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Hayden feels himself groaning before he even fully registers the pain, stumbling into consciousness with a terrible, throbbing headache.
Fuck. Why did he think he could out-drink the rookie? Salo should not have that kind of tolerance considering he isn’t even old enough to drink at the majority of their away games. Or maybe he has a perfectly normal tolerance and Hayden’s days of doing shots in any capacity should’ve ended two kids ago.
Not that it matters, considering the answer doesn’t change the fact that his head hurts more than it did last month when he took one of Ruby’s softballs to the head.
(The kid definitely has a future in sports with an arm like that. Hayden was pretty proud once his head stopped aching.)
Slowly, Hayden tries to blink the sleep out of his eyes, immediately regretting his decision when he’s met with the morning sunlight. He fights through it, blearily examining his surroundings and quickly realizing he’s not in his own house.
He groans once more as memories of the previous night start flooding back to him— with half a mind to be thankful he can even remember last night at all.
He remembers the game yesterday, remembers how they positively obliterated Florida, fucking belt-to-ass with a 10-2 win. He remembers planning on going home to his beautiful wife and children, but then the guys convinced Shane to go out to the bar with them to celebrate his dick-trick and— with Jackie’s blessing— Hayden had decided to join.
Normally he wouldn’t do so after a home game considering how much time he already spends away from his family when on the road, but, well…
While Shane absolutely supports his team off the ice in other ways— hosting team dinners, attending weddings and birthdays and helping in family emergencies whenever he can— him actually agreeing to go out drinking after a game is something of a rarity.
So they’d gone out to a bar, Shane celebrating with a beer and the rest of the guys celebrating with shots. Hayden had also tried sticking to beer, but then Salo had challenged him and some of the other vets to a drinking contest. Initially Hayden had thought the whole thing childish and refused, but then some very pointed comments about his age were made, and Hayden truly had no choice but to defend his pride.
Three hours later, Hayden certainly didn’t feel very prideful when he was vomiting in the filthy bar bathroom, Shane sitting vigil and rubbing circles into his back. From there it gets a bit hazy, but he remembers realizing how late it was when Shane finally declared he was taking Hayden home— remembers not wanting to stumble into his home that late and that drunk and risk waking up his entire household. So instead Shane sent a quick text for Jackie to read in the morning about how he was taking Hayden to his place to sleep off the tequila.
Which is how Hayden finds himself here on Shane’s couch, still in his clothes from last night, laid out underneath the comforting weight of a thick-knit afghan. For a moment he questions why he’s on Shane’s couch and not in his very comfortable guest room, but that’s when he recalls his struggle with the stairs just getting up to Shane’s door last night, after which Shane decided it was better that he stay on the couch rather than even attempting to scale another floor.
Heaving out a sigh, Hayden shrugs off the blanket and rights himself— very slowly, in a vain attempt to prevent the world from spinning out from under him. He glances over at the end table and smiles when he sees his phone atop it and plugged into a charger, definitely courtesy of Shane. He unlocks the screen, noting that it’s only just past eight in the morning, far earlier than he would’ve guessed.
Hayden scrolls through his messages, skipping over the fuckton of drunken nonsense texts in the team group chat until he lands on Jackie’s message from this morning, snorting as she fondly roasts him for succumbing to a drinking contest, and asking him to call her once he’s on his way home.
Honestly, he’d call her that moment if it wasn’t for the throbbing in his skull. He sets his phone back down, unable to bear looking at the screen for any longer— now that he’s heard from Jackie, he needs to move onto his second priority, which is finding some fucking Advil.
The only other message of note is one from Shane, which says that he assumes Hayden is still currently out cold but if he is up and looking for Shane, he’s out on his morning run. Hayden is glad that his impromptu sleepover hasn’t interfered with Shane’s schedule, something Hayden knows is deeply important to his best friend. He just hopes he can find where Shane keeps his pain meds without help.
His first instinct is to check the bathroom, but when that comes up empty he just stands there for a moment and frowns, already drawing a blank on alternative storage places.
Hayden considers that he personally always keeps a stash of Advil in his bedside drawer, and figures it’s as good a place as any to check next.
It’s not until Hayden is already in Shane’s bedroom, until he’s already reaching for and opening his nightstand drawer, that his lagging brain finally catches up with the situation at hand and he realizes that maybe he shouldn’t be rifling through the personal belongings of his intensely private best friend.
He has this thought maybe a millisecond before he finishes opening the drawer, which is already far too late. His eyes have already swept over it’s contents, and—
Well. The Advil is certainly the least interesting thing it contains.
Because the Advil is there. And Hayden should just take the bottle out, slam the drawer shut, and immediately begin researching if there’s any possible way to permanently erase the last five seconds of his memory.
But Hayden doesn’t do that, because while he very much wants to be a good and respectful friend to Shane, he is, unfortunately, very curious.
So instead he stares. Stares at the frankly enormous box of condoms— a package size that Hayden, along with Jackie’s three pregnancies, certainly didn’t know even existed. Stares at the large, half-empty bottle of lube, stares at the navy-blue dildo—
Takes a moment to marvel over how the existence of a dildo in Shane’s nightstand is not the most shocking secret it contains. Because next to the dildo lies a stack of Polaroids, of which the top photo depicts the unmistakable visage of Ilya Rozanov.
The confusion of the entire situation, of why Shane would have so many condoms and so much lube when Hayden barely thought his friend was getting laid anywhere outside of Boston, why he would be in possession of a dildo for any reason— but most of all, why Shane has a photo of Ilya Rozanov hidden away at his bedside— it nearly has Hayden completely distracted from his raging headache.
And Hayden shouldn't snoop any further. He knows this, he understands this. Shane is private, and Hayden feels lucky that he’s been let in as much as he has. If it was just the condoms and the dildo, Hayden would already be backing out of the room. But the Polaroids…
If it were magazine cutouts of Rozanov, that would be… weird, definitely, but it wouldn’t necessarily be concerning. Mostly, anyways— he could maybe, possibly see Shane being obsessive enough about their rivalry to keep magazine articles of Rozanov for… stat-analysis research purposes.
Or something.
But Polaroids? He can’t think of a single possible reason why Shane would have these, or at least a reason that makes sense with the… everything he knows about Shane. Yes, he’s more intense about hockey than anyone else Hayden has ever met, but he would never go this far, to a degree of stalking to where he’s taking unconsenting paparazzi-esque Polaroid pictures of Rozanov. That’s something he’s certain Shane isn’t capable of.
So out of confusion and fervent curiosity, Hayden picks up the stack and examines the pictures more closely.
And— now that he’s gotten a closer look, Hayden only has more questions, as he quickly realizes this isn’t some unaware candid shot, but rather one where Rozanov is looking directly at the camera. He’s staring through hooded eyes, half of his face smushed into a pillow, a bedsheet casually draped over his lower back… under which Hayden is fairly certain he’s naked.
Frowning, Hayden flips to the next photo to find another picture of Rozanov. This time he’s in what appears to be a lake, floating atop of a flamingo-shaped inner tube. He’s caught mid-laugh, his expression open and joyous. It’s a look Hayden didn’t think the Russian was even capable of making.
The next photo shows Rozanov at a side-profile. He appears to be in a kitchen, staring down at a pot of some kind with the same kind of intensity that Hayden has only ever seen from him at the face-off circle.
Hayden’s frown deepens as he flips to the next one. This one is taken from behind, but Hayden can only assume it’s still Rozanov given the curly mop of hair. Rozanov is leaning on a deck railing, staring out into a golden sunrise that glitters across the surface of a picturesque lake, and—
Is this Shane’s cottage?
Hayden’s never actually been there himself, but he’s seen the piece that TSN produced, and Hayden swears this is the same exact lake he recalls seeing in that footage. But that obviously makes no sense, because why in the hell would—
…Oh.
The next photo is taken in a bathroom mirror. Most of Rozanov’s face is covered up by the camera, but Hayden can still see his smirk peeking out from behind. He’s shirtless, with his chin pressed into the shoulder of an almost-shirtless Shane. Rozanov’s arm is wrapped around Shane, hand pressed into his stomach where their two hands meet, intertwined. Shane is staring at Rozanov, adoration etched across his features with an expression that is somehow both decidedly subtle and entirely obvious.
There’s also a note scrawled at the bottom of this one.
Don’t miss me too much - Ilya it reads, with a small heart drawn next to Rozanov’s name.
Hayden just… stares at the photo, a relentless flurry of questions flying across his mind. Is Shane gay? The answer to that one is a very resounding yes, it seems, Hayden feeling rather stupid for it even being a question at this point given what he’s found— but with Rozanov? Since when? And fucking why?
Are they actually dating, or are they just fucking? Both the existence of and the contents of the photos seem to imply that it’s something more serious, especially if they’re at Shane’s cottage— which Hayden knows for a fact that no one has been to in person besides Shane, his parents, and the video crew Shane reluctantly agreed to.
Why hasn’t Shane told him he’s gay? Hayden can’t deny the initial sting, that Shane hasn’t trusted him with such a secret… but the more he thinks about it, the more he dolefully considers that maybe… he hasn’t exactly made himself a person Shane would trust with that kind of secret.
Homophobic jokes have been commonplace in the Montreal locker room as long as Hayden has been a Voyageur that, during his first few years, they barely even registered to him unless they were particularly repugnant. He’s fairly certain he’s never made one himself, definitely not purposefully, and now he finds it distasteful when his teammates do. But he’s also never… pushed back against it, either.
And, fuck. Looking back, he hopes his lack of participation came across as disapproving, but now he’s not so sure. Now, he sees how his silence could very much be seen as compliance.
…Perhaps even worse than compliance. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s pretty sure there were a few times that J.J. had referred to Rozanov as a cocksucker, and Hayden had laughed along with the team— because it was Rozanov, and because that was just a generic insult, right? It’s not like when their old teammate Levesque would outright slur throughout his locker room chirping, or when Comeau makes crude comments about opposing players taking it up the ass.
But now Hayden can see that it’s certainly not a generic insult, especially not in this context, and it being aimed at Rozanov doesn’t mean it’s okay— if anything, it’s actually worse. Now he knows he should’ve called J.J. out on it, and he definitely shouldn’t have laughed.
Shane certainly hadn’t.
In the past, Shane hadn’t said much of anything about those jokes either— most of them anyways, he definitely told Levesque to fuck off more than once. But now, his lack of rebuttal, to J.J.’s comments especially, is something Hayden interprets as a method of self-preservation. But this past season, after Scott Hunter had come out publicly, Shane had firmly and immediately shut down any and all homophobic jokes about him and his partner.
At the time, Hayden took it as Shane just simply doing the right thing as captain by not tolerating any hate speech about an out player who Hayden knows Shane respects deeply— and it was only then, that Hayden himself really started to consider how deeply ingrained that casual homophobia is in their locker room.
But now…
“Fuck,” Hayden says to himself, the single word ringing harshly throughout the otherwise silent room. He still has so many questions, but he also now has at least some answers. He knows Shane is cagey about his personal life, like with how flighty Shane gets when Hayden so much as mentions Boston Lily, and now—
Wait. Boston Lily.
Lily. Ilya.
Fucking hell. The first time Hayden remembers seeing that name, having mistakenly grabbed Shane’s phone instead of his own on their shared hotel nightstand— it had to have been years ago. He can’t remember exactly, but maybe around 2014? Has this… whatever this is, with Rozanov, really been going on for that long?
And the Rozanov of it all… if Hayden takes more than ten seconds to really think about it, he can admit that Shane being gay isn’t particularly surprising. He’s consistently turned down Jackie’s array of single friends, all of whom are unquestionably gorgeous. Hell, he broke up with Rose fucking Landry, but in a way that allowed them to actually stay friends. It’s something Jackie has noticed as well, but at the time Hayden waved her off. While things with Lily were apparently not serious enough to warrant an introduction, she was still very much present in Shane’s life, and he still very much hooked up with her whenever they were in Boston.
Now, looking at these photos, Hayden again wonders how serious things with “Lily” really are.
He stares down again at the photo in his hands. Tries to reconcile Rozanov— a guy so smarmy that Boston fans lovingly refer to him as their Rat King, a guy who seems to love nothing more than fast cars, hot women, and inflating his already massive ego during his postgame media scrums. A guy who, just two weeks prior, fucking laughed and pointed at Hayden when he’d taken to the ice for the shootout during their most recent game.
(And sure, maybe he missed the shot, but that doesn’t change the fact that his shootout record makes him a more than adequate pick! It’s not his fault that Nilsen, the Boston goalie, was standing on his fucking head the entire game.)
Hayden isn’t sure if he’s ever met anyone more insufferable than Ilya Rozanov. Meanwhile, Shane Hollader is one of the best people Hayden knows, both on and off the ice.
So while Hayden can more than readily accept Shane being gay… it’s not that he can’t accept this Rozanov thing, it’s more that it boggles his mind to the point of insanity. He simply cannot comprehend why this Rozanov thing even exists.
And yet, as Hayden stares at the Polaroid, it’s impossible to deny the devastating warmth and fondness in Shane’s eyes directed entirely at Rozanov.
And— shit. Shane loves a long run, but he still might be back any minute. Hayden flips through the Polaroids as to put them back into their original order—
“Fucking hell!” Hayden yelps, throwing the stack of photos to the floor. He only caught a glimpse before shock and pure instinct had taken over, to which Hayden then sent the polaroids scattering, but that doesn’t change the fact that one of the photos contains an arrogant smirk, washboard abs, and a raging hard-on.
(And of course Rozanov has a huge fucking dick. Jesus Christ.)
Grimacing, Hayden gathers the photos and arranges them in what he hopes is the order in which he found them, doing his best to spend as little time as he can looking at that picture, and places them back into Shane’s drawer. Hayden mournfully returns the Advil as well, shutting the drawer and quickly making his way back down to Shane’s living room.
It’s a lucky thing Hayden ended his snooping when he did— seemingly as soon as he returns to the couch he hears the front door open and close.
“Oh, hey,” Shane greets him a minute later. His breathing is slightly elevated, but only just. He’s so in shape it’s honestly sickening. “I didn’t think you’d be— are you okay?”
Hayden blinks up at Shane, only now realizing he was staring at absolutely nothing, with ramrod-straight posture and his hands folded carefully in his lap. Definitely not suspicious. Hayden wants to smack himself.
But being face-to-face with Shane… it’s not as if he feels he’s seeing Shane in an entirely new light, but rather himself. Guilt rises like bile in the back of Hayden’s throat.
My fault for snooping. My fault he didn’t tell me. My fault he didn’t trust me.
…But fucking Rozanov? Seriously?
“ …Hayden?”
He blinks, temporarily stifling his thoughts. “Oh yeah, just— crazy headache,” Hayden says with a grimace that he hopes comes across as sheepish. “Do you have any Advil or anything?”
Shane nods. “Yeah, for sure. I’ll go grab it.”
As Shane climbs the stairs, Hayden gets up and pours himself a glass of water, more to keep himself busy than anything. When Shane returns with the pill bottle, Hayden smiles in thanks before swallowing two of the pills, finishing his water in three huge gulps.
Shane doesn’t say anything, just takes the glass when Hayden is done and loads it into his dishwasher. “I just need to shower and then I’ll bring you home.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll just get an Uber.”
Shane frowns, cocking his head at Hayden. “You sure? It’s no problem.”
Hayden nods— far too many times in a row to exemplify the casual tone he’s desperately trying to achieve. “It’s cool. Don’t, uh. Don’t wanna put you out more than I already have.”
Now Shane just looks confused. “You haven’t put me out, Hayden.”
And Hayden knows that, really, he does. But if he has to be locked in a car with Shane for fifteen minutes and not blurt out the inadvertent discoveries his mind is still reeling with, he’s pretty sure he’ll go insane. “I appreciate that man. But yeah. I’ll just call a ride. Get out of your hair, let you shower in peace. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? Enjoy your day off.”
Shane purses his lips, looking as if he’s about to call Hayden out on his, admittedly, very weird behavior, but he doesn’t. Instead he just nods and says,“Yeah. You too, Hayds. Tell Jackie and the kids I said hello.”
Hayden smiles as convincingly as he can. He’s sure he’s doing a terrible job at it. “Yeah. Of course. Will do, man.”
Before he’s even opened the rideshare app on his phone he’s slipping out the front door, feeling as if he can finally breathe again.
--------
During Hayden’s short, mentally fraught Uber ride back to his home, he recalls one specific night in Boston, about three years ago.
It’d been a brutal loss to the Bears, and he remembers how Rozanov in particular had been a terror the entire night, both in his physical game and his incessant chirping— somehow even more grating than normal. Hayden was grinding his mouthguard between his teeth at the end of it, and he hadn’t even received the worst of it.
That honor, of course, had gone to Shane.
So Hayden had found himself at a dive bar with J.J. and a few others after the game. The majority of their rookies and unmarried vets (along with some of the married ones) had gone to a strip club, and while Hayden had no interest in joining them, he still wanted to blow off some steam.
(He invited Shane as well, but he already knew Shane wouldn’t be joining them. Not in Boston, he always had plans after their games in Boston.)
Which is how Hayden found himself that night sat next to Cliff Marlow, the two of them making typical NHL smalltalk while J.J. and Pierceson, a defenseman who’s since been traded, were playing pool.
He and Marlow actually played their rookie year together back in San Francisco. They weren’t particularly close, but Hayden liked Marlow well enough.
It was maybe that familiarity that led to Hayden blurting out, apropos of nothing, “Is Rozanov really as much of an asshole off the ice as he is on it?”
Marlow stared at Hayden for a beat before barking out a laugh, shaking his head. “Of course he is.”
Hayden blinked at him. He didn’t really know what he expected Marlow’s response to be, but it certainly wasn’t that. Hayden wasn’t as dense as some people liked to think— he knew that on-ice chirping wasn’t necessarily indicative of a player’s personality. Some players put on a front, a persona, something that the media will take to. Part of Hayden figured that Rozanov’s whole deal could be something along those lines… but the other, larger part of Hayden figured Rozanov really was that much of an asshole, that no hockey player could play a part that well.
Marlow’s answer certainly wasn’t any points in Rozanov’s favor.
“But… he’s your captain,” Hayden stated. Marlow snorted, laughing again.
“He’s Rozanov. Who else would be captain?”
Hayden rolled his eyes. “Isn’t that bad for your locker room? To have someone who’s that much of an asshole to be your captain?”
Marlow gave Hayden a long, assessing look before shaking his head, something of a smirk forming across his face. “Listen. Roz is a great captain, he fucking loves this team. He’s a great motivator, he’s good with the rookies. He also just happens to be the most insufferable person I’ve ever met,” Marlow said with a shrug. “What can I say? That man is an enigma.”
Hayden said nothing, just continued to stare skeptically as Marlow took a swig of his beer before huffing out another laugh.
“Like. One time before a game, St. Simons had the aux and Barbie Girl had just come on, but Rozanov was tapped for press. He told us to pause the music and wait for him— which we didn’t obviously because fuck him, and also, it’s just some stupid song. When we came back after warm-ups, Roz was so dramatic about it, bitching at us for playing that song without him. Nothing new, though. Then, this guy gives the most heartfelt, motivational speech I’ve ever heard in a locker room— nearly brings a tear to my fuckin’ eye!
“We won the game, of course. Then at practice the next day, Rozy cooks up the most diabolical bag skate of my entire career. You’d think we just lost a playoff match, not that we just beat Pittsburgh! But no, he was still pissed about missing that fucking song. Somehow got access to the sound system at the practice arena, and Roz played Barbie Girl on loop the entire practice. I’m surprised he left the arena alive that afternoon— as in, I’m surprised I didn’t fucking throttle him myself.”
Marlow ended his spiel with a smile that could only be described as fond, contradictory to… pretty much everything that Marlow just said, all of which sounded like a complete nightmare scenario to Hayden.
Hayden wasn’t a stranger to a difficult training session— no, with Shane as captain, all of their practices were terrifyingly punishing, as serious and thorough as the man himself. There was no denying its efficacy, with their two cups as undeniable proof. But Shane wasn’t torturous about it. If Hayden (someone who’s listened to Elsa belt out Let it Go no less than five thousand times) had to listen to Barbie Girl on repeat for the entirety of a practice, well. He didn’t think any sane jury would deem him liable for his subsequent actions.
“And you’re telling me this to explain how Rozanov is a… good captain?”
Marlow looked at him as if he just said something particularly stupid. “Did you not hear the part about how we won the game? The speech? Tears in my fucking eye, Pike!”
“So you’re saying he’s a good captain, but also a complete asshole.”
Marlow nodded. “Exactly.”
“And you’re… friends with him?”
“There’s no one I trust more.”
Hayden spared another look at Marlow, before letting the topic drop. Maybe Marlow’s five concussions were finally starting to get to him.
--------
Recalling that night now, after finding those Polaroids in Shane’s nightstand… it doesn’t exactly clear anything up.
He can accept that there is a different side to Rozanov, one that Hayden isn’t privy to. He really doesn't think he’d still be captain if Rozanov were truly pissing off everyone in his locker room.
But nothing Marlow said disproves most of Hayden’s initial impression of Rozanov— that he’s an obnoxious, loud-mouth braggart with an ego bigger than his car collection, all things that Shane seemingly hates.
Shane’s, who’s definition of a good night is a quiet, meticulously curated dinner followed by a good book and an early bedtime. Shane, who’s only dropped his gloves once in living memory, who has one of the lowest penalty box minutes of any current player of his tenure. Shane, who solely lets his skill on the ice do the talking rather than his mouth.
The idea of him being… something, with Rozanov… the idea creates such a deep dissonance in Hayden’s brain that he finds himself grappling for any other remotely possible explanation for those pictures.
He thinks back to that photo of Shane, his best friend wearing an expression that Hayden has never seen from him before, not when he was with Rose, not with anyone—
Well. That actually isn’t true. Hayden has seen that expression before, or at least a version of it. He’s seen it before whenever Shane is adamantly pretending he isn’t texting Boston Lily.
Lily, who is Ilya.
Hayden thinks of that expression and finds no answers other than the obvious.
--------
Hayden lasts approximately three days before he folds.
He really did try to just simply not think about it. If they weren’t on a road trip, if he wasn’t spending so much time with Shane, he thinks he would’ve lasted longer. But instead, for the past three days he’s been with Shane at nearly every turn— next to each other on the plane, the bus, during team meals, playing on the same line during practices and games.
It feels impossible to act normal and not bring up the Rozanov of it all— he feels as if he’ll simply burst at the seams with the ever-growing weight of this secret, with all the questions he has for Shane, with the apologies he wants to make.
So three days after Hayden’s… discovery, he turns to Shane and blurts out, “I need to tell you something.”
Shane blinks at him with wide eyes, fumbling for the remote and pausing some movie Hayden hasn’t paid a lick of attention to all night.
They’re in Shane’s hotel room after a win in Colorado, sitting together side-by-side atop Shane’s bed. Hayden was, admittedly, more than a bit bummed when Shane had finally pulled rank as captain and requested a single room this year whenever available. Now, Hayden is very much aware why Shane has a desire for more privacy this season.
But Shane is still a creature of habit, and they often find themselves in each other's rooms regardless. While a few of the guys had gone out tonight, Shane wanted a quiet night in and asked Hayden if he’d like to watch a movie. Initially Hayden was going to refuse, make an excuse about taking advantage of his own empty room while Salo— fucking Salo, his new roommate— was out drinking.
Eventually he agreed, out of pure stubbornness more than anything. He didn’t want this elephant in the room that only Hayden knew existed to get in the way of his friendship with Shane. He could be normal, and have a very normal movie night with his best friend.
Twenty minutes after Shane clicked play, Hayden just couldn’t take it anymore.
And now Shane is staring at him in a way where Hayden knows he’s running through every worst case scenario of what Hayden could possibly have to tell him. Hayden grimaces, shaking his head.
“Sorry, I— it’s not serious. I mean, it is kinda serious? But it’s not bad. Well, I mean, bad is such a relative— ”
“Are your kids okay?” Shane interrupts. “Jackie? They’re fine?”
“Woah, yeah, they’re all fine, Shane,” Hayden replies immediately, inwardly kicking himself. This is a terrible start to what is inevitably going to be a terrible conversation.
He watches as Shane takes a breath, nodding. “I’m sorry, you just… you looked so fucking nervous when you said that.”
“No, that’s my bad. I didn't mean to scare you, but, yeah. I am definitely nervous.” Hayden huffs out a breath of his own, unable to meet Shane’s eye. “I’m the one who’s sorry, because I did something I shouldn't have done, and I just… ”
Shane raises his eyebrows at him but says nothing else. Hayden takes that as his sign to continue, even if he really doesn’t want to. He steels himself, and says, “You remember the other night when I got too drunk and had to stay at your place? And I asked you for Advil in the morning?”
Shane blinks at him. “I remember.”
“Well… okay, look. I totally understand if you’re going to hate me for this, I kinda hate myself for it, but when I woke up my headache was blinding, I could barely think. You were on a run, so I went looking for painkillers myself, couldn’t find anything in your bathroom downstairs so I went into your room and checked your nightstand, ‘cuz that’s where I keep my painkillers, and— ”
“Hayden— ” Shane says, his voice audibly nervous. “Look, I can— ”
“ —I saw your pictures. Of Rozanov. Of you, and Rozanov. Together.”
Shane snaps his jaw shut, confusion clouding his features for a mere second before being overtaken by sharp understanding and cold fear.
“I— Hayden, I didn’t… I was going to… ” Shane trails off, averting his gaze. He sighs, long and slow. “I was going to tell you. I’m sorry.”
His voice is so small— Shane’s not usually loud, but Hayden has never heard him this timid, and it makes Hayden ache. He shakes his head furiously. “No, Shane, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been snooping around your house, and I… I understand, I think. Why you didn’t tell me.”
Hayden frowns, fidgeting with his thumbs. “It was always just locker room talk, y’know? I mean… fuck. Obviously the shit that Levesque would spew, and Comeau as well, it’s inexcusable. But I never said anything about it— hell, I know I laughed at some of it, stuff that I thought was just… normal chirping. But I shouldn’t have laughed at any of it. I was initially hurt that you didn’t tell me… but now I think I get it. And I’m sorry, for making you feel like you couldn’t trust me.”
Slowly over the course of Hayden’s speech, Shane turned his eyes back towards Hayden. He’s currently blinking at him, seemingly in shock. “I… Hayden. Thank you, for saying that,” he starts, offering Hayden the semblance of a smile. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you, really. I never thought… I always knew you hated Levesque and how he would speak. I didn’t think you would really have a problem with… with me being gay,” Shane’s tone fumbles for a moment, but he finishes his sentence with a firm sureness. “But it’s not something I even figured out for myself until recently, not until after Rose and I dated. And after, I did want to tell you, but I knew if I came out to you I wouldn’t be able to keep Ilya a secret, and, well… ”
“Ilya, right,” Hayden says, a little dazed but trying to keep his voice normal. He’s never once heard Shane refer to Rozanov as Ilya to the point that the name almost sounds strange in Shane’s voice. Rationally, Hayden knows that of course Shane would call him Ilya if they’re dating— or dating-adjacent, or whatever it is that constitutes them taking Polaroid selfies together— but that doesn’t mean it won’t take some getting used to. “So, uh. How long, exactly? Has that been going on?”
“ …Years.”
“Years,” Hayden repeats stupidly. He guessed as much considering everything with Lily, but still, having that confirmation…
Hayden waits for a moment to see if Shane is pulling his first-ever prank with Hayden as his unwitting victim, but Shane says nothing. Just continues staring into the middle-distance beside Hayden. “Years, okay, right. Right. Years. As in…?”
Shane pauses at that, and Hayden is about to tell Shane that he really doesn’t have to tell if he doesn’t want to, that as desperate as Hayden is to understand this whole thing, he also knows he’s pried enough for one day. For one lifetime, probably. But before he can, Shane replies and says, “Since our rookie season. Well— technically the summer before.”
Jesus Christ. If Hayden’s memory serves him correctly, that would’ve been in 2010. Eight years ago, now.
“Okay. Sure. 2010. You and Rozanov. And he’s your…?”
Fuckbuddy? Boyfriend? Husband? At this point, Hayden isn’t putting them getting hitched in Vegas off the table.
But then, in a quiet yet steady voice, Shane tells Hayden, “He’s my boyfriend.” And Shane has that same damned besotted look on his face as he did in the Polaroid, the Boston Lily look. It’s a look that raises guilt in Hayden for how he’s been reacting to this whole thing, especially after Shane had graciously, thankfully, seemingly forgiven him.
But Rozanov, for whatever reason, clearly makes Shane so impossibly happy. He didn’t understand it when Marlow tried to explain it to him, and he certainly doesn’t understand now… but maybe it’s not for him to understand. Fuck, he knows Shane would never say it, but his best friend couldn’t completely hide his shock when Hayden announced his plans to propose to Jackie only six months after they started dating. He knows Shane didn’t understand the rush of it, not really, but it’s been six years now and Hayden loves Jackie more with each passing day.
“Look,” Hayden starts. “I can’t say it’s not weird— not because he’s a dude, obviously! Just that he’s Rozanov!” Hayden quickly amends, but Shane just rolls his eyes in a way that feels more fond than actually annoyed. “But I remember what you told me last year, that the whole asshole-schtick is mostly an act. I assume that really is true, then?”
“Oh no, he’s still absolutely an asshole,” Shane says, but he’s grinning that same grin. “But… he’s also the kindest person I’ve ever met. He’s Ilya, and… I love him,” Shane states, simply and sincerely.
It again reminds him a bit of how Marlow had described Rozanov— an enigma. Right. He still thinks Marlow has a very warped sense of normalcy, but that might just be what living in Boston as long as he has does to a person. Regardless… he thinks Marlow might’ve been right all those years ago.
Hayden takes a breath, and nods. Forces himself to remember that he doesn’t actually know Rozanov, not off the ice. Not like Shane, who’s known him for almost ten fucking years off the ice.
“And he… he loves you too, yeah? He treats you well?”
“He really does,” Shane confirms, and, “He’s leaving Boston. For me. Obviously don’t tell anyone, and it’s not finalized yet, but… he’s most likely going to be playing for Ottawa next year.”
“Ottawa? The Centaurs?” Hayden blurts out. “They’re terrible!”
Shane gives Hayden a withering look. “We’re aware. But it’s a path for Ilya to obtain Canadian citizenship, it’s only two hours from Montreal, my parents are there… and it’s not like their veteran players are bad, they’re just not a cohesive unit. Plus they just got Hayes in a trade, Toronto barely gave him the time of day but he’s really an amazing goalie, and Boodram— ”
“Sorry, sorry, back up,” Hayden interrupts, holding up his hands. “He’s seriously leaving Boston? To be closer to you? It’s really… it’s that serious?”
“I did just tell you I love him,” Shane states with a raised brow. “And it’s not the only reason, like I said they’re a Canadian team that can afford him, and the sooner Ilya can get citizenship, the better. If he gets outed… Russia isn’t safe for him. He could never go back,” Shane says, his tone bitter with pain. “So you can’t tell anyone. Seriously, Hayden. Not for me, but for him.”
“Of course I won’t tell anyone,” Hayden swears. He obviously wasn’t going to regardless, but Hayden really hadn’t considered it all, with Rozanov’s home country. He’d never purposely out anyone, but especially not his best friend, nor the man his best friend is apparently in love with.
“ …So I take it the answer is yes, then? It is that serious?”
“It is,” Shane replies.
A stark silence stretches between them, Hayden’s mind still whirring as he processes their entire conversation— processes all the little surprises that have been unraveled, the seriousness of it all, of their relationship, of how notorious playboy Ilya Rozanov is leaving a cup-contending team for fucking Ottawa because he’s apparently that in love with Shane— before Hayden finds himself saying, “But I can tell Jackie… right?”
Shane snorts. “Yeah, you can tell Jackie. I trust her as much as I trust you.”
Hayden smiles to himself at the reminder of how fucking awesome his wife is.
It’s with that own smile on his lips, and Shane’s Boston Lily expression on his mind, that he says, “I can’t pretend that I understand what you see in him… but I really am happy for you man, that you’ve found your person. And maybe… I could learn to understand? If you wanna bring him over sometime?”
“Yeah?” Shane says. Hayden doesn’t particularly want Rozanov in his house, but Shane looks so fucking hopeful at just the mere idea, and it confirms Hayden’s resolve to at least try.
“Yeah, man, of course. As long as you think he’d…?”
“I think he’d like that,” Shane says immediately.
“I was going to say as long as you think he’d avoid being a dick in my home,” Hayden quips, and Shane huffs, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he behaves.”
Hayden snorts. “Yeah? That’s something I’d love to see honestly, Ilya Rozanov on a fucking leash.”
Shane is quiet at that, and Hayden is about to backtrack, worried it’s maybe not a joke he should be making, but then he sees a sly smirk form across Shane’s lips, accompanied by the forming of a blush, and—
Oh, God. “Dude, way too much information!” Hayden yelps, right before having a pillow launched in his face.
“Me? I didn’t even say anything! You’re the one who brought it up!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t— you didn’t need to say anything, when you’re doing that with your face! And you know what I meant!” Hayden stutters out indignantly, but Shane is laughing, genuine and bright, and Hayden can’t help but grin widely in return.
But speaking of too much information…
“Also, I meant to say before, you should seriously find a better hiding spot for those photos. Like perhaps locked in a safe, that’s within another locked safe, possibly within an even bigger, third locked safe.”
Shane scoffs at him through his laughter. “Sorry, I didn’t exactly expect anyone to go rifling through my nightstand. I always keep my door locked whenever the team is over— and besides,” Shane casts his gaze to the ground, quiet now as he shrugs his shoulders. “They’re the only pictures I have of him that I can keep. Of us. Real photos, not press photos. Whenever we send each other pictures, we always delete them from our phones, just in case. We… we thought it would be nice to have something physical, something that couldn’t be hacked.”
And that’s… that’s just so fucking sad that Hayden doesn’t even know what to say to that. He’s sure that Shane knows how sad it is, and he doesn’t need Hayden’s pity, but—
“So,” Shane cuts through Hayden’s thoughts, his cheeks now flushed a deep crimson. “Did you, uh. Did you happen to see all of the pictures?”
Hayden winces, and says, “If I said no, would you believe me?”
Shane groans, flopping backwards onto the bed, grabbing the remaining pillow to cover his face with.
“We’re never speaking of those photos again,” Shane says, his voice muffled by the overstuffed hotel pillow.
“Oh, what, now you’re embarrassed?” Hayden asks somewhat incredulously, receiving another pillow to the head for his troubles. Hayden rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Don’t worry buddy, I’m way ahead of you,” Hayden assents, gently patting Shane on his shoulder.
He won’t bring them up… but Hayden really, genuinely hopes for a day where Shane won’t have to hide those photos in his bedside drawer like a dirty secret, that he’ll be able to openly and proudly display those photos and more within his home.
Well.
Most of the photos. Some things are better left for Shane’s eyes only.