Chapter Text
The dressing room smelled faintly of some cheap citrus cleanser, much to Shane's dismay. He stood with his hands loose at his sides, bare feet on a cold concrete floor. There were mirrors everywhere, tall ones propped against walls, smaller ones clipped to light stands, reflective surfaces catching him from angles he did not usually see, from his collarbone, through ribs, to the long line of his throat when he tilted his head back to let the makeup artist reach his jaw.
“Relax your shoulders a bit,” someone said from somewhere behind him. “You have a lot of tension there. We don't want that.”
Shane nodded. Relaxing was not something he did automatically, it was something he chose consciously. He let his shoulders drop an inch and fixed his gaze on a point just above his own reflection, a trick he had learned years ago to avoid thinking too hard about what he looked like when he was standing still and being looked at.
This all had been his mom's idea. Of course it had.
“Just hear them out,” she had said on the phone two weeks earlier, her voice excited like she was already ten steps ahead of him. “I know it’s not a brand campaign. It’s... editorial. They want you, as a person, not the logo on your chest.”
He had frowned at that, standing in his kitchen with his phone pressed to his ear, the quiet hum of the fridge filling the pause while he processed it. He was Shane Hollander, a hockey player and proud "C" wearer for the best hockey team in the league (Ilya would argue about that, but the number of Cups he had won were a hard fact). So how can they want him and not Montreal? Who is he without the team? What more do they want? His name and legacy are tied with Montreal, end of discussion. “Just me how?”He asked his mom.
Yuna had laughed softly. “Exactly how you are.”
That had not clarified fucking anything. It rarely did when it came to this side of his life, the side that existed parallel to hockey but never quite intersected with it in a way that felt natural. Endorsements he understood, products he could justify, equipment, athletic wear, things that fit neatly into the narrative of what he did and why his body mattered. That was alright, that made sense. That's why this was different because this was not about selling something external. This was about him, him as an idea, him as something to be looked at.
Now, standing under the lights with a stylist and makeup artist both touching him, Shane could feel that difference settling into his bones.
The makeup artist stepped closer, her hands cool as she dabbed at his cheekbones with a sponge. The touch was impersonal and professionally precise. Shane focused on the sensation, just like he always did during physical therapy, cataloguing it rather than reacting to it. Cool, then warmer as her fingers brushed his skin, the faint smell of product smoothing over pores. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, steady and even, counting imaginary numbers, and letting his body fall into the familiar pattern of compliance.
“Wow... this does wonders on your skin,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Whatever that meant, Shane just gave her a polite hum of acknowledgement. He had learned early on that silence made people nervous, especially in rooms like this, so he offered small sounds, nods, the minimum required to signal cooperation. Inside, he kept himself separate. This was his body, but it was also an object in this context, something being adjusted and framed. He did not need to feel anything about that and did not need to attach meaning to it. It was work. Plain and easy. Nothing more.
A rack of clothes stood against one wall, full of hangers, and fabric choices ranging from denim to soft cotton to something that looked like it might technically qualify as a winter coat but did not seem interested in actually protecting against cold weather. Shane had already been told he would not be wearing most of them. The shoot, the photographer had explained earlier with a grin that suggested he thought this was pure artistry, was about... how did he say it... contrast, was the word. About structure and exposure combined with control and ease. Whatever the fuck that meant, Shane thought. Photographers must love metaphors.
“Let’s start with the jacket off,” the photographer said now, stepping into his line of sight. He was a man in his forties with sharp eyes. “I don't like it.”
The stylist slid the jacket down Shane’s arms and took it away. Cool air kissed his skin in its absence, goosebumps prickling briefly along his forearms before he consciously relaxed them away. He stood still while someone adjusted the waistband of his jeans, fingers quick and never lingering. He appreciated that. He appreciated professionalism and direct approach.
He had done all this before. Promotional shoots, magazine spreads, campaigns, social media posts, you name it. He had done shoots in compression shorts, in athletic underwear, shirtless with his pads slung casually over one shoulder for whatever stupid reason. He knew how to treat his body as an extension of his job, another piece of equipment maintained and displayed as needed.
But this time there was no logo to justify it. No Montreal narrative to hide behind. No product to sell. It was just him, Shane Hollander. He was selling himself. That's how his mom said it. Then she added that hockey is not permanent and he should think about his future as a retired veteran player. This was supposed to be the first step to establish the “Hollander brand”.
“Chin down a bit,” the photographer said. “Good. Eyes here. No, not at me, just past me. Like you’re thinking about something else.”
That was easy. Shane spent most of his life thinking about something else.
He adjusted his posture, subtle shifts that aligned his spine like his trainer had drilled into him over years of repetition. Weight evenly distributed, core engaged, shoulders back but not stiff. He could feel the lights warming his skin now, a steady heat that made the room feel smaller and more intimate.
Click.
“Hold that.”
Click.
“Perfect. Don’t move.”
He did not. He let his mind drift into that familiar blank space where sensation existed without commentary. The floor was cold. The lights were hot. His breathing was steady. His heartbeat was calm. This was no different from waiting for the puck to drop, from standing on the line during warmups while the crowd noise washed over him. He was good at this. He was good at not being present.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a different image flickered. Ilya, leaning against a kitchen aisle in his apartment, shirtless as always (which Shane graciously appreciated every time, because for one - his body was to die for, and also it saved time when they were mouth to mouth trying to get rid of each others clothes as fast as possible. One less shirt meant one less obstacle in pursuing pleasure for both of them). Ilya standing there with his signature grin, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that always preceded a bad idea. He would have something to say about this, about the lights and the fuss and how Shane was standing there letting people adjust him like a mannequin (then Shane would definitely ask him where did he learned that word).
He would laugh. He would probably say something inappropriate, something about how much easier this would be if Shane would just stop pretending he did not know exactly what he looked like. He would probably make a joke about charging admission. Then he would probably moved to stand behind him, put his arm around his waist, and whisper in his ear that he was so fucking hot and that he would love to fuck him right now and there. Shane would turn red but he would nod anyway, feeling the same want as his boyfriend behind him. He saw himself being fucked, pressed roughly against the cold floor while those big Russian hands worshiped his arched back. He would surely end up with a few love bites, either on his back or the back of his neck, as Ilya's body would be pressed tightly against his, putting him even more into the mattress.
The thought got a smile out of Shane before he could stop it, a small upward twitch at the corner of his mouth that he immediately reined in. He smoothed his expression back into neutrality, jaw setting with quiet determination.
“Oh wow,” the photographer said, sounding pleased rather than annoyed, “hold that. Whatever that was. That was good.”
Shane blinked, refocused on the lens. “Sorry.”
“No,” the photographer replied. “That’s what we want. Do it again.”
Shane nodded, even as he made a mental note to keep his thoughts on safer ground. He could not afford distractions. This was work and he had agreed to this, signed off on it after his mom had walked him through the details with her usual blend of reassurance and pragmatism. It was one shoot. One day only. It would be fine.
“Your mom says you’re very disciplined,” the photographer added as he adjusted his camera. “She says you’re a dream to work with.”
Shane felt a familiar mix of affection and resignation at the mention of his mom. “She exaggerates.”
A soft laugh rippled through the room. “No, I agree with her. She’s not wrong.”
Yuna had been the one to frame this as an opportunity rather than a risk. “It’s a good opportunity, sweetheart,” she had told him, sitting across from him at his kitchen table with her laptop open, glasses perched on her nose as she scrolled through the proposal. “It’s about visibility. Exposure... and about owning your image instead of letting other people define it.”
Shane had listened, hands wrapped around a mug he had long since stopped drinking from, nodding where appropriate. He trusted her because he always had. She had managed his career with the same careful attention she had once applied to his childhood schedules, making sure he had time to train and time to rest, space to grow and boundaries to keep him safe. If she thought this was a good idea, then it was.
Still, standing here now with a stranger’s eyes measuring him, Shane could not shake the sense that this was a different kind of exposure.
“Let’s bring the other shirt,” the photographer said, the stylist stepping forward with a green denim shirt that looked worn and soft at the seams. She draped it over his shoulders, smoothing the fabric down his arms.
“This looks good,” she said. “Very good.”
Shane looked at his reflection. The shirt framed his torso in a way that felt more intimate than being fully bare had in his past photoshoots. There was something about the piece of clothing and the way it could be pulled aside easily if needed, that made him shift his weight without meaning to. He corrected it immediately, grounding himself.
“It’s just a shirt,” he reminded himself silently. Another pose. Another task. Time to focus again.
“Hands,” the photographer said. “Let’s play with your hands. One here, one lower. Like this.” He demonstrated, then gestured for Shane to mirror him.
He obviously complied, placing his hand where directed.
Click.
“Great. Hold. Eyes up. Yes.”
Click.
Shane’s phone buzzed somewhere on the table behind him, a low vibration that he felt more than heard. He ignored it. It could wait. Everything could wait until this was done because this was work and work needs to be done. Then he would feel at ease.
Another buzz followed, then stopped. He exhaled slowly, keeping his face composed.
But what if it’s Lily texting me? I should reply. He may be worried if I don't text back soon. I should... yes, I should grab my phone and-
“You good?” the photographer asked, not looking up from his camera.
“Yeah,” he said. It was probably his mom asking how the shoot is going. And because he was exactly where he needed to be, doing exactly what was expected of him, he focused again.
The stylist stepped back, hands on her hips, surveying the scene with satisfaction. “Your photos are very… contained,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s interesting.”
Shane did not respond. He did not know what to say to that.
Contained was a word he heard often, usually from coaches or reporters trying to put a label on his playing style, his demeanor and his post-interviews. It was not inaccurate. Containment was a skill, one he had honed out of necessity. It kept things manageable. It kept him safe.
“Okay,” the photographer said after a few more shots, lowering his camera. “Let’s take a break. Five minutes max.”
The room relaxed instantly, the tension easing as people shifted their positions, voices rising slightly as conversation resumed. Shane stayed where he was for a moment longer, letting the transition wash over him. When he finally moved, it was with care, stepping out of the light and back toward the relative quiet of the dressing room area.
He reached for a towel, draped it around his neck more for something to do with his hands than because he needed it. His skin felt warm, flushed from the lights and attention. He focused on the sensation of cotton against his collarbone.
He glanced at his phone then and saw the missed notifications. A message from his dad asking how his day was going and if he liked the new typ of protein bar he bought him (he did not, it tasted weird so he made a promise to himself to stick to his preferred brand. And he could actually tell his mom to reach out to the brand because this would be a deal he would be kinda excited to have). Another was from a team group chat so he ignored it. And then there was a string of messages from Ilya, or Lily to be precise, sent half an hour earlier, the preview visible on the lock screen. Shane’s mouth curved despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
Lily Boston
| online
Today
hey
pick up the phone
i called three times
you okay
?
what are you doing
so important not answer your phone
hey
call me
now
please💔
I'm here.
Sorry, I'm at that photoshoot I told you about, remember?
For the magazine.
yes right
sorry mylove❤️, forgot
is going good?
Yeah, my mom is gonna be happy about it I guess. She reads the magazine too, been subscribed to it for years actually.😀
good but how about you
What do you mean?
how you feel about it
Oh, well... it is different than what I am used to do, the guy taking the photo is way to much into the art aspect of the photo so that's definitely new but they are all nice here overall.
good❤️
you feel save here
?
Yeah, so far so good. No need to worry.
good. i feel good when you feel safe
is important, moy sladkiy pirog❤️
Your what now?😀
my sweet
what do you call it
this
🥧
A pie?
yes
You just called me your sweet pie?
yes
very sweet
want to taste and lick👅
Oh my god, Ilya😳
you like?
No comment
answer
you like me licking your body yes?
Yes and now will you stop?
I gotta go back
yes, good answer moy sladkiy pirog❤️ go make good photos for me
“Ready when you are, Mr. Hollander,” the photographer called, breaking the spell.
Shane locked his phone and set it aside, rolling his shoulders once before stepping back under the lights. He let the towel fall away, let the denim shirt frame him again, let his body settle into position. He put his expression back into place, neutral and composed, the version of himself the world expected to see.
This was work. He reminded himself of that as the camera came up again, as the room quieted, as the lights flared bright and warm against his skin. It was his role to play, and he knew exactly how to do that.
***
The first half of the shoot had been controlled, almost restrained, variations on angles and light that still allowed him to believe this was just another editorial spread, another carefully curated version of himself that would exist briefly in print and then be replaced by the next hot thing. Even when the camera lingered on his skin and collarbone and the long lines of muscle that came from years of repetitive motion, it had felt manageable. It had felt like something he could keep at arm’s length, categorize and finish.
Then the photographer stepped back from the camera and tilted his head, studying him with an expression that made Shane straighten instinctively, as if bracing for impact.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “Now I want to try something else.”
Shane waited because the man had clearly something more to say.
“It’s bolder,” the photographer continued, glancing briefly toward the stylist, then back at Shane. “More... aesthetically pleasing. Less about you just standing there and more about what happens when the frame closes in.”
Shane’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. “What does that mean?”
The stylist smiled at him. “It means we push it just a little. Nothing you haven’t done before in some of your previous shots, Mr. Hollander.”
That was not true, and they all seemed to know it.
They moved him to the floor, a section of set dressed with a textured rug in warm orange tones that contrasted with the cooler light overhead. Shane sat when instructed, then reclined further at the photographer’s direction, propping himself on his elbows before being told to let go of even that. He stretched out fully, the rug rough beneath his back which he immediately started to hate. The denim shirt falling open around him.
“Good,” the photographer said. “Stay there.”
Someone adjusted the angle of his head. Another person tugged gently at the hem of his jeans, lowering them slightly on his hips, not enough to feel precarious, but enough that Shane became acutely aware of the way fabric tension shifted across his body. He inhaled, then exhaled, keeping his face composed.
“I’m not so sure about this,” he said, his voice calm even as something in his chest tightened. He was careful to keep the statement neutral, observational rather than confrontational.
The photographer crouched beside him, camera lowered. “What's going on?”
“This... it’s a lot,” Shane said, choosing his words with the same care he used in interviews. He nodded to the lowered jeans. “I don’t want it to look… like something it’s not.”
The photographer studied him for a moment, then nodded. “I get that. But here’s the thing. It’s already something, we’re just deciding whether we pretend otherwise.”
That landed closer to home than Shane was prepared for. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, to the lights rigged above him, bright and unforgiving.
“This isn’t about creating a scandal,” the photographer continued. “It’s about art. Presence. About acknowledging that people look at you and feel things. You don’t have to perform that feeling. You just have to not hide from it.”
Hide. The word resonated uncomfortably. He is hiding. He is hiding quite the truth. If his relationship with Ilya fucking Rozanov, another player in the league got out, he... he... he didn't even know what would happen, but it is something he will never need to live through, he is sure of that. Both him and Ilya are doing the absolute maximum to keep their love a secret. That's why Ilya is still Lily and Shane is Jane. It is safer this way. No couple wallpapers on their phones, no necessary engaging together in public. They are still rivals after all.
So he swallowed and said: “I don’t want it to be explicit.”
“It won’t be,” the photographer said immediately. “It’ll be suggestive. There’s a difference.”
Shane was not entirely convinced, but he also recognized the familiar crossroad. This was the moment where he could draw a line and step back, assert control in the most obvious way. It was also the moment where he could trust the process he had agreed to, trust his mother’s judgment, trust that this was not about exploiting him but about showing something he usually kept locked down.
He nodded once. “Okay. But I want to see it before you finalize anything.”
“Of course,” the photographer said, relief flickering briefly across his features. “That's no problem, Mr. Hollander.”
They repositioned him again, guiding him down until he lay fully flat, arms relaxed at his sides, palms up. The denim shirt was left completely open now, exposing his chest to the lights. He could feel the warmth of the lights more intensely in this position, a steady heat that made his skin prickle.
“Lower the jeans just a touch more,” the photographer said, and someone complied, careful not to touch his skin directly, fingers working the fabric instead. The waistband now sat low on his hips now, unbuttoned, unzipped, held in place by nothing but gravity and the angle of his body.
Shane focused on the ceiling again. He catalogued the all the sensations clinically. The fabric shifting, the cold air against hot skin, the weight of his own body pressing into the rug. None of it was inherently intimate. None of it had to mean anything.
“Hands,” the photographer said. “This is where it comes together.”
Shane turned his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “My hands?”
“No,” the photographer said, smiling faintly. “Other hands.”
Before Shane could respond, movement was registered at the edges of his vision. Members of the crew stepped closer, their presence suddenly more immediate than before. Someone knelt near his shoulder, another near his waist. Hands entered the frame, reaching toward him from different angles, fingers splayed, hovering just above his skin, not yet touching. This is where he started to feel a bit trapped. His breathing got quicker and a single bead of sweat dropped down his neck.
“Is this really necess-” he said.
“Just hover for now,” the photographer instructed, completely ignoring his question. “Like you’re about to touch, but you haven’t decided yet.”
Shane’s throat tightened. “I don’t know if that’s necessary.” He tried it again.
“It is,” the photographer said firmly. “Trust me.”
The hands hovered, then shifted at his direction, adjusting angles. A fingertip brushed his ribcage accidentally and withdrew immediately. Shane registered it and he knew he had to get his head under control now. He begun the process of pulling away internally, of placing distance between sensation and perception. This is all about art I guess, and composition, he told himself internally. Lines, balances, light and shadow. It is nothing more.
“Now,” the photographer said, excitement creeping into his voice, “I want some contact. Very light. Think choreography, not touch.”
The hands moved again. One rested against his hip, fingers splayed across denim. Another hovered near his shoulder, then settled, palm warm against skin. Someone else adjusted the open shirt, tugging it further aside to fully expose his chest.
Shane stared at the ceiling and let his mind go quiet. At least he tried. He tried not to think about the fact that there were literal hands of strangers on him. He did not think about the way fingers curved against his body, how skin responded instinctively to contact. He thought about mechanics. About how bodies were arranged in space and about how light fell across muscle and bone.
It's just a shoot, he told himself, the words forming automatically in his mind. It’s just a shoot. It’s just work. I can do this.
“Great,” the photographer murmured. “Stay exactly like that.”
Click.
Shane felt another touch, this time a soft brush of... lips against his collarbone, followed by the faint pressure of something cool and waxy. He blinked, then realized what it was when the stylist leaned back to assess her work. Did someone just fucking kissed him on his skin? What the actual fucking fuck?
“What the hell,” he said quickly trying to get up. “What was that for?”
“Just a bit of color,” she said. “It adds contrast. Lay down again please.”
Shane swallowed. He had seen the prop earlier, a tube of red lipstick. She pressed it briefly to his skin again, then once more, leaving marks that were imperfect and suggestive rather than neat. When she pressed the last one directly on his v-line he inhaled sharply, eyes filled with mild anger.
“This is getting very close to a line,” he said, his voice steady but strained.
The photographer met his gaze. “I know. That’s why it works.”
Shane closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He did not pull away. He did not ask them to stop. He reminded himself that none of this was real. He also still trusted his mother's judgement. He told himself that the hands belonged to professionals who were thinking about framing, not sexual desire. That the lipstick marks were props, not evidence of lust. That the pose was constructed and artificial.
“Eyes open,” the photographer said softly. “Look at me. Or don’t. Look just past me. Like before.”
Shane complied, fixing his gaze on a point just beyond the lens. He kept his expression neutral, neither inviting nor rejecting. Inside, he folded in on himself, retreating to a place where observation replaced feeling.
The camera clicked again and again, the sound rhythmic and relentless. Between shots, the crew adjusted, hands shifting fabric, repositioning fingers, ensuring that the composition remained balanced. Shane lay there and let it happen, his body present and exposed, his mind tucked safely away.
At one point, the photographer paused and frowned. “We need more chaos,” he said. “More.”
He gestured, and the hands changed position again, some now reaching across his torso, others framing his face. One hand brushed his jaw, fingers lingering just long enough to adjust the angle of his head before pulling away.
Shane did not flinch. He did not react. He had turned himself into an object in the most literal sense, something to be arranged and captured. It was easier that way. It was safer.
At one point one of the hands near his right armpit brushed his skin and the feeling was ticklish. He laughed at he sensation, completely unaware of doing so.
“This is it,” the photographer said finally, his voice low with satisfaction. “Yes! Yes! Keep the smile! Laugh!”
Click.
“That’s the one,” he said, grinning. “That’s the image.”
The hands withdrew, stepping back as if released from a spell. The stylist moved in to adjust the shirt, to pull the jeans back into place, restoring modesty with efficient movements. Shane sat up slowly, the room tilting briefly before settling again.
“Can I see it?” He asked, his voice quiet but firm.
The photographer hesitated only a moment before nodding. He turned the camera around and held it out.
Shane took it with both hands and looked.
He barely recognized himself.
The man in the photograph lay sprawled and open, denim shirt framing a bare chest marked with lipstick kisses, jeans unbuttoned and riding dangerously low on his hips. Hands reaching for him from every direction, some touching, some hovering, creating a sense of movement and want that made the image feel alive. It unsettled him deeply, but his expression was unreadable, eyes distant and mouth relaxed.
It looked intimate and sexual. It looked like desire and lust in its purest forms. None of which reflected what he had felt lying there under the lights, counting breaths and cataloguing sensations like data entries.
“This is… a lot,” Shane said finally.
The photographer watched him closely. “But it’s honest.”
Shane was not sure he agreed. He handed the camera back, nodding once. “Okay.”
He stood and accepted the towel someone offered him, wrapping it around his shoulders like a shield. Inside, the mantra repeated itself, steady and insistent.
It’s just a shoot. It’s just work.
He did not consider, not yet, how it would feel to see that image through someone else’s eyes, to watch it exist in the world without the context of his mental distance. He did not think about who would look at it and what they would see. For now, it was enough that he had agreed, that the moment was over, that he could step back into the familiar comfort of control.
The photo, frozen in time, would do the rest on its own.
***
The dressing room felt different when he was finally alone.
It was quieter, for one thing. The lights there were dimmer too, stripped of intensity. Shane sat on the edge of the narrow bench with a towel draped loosely around his shoulders, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him.
For a few minutes after the shoot ended, he did nothing at all. He let his breathing slow, let his pulse settle back into its familiar rhythm, let the residual warmth in his skin fade into something closer to normal. This pause, this brief suspension between roles, was something he had learned to value over the years. It was the moment where he could step out of the version of himself required by the situation and remember who he was underneath it.
Or at least, who he was allowed to be.
His gaze drifted to the mirror opposite him, catching his reflection. He looked like himself again now, shirt buttoned, jeans properly fastened, hair slightly mussed but nothing a hand dragged through it could not fix. The marks of the shoot were gone, wiped away, leaving no obvious trace of what had happened.
Except he could still feel it, a faint echo under his skin, the memory of being looked at, arranged and exposed. He shifted slightly on the bench, the movement small and unconscious, as if trying to settle into his own body again. This was always the part that made him think of his boyfriend (oh, how he loved that word and how it sounded in his head).
He leaned back against the wall, the cool surface seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. He tilted his head and closed his eyes, letting the image of Ilya form without resistance. It came easily, as always. Ilya was somewhere in Boston, probably. Well, not probably, but for sure. At the rink, maybe, or the gym, surrounded by his teammates and noise. Or maybe he was home, sprawled shirtless on his couch, one arm thrown over the back, socks thrown somewhere across the room, phone in hand as he scrolled through the apps he only half paid attention to. Shane smiled faintly at the thought, the image warm and achingly familiar.
What was he doing right now?
The question lingered, unanswered, heavy with all the things Shane did not know and could not easily find out. They talked, of course. Daily. They messaged whenever they could, called when schedules allowed, carved out moments of connection in the spaces between obligations and distance. But it was never enough. It never replaced the simple comfort of sharing physical space, of knowing without asking where the other person was and how they were feeling.
Shane’s fingers tightened briefly where they were laced together, a small betrayal of the calm expression he knew he wore. He fucking missed his boyfriend. The realization was not new, but it hit differently now, in this quiet room after a day spent being touched by strangers in ways that meant nothing.
Oh how he wished the hands were Ilya's.
He missed the way Ilya’s presence filled a space without trying. How he seemed to take up room effortlessly, all confidence and movement and his unfiltered reactions. Shane had always been aware of his own awkwardness, of how much space he occupied and whether it was too much or not enough. Ilya never seemed to worry about that. He simply existed, unapologetic, and somehow made the world adjust around him. Shane had fallen in love with that long before he had admitted it to himself.
The truth of their situation pressed in on him then, unavoidable in its complexity. They were together. Fully fucking together, exclusivity and all that. It was not a question, not anymore. They had crossed that threshold months ago, in his cottage, choosing each other with quiet “I love you”. Shane could still remember the moment it had settled into certainty, the look on Ilya’s face when bravado had finally given way to something raw and sincere.
And yet, so few people knew. His parents, of course. Both of them had taken the news better than he could ever ask for, his mom asking the practical questions, and his dad made sure Shane felt supported without making a spectacle of it. But beyond them, the circle narrowed dramatically. Shane suspected that Ilya had told Svetlana, and the thought did not bother him, not really. If anything, it made sense. Svetlana was Ilya’s anchor, someone who knew him beyond the persona he showed the world. Shane had met her only a handful of times, always in brief, carefully managed circumstances, but he had seen enough to understand the depth of their bond.
If Ilya needed someone to know, truly know, then of course it would be her. Still, the asymmetry of it lingered. Shane’s instinct was always toward limiting exposure as much as possible. It was not that he was ashamed, not exactly. It was simply that the stakes felt so high, and the potential consequences so vast and unpredictable. Hockey had taught him many things, chief among them the importance of control, of managing variables wherever possible.
Their relationship was the one thing he could not fully control.
The secrecy was a constant companion, a quiet weight that followed him. He had learned how to talk about Ilya, how to mention him only in contexts of their rivalry that raised no suspicion, how to keep his voice even when reporters asked about their off ice dynamics. It was exhausting and difficult to articulate, a mental strain layered on top of the physical demands of his job.
And then there was the distance. Boston and Montreal were not far, not in the grand scheme of things. A few hours by car, a short flight if schedules allowed. Objectively manageable. Subjectively, it might as well have been an ocean some days.
Shane leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, and pressed his palms together, fingers interlacing tightly. The longing rose up unexpectedly, sharp and insistent, a physical ache that settled low in his chest.
He wanted the small things. He wanted what Pike and Jackie had. He wanted what his parents had too. He wanted to fall asleep beside Ilya at the end of a long day, the weight of him solid and reassuring, the steady rise and fall of his chest as quiet promise that he was not alone. He wanted to wake up with Ilya’s arm slung loosely around his waist. He wanted to roll over in the early morning light and find Ilya already awake, watching him with that soft, unguarded expression he only ever wore for him.
The images came unbidden, vivid enough to make his breath catch. He remembered Ilya’s touch, how different it felt from the impersonal hands of the shoot, from the technical adjustments and carefully choreographed contact. Ilya touched him with intention, with an awareness that went beyond surface. There was confidence in it, yes, but also an attentiveness that still surprised Shane when he allowed himself to dwell on it. Ilya’s hands were warm and sure, sliding over his skin with a familiarity that spoke of claimed territory rather than borrowed space. He knew where to press and where to linger, how to pull Shane closer without making it feel trapped. There was an ease to it, a sense of belonging that made Shane’s carefully constructed defenses falter every time.
He closed his eyes again, the memory deepening. He imagined resting his head against Ilya’s chest, the solid plane of muscle beneath his cheek, the steady heartbeat audible in the quiet between them. He imagined breathing him in. He could almost feel it, the warmth, the gentle pressure of Ilya’s arm tightening around him, the brush of fingers along his spine. The thought made his chest ache, a longing so intense it bordered on pain.
This, more than anything else, was what made the secrecy so difficult. Not the hiding from the world, but the way it fractured the ordinary rhythms of intimacy. The way it forced them to exist in stolen moments and careful arrangements rather than the simple continuity of shared life.
But it was fucking worth it. Ilya was fucking worth it.
Shane rubbed a hand over his face, dragging his fingers down slowly as if he could physically wipe away the heaviness of his thoughts. He had chosen this, they both had. He reminded himself of that, clinging to the knowledge like a lifeline. They were making it work. They were patient and careful.
His phone buzzed suddenly on the table beside him, the sound sharp in the stillness. Shane startled slightly, then relaxed as recognition set in. He reached for it without hesitation, fingers closing around the familiar shape.
The screen lit up, illuminating the small space between his hands. A message notification glowed at the top, Lily’s name unmistakable even before Shane consciously registered it. His mouth curved into a genuine smile, unguarded and warm. He unlocked the phone and opened the message, the world outside the dressing room fading even further into the background as he focused on the words that followed.
Lily Boston
| online
Today
my love
i was thinking
about next week
You have been thinking? Wow, dangerous activity happening inside your brain.😏
fuck off hollander
that was mean, not nice from you
So what were you thinking about?
Ilya?
You there? Did something happened? Ilya text me back.
no
Ilya is everything okay?
no
you were mean to me im hurt now
That was a joke Ilya.
was not
Baby I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like this. Im truly sorry okay? I love you so much❤️
i love you too asshole
all good now yes
Yes. So tell me please, what were you thinking about?
listen
next week we dont see each other yes? no time and all that bullshit
and the week after the next week we dont meet too yes? and the week after too
i dont like this three weeks without you
need to see you
so i drive to montreal on friday afternoon the second week after practice and we spend friday night and saturday morning together yes? then i go back
Ilya that’s a waste of both energy and fuel. And its also reckless to do this during our pre-season practices.
do not care, i will come if you say yes
Ilya, please.
say yes
Yes, okay. You can come, I want you here
good, happy now❤️ thank you boyfriend
For the first time since the shoot ended, he felt truly, undeniably better.
***
By the time he pulled his sweater over his head, the version of himself that was laid under the lights felt distant, like something he had imagined rather than lived. This was the part he liked best, the quiet undoing of spectacle. The return.
He shrugged into his jacket, tugged the sleeves down over his wrists, then bent to lace his shoes, fingers moving automatically as his thoughts drifted back into their usual grooves. There was something deeply comforting about this routine, about the way the world reasserted itself through small and practical tasks. Clothing had weight, shoes scuffed softly against the floor, zippers made noise when you pulled them closed.
He reached for his phone and typed a quick message to his mom.
Mommy🌸
| online
Today
Shane, sweetheart, how did it go?
All good mom, I guess you will like it.
Perfect, Shane. Now you go to practice, right?
Yes, heading there now.
Drive safe, sweetheart💕
He slung his sports bag over his shoulder, the familiar weight settling comfortably against his back, and took one last look around the room. The mirrors reflected nothing out of the ordinary now, just a man heading to work, just Shane Hollander doing what was expected of him.
His car was parked where he had left it, and he tossed his bag into the back seat before sliding behind the wheel. The door shut with a solid thunk that felt final in the best possible way. He started the engine, adjusted the seat out of habit rather than necessity, and pulled into traffic without thinking too hard about it.
Photoshoot done, hockey practice next.
That settled comfortably in his mind, a familiar anchor. Whatever else was happening in his life, hockey remained a constant. The rink did not care about photoshoots or editorial spreads or the way his image circulated beyond his control. The ice demanded discipline and sharp focus. It demanded everything he was good at.
As he drove, his thoughts shifted naturally toward the season ahead, toward schedules and the quiet thrill that came with anticipation. This season would be different though. Not in ways anyone else would see, not in ways that would be discussed in interviews or analyzed by commentators, but different all the same.
This would be the first time he and Ilya faced each other knowing what they were to one another. The idea sent a pulse of excitement through him that he did not bother to suppress. There was something exciting about it, the notion of lining up across the ice from his boyfriend who knew him so well, who had seen him stripped of his careful reserve and still wanted him. It added a layer of intensity to an already charged rivalry, a private undercurrent beneath the public narrative.
Shane wanted to win the Cup. That had never been in question. He wanted to beat Ilya, to prove, at least to himself, that his focus would not falter just because his heart was involved. Competition was a language they both spoke fluently. He could already imagine it, how Ilya’s eyes would light up across the rink, the grin he would try and fail to suppress, the unspoken acknowledgement passing between them even as they pretended, for everyone else’s sake, that this was just another game.
And then, inevitably, his thoughts moved beyond the season itself, beyond the immediate future and into something more tentative, more hopeful.
Ottawa.
It carried weight now, no longer just a possibility discussed in half serious conversations and late night hypotheticals. Ilya would be free agent after this season, his contract ending and his options open. Ottawa made sense like few other places did, geographically and logistically, close enough to Montreal that distance would no longer feel like a variable they need to count with. Shane imagined it without letting himself linger for too long... a shared space that did not require careful planning or hurried goodbyes. The thought warmed him.
The arena loomed ahead. Shane turned into the parking lot, cutting the engine once he had found his spot. Then he was out of the car, bag over his shoulder again, walking toward the entrance. This was his second home. First being in Ilya's arms.
The locker room was already alive when he stepped inside, the air buzzing with noise and movement, teammates talking over one another as they changed and stretched and joked.
“Well look at that,” Miitka called as soon as they spotted him. “Our superstar returns.”
Shane barely had time to roll his eyes before Schneider chimed in. “How many watches did you get this time, Hollander? We are still waiting on our free Rolexes!”
Laughter rippled through the room, good natured and expected. Shane dropped his bag by his locker and shook his head. “Too bad,” he said calmly. “Maybe get a sponsor on your own.”
“Oh come on,” Renaud protested. “At least give us a discount code, you surely have one.”
“Fuck-you-twenty-four, all in capitals.” Shane replied without missing a beat, the words slipping out easily in the familiar environment. “That’s my code.”
More laughter, someone tossing a towel in his direction, which he caught and draped over his shoulder without looking. He opened his bag and began the familiar process of gearing up, movements efficient and practiced, his mind already shifting fully into hockey mode.
As he pulled on his compression shirt, Comeau leaned against the neighboring locker with a grin. “Fine,” he said. “At least let us borrow your mother. She seems good at this whole... management thingie.”
Shane snorted and shook his head. “Get in line, Gilbert,” he said. “You're not the first asking.”
He reached for his phone as he said it, more reflex than intention, and froze when he saw the new notification waiting for him. Another message from Lily, the name lighting up his screen. He turned slightly, angling his body so his back was to the rest of the room, and let the smile come without restraint this time. It spread slowly, unguarded and genuine, the kind of expression he rarely wore in public spaces. His fingers moved quickly as he began to type, his focus narrowing to the small glowing rectangle in his hand.
Lily Boston
| online
Today
fuck shane
fucking hell
shane
Is everything okay? I just arrived to practice, do you need me to call you?
no need hollander
i just imagine what i do to you when i see you
how i suck your dick so much i gag. fuck hollander i need you dick in my mouth right now
Fucking stop it now.
I'm about to hit the ice and I am indeed in a locker with very not-so-gay guys. I can't get hard now. Stop it.
are you getting hard?
Stop it.
are you?
because i am. for some time now. been thinking bout your pretty mouth
sucking on my dick and you on your knees where you belong mr captain shane hollander
Are you fucking touching yourself now?
yes
its good
but not as good as your mouth
How hard are you?
very
want to see?
Yes.
Click to view the photo.
Oh fuck. I can't do this right now. Everybody is here.
And I certainly can't get hard too right now, so please, stop.
are you
are you getting hard shane? answer me
Yes...
good that is what i wanted
so you wont forget me on ice
You're such an asshole.
Around him, the locker room noise continued, the world blissfully unaware of the quiet shift that had just taken place.
Hayden passed behind him, gear slung over one shoulder, and gave him an easy pat on the arm as he went by. “Tell Lily I say hi,” he said casually.
Shane just shook his head and finished dressing quickly after that, muscle memory taking over as pads went on and skates were laced, each piece of equipment slotting into place with satisfying familiarity. The tunnel to the ice was cool and dim, the sounds of the rink growing louder with each step. Shane took a deep breath as he reached the threshold, filling his lungs with the cold air.
Then he stepped out onto the rink, blades biting into the surface with a familiar scrape, and pushed off into motion.
The season was coming.
And Shane Hollander was fucking ready to win the Cup again.