demanded attention whether Shane wanted to give it or not. Their rivalry had been real, yes—it was real that moment in Saskatchewan, Shane’s hand outstretched and the cigarette smoke curled around Ilya—but it had also been something else. Something harder to name. A gravity that pulled them toward each other even when logic insisted they should move apart.
Stolen moments. They’d been everywhere and nowhere. The back entrance of Shane’s old apartment. Secluded corridors where no one would think to look twice. Kisses in locked bathrooms. Conversations cut short because someone might walk in. Hands shaking in the ice, their touches lingering a second too long in recklessness. Lily and Jane. Jane and Lily. He’s saved as Rozanov in Shane’s phone now, but the memory of it remains the same. The anonymity, at the start, had been part of the appeal. Beige hotel walls and threadbare carpets. Curtains from whomever’s penthouse reservation that never quite closed all the way. Places where nothing was expected to last the night. Vegas. Nashville. Toronto. Even Montreal felt impermanent. It was always pretend. For a few hours at a time, Shane and Ilya could pretend that the world outside didn’t exist. That nothing waited for them out there.
Shane’s hands tighten on the wheel.
Laughter felt dangerous because between the two of them, it always mattered. That was the thing that always unraveled him, even more than the physical closeness. Laughing together earnestly, genuinely, helplessly. Inside jokes as refuge, a way to soften truths that felt too sharp to handle head-on. Boring, Ilya used to call him, back when Shane didn’t know enough that boring to him meant stable. Looking back now, at critical moments, they really were just two fools carving secrets out of stolen time. In the end, it was that vulnerability they enjoyed that did them in.
But that was another life, he thinks. This is now. He remembers thinking that, even back then, in quieter moments when the rush faded and reality crept back in. Remembering how young they were, how convinced they’d been that there would always be more time to figure things out. How easy it had been to defer decisions, to let momentum carry them forward instead of choosing a direction.
Shane pulls into his driveway and sits in the car with the engine idling, staring straight ahead. The house looms familiar and solid and empty, a testament to choices made and paths taken.
He thinks, again, of the interview. The way Ilya had spoken calmly and confidently. His practiced answers and how well he wore the role expected of him. The charming star, the grateful Raiders alumnus, the ambassador of goodwill—at the very least, to his teammates. The public version of Ilya that is suave and charming but also smoothed and built by careful phrasing, partly because of his difficulty with the English language and partly because if he’s not careful then it will just be a PR nightmare. The Ilya the public knew knows how to smile for the camera. How to deflect personal questions with humor. How to make everyone feel like they’re in on the joke without ever letting them too close.
Private Ilya had been something else entirely. That version of him had been restless and sharp, achingly sincere in unguarded moments. He’d been prone to overthinking, to spiraling when things felt out of control. He’d had a laugh that burst out of him unexpectedly, head tipping back, eyes squeezed shut like he couldn’t contain it. Private Ilya knew how to dish out insults just as much as his public version did, but all of them had been wrapped around the edges, and they always landed carefully.
Shane had known the difference intimately. He’d known which smiles were for show and which meant something real. He’d known how to read the subtle shifts in Ilya’s mood, the tells no one else ever noticed. That version of him was different, because he was Shane’s alone.
But all this knowledge feels heavier now, a relic he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
He turns off the engine and finally gets out of the car, phone still sitting untouched on the passenger seat. He retrieves it absently, sliding it into his pocket as he walks up the front steps. Inside, the house greets him with quiet. He drops his keys into the bowl by the door, toes off his shoes without really thinking about it. He moves through the space still operating on autopilot, setting his jacket over a chair, flipping on a lamp as dusk deepens outside.
The silence presses in.
He pulls his phone out again, unlocks it. The interview is still there, waiting. He doesn’t open it this time. He doesn’t need to.
Ilya is going to the game. To the gala.
The words carry more weight now, layered with memory and meaning. It’s no longer just information. It’s a catalyst.
Shane sinks onto the couch, elbows on his knees, phone dangling loosely from his hand. He stares at the floor, at the faint scuff marks that tell the story of years lived here.
That was another life. He repeats the thought like a mantra, like something that might protect him if he believes it hard enough. They were other people then. Younger. Less careful. Less aware of the price of things. He has built something else since. A different rhythm. A different identity. Coaching has given him a sense of purpose he hadn’t expected, a way to stay connected to the game without being consumed by it. He has plans, goals, a future that doesn’t rely on nostalgia. Ilya, too, has built his own life away from Shane. Carved his own path in time and history that does not rely on callbacks to their rivalry. To those years they shared on the ice.
And yet.
The idea of seeing Ilya again, of sharing the same physical space after all this time, sends a ripple through him that he can’t ignore. It stirs questions, like: What would it feel like now? Would it be awkward? Would it be easy? Would it feel like nothing at all, our past finally rendered inert by time?
Shane doesn’t know, and the not knowing gnaws at him.
He leans back against the couch, head tipping toward the ceiling, eyes closing. Images flicker behind his lids—ice gleaming under bright lights, skating through stadium after stadium, arena after arena, Ilya’s grin flashed across a rink crowded with people who never knew what it meant.
Public versus private. Private versus public. The dichotomy has always been there, but it feels more prominent now, like it’s really staring him directly in the face. Shane wonders which version of himself would show up at the gala. The polished hockey veteran? The budding coach? Or the man who often counts years on his hands and wonders what might have been if he’d been braver? The real question here is which one would Ilya Rozanov be more receptive to? Which one would make him take a look and consider Shane to be worth anything after all?
He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling until it blurs slightly. That was another life, he tells himself again. He just isn’t sure anymore whether that makes it easier—or harder—to let go.
2017, Tampa
The hallway smells like industrial cleaner and something vaguely citrus, sharp enough to sting the back of Shane’s throat if he breathes too deeply. The carpet beneath his shoes is patterned in a way meant to disguise stains, a looping mix of reds and browns that has seen too many dragged suitcases and spilled drinks. The lights hum softly overhead, steady and different.
Shane stands outside Ilya’s room and does not knock. Not yet.
His hand hovers a few inches from the door, fingers curled like he’s already committed to the motion even though he hasn’t followed through. He can feel his pulse in his wrist, a steady, insistent beat that feels louder here, amplified by the quiet of the late hour. The All-Stars game is over. The event obligations are done. Most of the floor has gone still, players scattered across bars, rooms, or flights out at dawn.
This is the last night.
The thought lands loud and unmistakable, the way it has been landing all evening. Last night in Florida. Last night in this particular configuration of time and place and proximity. Tomorrow, they scatter again—different cities, different seasons, different versions of themselves snapping back into place like armor.
Shane exhales slowly, letting his shoulders drop a fraction. He tells himself, not for the first time, that he can still walk away. That standing here does not obligate him to anything. That wanting something does not mean he has to take it.
The door opens.
It’s abrupt enough that Shane startles, his hand jerking slightly in the air. Rozanov stands there, already looking at him, as if he’s been on the other side the entire time. He’s barefoot, wearing a soft, worn T-shirt and athletic shorts, the casualness of it a quiet contrast to the formalities of the night they’ve just endured.
For a brief, suspended second, neither of them moves.
Then Shane steps forward.
The space between them disappears in an instant, crossed with a decisiveness that surprises even him. His hand comes up, fingers curling into the fabric at Rozanov’s hip, pulling him close. The door swings wider behind Rozanov as Shane presses in, mouths colliding with a force born of restraint rather than spontaneity.
The kiss is not gentle.
It’s hungry and slightly clumsy, the product of too much held back for too long. Shane feels the warmth of Rozanov’s body through thin cotton, feels the startled hitch of breath that follows the impact. He doesn’t think about who might hear, doesn’t think about the open doorway or the possibility of cameras or the thousands of reasons why this is a bad idea.
All he thinks about is this: the way Rozanov’s hands come up instinctively, gripping Shane’s arms, steadying him even as he responds. The familiar heat that is both immediate and grounding. Shane kisses him harder, as if trying to compress every second they’ve spent with each other all these years into a single moment.
They break apart abruptly, breathless, foreheads nearly touching.
The air between them feels alive with everything they haven’t said. Shane is acutely aware of the sound of his own breathing, of the faint buzz of static beneath his skin. Rozanov’s eyes are dark, searching, his expression unreadable in the low light.
Rozanov steps back first, clearing his throat, gesturing vaguely toward the interior of the room. Shane follows without thinking, the door clicking shut behind them with a finality that makes something in his chest tighten.
The room is exactly what Shane expects: neutral, impersonal, designed to be forgotten. A king-sized bed dominates the space, its white duvet rumpled but inviting. A small table near the window holds an ice bucket and a couple of bottles, condensation beading on the glass. The curtains are half-drawn, city lights bleeding in through the gap, painting the walls in muted orange.
Rozanov moves toward the table, his movements suddenly deliberate, almost stiff. He reaches for one of the bottles, lifts it slightly in a silent offer. The question hangs in the air between them, unnecessary but almost ritualistic. Shane nods, though he’s not sure he wants it. His mouth feels dry, his thoughts scattered. He watches Rozanov pour, the quiet clink of ice against glass sounding too loud in the stillness. There’s something awkward about the moment, a hitch where momentum falters and reality creeps back in.
They are very good at the beginning of things. The middle is harder.
Shane takes the glass when it’s handed to him, their fingers brushing briefly. The contact sends a small, sharp jolt through him, disproportionate to its brevity. He steps away, needing space, and perches on the edge of the bed instead of committing to sitting properly. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, grounding him in the physicality of the room.
He holds the glass loosely in one hand, the other resting on his knee. The ice shifts as the liquid settles, a soft, almost nervous sound. He stares at the carpet for a moment, at the intricate pattern he’ll never remember again, trying to collect himself.
This is familiar territory, and that’s what scares him. He’s been here before—maybe not in this exact room, but certainly in this posture, with this man. Different city, different year, same unspoken understanding. The ease with which they slip back into this rhythm is both comforting and alarming. It feels like muscle memory, like something his body remembers even when his mind tries to argue against it.
Shane lifts his gaze slowly, taking Rozanov in again. The lines of him, the way he occupies space. This version stripped of cameras and crowds, existing here just as vividly as it always has. It’s intoxicating in its familiarity.
Shane knows, with a clarity that borders on painful, that this night matters. That whatever happens—or doesn’t—will echo forward in ways neither of them can fully predict. He knows that this might be the last time circumstances align like this, that the future is already pressing in around the corners.
He sits on the end of the bed, drink untouched, heart beating steadily in his chest, and waits.
Rozanov breaks the silence first. “This looks serious.”
“It’s not,” Shane shakes his head. “It… I mean… Just let me talk for a second.”
Rozanov’s head tilts, just slightly. “Okay.”
Shane stares at the carpet again. He swallows. “It’s not just me, right?”
“Not just you… what?” Rozanov frowns, confusion flickering across his face. Shane lifts his head then, meeting Rozanov’s eyes.
“I’m not the only one who feels it. Something’s changed.”
Rozanov exhales through his nose, a sound that’s half a laugh and half a sigh. Mostly a sigh, really. “Of course things have changed. We won All-Stars. You got girlfriend. But these are not new to me.”
Shane’s grip tightens on the glass. “I’m not talking about that. I mean… there’s this feeling.”
Rozanov’s mouth quirks, just slightly, into something that might almost be a smile if it weren’t so edged with defense. “It’s always a feeling.”
Something in Shane snaps, brittle with relief and irritation all at once. “God, shut up,” he blurts. “You know what I mean! The last time we were together it was… different.”
He can still feel it, that difference. The way the air had felt heavier, the way the laughter had faded faster, replaced by something quieter and more dangerous. Rozanov saying his name and Shane walking out even as Rozanov tried to backtrack. He waits for the other man to acknowledge it, to meet him there.
Instead, Rozanov shrugs.
The casualness of it hits Shane harder than he expects. Heat flashes through him, sharp and sudden. “Don’t be so dismissive,” he says, the words tumbling out faster now. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. This is hard enough without you being an asshole.”
Rozanov straightens, something cool slipping over his features. “I am the asshole? What is it that you want, Hollander, really?”
The question hits squarely in Shane’s chest, knocking the air out of him. He opens his mouth, then stops. For all the thoughts racing through his head, none of them feel solid enough to offer up.
“I… I don’t—”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know,” Rozanov interrupts. There’s no anger in his voice, just certainty, and that might be worse. “Is easy enough arrangement, right? We meet, we fuck, that’s it. We don’t now, but we could if that’s what you want. You break up with your girlfriend, yes?”
The bluntness stings. Shane winces, not because it’s untrue, but because it reduces everything down to something manageable, something small enough to fit neatly into a box. He’s never been able to do that. “Rose,” he corrects automatically, the name feeling too light on his tongue for how much weight it’s carrying right now. “And, yeah, but that’s not—it’s not easy. Nothing about this has ever been easy.”
He looks at Rozanov then, really looks, and sees the flash of something familiar in his eyes—recognition, maybe. Weariness. “You think I don’t know that?” The question isn’t accusatory. It’s just tired. Shane’s frustration drains out of him, replaced by a heavy, aching guilt. He does know. He’s always known, even when he’s pretended otherwise.
“I’m not saying it hasn’t been difficult for you,” Shane says quietly. “It’s just… it felt like we were more. That day.”
The words feel like glass, like they might shatter if he presses them too hard. He remembers that morning with painful clarity—the way everything had seemed briefly possible, the way he’d let himself imagine a different outcome, even as he scrambled to get away.
“It did,” Rozanov admits, and Shane’s heart stutters. Then: “But then you left, so now what?”
The truth of it is so simple. It hurts no less, though, and Shane has no good answer. He never has.
“Would you want it to be more?” he asks anyway, because he needs to know, because not knowing has been eating at him.
“Does it matter?”
“It does,” Shane insists, urgency bleeding through despite his best efforts. “Would you? If we could?”
“We can’t.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“And it still doesn’t matter.”
Shane feels something in him give, a quiet surrender. “I like you,” he says, the words simple and terrifying. “I can’t… I don’t want to pretend anymore that I don’t.”
The silence that follows is vast.
Rozanov stops moving. He stands there for a long moment, his face inscrutable, and Shane braces himself for whatever comes next. When Rozanov finally moves, it’s with a decisive grace that makes Shane’s breath hitch. He drains his drink, sets the glass aside, and sits down beside Shane, close enough that Shane can feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of their clothes.
Rozanov takes Shane’s hand, folding it between his own like it’s something precious. Shane’s pulse jumps under his fingers. When Rozanov brings the hand to his mouth, Shane feels exposed in a way he can’t remember ever feeling before. The kiss is soft, reverent. Rozanov inhales, like he’s anchoring himself.
“You don’t like me, Hollander,” he says quietly. “You can’t.”
Shane’s throat tightens. “I think I like you a little too much.”
The admission feels dangerous, like stepping off solid ground. Rozanov closes his eyes, pain flickering briefly across his face.
“Don’t do this to me.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Shane insists, though even he can hear how hollow that sounds.
They come together again, the kiss deeper this time, heavier with everything they’re not saying. Shane lets himself be pulled back onto the bed, lets himself sink into the familiar press of Rozanov’s body, the known curve of his shoulder, the warmth of him. For a while, the world narrows down to touch and breath and the illusion that this moment could stretch on forever.
When they finally still, they’re lying side by side, close enough that their arms brush, close enough that distance feels theoretical.
“I like you too,” Rozanov says into the quiet, like the admission is painful. He doesn’t look at Shane when he says it. “I do. So much. I know two languages and in none of them could I find the words to tell you how I feel.”
Shane turns toward him, heart aching. “Rozanov…”
“But I don’t think we can do this.”
The words hit harder now, after everything. “Why not?”
Rozanov studies him, eyes sharp and searching. “If I ask you right now to stay, would you?”
The question terrifies him. Shane feels the ‘yes’ burning in his chest, immediate and overwhelming. He wants to say it. He wants to promise everything. He wants to believe that wanting is enough.
But reality comes crashing in, relentless.
Shane says nothing.
The silence stretches, heavy and definitive. Rozanov doesn’t look surprised.
“I said your name and it scared you enough to run,” he says softly. “To not talk to me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be,” Rozanov replies, and there’s a sad kindness in it that hurts worse than anger. “I get it. But you can’t stay. You won’t stay. Tell me, when will I have you for as long as I want?”
Shane stares at the ceiling, at the cracks he hadn’t noticed before, at the way the light catches on nothing important. He knows the right answer, but he knows that saying it out loud won’t make any difference. The choice has been made.
So he stays silent. Sometimes there are no words that don’t feel like lies. Rozanov is right, in that sometimes the truth is too big, too complicated, to fit into any language at all. Shane lies there beside Rozanov, the weight of what they can’t have pressing down on him, and lets the quiet say everything he can’t.
2029, Montreal
The rink smells the same.
Shane notices it the moment he steps through the tunnel, before the lights fully hit his eyes, before the noise resolves into individual sounds. Cold air. Old ice. Rubber and metal and something indefinably human—sweat, anticipation, memory. The smell hasn’t changed, even if everything else has.
He adjusts his helmet, fingers lingering at the strap longer than necessary, and looks out over the ice.
They’re all older. It’s impossible not to notice once you really look. There’s more gray under helmets, more tape on joints that used to bounce back without complaint. Warmups are longer. Stretches are more deliberate. No one pretends otherwise. But the way they skate—careful at first, then faster, sharper, instinct kicking in—it tells the real story.
This isn’t a novelty. Not really. It’s a charity game, yes. Exhibition rules, shortened periods, smiles for the cameras during stoppages. But once blades hit ice and bodies start moving, the old wiring lights up. Competition doesn’t retire cleanly. It waits.
Shane skates a slow lap, legs loosening, breath fogging faintly inside his visor. The crowd noise swells as names are announced, familiar cheers rising in waves. He lifts a hand reflexively when his name is called, heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with recognition.
Then—
He sees him.
Ilya Rozanov is near center ice, leaning forward slightly as he stretches his hamstrings, stick balanced loosely in one hand. His jersey hangs the same way it always has, broad shoulders filling it out even now. ROZANOV, still number eighty-one. He looks older—there’s no denying it. It’s much clearer now in person than in the video. The angles of his face are sharper, the ease of youth replaced with something more grounded, more real. But when he straightens and looks around the rink, eyes bright and alert, something wilder flickers to life.
Shane feels it in his chest like a match struck too close to skin.
Three years.
Three years since the last time they played against each other. Longer since anything like this—no real stakes, no season-long consequences, just ice and bodies and history laid bare for them to pick through.
Ilya’s gaze sweeps the rink, casual, until it lands on Shane.
For a split second, everything else falls away.
The look isn’t dramatic. There’s no visible shock, no grand reaction. A slow, knowing smile makes its way across Ilya’s face, small and soft, like it’s meant for Shane alone.
Shane’s heart kicks hard against his ribs.
He forces himself to look away, pushing off into another lap, reminding himself to breathe, to stay present. This is a game, he thinks. A good cause. A celebration. He has done harder things than this.
But his body doesn’t believe him.
The puck drops, and the noise explodes.
From the first shift, it’s clear that no one here intends to coast. The skating is sharp, the passes crisp. There’s laughter—yes—but it’s threaded through with grit, with pride. Shane feels the familiar burn in his thighs as he accelerates, muscle memory taking over, thoughts narrowing to angles and timing and space.
Then Ilya is there.
It happens the way it always has, naturally, inevitably. A loose puck. A convergence at the boards. Shane shoulders in, feeling the solid resistance of another body, and knows exactly who it is before he even looks.
“Careful, Hollander,” Ilya says, breath warm and amused through his cage. “You are not twenty-five anymore.”
Shane snorts, digging his skates in harder. “Funny, coming from you. Thought you’d have slowed down more by now.”
Ilya laughs, sharp and delighted, and gives him a subtle shove as the puck jumps free. “Is called conserving energy. You should try.”
They separate as the play moves on, but Shane feels lighter than he has in years.
The chirping continues, easy and familiar, slipping into old grooves like no time has passed at all. They trade comments in passing, quick and sharp, each one landing like a touch. Nothing cruel. Nothing defensive. Just… them.
It’s nice.
That realization catches Shane off guard.
It’s nice to be here with him like this, to feel the old rhythm spark to life without the weight of expectation crushing it. For a few fleeting moments, it feels like being younger again—not in the sense of ignorance, but in the sense of possibility. Of not having already decided how things have to end before they could even begin.
Midway through the second period, Shane steals a puck at the blue line and breaks free. The crowd rises as one, anticipation buzzing. He cuts left, then right, eyes flicking up—
Ilya is backchecking hard, closing the gap with long, powerful strides.
Of course he is.
They converge near the net, Shane angling his body to shield the puck. Ilya leans in, pressure solid and familiar, and for a heartbeat they’re locked together in motion, the world narrowing to the sound of blades and breath.
“Miss me?” Ilya mutters.
Shane laughs despite himself. “You wish.”
He manages the shot—blocked, but close enough to draw appreciative noise from the stands. The whistle blows seconds later, play stopping, and they drift apart reluctantly.
As they skate toward the bench, Ilya glances over, eyes bright behind his visor. There’s something open there, something unguarded, and it sends a jolt straight through Shane’s chest.
The rest of the game unfolds in flashes—goals scored and celebrated, near-misses groaned at collectively, playful arguments with refs who are far too amused by all of this. Shane feels every minute of it in his body, but he also feels alive in a way that has been rare lately.
He keeps finding Ilya on the ice. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
A hip check here, exaggerated and theatrical. A stick tap there, almost fond. Once, during a stoppage, Ilya skates past and bumps Shane’s shoulder lightly with his own, a gesture so casual it nearly knocks the wind out of him.
“You still lean too much on your left side,” Ilya says.
Shane arches a brow. “You’ve been watching me that closely?”
Ilya just grins and pushes off.
The third period winds down, the score close enough to keep everyone invested. The intensity ramps up, even now, even knowing none of this truly matters in the way it once did. Pride is a powerful motivator.
When the final buzzer sounds, the noise is deafening.
Sticks tap ice. Gloves come off. Players laugh, bent over, hands on knees, catching breath. Shane straightens slowly, chest heaving, sweat cooling rapidly against his skin.
He looks up.
Ilya is already skating toward him.
They meet near center ice, joining the line forming instinctively, ritual ingrained too deeply to ignore. Shane waits his turn, heart pounding harder than it should. He tells himself it’s just adrenaline. Just nostalgia.
Ilya steps in front of him.
Up close, the signs of age are more apparent—fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight stiffness in his movements. But his gaze is steady, warm, undeniably present.
They clasp hands. The grip is firm, familiar, exactly the way it’s always been. Callused palms, solid pressure. For a split second, it’s nothing more than a handshake.
Then it lingers. Just a beat too long.
Shane feels it like a flame catching, small but noticeable enough. Something in his chest stirs, awakening with a jolt of recognition. The noise around them fades slightly, the moment stretching thin.
Ilya’s thumb shifts, brushing lightly against the inside of Shane’s wrist.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
Ilya’s mouth curves into a soft smile, and Shane’s heart stumbles in response.
They release each other, finally, moving on as the line continues, but the imprint of that touch stays with Shane, buzzing under his skin. As he skates toward the bench, helmet tucked under his arm, Shane realizes his hands are trembling—not with exhaustion, but with something far more dangerous. Hope, settling in his chest quietly, insistent and unwelcome, and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t shake the feeling that something has just been set in motion again.
Three years, he thinks. And somehow, it still feels like no time has passed at all.
The gala is exactly what Shane expects, which somehow makes it worse.
The ballroom glows with soft, golden light that smooths edges and hides flaws, chandeliers scattering reflections across polished floors and crystal glasses. The ceiling is high, the music low and tasteful, a string quartet tucked near the stage playing something elegant and unobtrusive. Everywhere he looks, there are familiar faces, just as old as him and all unmistakable. Men he once battled against and alongside, now dressed in tailored suits instead of pads and jerseys, laughing a little louder than necessary, clapping each other on the back with an ease born of shared history.
Shane moves through it all with practiced grace.
He shakes hands, smiles, listens. He lets people reminisce, lets them tell stories he remembers just as clearly, sometimes from the opposite side. He laughs at the right moments, nods in the right places. He fields questions about coaching, about the transition, about what’s next. Sponsors linger longer than old teammates do, their interest polished and strategic, their compliments carefully phrased.
It’s fine. It’s more than fine. This is the version of the evening his mother had envisioned—the sensible one, the professional one. The one that makes sense.
And for a while, it almost works.
Shane stands near the bar, barely touched drink in hand, half-listening as an old teammate talks animatedly about his kids’ minor league games. Shane smiles and offers encouragement, his responses automatic. He feels present enough to pass, even if part of him feels like he’s watching the evening through glass.
Then—like a shift in pressure he can feel before he understands it—something changes.
He looks up.
Time collapses in a single look.
Ilya Rozanov is surrounded by people, of course. He always is. There’s a loose semicircle around him—former teammates, media-adjacent types, sponsors and donors eager to bask in proximity. He’s holding a drink, jacket unbuttoned, posture relaxed in a way that looks effortless and is anything but. The room seems to tilt subtly in his direction, attention bending toward him without anyone consciously choosing it.
Shane’s breath catches.
As if he senses it, Ilya looks up.
Their eyes meet across the crowded room.
For a fraction of a second, nothing else exists. The noise dulls, the music recedes, the movement around them blurs. It feels like the moment before impact—like standing too close to the boards and knowing a check is coming. Shane’s chest tightens, breath stalling halfway in. He forgets, briefly, how to exist anywhere but here.
Ilya’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly—surprise first, then something softer, something private. And then he smiles.
It’s not the grin he gives sponsors or cameras. It’s smaller, quieter. Familiar. The kind that Shane remembers—the one that always meant you, specifically.
Shane’s heart stutters, trips. Spills across the immaculate flooring.
Fear flares, sudden and visceral. They never acknowledged each other before in settings like this. Not really. Not in public, not dressed in suits or tuxedos, not surrounded by peers who know their faces too well. This room is full of eyes trained to notice patterns, to read body language, to spot stories before they’re told. Shane is painfully aware of how visible they are, how easily a look can linger too long, how quickly a moment can turn into a question.
For a split second, he considers pretending he didn’t see him.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he straightens slightly, lifting his chin just a fraction. He reminds himself that he hasn’t been in the same room as Ilya in three years. Three years of absence, of wondering, of memory doing what it does best—warping and polishing and refusing to let go.
Fuck it, he thinks, surprising himself with how calm the thought feels.
Ilya excuses himself from his group with an easy gesture, murmured apologies Shane can’t hear. He starts toward him, weaving through the crowd with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going.
With every step Ilya takes, Shane’s pulse picks up.
He becomes acutely aware of his own body—of the fit of his suit jacket across his shoulders, of the glass warm in his hand, of the way his stance shifts as he braces for impact. This shouldn’t feel this momentous. It’s a conversation. A greeting. Something normal.
It doesn’t feel normal. Nothing is ever normal between them.
Ilya stops in front of him, close enough that Shane can smell his cologne—something subtle, clean, familiar in a way that both should and shouldn’t be.
For a moment, they just look at each other.
Up close, in this light, the changes from earlier are even clearer. Mostly the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, as if the expression reaches deeper now.
And God, he’s beautiful. Still so fucking beautiful.
Shane’s throat tightens unexpectedly.
“Hollander,” Ilya says, voice warm, threaded with something like wonder.
“Ilya,” he replies, relishing in the way it takes the other man by surprise. Ilya tenses only for the slightest bit before it leaves his body. His eyes soften, a chuckle leaving his lips.
“Ah, that’s new.”
“It isn’t,” Shane says, drawing courage from a well he didn’t know existed. “You have not been Rozanov to me in a long time.”
“You clean up well.”
Shane exhales, tension bleeding out of him despite himself. He takes the out. “You say that like it’s surprising.”
Ilya’s smile widens. “I say that because I remember you in badly tailored suits and terrible bowties.”
Shane laughs, genuine and unguarded. The sound feels good in his chest. “Those were dark times.”
“Iconic is what media called it,” Ilya corrects. “But dark.”
They drift instinctively toward a small high-top table near the edge of the room, half-shielded by a decorative column. It’s not secluded—not really—but it’s quieter here, the noise muted just enough to feel like they’re free to have a private conversation away from prying eyes and ears.
It should alarm Shane, how fast and easily they fall into old beats. The banter comes naturally, sliding into place like it never left. Like the last time they saw each other was one week ago and not a hundred and fifty. They trade observations about the room, about familiar faces aging in recognizable ways. They poke fun at each other’s posture, their choice of drinks, the music.
“You still hate music,” Ilya says, eyes dancing.
“I don’t hate music,” Shane replies. “I hate bad music. This is… tolerable.”
Ilya laughs softly. “You have not changed.”
Shane feels something warm unfurl at that. “Careful,” he says lightly. “You’re the one who’s gotten all sentimental.”
“Is gala,” Ilya says with a shrug. “It is designed to make you sentimental.”
They’re both more careful now. Shane feels it in the slight pauses before certain words, the way Ilya chooses safer topics, the way their jokes steer wide of old landmines. There’s an awareness between them that wasn’t always there—a sense of consequence, of things that can’t be taken back when said.
Older. Definitely quieter.
And yet, Shane notices the things that haven’t changed too. The way Ilya still tilts his head to the right when he’s really listening, fully present. The way his eyes flicker to Shane’s mouth when he laughs, just for a split second. The way he leans in without realizing it, drawn closer by instinct rather than intention. Like it’s still natural for them to talk like this—like every word is a secret.
Shane’s heart does an uncomfortable little flip. Get a grip, he thinks. This is nostalgia talking. Some other form of muscle memory. It’s an old science: the brain lights up old pathways whenever it recognizes a pattern.
It doesn’t quite convince him. To be fair, it’s not like he’s trying all that hard.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Ilya asks, gaze steady.
Shane considers the question carefully. “I am,” he says finally. “More than I thought I would.”
Ilya nods, like that makes sense. “Good.”
They talk about the game, briefly—about how it felt to be back on the ice, about sore muscles and old habits that refuse to die. They talk about coaching, about what Shane’s building now, the pride threaded subtly through his words when he mentions it.
Ilya listens intently, asking questions that show he’s really hearing the answers.
At some point, without either of them explicitly deciding to, they slip away from the main room.
It’s gradual—a step toward the hallway, a murmured excuse to someone passing by, a shared glance that says ‘this way’. They move through a set of tall doors into a quieter lounge area, dimmer and less crowded, the music reduced to a distant hum.
The air feels different here. Thinner. More intimate. Like there’s a bubble surrounding them.
They stand near a window overlooking the city, lights stretching out below them in a beautiful splinter of white and gold. Shane rests a hand on the back of a chair, grounding himself.
The conversation shifts.
It dances around everything except them.
They talk about travel, about cities they’ve loved and ones they’re glad to leave behind. They mention people in passing—mutual acquaintances, former teammates—without lingering too long on any one name. There’s a carefulness to it, a choreography they both seem to understand instinctively.
Underneath it all, there’s are questions humming softly, persistent and unspoken.
Do you remember? Do you remember the way it felt? Do you remember us?
Neither of them asks.
Shane watches Ilya as he talks, really watches him, and the urge to freeze this moment hits him so suddenly it almost knocks the breath out of him. He wants to capture the way the bright lights reflect in Ilya’s eyes, the way his voice softens when he’s not performing for anyone else. He wants to hold this version of him still, preserve it before time inevitably moves on again.
Moving on. God, Shane is so tired of it. There’s an ache in his chest when he’s reminded that this moment is fleeting. There will be goodbyes tonight. There always are. Polite, reasonable ones. The kind that leaves room for interpretation but promises nothing.
“You’re very quiet,” Ilya observes gently.
Shane blinks, pulled back into the moment. “Sorry. Just… taking it all in.”
Ilya hums, thoughtful. “It is strange, yes? Being back here. Like time folds in on itself.”
“You speak in metaphors now.”
“I’ve gotten good.”
All these things I’ve missed, Shane thinks. “Yeah,” he says instead, before he could say something else. “I mean… Yeah. I guess. It’s like no time has passed. But also like all of it has.”
Their eyes meet again, something… charged, settling between them. Shane feels exposed, seen in a way that makes his pulse race.
For a moment, he considers saying something—anything—that would break this open, that would acknowledge the weight hanging in the air. He imagines what it would feel like to finally ask the questions he’s carried for years.
He doesn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, he lets himself stand there with Ilya, close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to pretend—just for now—that this moment can exist without needing to be defined.
Ilya smiles at him again, softer this time, and Shane feels his heart stutter in response. A pause stretches between them, weighted but not uncomfortable.
“I am glad you came,” Ilya says eventually. “Really, I am.”
Shane meets his gaze, something aching and tender blooming in his chest. “Me too.”
For a moment, he lets himself imagine freezing time—holding this exact version of Ilya, this moment suspended between past and future. His beautiful Ilya Rozanov, so kind and so wonderful and Shane’s once again.
He knows better, of course. Moments like this don’t last. They never have. But standing here, beside him, he feels something stir that he thought he’d buried years ago. And Shane knows, with quiet certainty, that whatever this is, it isn’t finished with them yet.
2027, California
Confirmed! ‘Boston Raiders’ Ilya Rozanov announces retirement.’
Shane stares at the headline until the words stop making sense.
They blur together after a while, letters dissolving into shapes without meaning. He knows the words individually. He knows what they mean when assembled in other contexts. But here, on his phone, glowing cold and unyielding in his hand, they refuse to arrange themselves into something he can fully absorb.
Retirement. What the fuck? The word lands like a slap, heavy-handed and final.
Shane is sitting on the edge of a bed in a rental in California, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under him absentmindedly. The window is open, letting in the sounds of the street below—traffic, voices, the low thrum of the city that, even in the late morning hour, feels like it’s just waking up. Sunlight spills across the hardwood floor, warm and careless.
It feels wrong that the day looks like this.
He scrolls without meaning to, thumb moving on instinct, as if the headline might rearrange itself into something else if he just looks at it from a different angle. There’s a photo attached—of course there is. Ilya at a podium, wearing a suit Shane hasn’t seen before, expression composed. Calm and controlled. Like this was a decision made carefully, rationally, with plenty of notice.
Like it wasn’t an ending.
A cold shock settles into Shane’s heart, spreading outward in slow, numbing waves. His breath goes shallow. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, grounding himself in the physicality of his body because otherwise it feels like he might float right out of it.
Already? he thinks.
Then immediately: What do you mean already?
Ilya is older now. They all are. Shane knows this intellectually. Hell, about half their peers have retired, some of whom took that road at ages younger than them. He’s coached kids who weren’t even born when he and Ilya first crossed paths. He’s had conversations about longevity and injuries and exit strategies. He’s given advice about knowing when to stop.
And still, something about the news feels wrong. Premature. Like something has been taken before Shane was finished with it.
He clicks on the article despite himself, eyes skimming paragraphs without fully taking them in. Mentions of legacy. Of achievements. Of leadership. Quotes from coaches, teammates, analysts who speak about Ilya as if he’s already a closed chapter, a complete story neatly bound and shelved.
Shane swallows hard.
He thinks about the last time they were on the ice together. That last check. The last handshake. The way something had sparked to life in his chest from the feeling of Ilya’s hand, reckless and hopeful, as if the universe had briefly cracked open and offered him something back.
I thought we had time, he thinks, the words sharp and accusatory even though there’s no one here to hear them. No one to blame except maybe the sun for being out on a day that’s already looking to be depressing. Time for what? His mind supplies the question immediately, ruthless in its clarity.
Time to talk, maybe. Time to figure it out. Time to circle each other a little longer, cautious and careful, pretending that was enough. Like maybe they’d find their way back, as if it hasn’t been exactly ten years since that last night in Florida.
Shane locks his phone and drops it onto the bed beside him like it’s burned him. He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching in the stubble along his jaw. His chest feels tight, like there’s a band drawn too snug around his ribs.
He wants to call him, he realizes. The urge is immediate and overwhelming, a reflex as old as muscle memory. His hand is already reaching for the phone again before he consciously decides to move. He unlocks it, heart pounding louder now, and opens his messages.
Ilya’s name sits there, exactly where it always has.
Shane hesitates for a fraction of a second before tapping it.
The thread opens. The last message stares back at him, innocuous and devastating all at once. A year ago. Just a simple request—asking for the number of an old associate, phrased politely, efficiently. No extra words. No warmth threaded through it. Professional. Neutral.
Safe.
Shane doesn’t scroll up.
He can’t.
He knows what’s there. Late-night jokes. Half-finished conversations. Room numbers for secret meetings filled with moments where they’d slipped, briefly, into something that felt like honesty before snapping back into caution. He doesn’t want to see it now, preserved and glowing, proof of a version of them that no longer exists. One that died crying in a hotel room with ugly sheets and an even uglier carpet.
Shane’s thumb hovers over the call button. He imagines the sound of Ilya’s voice on the other end, warm and familiar. Imagines blurting out something inelegant and raw—What the fuck? or You didn’t tell me. Or worse: I thought we were doing this together?
He imagines Ilya’s pause. The careful response. The inevitable truth that Shane already knows but hasn’t wanted to face. Why should I tell you? What right do you have? Why should we do it together when we haven’t done anything together in years?
Besides, what would Shane even say? ‘Congratulations’ feels wrong. ‘I’m proud of you’ feels insufficient, not to mention presumptuous. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ feels unfair, entirely a demand Shane no longer has the right to make.
He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes burning.
This is his life, Shane tells himself, finally. His decision.
Of course, that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Shane lowers the phone, resting it face-down on his thigh. His hands tremble faintly, betraying him. He curls his fingers into loose fists, grounding himself again, trying to anchor his spiraling thoughts.
Retirement doesn’t mean disappearance. He knows that. Ilya will still exist in the world. He’ll do interviews, appearances, and hockey-related events. There will be opportunities, theoretically, to reach out.
But something about this feels like a door closing. Not slammed. Not locked. Just quietly, decisively shut. Like Shane is being kept purposefully out.
He leans back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, the blank white surface offering nothing back. He lets the noise of the city wash over him, distant and impersonal.
If I call him now, he thinks again, what would I be asking for? Think, Hollander. Use that brain.
Closure? Reassurance? A confession that should have happened years ago? Please. What good would it do? And he knows himself well enough to recognize this for the trap that it is. It’ll just be a humiliation ritual.
His phone buzzes once, startling him. He flinches, heart leaping into his throat, before realizing it’s just a notification from a group chat he’s muted ninety percent of the time. Some meme. Some irrelevant noise.
The world continues, which seems so unfair given the circumstances. How Shane’s world has changed so suddenly in just a few moments. He closes his eyes. Behind his lids: Ilya sprawled across a bed, grinning like there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be. Shane presses his lips together, swallowing the tightness in his throat.
So he doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. He lets the phone slip from his hand onto the bed beside him and brings both palms up to cover his face. He breathes in, then out, slow and measured, like he’s taught himself to do when things feel too big.
For a few moments—just a few—he tries to pretend the world doesn’t exist.
No headlines. No endings. No moments missed. Just the quiet dark behind his closed eyes, where time hasn’t moved yet, and nothing has been decided.
Eventually, the city noise seeps back in. The warmth of the sun reminds him where he is. Shane opens his eyes.
The headline is still true.
2029, Montreal
The balcony doors close softly behind them, muffling the gala to a distant hum of music and voices, announcements of awards and biddings much later in the night firmly shut out for something more intimate. Montreal stretches out below them in ribbons of light, streets glowing like veins. It’s quieter, suspended, like a snowglobe on a shelf, frozen in time.
Shane rests his hands on the railing without really thinking about it. The metal is cool beneath his palms, grounding. He exhales and then inhales, slowly, shoulders dropping as if his body recognizes this space as safer, somehow. The irony of it is not lost on him.
“This is better,” Ilya says, stepping closer to the edge. His voice sounds different out here—less polished, less careful. Realer. Or maybe Shane is just making things up. That’s what distance does, he supposes. The mind fills up the blanks.
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “It is.”
For a moment, they just stand there, side by side, looking out and beyond. The quiet between them isn’t awkward. It just is.
The balcony, oddly enough, reminds Shane of Vegas before he can stop the thought from forming. The hotel was taller then, the lights harsher, the night louder. Rookie of the Year. The way the world had split open for him, offered him everything at once on a silver platter. He remembers the heat of the desert even after midnight, the way the air buzzed with possibility. He remembers railing over a railing just like this one, younger and bolder and so sure he had all the time in the world.
He remembers, most importantly, the way Ilya’s lips felt on his.
As if summoned by the same memory, Ilya laughs now—soft and surprised.
“What?” Shane asks, glancing over.
Ilya shakes his head, smiling to himself. “I know that face. I know what you’re thinking about.”
“What?”
“Vegas,” he shrugs, tilts his head. “Is like that, yes? Two of us in suits, needing some air.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh, unable to hide how pleased he is that even after all these years he and Ilya can still fall in the same pattern of thinking. “Rookie of the Year. You seem to remember that night fondly.”
“I do.”
“‘Not everything is about you, Hollander!’” Shane mocks in a poor imitation of Ilya’s accent. “‘Here is fucking view, Hollander! Check it out. Fuck!’” It makes the other man laugh, as if it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all year. Briefly, Shane hopes it escapes Ilya’s notice that he perfectly recalls every moment of that night.
“You were unbearable,” Ilya tacks on fondly. “Even you knew that. I just lost. Felt like you were rubbing it in.”
“I mean, I was twenty and objectively incredible. Of course I was rubbing it in. I can admit that now. In the spirit of honesty.”
“Objectively incredible is a lie for second pick,” Ilya snorts. “And also, I knew you were mocking me. To think that the whole time I was concerned you were drunk and will fall off the railing.”
Shane smiles despite himself. The memory—which, truthfully used to hurt, but he guesses distance will put a rose-colored tint over every memory when there aren’t any new ones to replace them—warms him from the inside out, the feeling perched on his chest like something precious. A bird ready to take flight. “Be honest, that would have been funny to you.”
“Oh, yes,” Ilya replies easily. “Would be entertained by the idea of explaining to the press why beloved Rookie of the Year would jump off the balcony.”
Silence. Then, “You were insufferable,” Ilya continues after a while. “Walking around like you owned the world.”
Shane shrugs “I thought I did. We both did, I think.”
“And now?” Ilya asks, glancing at him sidelong.
Shane considers the question more seriously than it probably deserves. “Now I think the world is… bigger than I realized.”
Ilya hums, thoughtful. “That is very philosophical answer.”
“Yeah, well, I like to think I’ve grown up somehow all these years,” Shane replies dryly. They share a smile, brief and genuine.
The hush that settles in place after is different, deeper, somehow. Shane feels it like a shift in gravity. He’s aware of Ilya beside him in a way that is almost painful if it wasn’t so wanted: the warmth of his arm, the space between them that’s about as short as the years they spent together, the quiet rise and fall of his breathing—still in the same tempo that Shane knows and loves.
Montreal’s noise drifts up faintly, reminding Shane that they’re not alone, even if the moment feels like it was made with just them in mind.
It’s Ilya who opens his mouth first. “Being up here…” he says slowly, as if testing out the words. He trails off, nails tapping at the railing. When he speaks again his voice is, somehow, impossibly softer. “I remember a lot. Everything.”
Shane’s chest constricts. He keeps his gaze fixed on the skyline ahead, afraid that if he looks at Ilya now, something inside him will give way. That if he looks now, all those half-lies he’s been telling himself for years would give way to the actual truth.
“I remember,” Ilya continues, and there’s no teasing in his voice now, no veneer of banter to cushion the blow. “You know… I used to be so in love with you.”
The words hit Shane’s system like an electric shock.
For a moment, he can’t breathe. It’s like the world tilts slightly off its axis, like someone reached inside his chest and twisted something delicate and vital. His thoughts crashing into each other with no clear shape.
In love with you. Past tense, and yet—
Shane doesn’t say anything. He can’t. His mouth feels dry, his tongue heavy like lead. He stares out at the dark, afraid to move, afraid that even the smallest reaction will shatter this fragile honesty that Ilya has laid in between them.
His first instinct is disbelief. Not because he didn’t suspect—God, he more than suspected—but because hearing it out loud feels impossible. Too big and too real and too much. He loved me, he thinks, the words echoing hollowly in his head. Loved. The realization burns, but it’s preferable over the guilt that comes after, sharp and immediate. Guilt for every time he pulled away. Every silence. Every almost. Florida. Vegas. Boston. God, it will always go back to Boston. All those moments where something hovered just within reach and he convinced himself—convinced them both, that it was safer not to touch it.
Ilya shifts beside him. “I probably still am.”
Shane’s breath catches even harder this time, a sound escaping him before he can stop it. He turns to look at Ilya, so soft and so perfect. Ilya just shrugs.
“In the spirit of honesty.”
His fingers tighten on the railing until the metal bites into his palms.
Still. What a word.
Shane’s mind scrambles for footing. He wants to turn. To look at Ilya. To say something, anything, everything. But fear, once again, roots him in place. Fear and something else, something bone deep and aching and tender that he’s spent years pretending he didn’t recognize.
He thinks about all the ways he loved Ilya without ever letting himself name it. Without ever getting too close to it, like a fire being stoked from the distance. The way his mood used to shift when Ilya would send a message. The way he catalogued his smiles, his moods, his silences. How he’d know, instinctively and within his heart, if Ilya was in the same room as him. The way losing him—even slowly, even quietly—hurt more than anything else ever had.
I loved you too, his mind whispers, dangerous and undeniable. Shane swallows against it with all the strength he has left.
Ilya lets out a small, careful breath that could almost qualify as a laugh. “You don’t have to say anything,” he adds gently, talking to Shane like he’s a wild animal ready to bolt. “We don’t owe each other much anymore, right?”
The words cut deeper than anything else he’s said. The fuck we don’t. Something in Shane snaps—violently and cleanly at the same time, like a thread that’s reached its limit after being pulled too tight for too long. The trance shatters.
The fear loses its hold.
Shane turns to face Ilya, then he takes a step closer. Up close, Ilya looks vulnerable in a way that snags the breath in Shane’s ribs. His eyes search Shane’s face back, cautious now. Braced, perhaps, for disappointment.
“I remember,” Shane starts, the words tumbling out like water. No second-guessing. No more. He’s had enough of that. Ilya stills. “Vegas,” Shane continues, voice low but steady. “Florida. Boston. All of it. I remember knowing… knowing, and telling myself it was fine to leave things the way they were. Unsaid. Unspoken. Because it was safer that way. And it… it maybe still is. It might still be safer like that.”
Ilya, still, does not say anything. So Shane continues. “I was terrified,” he laughs softly, humorless. “I was scared of what it would mean if I admitted it. Scared of wanting something I couldn’t control. All my life, everything has been in neat boxes. I don’t… I don’t name things unless I’m ready to care for them. But I didn’t even have to put a name to what we had. I cared anyway. But I was… I don’t know.”
“You know,” Ilya whispers, no—urges.
“I was scared. I didn’t… it felt so rare. So good, what we had. I didn’t want to ruin it; I still did.”
“It was not just on you. I gave you a choice when neither of us were ready.”
“Yeah, well… We knew. And we didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything.”
Silence blankets them for a moment. Ilya’s voice, when he speaks, is barely above a whisper. Like he’s keeping his words a secret from himself as well. “You were quiet. You did not say anything. And I thought… maybe I imagined it.”
Shane shakes his head immediately. “You didn’t. I just—” he exhales, running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t know where to put them. He wants to hold Ilya and never let him go. “Ilya, I didn’t know how to choose you without losing everything else. And now I realize I was losing you anyway.”
There it is. Hanging in the air.
Ilya steps closer, just enough that Shane can feel his warmth again. He leans forward, just the slightest bit, seeking it out on purpose. “We are older now,” Ilya says softly. “You keep saying this. We are older.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees. “But does that mean that we want less? I don’t think so.”
They look at each other, gazes holding, years of history threaded through the moment. Shane feels something find peace inside of him. He’s tired, he thinks, of almosts. Of waiting. Of pretending that time will always give him another chance. It has, over the years, but who’s to say it will keep doing so? Maybe tonight is the last. Maybe there’s nothing after this except regret, and Shane has had enough of regret.
So he takes a breath. Holds out his hand. “Leave with me,” he says. “Right now. Come with me.”
Ilya’s eyes flicker back toward the balcony doors. “They’ll see us leaving together.”
Shane steps closer, voice firm, heart pounding with something that feels like freedom, finally, after all these years. His first real decision in a long while. “I don’t care. God, Ilya, I don’t think I’ve cared in a long time.”
Ilya looks at him for a long moment, like he’s committing Shane’s face to memory, like he’s weighing not just the words but everything underneath them. The lights catch in his eyes, softening the lines around them, making him look younger and older all at once. Shane feels exposed under that gaze, stripped down to the barest fundamentals.
Then Ilya laughs.
It’s soft and disbelieving, the kind of laugh that slips out when something long-imagined finally becomes real. Or, at least, that’s what Shane hopes it is. He drops his chin briefly, shaking his head, shoulders loosening as if a weight he’s carried for years has finally shifted. Like he can finally shrug it off like an old coat.
“You always do this,” Ilya says quietly, fond and a little awed. “You wait until the very last second.”
Shane huffs a breath that might be a laugh, might be relief. “Yeah. I know.”
Ilya steps closer. The balcony suddenly feels smaller, the world narrowing down to this exact moment between them.
“I don’t know what this looks like,” Shane adds. “I don’t know what comes next. But I know I don’t want to walk away again. Not now, not ever, not from you.”
Ilya studies him, searching for doubt, for hesitation.
Shane knows there isn’t any that he would find. He knows this, because something quiet and resolute settles over Ilya’s expression, his own decision slotting into place. He exhales slowly, the sound warm and grounding, and the faintest smile forming through his lips—not teasing, not guarded, not faked.
“Okay,” he says simply. The word lands with more weight than any grand declaration ever could.
Ilya shifts closer still, closing that last inch of space without ceremony or urgency. His hand brushes Shane’s, tentative for half a heartbeat, as if giving him the chance to pull away.
Shane doesn’t. Ilya takes his hand.
The trek up to Ilya’s room is as exhilarating as it is terrifying.
It starts the moment they step back inside. Unfortunately, there is no discreet path from the balcony to anywhere else. No quiet hallway, no service corridor that spares them from being seen. The only way forward is through the gala itself, back into the warm, glittering crush of bodies and light.
They go together, side by side.
Shane is incredibly aware of the space between them, or, rather, the lack thereof. Their shoulders don’t touch, not really, but they’re close enough that he can feel Ilya’s presence insisting itself upon him. Every step feels chosen, irreversible.
Eyes are on them, naturally. Shane can feel it the way one would feel the weather changing—subtle, but undeniable. He doesn’t look around to confirm it, because what would be the point? There’s no real need to. He knows how this looks: the two of them emerging together from a quiet corner, moving in even quieter synchrony, not speaking, not smiling, not pretending that any of it is accidental.
He waits for the familiar rush of anxiety. The instinct to retreat. To create distance. To make everyone think they’re just misinterpreting things, because they’re nosy and can’t keep to themselves.
It doesn’t come.
What arrives, instead, is a startling calm, paired with the realization that Shane absolutely does not care anymore. He doesn’t care who notices. Doesn’t care what assumptions are being made, what whispers travel outward in their wake. For the first time in his adult life, the weight of public perception slides off him like water. This—Ilya—feels more real than any reputation he’s ever carried.
They move through the room without stopping. Shane barely registers the faces he passes, the half-formed greetings that die on people’s lips when they realize he isn’t slowing down. He’s aware only of forward motion, of the quiet certainty in his chest, of the knowledge that every step takes them further from the version of himself who always hesitated.
When they reach the elevator bank, the noise of the crowd is muted behind them, muffled by thick carpet and even thicker walls. The doors slide open with a soft chime.
They step inside.
The elevator is quiet, too quiet. Shane positions himself a respectable distance away, not because he wants to, but because he knows this space. Knows the rules of it. Knows how easily a moment can tip into something public and uncontrollable. His hands curl loosely at his sides, fingers flexing as if they’re searching for something familiar.
He stares at Ilya’s back.
It feels almost obscene, how much he wants him. How immediate and physical the desire is, after years of burying it under reason and time and restraint. Ilya stands relaxed, shoulders broad beneath his jacket, posture easy as if this is just another night, another hotel, another elevator ride.
Shane knows better, though. Even after all this time. Distance could never erase the look of Ilya Rozanov before the storm.
The numbers above the door begin to climb. Each floor ticks past with a quiet mechanical sound. Shane tracks them without meaning to. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. The higher they go, the tighter his chest feels—not with fear exactly, but with anticipation so sharp it borders on pain.
Of course it’s the top floor. Of course Ilya has the penthouse.
The elevator slows, the faint deceleration sending a jolt through Shane’s body. The doors slide open onto a quiet, plush hallway that feels a world away from the events below. The air here is hushed, expensive in that subtle way that doesn’t need to announce itself.
Before Shane can take a step forward, Ilya reaches for him.
The contact is immediate and devastating.
Ilya takes his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, fingers closing around Shane’s. There’s no hesitation in it, no testing. Just possession. Urgency. The feeling of knowing what he wants and how exactly he’s going to get it. It feels good. Like the earth has righted itself after being in the wrong orbit for so long. Shane’s breath hitches. He could almost cry from how much he’s missed it. The weight of Ilya’s hand. The callouses—earned, familiar, a map Shane’s body remembers better than his mind ever allowed him to admit. The way Ilya holds him like he never intends to let go—and he better not.
Shane squeezes back without thinking, his thumb brushing against the side of Ilya’s hand, a small, reverent movement. It feels like coming home.
They walk the short distance to the door together, hands still joined. Shane notices everything and nothing at once—the soft carpet beneath his shoes, the muted lighting, the faint scent of air freshener and something lavender and clean.
Ilya unlocks the door.
The moment it swings open, Shane barely has time to register the room beyond—expansive, elegant, all glass and city lights—before the door closes behind them with a solid, decisive click.
That sound feels final.
Ilya turns, and doesn’t give Shane time to think.
He moves in a single, fluid motion, crowding Shane back against the door, one hand coming up to brace beside his head, the other still gripping his hand like an anchor. The shift from restraint to frenzy is breathtaking. Shane’s back meets the wood, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs in the best possible way. Ilya is everywhere—heat and presence and intent—his body pressed close, his weight solid and anchoring.
Then his mouth is on Shane’s.
The kiss is fierce and unrestrained, years of pining collapsing into a single, overwhelming moment. It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It’s hungry and sure, like something that has been waiting far too long for permission it didn’t need. Shane melts into it, hands finally free to slide up, to grip, to pull Ilya impossibly closer. Every nerve in his body lights up, every thought dissolving into sensation—the heat of Ilya’s mouth, the pressure, the familiarity that makes everything else go away.
This is real. This is happening. Shane kisses him back like he never wants to stop.
“What do you want?” Ilya whispers, breathing the words into his mouth. Shane moves to kiss his cheek, his jaw, then his neck, over and over. “Tell me, Shane. What do you want?”
Shane. Fuck. “Say it again.”
“Say what?”
“My name, Ilya. Say it again.”
Ilya laughs. He pulls Shane back into another deep kiss, pressing him against the door like if he pushes hard enough they’d start fusing together. “Shane,” he says. “Shane. Shane. Shane.” Over and over and over, until his own name sounds less like a word and more like a concept.
“Fuck,” Shane mutters, the word torn out of his lips without thought. Ilya smiles against his mouth like he feels that victory.
They don’t talk as they move. There’s no need to, really. Ilya’s hands slide down, decisive and sure, wrapping around Shane’s thighs. Shane barely has time to react before he’s lifted clean off the ground, instinctively hooking his legs around Ilya’s waist with a startled laugh.
“Oh my God. You dick,” Shane says breathlessly. “Your knees—there’s no way—”
Ilya bites at his neck, sharp and hard enough to make Shane gasp, heat flaring where teeth meet skin. “You don’t know,” he murmurs, mouth lingering there, “what my knees can still handle.”
“Jesus,” Shane laughs, half-dazed, half-thrilled, entirely aroused. “That’s—fuck—that’s not reassuring.”
Ilya doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He lets his actions speak for himself when he carries Shane across the room like it’s nothing. Like Shane weighs nothing at all. The backs of Shane’s knees hit the edge of the bed and suddenly they’re falling, tumbling together onto the mattress in a mess of limbs and breath and laughter.
The bed dips beneath them, soft and forgiving.
They’re kissing again immediately, mouths colliding with renewed urgency. Shane’s hands slide up under Ilya’s jacket, pushing it back, tugging at fabric with impatient fingers. Somewhere between one kiss and the next, the jacket is gone. Then a shirt. Shane isn’t sure whose comes first; it barely matters.
Skin meets skin. The contact steals the air from his lungs.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathes, forehead pressing briefly to Shane’s as if he needs the pause to steady himself. “I have missed this.”
“Yeah?” Shane whispers, lips brushing his. “Because I’ve—fuck—I’ve missed you.”
Ilya groans softly at that, the sound low and helpless in a way that makes Shane ache all over, longing lighting small fires throughout his veins. He kisses Shane like he’s trying to answer without words, hands roaming, anchoring, pulling Shane closer like distance itself is offensive.
Clothes keep disappearing—tugged at, shrugged off, kicked away without ceremony. Buttons are abandoned and ripped halfway. Fabric ends up crumpled at the foot of the bed, or shoved to the corner of the headboard. Shane loses track of time, of everything except for the way Ilya feels over him, around him, everywhere at once.
“Shane,” Ilya murmurs again, like a prayer.
Shane answers without thinking, breathless and honest. “Ilya—fuck—”
They’re laughing and kissing and swearing, the sounds blending together, messy and real and unguarded. Shane’s hands slip into Ilya’s hair, fingers curling there like they belong. Like they’ve always belonged.
“What do you want?” Ilya asks again, because apparently Shane has not answered the question. “Tell me. I will do anything.”
“Fuck me.”
“No.”
Shane huffs, annoyed. He pulls Ilya in for a kiss again. “Come on.”
Ilya shifts above him, his hands framing Shane’s face, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones like he’s reminding himself this is real. “No,” he says again, leaning his forehead against Shane’s, their noses brushing. “No. I will not fuck you.”
Shane lets out a breath that turns into a laugh. “Why not?”
The corner of Ilya’s mouth lifts into an earnest smile, so soft against the light. “I will make love to you, Shane Hollander. We have never… I have never—” Ilya trails off. Shane’s chest tightens.
“You don’t think we ever made love?” he asks softly, genuinely curious now, the edge of humor dulled with sincerity.
Ilya pulls back just enough to look at him properly, unguarded. “Have we, Shane?”
The question lands deeper than Shane expects. He feels shy all of a sudden, heat creeping up his neck, something boyish and exposed stirring in his chest. His bravado slips, replaced by honesty.
“I think, all of those times…” Shane starts, then trails off, words failing him. He swallows. “I think they meant something. I think they were real. I just don’t know if we ever let them be… this.”
Ilya stares at him for a beat.
“You think sucking my dick in hotel room was making love?”
“Oh, fuck you, Rozanov.”
Ilya laughs, then. It’s warm, incredulous, beautiful. He drops his head briefly, forehead pressing to Shane’s shoulder as if he can’t quite contain it.
“Ah, fuck,” he says, still smiling, still laughing. “You think that? Really?”
Shane blushes, biting the corner of his lip when he answers. “I mean… we were in love, weren’t we? Just took us a while.”
“Why am I in love with a sentimental fool?”
Shane’s heart trips. “Say that again,” he orders quietly. Ilya lifts his head, eyebrow arching.
“You’re a sentimental fool?”
“No, asshole,” Shane breathes out, half-laugh, half-nerves. “That you love me.”
The teasing fades from Ilya’s expression immediately. Whatever this moment is, it’s obvious he doesn’t treat it lightly. He brings one hand up to Shane’s chest, palm spread flat over his heart, like he’s feeling the truth of it there. “I love you,” he says, and the words settle, warm and sure. “I love you,” he repeats, softer now, like a promise. And then, “I love you so much,” he adds, thumb brushing gently where it rests against Shane’s skin, “even when you are the worst. Maybe because you are the worst.”
Shane laughs, breath shaky, eyes burning with unshed tears. He blinks hard, a grin pulling at his mouth that feels dangerously close to breaking open into something else entirely.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That tracks.”
Ilya’s mouth returns to his neck, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses all over. His fingers trace patterns all over Shane’s skin—on his hips, his waist, his chest. Ilya touches him like a hungry man. Shane won’t pretend he doesn’t love it.
“Still so sensitive,” Ilya says, smiling against the skin of his cheek. “I’ve missed you. Fuck. You’re still okay, right?”
“I am. I am. Please.”
Ilya reaches over to the nightstand drawer then, sliding it open with a soft click. From inside, he pulls out a bottle of lube and a foil packet, the condom glinting under the light as he sets them on the bed. Shane’s lips curl into a playful smirk. He props himself up on one elbow to watch.
“Wow, you’re ready.”
“Shut up.”
“Were you expecting to get lucky tonight?”
Ilya chuckles, low and affectionate. “Of course. I was meeting you for first time in three years. Anything could happen.”
Shane’s teasing grin fades into something more tender, his hand reaching out to brush the hair away from Ilya’s forehead. “That’s sweet. Somehow. You’re really sweet.”
Ilya’s hands return to Shane's body, sliding down to part his thighs. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers, squirting a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. The cool slickness makes Shane shiver as Ilya circles his entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle before pressing one finger inside slowly.
Shane exhales a soft moan, his head falling back against the pillow as Ilya works him open with careful strokes, twisting and curling to find that spot that makes stars burst behind his eyelids. All this time, and he still knows exactly where to press. “Yeah… just like that,” Shane breathes, his cock twitching against his stomach, already half-hard just from the intimacy alone.
Ilya adds a second finger, scissoring them gently, stretching Shane with patient thrusts. The burn is exquisite, building into pleasure as Ilya leans down to kiss along Shane's inner thigh, his free hand stroking Shane's cock in lazy pulls. Shane's hips rock instinctively, chasing the fullness, his breaths coming quicker.
“You're so tight,” Ilya murmurs, his voice husky with restraint. “I can’t believe I went so long without this. Fuck. You are never leaving me again. Swear it.”
“I promise. I won’t. I—ah, fuck.”
Ilya withdraws his fingers after a few more minutes, when Shane is loose and panting, then rips open the condom packet. Rolling it onto his cock with practiced ease, he slicks himself up thoroughly. Shane watches, desire pooling hot in his stomach. “Come here,” he urges, pulling Ilya down for another kiss, tongues tangling as Ilya positions himself. “Fuck. Fuck—”
Ilya's lips latch onto Shane's neck again, planting feather-light kisses that send shivers down his spine. He shifts, settling between Shane's legs, their bodies aligning perfectly. Shane's hand cups Ilya's face, guiding him into a deep, slow kiss, tongues exploring with unhurried tenderness.
Slowly, Ilya pushes forward, his cock sliding into Shane's warmth with a careful ease. Shane gasps softly into the kiss, his legs wrapping around Ilya's waist to draw him deeper. They move together in a rhythmic sway, Ilya's hips rolling gently, each thrust measured and careful and loving. Shane's hands roam Ilya's shoulders, nails grazing lightly as pleasure builds like a slow-burning fire.
“You feel so good,” Shane whispers, breaking the kiss to meet Ilya's eyes, those deep pools of affection reflecting back at him. Ilya smiles, leaning down to nip at Shane's earlobe before thrusting again, deeper but still soft, savoring every inch.
Their pace quickens just a fraction, breaths mingling as sweat begins to bead on their skin. Ilya's hand slides between them, wrapping around Shane's leaking cock, stroking in time with his movements. Shane arches into the touch, a low moan escaping his lips.
“Harder, Ilya,” Shane sobs, his voice hoarse with need. “Please. I want you to fuck me. Don't hold back. Please.”
Ilya's eyes darken with desire, a spark of hunger igniting. He pauses for a moment, searching Shane's face for confirmation, then nods, his grip tightening on Shane's hip. “Блять. Okay. Okay,” he growls softly, the tenderness giving way to something fiercer.
With a sudden surge, Ilya slams forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. Shane cries out, the sharp pleasure-pain making his toes curl. Ilya's hands pin Shane's wrists above his head, holding him in place as he sets a brutal rhythm, hips snapping against Shane's ass with relentless force.
“Like that?” Ilya pants, his voice rough, teeth grazing Shane's collarbone before biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. Shane hopes he leaves a mark. He hopes that it never goes away. “This is what you want, yes? What you miss? What you need?”
“Yes—fuck, yes,” Shane groans, bucking up to meet each punishing drive. The bed creaks under them, the sweet lovemaking transforming into raw need. Ilya's free hand digs into Shane's thigh, spreading him wider, pounding deeper, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room. “Fuck, Ilya. I love you, I love you. Don't stop—harder,” he demands, his body trembling on the edge. “Please, please, please.”
Ilya obliges, releasing Shane's wrists to grip his hips with both hands, yanking him onto his cock with every thrust. Sweat drips from Ilya's brow onto Shane's chest as he fucks him, grunts mixing with Shane's moans. Finally, Shane shatters, cum spilling hot over Ilya's fingers, his walls clenching tight around Ilya's cock. Ilya follows seconds later, burying deep one last time as he comes, filling the condom with pulsing heat. They collapse together, breaths ragged, Ilya's weight a comforting press as the roughness ebbs back into tender afterglow, lips meeting in a sated kiss.
Shane comes back to himself slowly, eventually, like surfacing from deep water. The world feels softened around the edges, everything hazy and warm and humming like music for slow dancing. His limbs are heavy in the good way, muscles loose, skin oversensitive where it still remembers hands and mouths and heat. The sheets are a mess beneath him, twisted and kicked aside, and the air smells like them—clean sweat, something sharp and familiar that makes his chest ache if he thinks too hard about it.
Ilya is sprawled beside him, just as boneless with satisfaction, one arm flung over Shane’s stomach. His hair is mussed, curls damp at the temples, his expression smug in that way that used to drive Shane insane and now just makes him want to laugh.
Ilya turns his head, eyes half-lidded, mouth curling. “Was that everything you’ve ever imagined?”
Shane snorts, still catching his breath. He reaches back without looking and pinches Ilya’s arm, not hard, just enough to be annoying. “Shut up.”
Ilya hisses theatrically, then grins wider. “Best you ever had. Best you’ll ever have.”
Shane hums, considering, staring up at the ceiling like he’s actually weighing the claim. “And how sure are you that it’s the best I’ll ever have?”
Ilya scoffs, offended, but there’s no real heat in it. “Incredibly sure,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like there’s no universe where this isn’t true. Maybe there isn’t. It’s time for Shane to start accepting that.
The conversation fizzles out naturally after that, words dissolving into the quiet. The room settles around them, filled only with the distant hum of the night life outside and the even more distant rush of traffic far below. Curtains hang half open, letting the faint light paint everything in muted gold and shadow.
Ilya shifts, moving closer, sliding in behind Shane until their bodies fit together without thought. He tucks himself in, chest to Shane’s back, one leg hooked over Shane’s like an anchor. His chin finds Shane’s shoulder, familiar and grounding, his breath warm against Shane’s neck.
It’s so easy it almost hurts. It’s a pain he would welcome everyday.
Shane lies there, letting himself be held, staring at the thin slice of night visible through the curtains. He can feel Ilya everywhere—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight of him, the quiet certainty of his presence. It feels different from all those times before. Not rushed. Not stolen. Just… allowed.
Without thinking, Shane reaches back and finds Ilya’s hand where it rests against his stomach. He lifts it, presses his lips to the back of it once, then again, then again, slow and reverent. His own little prayer. He traces his mouth over the calloused knuckles, the familiar shape of fingers he’s memorized despite the years and miles and silence.
Ilya exhales softly, the sound barely there. His thumb brushes Shane’s hip, absent, affectionate.
They stay like that for a while, neither of them in a hurry to speak. The quiet doesn’t feel dangerous anymore. It feels earned.
Eventually, Ilya shifts his chin slightly, voice low, almost careful. “What happens tomorrow?”
The question hangs there, fragile.
Shane doesn’t tense. He doesn’t spiral. He just smiles, small and sure, like the answer has been waiting for him all along.
He turns his head just enough that Ilya can feel it, hear the smile in his voice. “You get to have me for as long as you want.”
2008, Saskatchewan
The cold bites and lingers, settling in Shane’s joints and making his fingers ache even when they’re curled deep into the sleeves of his jacket. He stands outside the arena, at the back entrance, breath fogging in front of him. Inside, it’s bright and loud and sharp with adrenaline. Here, everything feels like it’s in slow motion, life paused just to let him catch his breath for a few moments.
He really should go back in. The trainers will be looking for him soon. His mom would be looking for him soon. But Shane lingers anyway, shoulders hunched, hands buried, staring down at the scuffed toes of his sneakers.
God. You know what, fuck it. Why did I even go here? Then, just as he turns—
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
The accent cuts clean through the cold. Shane stills. He turns slowly, half-annoyed, half-curious despite himself.
Ilya Rozanov, still standing a few feet away, looking like he doesn’t feel the cold at all. Still leaning against the concrete like he owns it, cigarette burning between his fingers despite the very visible ‘No Smoking’ sign behind him. It’s really annoying, how unfairly composed he is for someone Shane is supposed to hate—dirty blonde hair peeking from his beanie and falling into his eyes, mouth curved in a smile that’s all challenge and confidence.
Beautiful, Shane thinks immediately, and then resents himself for it. Infuriatingly so.
Ilya Rozanov. Russia’s most promising. The name has followed Shane all tournament, whispered by scouts and commentators alike, spoken with the kind of reverence that makes Shane want to prove something. He watches as Ilya flicks ash from his cigarette with an easy snap of his fingers before lifting it back to his mouth, inhaling like this is just another day, another game he’s already decided to win.
Shane straightens despite himself. “That’s not happening,” he says, voice steady, more confident than he feels.
Rozanov’s eyes flick over him, sharp and assessing, like he’s cataloging everything—Shane’s posture, his expression, the way he doesn’t look away. Then he tilts his head, smile widening just a fraction, like Shane has passed some unspoken test.
“See you in final,” he says. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.
Something in Shane snaps free, something like laughter bubbling up from his chest before he can stop it. He laughs once, short and incredulous, shaking his head as he turns back toward the arena doors.
“Yeah,” he says, not looking back. “We’ll see.”
The doors loom ahead of him. The noise swells as he pushes them open, the roar of a crowd rushing out to meet him. Before stepping inside, he pauses for half a second longer, the echo of that accent still ringing in his ears, the image of smoke and sharp eyes burned into his mind.
Shane doesn’t know why, but the thought settles in him with quiet certainty, like a truth he won’t understand until much, much later. It’s going to be an interesting life with Ilya Rozanov around.
Then he steps back into the light, into the noise, into everything that’s about to change.