Chapter Text
1. Winter 2016-2017
Ilya has never cared much about social media. He has it, of course—the team makes all the players have it—but Ilya has never been one of the ones that uses it. His last post, before Hollander started dating Rose Landry, was about a random game against Philadelphia that Boston had won 5-0 and been booed as they skated off the ice. He doesn't post now, doesn't look at his feed, he just searches: Shane Hollander. Rose Landry. Hollandry.
Hollandry.
The name makes Ilya want to throw his phone against the wall. But he doesn't. He scrolls through the posts, through the tags, the articles. She is filming still in Montreal, and there are fresh paparazzi pictures every time the Metros are home, Rose at Metros games, Shane and Rose at restaurants, Shane and Rose holding hands in a snowy park, her smiling up at him. Shane doesn't post anything about Rose, just reposts from the Metros official account, but in between publicity for her movie and her brand deals, Rose has photos from the hockey games, and a couple of reposts of articles, and one picture of Shane at a café, in a hoodie and pea coat, his profile lit by winter light, his freckles in stark relief as he looks out the window. The caption under the photo is just one word—"sweetheart"—with three pink heart emoji after it. It has over seven thousand likes. One of them is Hollander's.
Ilya does not like the photo, but he does screenshot it and save it to his phone. He can't help himself.
***
He understands now the mistake he made. He thought that he could recreate what he has with Svetlana with Hollander, but this is impossible. Svetlana loves him and he loves her, but neither of them feel more than the other. Neither of them want more. But that will never be true with Hollander: with Shane Hollander, Ilya will always want more. And Shane will not.
Ilya is sure that Shane Hollander's fierce mother loves Rose Landry.
It's better anyway, that they are nothing, now. Hollander was fun, but Ilya never should have thought of anything more. They see each other too often, too publicly, they are both too famous. If they got caught, his father would be disgraced. And Russia, what would they do? Would they revoke his passport and take him to prison or would they banish him from ever coming home to his family again? Ilya isn't sure which would be worse.
This is what he tries to tell himself when he thinks about Shane Hollander: It's better that they are nothing. He should have never started up again with Hollander after the Olympics, should never have let Hollander into his room in Las Vegas. He would be over this by now. He would be done. Now, he does not know how long it will take, not with having to see Hollander over and over again, games, awards, interviews, fucking commercials. The whole world seems intent on throwing Hollander back in his fucking face.
He knows that the way to distract himself from this obsession is to get out, to see other people, to fuck other people, but he keeps replaying that moment in the club over and over again and he can't bring himself to do it, not even in Boston, when he knows Hollander is playing thousands of miles away. Hollander will not be there, but Ilya can't shake the feeling that Hollander will appear in the VIP section of whatever club he's in like a ghost, haunting him.
"You are so boring, now," Svetlana complains, the third time in a row she visits and he refuses to go out after dinner. They are on his bed, watching hockey, Sveta in panties and a Boston Raiders shirt that he bought specifically for her and keeps in his top drawer for when she comes over.
"Mmm." He takes a drag on his cigarette. "You didn't think so before."
She pokes him with a toe. "That part is never boring. But what is this? You have become a house cat."
"Meow." He kisses her shoulder. She pats his cheek.
"What is this?" she demands again, but she's gesturing at the screen. "Matheson on the power play, while Petrov warms the bench? Jesus Christ."
"Since when do you care what Colorado does?" Ilya asks, relieved they are done talking about him.
"Since when did you start smoking again?" She steals his cigarette and takes a drag. He'd quit smoking a while ago, because Hollander didn't like the smell on him, but that doesn't matter now.
"I haven't started again. Just every once in a while." He takes the cigarette back.
"I care about all hockey teams, as you damn well know," she answers. "Especially ones that put good Russian players on the second shift of the power play so mediocre Canadian players can waste a minute and a half with the man advantage."
"Mediocre? Matheson?" She's not wrong. Matheson is good enough to be in the MLH, but he's filler, not a star. He's very popular, though. His social media is almost as good as Rose Landry's.
"Yes. You can quote me."
"Mmm. When I see him at the All-Star Game." Ilya can only imagine how that conversation would go. Matheson is on the Western team at the All-Star Game. It could be fun.
"So embarrassing that he's playing." Svetlana shakes her head.
"The people voted. They love him."
Svetlana dismisses his point. "The people are wrong. You're playing on the same team as Hollander this year, right?"
Yes, he is. He is both dreading it and longing for it, although he does not know why. Maybe he likes pain. "Is he also mediocre?"
"No, he's amazing. Those hands. And he's gorgeous."
"If you say so. What?" he asks when Svetlana rolls her eyes at him.
"You know he's gorgeous. And you know he's good," she says.
"He's very good," Ilya admits. He has to—Hollander's talent is unquestionable. But he won't admit that Hollander is gorgeous, not even to Sveta. Not out loud.
"I would love to see you on a line with him." She sighs dreamily. He wishes he were half as in love with hockey as Svetlana, but maybe that kind of love is reserved for people who don't play it, people who don't have it as a job.
"Not sure he can play wing," he says.
"But you can," she answers, her tone casual.
He glares at her, but she just stares back, amused. "You would have him center me? Me?"
She grins as he crawls toward her. "The people would love it."
"The people are wrong!" He grabs her ankles and yanks her down on the bed, pretends to pile drive her with his elbow while she giggles. "The people are wrong!"
Ilya collapses on top of her, head in her lap, and she obliges, petting him like the house cat she has called him, running her fingers through his hair. He loves her so much it hurts sometimes.
"I wonder how many outfits Rose Landry will bring," she says, idly. "She has such good style."
Ilya feels her words stab him in the chest. Players are allowed to bring friends and family to All-Star Weekend. Shane Hollander is allowed to bring Rose Landry. Hollandry, in person. The thought of it makes him want to scream.
***
2. Tampa Bay All-Star Weekend – 2017
Ilya gets to the hotel early, before lunch. Tampa Bay is sunny and warm, unlike most of the places they play this time of year, and the sun lifts his spirits a little, even though he is not looking forward to this. Hollander.
They will be on the same team, and Hollander has been chosen as the captain, of course, because of fan vote. They chose Ilya second, as alternate. Half of Ilya wishes he had not been chosen for the All-Star game at all, because then he wouldn't have to be here, but the other half of him is mad at the slight of alternate. He is at war with himself.
But the hotel is beautiful, and the woman at the front desk flirts with him and gives him a room with "the best view," she says, "seriously." She's right: the room has a balcony and looks out over the pool, but it's on the twelfth floor, high enough that he can see the ocean as well. He changes from his travel clothes into a brightly-printed red shirt he bought specifically for this trip, suggested by the sales girl at the boutique near the Raiders stadium when he told her he was going to Florida for the weekend, and heads down to the restaurant.
It is only a matter of time before Hollander will show up. All of the Eastern division players have agreed to meet there for lunch, a reservation in the back room in an hour, so of course, Hollander will be there. It is inevitable.
Ilya sits at the bar, sipping a beer, his foot bouncing on the rung of his bar stool. This is it, probably. The last day they will know each other the way they do. Ilya wants to get it over with as soon as possible. He wonders if Hollander will say it explicitly, or will make an excuse, like he did at Ilya's house. Or maybe he won't say anything at all, but just ignore Ilya like he has never cum in Ilya's mouth. Ilya can't decide with of these options he prefers.
His heart sinks when Hollander comes in; the signs are there. Hollander looks rested, polished, in a linen jacket and dark T-shirt maybe silk. Much better than his normal hoodies. Ilya knows what this means from years of teammates getting engaged, getting married: A woman has dressed Hollander today.
"Okay," he mutters to himself and finishes the rest of his beer.
Hollander comes around the bar and takes the stool next to him and orders a beer. Not ignoring, then.
"So what? Are they out of ginger ale, Captain?" he asks. He can feel adrenaline coursing through him, making his leg jiggle, his fingers flick, and it annoys him. This is Hollander; there is nothing to get worked up over.
"Feeling a bit wild," Hollander says. Only Hollander would think a beer in the afternoon is wild. Ilya feels a smile twitch in the corner of his mouth.
"So, this should be fun, huh?" Hollander says. "I've always wondered what it would be like to play on same team."
"Have you?" Ilya raises his eyebrows. Is this a test, or does Hollander just not understand the second meaning of his words?
"Yeah, I have. Nice that it's in Florida this year, right?"
Ahh. Only small talk. He should have known. He shrugs. "Yes."
The beers come. Hollander sips his. He doesn't seem bothered at all, not by the last time they saw each other, and not by sitting here now. He seems happy to be here. Untroubled.
That annoys Ilya more than anything else, that Hollander can come and sit next to him and act like everything between them is the same as it ever was. It doesn't seem fair. So he asks: "Did you, uh. Did you bring anyone with you?"
Hollander talks about how his parents aren't coming, they are going to Mexico, like that is what Ilya is asking.
"Ah." Ilya nods. This is the person who walked out of his house. This person, making what they call "chit chat" like he hadn't had Ilya's dick in his hand not five minutes before he left Ilya alone.
"Also, I didn't feel like being managed this weekend," Hollander adds. "Did you bring anybody?"
Ilya shakes his head. "Nope." He sips his beer, eyes on Hollander, who looks away.
They sit in silence for a second. Hollander seems like he wants to say something, and Ilya can't stop bobbing in his chair, like a fucking metronome. He feels like if he tries to hold still, he will explode.
Finally, Hollander opens his mouth. "Nice shirt."
Ilya adjusts his shirt. It's a compliment, it's meant as a compliment, but he feels again, suddenly, the way he felt after the club in Montreal, like he's made a mistake wearing something so bright, like he is trying too hard to make Hollander notice him. "Thanks. I like to, you know, get into the spirit."
"Well, you're pulling it off." Hollander's voice is warm and low, like he's telling a secret, but before Ilya can even figure out what he means, they are interrupted by Vaughn hanging around both of their necks.
"Cats and dogs!" he shouts in their ears. "Look at this! Fucking beauties!"
"Should be a fun time," Hollander says to him.
"Careful with this guy, though." Vaughn slaps Ilya's shoulder. "Can never trust him."
Ilya flags the bartender. "One black coffee, please, for this guy."
"Oh, I'm just fucking with you. It's gonna be a helluva time. Let's go East boys!" Vaughn is off as quick as he arrived, shouting at some other players across the room, a reminder that they are in public, that they can be seen.
"I feel like we're gonna get a lot of that sort of thing this weekend," Hollander says.
Ilya can't resist. "It should give us a chance to get to know each other. Who knows what we might have in common." He locks his eyes on Hollander's until Hollander has to look away. "You're looking very pretty today, hmm? Different, maybe? Someone take you shopping?"
"If I, um. If I tell you something, would you promise not tell anyone or make fun of me?"
Ilya hesitates. He's not sure he wants to know whatever confession Hollander is about to make. Rose Landry is not here, not physically, but that doesn't mean she isn't here in other ways. If Hollander says that his girlfriend picked out his jacket, Ilya will make fun of it. "It depends."
"Seriously," Hollander says.
"Mmm, sure."
"I hired a stylist."
Ilya feels the smile spreading across his face, the laughter bubbling up. This is why Hollander looks like a woman dressed him—he hired one.
"Fuck you," Hollander mutters.
"Sorry." Ilya claps a hand over his mouth. "Wow. Of course, you did."
"I shouldn't have told you."
"No, No! I love it! I love it. You got, what? Tired of looking like shit?"
"I didn't look like shit! I just wore, like, athletic stuff," Hollander protests.
"Mmm, I know what you wore." I peeled it off you with my teeth, Ilya wants to say. I watched you fold it before I fucked you.
"And some of the guys in the league are so fashionable," Hollander continues.
"Mmm, yes, so very."
"Not you. Some of the guys." Hollander is grinning, happy.
"In the league?"
"Other players, not you."
"Okay." Ilya is not upset by Hollander's new-found fashion opinions; he knows what Hollander wears, and he also knows what he wears. But he still has a question that he needs answered, and the other ways have not worked. He will have to be direct. "So, this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?"
Hollander shakes his head. "No. I mean, yeah, she always dressed very well, and so did her friends, but I just wanted to stop looking like I was going to the gym. I never really cared about clothes."
Yesterday, Rose Landry had posted a picture of herself at a Metros game, and now Hollander is talking about her like she died. And Ilya still is not sure about the answer to the question. "So, uh, you and her are not . . ."
Hollander shakes his head. "We're not. She's great, but we're just not . . . compatible, I guess." He meets Ilya's eyes on the word "compatible."
Ilya cannot look away. Hollander's eyes, his mouth, his fucking freckles . . . Ilya tries to tamp down the joy that has surged in his heart. He thinks he knows the word—Hollander is saying he and Rose didn't get along, that they aren't together—but then why all the pictures? Why all the paparazzi? Maybe he doesn't understand the word like he thought he did.
"I should circulate, I guess," Hollander says finally, breaking the spell.
"Yeah. You have new clothes to show off." Ilya takes another drink.
Hollander slides off his stool toward Ilya, so close that Ilya can smell his cologne as he walks away. He wipes his mouth with one hand and does not watch Hollander as he leaves. Hollander is here, by himself. Rose Landry is not here. She is not "compatible."
And Hollander has new clothes and a new attitude, a new confidence that lets him talk to Ilya in public without worrying that someone will notice and tell other people that they're fucking. Ilya doesn't know what it is, if it's Rose, or the stylist, or something else altogether, but Hollander seems more comfortable with himself than he ever has before. More himself.
Ilya sighs. He should not have come here.
***
After the team lunch, Ilya retreats to his room. It had been the kind of gathering he normally enjoyed, loud and full of male energy, guys making jokes and talking shit and clapping each other on the back, but as the alternate captain, he had been seated across from Hollander, both of them in the center of the table, and he had spent almost ninety minutes trying not to look at him while the rest of the Eastern conference All Stars babbled around him. He could not, not without embarrassing himself with how much he still wanted Hollander, even after Hollander had made clear that he didn't feel the same way. When Hollander was harangued into standing up and saying a few words, Ilya had kept his head down, nodding at the plate in front of him like he was taking it in. He'd left shortly after, telling Marleau he had to take a piss and then never returning to the table.
He pours a vodka from the bottle he had sent up, and goes out onto his balcony. He can see the waves on the ocean in the distance. He is a city person, through and through, has never lived on an ocean, but he thinks he might like to, someday. The sound of the waves is calming, even over the chatter rising up from the pool below.
According to his phone, "compatible" means what he thought it meant: Hollander and Rose Landry are not together. That fact makes him feel . . . eager, like there is a chance, but he knows there is not. There had been no Rose Landry in Boston, when Hollander had run from his house. She is not why. He must stay away from Hollander for the rest of the weekend, let this eagerness fade until Hollander is no more than someone he used to fuck, occasionally, until he forgets him altogether, until the waves erase him from Ilya's mind.
Ilya sips his vodka. Below him, people wander back and forth in bright colors, making pretty, ever-changing patterns. He recognizes Hunter and Vaughn and the very hot blonde in her very small bikini that Vaughn brought. And Hollander. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt, now, and shorts, not a swimsuit, and he wanders around the pool, pausing a couple of times to speak to people, before he sits on a deck chair almost right below Ilya, his face turned up, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Ilya's impulse is to pull back, hide, but he is on the twelfth floor so he does not.
Hollander sits back on chair, one arm over his head. Ilya watches him for a long minute, considering. Then he swigs the last of his drink and goes inside and digs his swimsuit out of his suitcase.
***
He walks down the steps into the pool at the end far from Hollander. This is fine. He will need to be able to be in the same spaces as Hollander for at least the rest of his career. They are linked, whether they like it or not, so he will have to get used to it. Ilya dunks himself under water to wet his hair. Swims a lap, down past Hollander and back, pauses again. Hollander doesn't appear to have noticed him.
But someone else did, a little girl, maybe eight. She is in the pool near the stairs, holding onto the side, even though at this end the pool is shallow. And she is staring at him, eyes wide.
"Hello," he says to her. He likes children, once they are old enough not to shit themselves. They do not hide want they want or what they think.
"You're Rose-off," she says. "My dad says you're a jerk."
So probably the daughter of one of his fellow All-Stars. "Hmm. He is probably right. What is your name?"
"Emily."
"Emily, I am Ilya. Nice to meet you." He holds out his hand and she squeezes it once, then pulls her hand back, suddenly shy.
"Ill-ya," she repeats. "Are you a good swimmer? I take lessons."
"Ahh, so you are a good swimmer, then." He nods. He knows what she is angling for. "But not as good as me, I think."
"Am, too," she says. "I could definitely beat you."
"You think so?"
Emily nods her head definitively.
"You want to race me?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. Hand on the wall, here." He reaches back, puts his hand on the wall, next to hers. "On three. One, two, three!"
Emily takes off swimming, her little legs kicking. She wasn't kidding about the lessons, at least; he doesn't have to worry about her drowning. Ilya swims after her, making sure he touches the wall just after she does. "Oh my God! You beat me, Emily!" he shouts as she giggles. "Is not fair! I demand a rematch! Come on!"
This end of the pool is deeper, probably over Emily's head if she were to try to touch bottom, so he holds out his hand in a fist. "Grab on." She does, both hands wrapping around his wrist and he drags her back to the shallow end of the pool. He does not glance over as he passes Hollander's deck chair, but out of the corner of his eye, he notices Hollander has lifted his head.
In a few minutes there are five or six kids around him, all splashing for his attention, begging him to twirl them through the water, or challenging him to breath holding or handstand contests. And Hollander is definitely watching, trying not to smile. Good. Let him watch. Let him see what used to be his.
Ilya sets up the next race. "Okay, and I will not be losing this time, but if I lose, I will buy you all candy bars from machine inside, okay?" Ilya takes a breath. "Hey, Hollander. Hollander! Make sure none of these cheaters cheat, okay?"
Hollander gives a thumbs up. "Okay."
"You know that guy?" Ilya asks the kids.
"Yeah," Emily says.
"Who's this guy?"
That's Shane Hollander," she answers.
"Ahh, so you know this guy?" Ilya asks.
"He's the best player in the whole league," she says, like he should know that.
"Ahh, no no, that's not true. Splash her!" he tells the other kids, who giggle and fake splash. "Booo! No, you get out of the pool. Who is your dad?" he asks Emily. "Show me your dad!"
Emily points to Sven Nilsson, the Swedish defender who plays for St. Louis, an absolute beast of a man, eating nachos at the poolside bar. He waves when he sees Emily point to him.
Ilya waves back. "Okay, I forgive you, you can stay," he says. "On you mark, get set, go!"
Ilya flails after the kids, who take off screeching. "There's a shark in the water!" he yells, making his hand a fin. "There's a shark!" He goes under, gurgling, splashing, until he's sure all of the kids are gripping the far wall and Hollander is clapping at their triumph.
"Okay, you guys won fair and square," he tells them. "I will go get your reward." He launches himself out of the pool right in front of Hollander's chair and stands over him, shaking the water out of his hair.
"Hey, Hollander," he says. "Can you get these kids some money? I don't have my wallet." He smiles, hands on his hips, dripping, half-naked. He can't see Hollander's eyes behind his sunglasses, but his smile as he pulls out his wallet feels like a win.
Hollander hands him twenty dollars and Ilya leads Emily and the gaggle of children to the candy machine, and dispenses chocolate and sugar bombs to all of them, two to Emily, because she beat him twice. When they have taken their prizes and retreated, shouting with excitement, he buys Hollander a ginger ale, but when he gets back to the pool deck with the can and Hollander's last seventy-five cents, Hollander is gone. Ilya glances around, but he's nowhere to be seen.
Probably just as well.
He leaves the ginger ale and the coins on the chair and goes back to his room.
***
Svetlana was right: The game itself is poetry. Hollander centers, of course, and Ilya plays left wing, and they don't even have to speak. Their speed is an almost perfect match, and their minds are so in tune Ilya feels telepathic. He knows where Hollander will be without thinking, without looking, his passes finding Hollander's stick like they are tied to a string. Hollander, smiling at him across the ice, seems to feel it, too. After the second goal, a beautiful shot by Hollander on his assist, Ilya cannot help himself; he swoops up and kisses Hollander on the helmet before Hollander can stop him. He even makes the kissing noise: "mmmwhah!"
"Great pass," Hollander manages, blushing, patting him on the shoulder.
"Great goal." Ilya grins. He slaps Hollander on the back, still smiling.
***
He finds Hollander sitting on the beach the next evening, after the group dinner, ankles crossed in front of him, watching the sunset. Ilya knows that he should stay away, that all Hollander is to him is heartbreak, but all of his wisdom disappears when he's confronted by Hollander's dark eyes. He has to keep putting himself within their sight. Hollander doesn't say anything when he approaches, or when he sits down next to him.
"Found you," Ilya says.
"So, you were looking for me." Hollander smiles at the ocean.
"Of course not," Ilya says, but of course he was. "Oh, I looked up that word. 'Compatible.'"
"What?"
"'Compatible.' I thought I knew what it meant, but I wanted to be sure."
"Oh."
Ilya pauses. Hollander is not looking at him, not really responding. Maybe it was a mistake to sit here. Maybe he should go. But he has one last question. "So you and Rose Landry are not . . ."
"Yeah." Shane ducks his head, turns away, like he can't look Ilya in the eye. "Not compatible. Not in that way, anyway."
Their hands are next to each other in the sand, maybe ten centimeters apart. Ilya glances back over his shoulder, but no one is near them. No one is looking. He slips his hand nearer.
"When do you fly out?" Hollander asks.
"Early," Ilya says.
"Same. Columbus."
"Toronto."
Ilya inches his hand closer, and Shane glances down, a small smile on his lips, his own hand creeping a centimeter in Ilya's direction. When their thumbs touch, Hollander looks down, then back out at the sea, not at Ilya. He swallows hard.
"What room are you in?" he asks then meets Ilya's eyes.
Ilya strokes his thumb over Hollander's, unable to look away. "1217."
"Give me an hour," Hollander says and pushes himself to his feet.
Ilya does not watch him go, but keeps his eyes on the orange glow of the sun on the horizon until the last sliver of light disappears into the sea.
***
Ilya goes back to his hotel room after the sun goes down. He's not sure what time Hollander left, or how long or how long an hour is from then, so every minute takes a hundred years.
He should not be doing this. He and Hollander, they are not possible. He knows this. He has known this for months, at least, if not years. They cannot be anything more than secret hotel rooms. They cannot even be friends. Rose Landry is only the first time Hollander has found someone else; she will not be the last. He should text Hollander, tell him he needs to sleep, he has to leave early, anything to keep him from showing up at the door and breaking Ilya's heart all over again.
His phone buzzes.
But it is not Hollander cancelling their meet up, but Alexei. No doubt wanting more money for something that will sound good—dance lessons for Katya, or a new microwave—but will actually be for coke or his secret girlfriend that everyone knows about. He should answer it, but he can't right now. He feels like he's on the edge of a cliff, and Alexei would definitely push him off in the wrong direction.
The very next second, Hollander texts.
Ilya hopes it will be like all the other times, they will mean to talk and then forget about talking in favor of kissing, fucking. If he cannot stop himself from doing this, that is how he wants it, sex and nothing else. But Hollander comes in in a silly Hawaiian shirt much like the one Ilya wore yesterday, and he's anxious and wound tight, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his shorts. He goes right to the bed to sit down, not in an inviting way, but in a way that says he's not sure he can stay standing, hands pressed to his knees.
Ilya leans against the wall. He realizes that while Hollander has told him that he and Rose Landry are not compatible, that doesn't mean Hollander isn't seeing someone else. And Hollander had been so remote at the beach, barely looking his way. Ilya's heart sinks. "This looks serious."
"It's not," Hollander says, but he sounds like he's having a panic attack. "I mean, yeah, I guess. Can you just sit down or something?"
He means on the bed, but Ilya perches on the edge of the desk near the door. He wants to be able to leave quickly if Hollander says something that is too awful.
"It's not just me, right?" Hollander asks. His hands are folded between his knees, his shoulders slumped. He seems . . . sad.
"Not just you, what?" Ilya asks.
"You feel it, too, don't you?" Hollander asks, and Ilya realizes that this is much worse than Hollander saying he has a girlfriend. This is much more dangerous.
Because yes, he feels it. He has felt it for a long time, maybe even longer than Boston, maybe even from that time in Hollander's apartment. But Hollander ran, he ran. "Feel what?" Ilya asks.
"The last time we were together," Hollander continues. "It was different."
Suddenly, all Ilya can think of is the moment at his place while Hollander was in the other room grabbing his shoes and he was sitting on the couch, listening to him leave. Hollander had scurried past him with another "sorry" tossed over his shoulder, like he was being chased, like Ilya was some beast who had lured him into a trap. And now here is Hollander, talking about how it was different. "What was different? That you run away?"
"Look, I'm sorry I freaked out ok—"
"Freaked out over nothing," Ilya lies.
But Hollander won't let him. "It wasn't nothing; don't act like that. This is hard enough without you being an asshole!"
He's the asshole. Hollander got up off his couch and walked away from him while his dick was still out, and somehow he is the asshole here?
But he manages to keep his voice steady, calm. "What do you want, Hollander?"
Hollander sighs, like he's trying to figure out what to say. Or like he's trying to find the courage to say it. But Ilya doesn't want to hear it. He used to. He did at his house in Boston months ago. But now? He thinks maybe he shouldn't have given Hollander his room number at all.
"We get together," Ilya says. "We fuck. It's simple."
"Simple." Hollander spits the word like it's a curse word.
"Is simple for me," Ilya says.
Again, Hollander rejects his lies. "Bullshit!" He pauses for a second, hands rubbing his knees. "I think . . . I think I'm gay."
Ilya can't help it; he laughs. He knows he shouldn't, but gay? This is what Shane Hollander has come to tell him. Him, the first man that Hollander ever let fuck him. Was he the last? Ilya doesn't want to know. "Hmm, oh yeah? What–what makes you think that?"
"Fuck you! You're not gay," Hollander snaps.
"No," Ilya admits. "Not completely."
"Well, I think I am. Completely."
"Okay, so you're gay, so what?" Ilya asks. Why is this such a big deal, suddenly, especially now? Hollander is rich and from Canada. Who cares if he is gay? What does this have to do with him?
"Well, it's kind of a big deal. To me at least. Sorry if I'm being boring again!"
Ilya groans, bending over, hands on his knees. This is what Hollander is here for, his big coming out, party of one. He wanted to say this truth about himself out loud and Ilya is the only person who already knows. He is being used, a confessional, to remove Hollander's sin.
But still. He is unable to see Shane Hollander hunched over, upset, eyes blurry with tears, and not do something, even if it sucks his soul out of his body. Ilya crosses the room and sits on the bed next to him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Who else am I gonna tell?" Hollander asks.
Ilya nods. It is exactly what he thought. Hollander's not wrong, though. He can't tell a teammate, and he doesn't have any friends that aren't teammates, and the idea of telling his formidable mother . . . Ilya shivers a little, and shifts on the bed so his hand is behind Hollander.
Hollander continues. "It's not just being gay. It's you. It's this. Being gay is one thing, but this fucking your arch rival is another thing."
Ilya keeps his head down, eyes locked on a far corner of the room. "That's why it is a secret."
"I know that!" Hollander says, upset. "But last time, and for the record I am sorry about the last time, okay? I'm sorry I freaked out, but before that … it was nice."
"It was," Ilya says. It was perfect.
"And it felt like we were something." Hollander is staring at him now, Ilya knows, but now it's his turn not to look back.
"We can't be something, Hollander," Ilya says. This he learned last time. He and Hollander are nothing more than this, if they are even this.
"Would you want to be, if we could?"
Ilya shakes his head. It is an impossible question. A heartbreaking question. "We can't."
"That's not what I asked."
"What does it fucking matter?" Ilya snaps at him. He's happy that Hollander recoils. Why must he ask this now, here, instead of months ago in Boston when Ilya could have kidded himself that he and Hollander were possible?
"I don't think I can keep pretending that I don't like you anymore," Hollander says.
"You don't like me," Ilya mutters. You left me.
"Yeah, I do," Hollander says. "I think I like you maybe a little too much."
"Don’t. Don't fucking do this, Hollander, I'm not—" Ilya stops himself before he finishes the sentence. I'm not able to say no to you. But he can't say that, tell Hollander that anything he asks for, Ilya will try to give him, no matter the cost. Ilya's only protection is to hide that truth. "I wouldn't be able to go home again. Ever. Do you get that?"
"Because of your family?" Hollander asks.
"—because Russia, I would not be able to go back to Russia!"
"What would happen to you?"
Disgrace. Humiliation. Prison. Maybe death, either at their hand or his own. All of it half as terrifying as letting himself be soft with Hollander again. "I don't want to find out."
Hollander persists. "But would your parents . . .?"
His parents. That's a joke. His father would be worse on him than anything the government could do. "My father is police. My brother is police."
"And your mother?"
"Dead."
"I'm sorry."
Ilya cannot speak about his mother, not now. He can feel Hollander's eyes on him. "I was young. My father is very old-fashioned. And sick."
"Sick like crazy?"
A fair question. "That, too, a little, but no sick more like—"
"Oh, like cancer?" Hollander asks.
"Dementia," Ilya says, the first time he's said it out loud to someone who wasn't immediate family. He hears the loss in the word, suddenly, the realization that his father will never know who he is, that time has already passed.
"That's awful." Shane murmurs.
Ilya feels the tear on his cheek before he realizes it's happening and turns his face away again. This is not what he wanted when he gave Shane his room number, for him to see this. He should not have sat on the bed, he should have stayed by the desk so he could leave, go to the bathroom, out in the hallway, anything but—
"Hey." Shane touches his leg. "Hey."
"Sorry," Ilya mumbles.
Shane crawls onto his lap. "No," he murmurs, rejecting the Ilya's apology for his weakness, kissing him gently, hugging him close. Ilya presses his face into Hollander's shoulder, and holds on tight, and weeps.
He weeps because he misses his home, which hasn't been a home since he opened his mother's bedroom door when he was twelve. He weeps because his father will never actually know him. He weeps because what Shane is asking for is everything Ilya wanted those months ago, and now it's too late for this to be enough for him. He weeps because Shane Hollander for all his faults and all his boring is the only person besides Sveta that has made Ilya feel safe in years. And he is here.
***
He holds onto Shane, and lets himself be rocked until the tears subside. "Better?" Shane asks after a while, brushing his thumbs over Ilya's damp cheeks.
"Yes. Sorry." He does feel better, but he also doesn't want to unlatch his arms from around Shane's waist.
Shane kisses him. "Hey, I know you don't think I understand what you're dealing with or whatever."
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek.
"And I don't," Shane admits. "Not exactly, but I have pressure, too."
"Yes, pressure to be perfect. I have seen your mother."
Shane snorts. "No, I mean. Yeah, but it's more than that. I'm the one of the few Asian players in the league. I think she's worried that, like, somehow if I'm not successful, that it's her fault. But also, I'm supposed to be this . . . thing, this role model. People are always . . . watching me. And I know it's not the same, like I'm not going be arrested or whatever, but it's not nothing."
Ilya sniffs. It's not nothing. "So why do you ask me these questions, then, all this 'what if, what if'?"
"I guess." Shane pauses, took a deep breath. "I guess I just wondered if it could be nice again. Like it was at your house. If that was something we could do. If you wanted."
Ilya closes his eyes against Shane's shoulder. This is what he had hoped for, months ago, that he and Hollander could be . . . nice. But now he knows: nice is not enough. He is in love with Shane Hollander and it's terrible and dangerous, and not just because of Russia. Being with Shane Hollander without his love in return will tear Ilya apart from the inside like he is being eaten by a tiger until there is nothing left but scraps and bone.
"Yes, okay," he says.
"Yeah?" Shane tips Ilya's face up and kisses him, slow and deep, his hands in Ilya's hair. And his body is solid and real in Ilya's arms, his tongue wet in Ilya's mouth, his cock hardening against Ilya's belly. Ilya grinds up against him, holding him firm in his lap and Shane sighs against his lips like he's been waiting for it. He tips his weight back and pulls his silly shirt off without undoing the buttons. Ilya runs his hands over Shane's skin, smooth, almost hairless. This is what he feels like, he thinks, stroking his chest. This is what he tastes like, taking Shane's nipple in his mouth. Shane holds his head there for a minute, sliding himself against Ilya's erection through their clothes.
Then he leans forward. "Will you fuck me like this?" he murmurs in Ilya's ear.
Ilya sighs into Shane's skin. He wishes he could say no, but he never will. "Yes. You planned for this?"
Shane ducks his head, blushing. "I hoped."
He hoped. Ilya closes his eyes. He does not know how he will ever get over Shane Hollander.
He nods. "Okay."
Shane is up off his lap, pulling a condom and a packet of lube out of his pocket while Ilya watches, barely able to focus over the feeling of loss of Shane from his arms. He had planned.
Ilya gets himself together enough to start undressing but Shane, already naked, puts a hand over his. "No, let me," he murmurs. "I want to take care of you."
It's not exactly what Ilya wants to hear, but it's so, so close. He lifts his arms so Shane can pull his shirt over his head, lifts his hips so Shane can tug off his pants. Shane kneels in front of him, nudges his thighs apart and closes his lips over Ilya's cock.
Ilya looks down at Shane's dark hair, the breadth of his shoulders spreading Ilya's thighs, the curve of his ass beyond. It's heaven having Shane suck his dick, but better than that is having him here. Here, Ilya can touch him, drag his head up and kiss his swollen lips, see his dick-drunk eyes. Here, Ilya can feel the kiss Shane presses to the heel of his hand when he pulls away. Here, Ilya can hear when Shane grunts when Ilya's cock hits the back of his throat. He wonders how he has ever spent time away from Shane Hollander. He can't imagine ever doing it again.
"Not yet," he murmurs, pushing Shane gently when he gets too close, his hand under Shane's chin. When Shane lifts his head he's panting, chest heaving, like he can barely breathe.
"You are okay?" Ilya asks.
"I'm so okay," Shane murmurs and reaches for the supplies he'd taken out of his pocket earlier. He rolls the condom onto Ilya's erection slathering it with lubricant as he does. Ilya knows his dick is big, but when Shane uses two hands to stroke it, through the condom, Ilya feels huge, like a building, a mountain. Something stronger than what he is.
Shane climbs back onto Ilya's lap, straddling him, hands on Ilya's shoulders. It takes a moment to figure out—the angle is different—but Shane leans forward and Ilya leans back, almost on his elbows on the mattress, and Shane sinks onto him.
"Oh, wow," Shane sighs, head back, eyes closed. Ilya agrees.
He can hardly breathe, engulfed in Shane's body while seeing him, all of him, muscled thighs and stiff cock, and arms up, hands running through his own hair like he's dreaming, like he's never felt anything like Ilya before. Ilya must never forget this.
Then Shane surges forward and grabs Ilya back into his embrace, and begins to move. They have to go slow, slower than they usually would—the position puts Ilya at risk of slipping out—but that means Ilya feels every centimeter of himself, in and out, every second. It is exquisite. Shane's breathing is already high-pitched and needy in Ilya's ear, his hands clutching at Ilya's shoulders, his dick tense and quivering against Ilya's stomach. Ilya tightens his arms around Shane's waist, so they are pressed together, body to body, and Shane's arms go around his neck, his head dropping to Ilya's shoulder.
"oh god," he mutters, speeding up just a little. "Fuck."
"Hollander," Ilya murmurs, kissing his neck, his shoulder. It's maddening, the slowness, the heat, the sweat between them, and he never wants to let go. He never wants this to end.
But it does end, finally, when he's unable to resist the pull of Shane's body, and he comes, moaning, trying not to say Shane's name, his hips arching up off the bed under Shane's weight.
Shane gasps and arches backward, his own orgasm splashing between them, and Ilya catches him to keep him from falling, hands spanning Shane's muscled back. He is so beautiful. Ilya wants to see him like this forever.
"Fuck," Shane mutters, tipping forward, draping himself over Ilya's shoulders. "Jesus."
"You can call me Ilya," Ilya says, and Shane chuffs in his ear.
"Funny." He kisses Ilya's neck, the side of his face, wet, sated kisses. Ilya turns to capture some of them with his mouth, running his hands over Shane's naked back, curving around his ass, then back up.
"Beautiful," Ilya murmurs.
Shane freezes.
Oh no, Ilya thinks. He's done it again, taken something special and pushed it past where Shane can go. Will he leave now? Would it be better if he did?
Shane kneels up, separating himself from Ilya's softening cock, but he doesn't get off the bed. Instead, he lowers himself back down onto Ilya's thighs, carefully, his arms loose around Ilya's neck. "You think I'm beautiful?" he asks, a little smile on his face.
"Of course not." Ilya kisses the corner of his mouth. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Of course not," Shane repeats, still smiling, and kisses him back.
***
They shower together, but quickly, for efficiency, switching out positions under the hot water, back and forth, hands brushing each other's bodies as they do so, fingers whispering I'm still here.
"Next time, I will make you wash my back," Ilya teases, as he hands Hollander a towel.
"What about your front?" Hollander asks.
"With your tongue," Ilya pulls him in for a kiss and swats his wet ass.
"You really have a thing for showers, don't you?" Hollander asks. Ilya grabs his butt with both hands and kisses him again.
He puts on clean underwear while Hollander gets dressed. They will be apart now, for a few weeks. Maybe long enough for him to put himself back together before Shane Hollander tears him apart again, but probably not. This is his life, now, for as long as he can survive it. He lies on the bed and watches Hollander prepare to leave.
"What?" Hollander asks when he looks back, just before he opens the door.
Stay. I love you. "Nothing. Good night, Shane."
Shane smiles, ducks his head at the use of his first name. "Good night. Ilya."
The minute the door closes, Ilya wants to call Shane back inside, call him back to bed. Sadness falls over him like a veil. He is in love with Shane Hollander, and this pale imitation is all that he can ever have.
***
3. Boston—two weeks later
They had decided not to see each other when the Metros came to Boston, Shane's idea, because of the short schedule.
>>We get in at noon, Shane had texted, >>and leave the next morning. It's not enough time.
>>No. Ilya had agreed, almost relieved. >>I take much more time than that.
Shane had responded with an eye-rolling emoji.
But the day the Metros arrive in Boston, Ilya finds himself texting. If Hollander is within reach, he cannot not stretch out his hand.
>>Come over? He doesn't think it will work. Hollander cares more about hockey than anything else, even his dick.
The answer is almost immediate. >>I can't! We have a game tonight!
Ilya sighs at his phone. One more try. >>Come over. Not for long. An hour?
>>No! Come on. It's a terrible idea.
>>Everything we do is a bad idea, Ilya answers and sets his phone down. Okay. He will see Hollander during the game, will look at him across the line, his beautiful freckles, and that will have to be—
His phone buzzes.
>>20 minutes
Ilya smiles.
***
"Déjà vu," Hollander says, in between kisses. He is pinned against Ilya's kitchen island, his jacket half-off, his jeans undone.
"What is this dee-jah-vew?" Ilya murmurs against his mouth.
Hollander smiles. "It's, like, when you feel like you've already done something."
"Oh, dezhavju. But the last time we have done this did not end up so great." He leans in and kisses Hollander again. "I hope this time will be different."
"It was sort of a joke," Hollander says.
"Mmm. I'm done with jokes." He nips at Hollander's neck. He is also done with talking, not wanting any more reminders of what had happened the last time Shane Hollander was in his house. He still has the T-shirt, a boring white one, the exact replica of the T-shirt Hollander is currently wearing, at the bottom of a dresser drawer.
Hollander stops the kisses, both hands on Ilya's face. "I'm sorry about that," he says, staring earnestly into Ilya's eyes. "I mean it. I just freaked out."
"I know. How do you feel now?" he asks. "Do you feel freaky?"
Hollander's smile is wide and delighted. "You know that's not what that means."
Ilya yanks him close. "I know what it means."
***
They make it to the bedroom, Hollander's clothes dropping along the way until he's only wearing jeans and underwear by the time he lands on the bed. Ilya slides his hands into the waistband of Shane's boxer briefs and pulls them and his pants off at the same time and stands between Shane's knees. "Lift them," he says and Shane does, hooking his own hands behind his thighs. Ilya kneels on the floor and gets to work.
Once Shane is ready, his hole wet and pulsing, his cock stiff, Ilya turns him over, one hand on his thigh, urging him onto his stomach. Shane gets up onto his hands and knees, back arched, but Ilya grabs a pillow and pushes him down, gently, so he is lying flat, only his hips raised, arms spread in a T on the mattress. Ilya lowers himself onto Shane's back, covering him completely, his mouth on Shane's neck, his arms over Shane's arms, his hands covering Shane's hands, sliding his fingers between Shane's fingers. He wants to tie Shane to the bed, trap him so he can never leave, but those kinds of things require time and conversations, so this, the weight of his body, will have to do.
"mmm." Shane sighs, shifting his ass underneath Ilya, teasing him.
Ilya lets go of one hand and adjusts himself, then pushes in slowly, feeling Shane shudder underneath him.
"oh god," Shane moans, squeezing Ilya's hand.
Ilya strokes his free hand over Shane's shoulder, down his arm, and tangles their fingers together again. "I will do you like this, yes?"
Shane nods against the bedsheets, his mouth open, eyes closed. Ilya starts slow, to make sure there isn't any problem, but there isn't. It's fucking fantastic, Shane's hips tipped just enough, his body squirming under Ilya, to allow Ilya to fuck him into the mattress as hard or soft, fast or slow, as Ilya wants. He brings himself to the edge once, twice, slowing just before he orgasms, making Shane shiver underneath him.
"You like this?" Ilya murmurs, after the second time he's pulled himself back from the brink, deepening his strokes again.
"oh yeah," Shane moans, clutching at his hands. "I love it."
I love you, Shane, Ilya thinks, but all he says is "Shane" right in Shane's ear.
Shane gasps. "Say it again."
"Shane. Shane, Shane, Shane," he purrs in time with each thrust. Shane writhes beneath him, pinned in place by Ilya's body, his cock.
"uh, oh god, Ilya, god, I'm gonna—" Shane gasps and then he's crying out without words, his hands and his ass gripping Ilya, his whole body shuddering.
"Shane," Ilya manages one more time before he's over the edge, too, so hard there are flashes of light on the insides of his eyelids. He collapses on top of Shane, his face pressed between his shoulder blades, unable to move, barely able to breathe.
Shane shifts after a minute. "You're heavy," he mutters. Ilya plants a kiss behind his ear, slides off and out of him. Shane rolls onto his side, pulls the sheet over the disaster left behind. His eyes are sleepy and affectionate, his face flushed. "Fuck, Rozanov. You're so hot."
Ilya flops onto his back and reaches out, putting his hand in Shane's hair, running a thumb over the freckles on his cheek. "You're very far away."
"I should go," Shane says. "Not in that way!" he adds when Ilya raises an eyebrow at him. "Just because of the game."
"Mmm, yes, okay." Ilya rolls toward him, kisses him, then pushes himself upright, leaning against the headboard. His phone buzzes.
Alexei. He absolutely will not be answering that, not when Shane is here. He lays back against the headboard. "My brother," he tells Shane.
"You can take it if you want," Shane says.
"Ahh, no, I don't want to."
"Is everything okay at home?" Shane asks. "Your father?"
It is a sweet question, but not one that Ilya is going to answer. He does not want to talk about his family with Shane Hollander, who built a summer house down the street from his parents. He pats Shane's knee to soften the fact that he's about to tell him to stop. "Enough, ok?"
"Enough what?" Shane asks.
"The questions. You have too many of them."
"I'm sorry." His eyes are soft, adoring.
"It's okay." He rubs Shane's knee through the sheet.
"I wasn't clear," Shane says. "I'm sorry in advance for tonight's game. We're gonna destroy you guys."
"Oh!" Ilya raises an eyebrow. This, banter, he can do. "So you are the asshole."
Shane laughs. "No, it's still you."
"No, not me, you are the asshole. Everyone must know this. Everyone," Ilya cups his hands around his mouth. "Shane Hollander is an asshole," he announces to the room.
"Nice," Shane mutters, poking him in the ribs. Ilya leans back, and Shane settles against his chest, under his arm. "You can talk to me, if you want, though," he says. "About your family or whatever."
"Mmm," Ilya says, and kisses Shane's temple. He will not, but it is nice of Shane to offer. They stay in bed for a moment longer, Shane playing with Ilya's hand where it's draped over his shoulder, slotting his fingers between Ilya's and then unslotting them, fitting the pieces of the puzzle together, then apart, then together again.
***
Alexei calls again before the game. It's two am in Moscow, which means he is calling for money for coke or for gambling or for hookers. Nothing important. Nothing worth answering. Ilya turns his attention to what really matters: beating Montreal.
But after the win, after his hat trick, two goals of which were scored while Hollander was on the ice, one of which led to Hollander saying "fuck, Rozanov" for the second time today, Ilya's phone buzzes again and he cannot put it off anymore.
"What the fuck do you want?" he asks and time stops.
His father is dead.
***