Chapter Text
The arena was loud in a way that settled into Shane’s bones instead of overwhelming him.
It always did.
The noise wasn’t really noise after a while. It became something else, something constant, something grounding. The scrape of skates, the sharp crack of sticks, the low roar of the crowd swelling and dipping like a living thing. It all blurred together until it was less about sound and more about feeling. Pressure. Movement. Heat.
Shane breathed it in. This part was easy. This part always had been.
The ice stretched out in front of him, clean and familiar, lines sharp under the lights. His gloves were tight, stick steady in his hands, muscles already warm from the last shift. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Everything made sense.
Until it didn’t.
Until...
He didn’t have to look to know.
He felt it first.
That shift in awareness, subtle but immediate, like something in him keyed in without permission. His shoulders tightened just slightly, grip adjusting on his stick as his gaze flicked up. And there he was. Across from him.
Ilya.
Helmet tilted just enough, visor catching the overhead lights. His mouth curved, not quite a smile, not neutral either. Something in between. Something familiar. Something that had always meant pay attention.
Shane’s chest tightened before he could stop it.
God.
It had been like this for years and it still...
“Set.”
The linesman’s voice cut through it, sharp and grounding.
Shane dropped into position automatically, knees bending, weight shifting forward. His focus narrowed, the rest of the ice falling away until it was just this. Just the puck. Just the space between them.
Just Ilya.
Close now.
Close enough that Shane could see the way his breath fogged faintly behind the visor, the way his fingers flexed once on his stick like he was settling in, like he was ready.
Like he always was.
Shane swallowed, forcing his focus down.
The puck dropped.
Everything snapped into motion.
Sticks clashed, sharp and fast, muscle memory taking over before thought could catch up. Shane pushed forward, shoulder dipping as he fought for control, skates biting into the ice hard enough to send a faint spray behind him. There was resistance immediately, of course there was.
Ilya.
Right there. Always right there.
Their sticks caught again, bodies shifting closer, the contact brief but solid. Not enough to be called. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to feel. Just enough to remind.
Shane broke away first, chasing the puck as it slid loose, breath steady even as something under his ribs stayed tight, wound too close to the surface. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn't mean anything.
—
The game stayed close.
Too close.
Every shift felt sharper for it, faster, like there was no room to breathe without something slipping. The Bears pushed hard, their offense aggressive, controlled in a way that kept forcing the Voyagers back just enough to make every play matter.
Shane thrived in it.
He always had.
Pressure like this didn’t shake him, it focused him. Every pass cleaner, every movement deliberate, every decision quick and precise. He moved like he belonged here, like this was exactly where he was supposed to be.
And still,
He was aware.
Too aware.
Ilya wasn’t always on the ice with him, but it felt like he was. Like his presence lingered even when he wasn’t directly in front of him. Every time Shane stepped onto the ice, there was that same pull, that same instinct to locate—
There.
Again.
Another faceoff.
Shane exhaled slowly through his nose as he skated into position, rolling his shoulders once like he could shake it off. He couldn’t.
Ilya was already there. Waiting.
This time the smirk was clearer. Shane’s jaw tightened.
“Focus,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anything else.
Ilya’s eyes flicked to his mouth for half a second like he’d heard it anyway.
Of course he had.
“Always,” Ilya said quietly.
Not loud enough for anyone else. Just for him.
Shane’s grip tightened on his stick. The puck dropped again. Harder this time. More force behind it, more intent. Shane pushed forward, shoulder catching Ilya’s as he moved past, the contact sharper than it needed to be. Not enough to draw a penalty. Not enough to be called anything more than competitive.
But it wasn’t just that. It never was.
Ilya recovered fast, he always did, pivoting smoothly, skates cutting clean arcs into the ice as he turned back into the play. He brushed past Shane again, closer this time, shoulder grazing his chest in a way that lingered just a second too long.
Deliberate.
Shane’s breath hitched, just barely. He shoved it down immediately. It didn’t mean anything.
—
Late in the third, the game broke open. Not by much. Just enough.
A scramble in front of the net, bodies crowding the crease, sticks clashing in tight, frantic movements as the puck bounced loose for half a second too long. Shane saw the opening before anyone else did, instinct, timing, something that had been built into him from years of this exact moment.
He moved.
Fast.
Stick down, angle right,
And then—
Gone.
The puck was knocked away at the last second, deflected just enough to send it wide instead of in. Shane’s head snapped up.
Ilya.
Of course.
He was already moving the other way, pushing the play down the ice, not even looking back. Shane stared after him for half a second longer than he should have.
Then turned and got back into it.
—
The final buzzer sounded with the Voyagers ahead by one.
Close.
Too close.
The kind of game that stayed in your body after it ended, adrenaline slow to settle, muscles still tight with it.
Shane pushed his helmet up slightly as he skated off, breath heavier now, sweat cooling against his skin. His pulse hadn’t quite come down yet, still riding the edge of something sharp and lingering.
They’d won.
That should have been enough. It usually was.
—
The line formed automatically.
Routine.
Handshakes, quick and practiced, movements that didn’t require thought. Shane moved through it without really focusing, grip firm, nods exchanged, the usual words passing back and forth without meaning much of anything.
Until...
There.
Ilya.
Right in front of him. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Shane reached out. Because that’s what you did. Their hands met.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Ilya’s grip was solid, warm even through the gloves, fingers tightening just slightly, just enough to be noticeable. Not enough for anyone else to see.
Shane’s breath caught. He pulled back first. Of course he did. Ilya’s hand lingered a fraction of a second longer before dropping. Neither of them said anything. They didn’t need to.
Shane moved on. But he felt it. The ghost of it. Long after.
—
His phone buzzed before he even finished changing.
Shane glanced down at it absently at first, still half in the game, still not fully settled back into himself.
Then he saw the name.
His chest tightened immediately.
Lily.
Of course.
He stared at it for a second longer than necessary before opening it.
Lily:
service entrance?
Shane exhaled slowly, leaning back against the locker for a second, phone still in his hand.
Routine.
That’s all this was. It had always been like this. In. Out. Quiet. No attention. No questions.
Simple.
Safe.
—
His fingers hovered over the screen.
Paused.
Something in his chest shifted.
Small. But enough. He didn’t think about it too hard. Didn’t let himself.
He just...
typed.
Jane:
no
come in the front
He hit send before he could rethink it.
Before he could pull it back.
Before he could ask himself why.
—
The reply came faster than he expected.
Lily:
yeah
Short. Like always. Like nothing had changed.
—
Shane stared at the message anyway. Something in his chest hadn’t settled. If anything, it felt tighter now. Like something had shifted just slightly out of place and he couldn’t quite tell why.
He pushed off the locker a second later. Shook it off. Grabbed his things. It didn’t mean anything. It could never mean anything...
Ilya was fidgeting with the crucifix that hung around his neck.
He should turn around.
The thought comes sharp and immediate, cutting through everything else before it has a chance to settle. It doesn’t feel dramatic. It doesn’t feel like panic. It feels… obvious. Simple. Like the kind of decision that should be easy.
Turn around. Get back in the car. Leave.
Pretend this never happened.
Ilya stares at the building instead.
Shane’s building.
He’s been here enough times that it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. He knows the entrance, the layout, the timing of the elevator, the way the hallway light flickers faintly near the corner if you don’t look directly at it. He knows which floorboard creaks just slightly outside Shane’s door if you step too far to the left.
He knows how to get in without being seen.
He knows how to leave before morning.
He knows—
His jaw tightens.
That’s the problem.
The front entrance doors slide open before he can stop himself, stepping inside on instinct more than decision. The warmth of the lobby hits him immediately, dulling the edge of the cold that had settled into his skin outside. It should feel normal. Routine.
It doesn’t.
Not tonight.
The text sits heavy in his mind.
come in the front
Ilya exhales slowly, the sound quiet but uneven.
That wasn’t how this worked. It had never been how this worked. Side doors. Service entrances. Late hours. Quick exits. No overlap with the rest of Shane’s life. No questions. No expectations.
No meaning.
And Shane, Shane had just—
His hand flexes once at his side.
No.
He can’t think about it like that.
He won’t.
The elevator doors close in front of him with a soft, final sound, and for a second, it feels like something sealing shut. Like a point of no return he doesn’t get to pretend isn’t there anymore.
He stares at his reflection in the metal as it starts to move.
He looks fine. Calm. Controlled. No one would look at him and think anything was wrong.
He almost laughs at that.
His throat tightens instead.
You can still leave.
The thought comes again, quieter this time. The elevator hasn’t reached the floor yet. He could step out on the next one. Walk down. Leave. Say something later. Something vague. Something easy.
He could fix this before it becomes something he can’t undo.
Before—
The elevator dings. The doors slide open. Ilya doesn’t move.
For a second.
Two.
Then he steps out anyway.
—
The hallway is quiet.
Too quiet.
Every step feels louder than it should, the sound of his shoes against the floor carrying just enough to make him aware of it. A reminder. A countdown.
He knows how this ends.
He decided it before he got here.
He decided it before the game.
Before the text.
Before—
His chest tightens.
No.
He decided it because of the text.
Because Shane said:
come in the front
Because Shane doesn’t do things like that unless—
He stops outside the door. Just stands there. The wood is familiar. The number fixed exactly where it always is. Nothing about it has changed.
Everything about it has.
His hand lifts.
Pauses.
For a second, something cracks. Not fully. Not enough to stop him. But enough to make his breath hitch, enough to make the next inhale feel too sharp, too thin.
He can still walk away.
He should.
He knows he should.
If he knocks, that’s it.
If he knocks, he has to follow through.
He has to say it.
He has to look at Shane and his beautiful freckles and—
His throat tightens harder.
He knocks anyway.
—
Shane opens the door almost immediately. Like he was already there.
Waiting.
And for a second, just one, everything in Ilya goes still.
Shane looks... Soft.
Not in a weak way. Not unguarded, not careless. Just… open. There’s a slight flush still high on his cheeks from the game, hair still damp at the edges, falling a little out of place. His shirt is loose, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it before coming to the door. Like he didn’t think he needed to.
Like this was...
Normal.
Ilya’s chest tightens painfully.
Shane’s mouth curves slightly when he sees him. Small. Familiar. Real.
“Hey,” he says, easy. Quiet.
Like nothing is wrong.
Like everything is exactly the same as it’s always been.
And that, that almost breaks him.
Ilya forces himself to breathe.
Forces himself to stay where he is instead of stepping forward like he wants to, like his body is already trying to do without permission.
Shane shifts slightly in the doorway, stepping back just enough to let him in.
“Come in,” he says.
Not rushed. Not careful. Just open.
Ilya steps past him. Because he has to.
Because stopping now would be worse.
Because leaving now would be worse.
Because staying...
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
Too final. The apartment is warm. Familiar.
Everything is exactly where it always is. Couch slightly angled, shoes near the door, something left half-finished on the counter like Shane had been in the middle of something before he got here and didn’t bother to clean it up.
Like he expected him.
Ilya’s chest tightens again.
Don’t.
He turns before he can look too long, before he can take in too much, before he can let himself settle into something that isn’t real.
Shane is already close. Of course he is. He always is.
“Good game,” Shane says, voice softer now, closer.
There’s something under it. Not tension. Not quite. Something else. Something Ilya doesn’t let himself name.
“Yeah,” Ilya replies. Short. Controlled. Wrong.
Shane doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does. It’s hard to tell.
There’s a pause.
A small one.
Then Shane steps closer. Not hesitant. Not unsure.
Just... natural. Like this is what they do. Like this is what comes next.
Ilya’s breath catches.
Shane reaches for him.
Fingers brushing lightly against his wrist first, then sliding up, familiar, grounding, like he’s done it a hundred times before and expects it to be the same now.
Like it is the same.
And then... Shane leans in.
Close enough that Ilya can feel his breath, warm against his skin, can see the way his eyes soften slightly right before...
Ilya steps back.
It’s immediate.
Sharp.
Not violent. Not forceful.
But enough.
Enough to stop it.
Enough to break it.
Shane stills.
The shift is instant.
Confusion flickers across his face, subtle but there, his brows pulling together just slightly, like his brain is trying to catch up to something that doesn’t make sense.
“What-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
Ilya forces himself to speak before he can think too hard about it.
Before he can stop himself.
Before he can ruin this by hesitating.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
The words land flat. Too rehearsed. Too controlled. Wrong.
Shane blinks.
“What are you talking about?”
There’s no anger yet. Just confusion.
That makes it worse.
Ilya swallows hard, forcing himself to hold his ground, to not look away, to not soften.
“It’s getting reckless,” he continues, voice steadier now only because he’s pushing it that way. “This...whatever this is- it’s not-”
He cuts himself off.
Starts again.
“It was just sex.”
Shane goes still. Completely still. The shift is immediate.
Total.
Like something inside him locks into place.
Ilya feels it like a physical thing.
Feels the moment it lands.
Still, he keeps going.
Because he has to.
Because stopping now would—
“I’m bored of your boringness, Hollander.”
Shane’s fingers twitch at his side.
Then... silence.
It drops heavy between them, thick and suffocating, filling the space in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
Shane doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
For a second, Ilya thinks—
He doesn’t know what he thinks.
That Shane will argue. That he’ll laugh. That he’ll call him out, push back, say something that makes this easier to undo.
He doesn’t.
Shane just, stands there.
Eyes fixed on him.
Unreadable now.
And that, that is so much worse.
Ilya’s chest tightens painfully.
He waits.
For something.
Anything.
Shane’s throat moves as he swallows, the motion small but visible.
“…okay,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Like the word doesn’t belong to him.
Ilya’s stomach drops.
That wasn’t—
That’s not—
He shouldn’t feel like this.
This is what he wanted.
This is... What he was supposed to do...
“Okay?” Shane repeats, like he’s testing the shape of it, like he’s trying to understand it in real time. His gaze flickers slightly, not quite unfocused, but not steady either. “Yeah. Okay.”
Ilya can’t breathe. This is worse. This is so much worse than if he’d gotten angry.
Shane nods once. Small. Sharp. Like he’s making a decision.
“Got it,” he says.
And just like that, he steps back. Putting space between them. Real space. Not hesitation. Not confusion.
Distance.
Ilya feels it like a loss. Immediate. Final.
Shane looks at him one more time. Not soft anymore. Not open. Just closed.
“Good game,” he says again. Polite. Distant. Like they’re back on the ice. Like that’s all they’ve ever been.
Ilya’s chest caves in. He nods. Because he doesn’t trust himself to do anything else.
Then he turns. Walks out.
Because if he stays—
He won’t.
—
The door closes behind him.
And for the first time since he got there... Ilya hesitates.
Just for a second.
Hand hovering near the door like he might—
Like he could—
He doesn’t.
He drops it.
And walks away.
—
Inside, Shane stands exactly where he left him.
The apartment is too quiet now. Too still. The warmth feels wrong. Like it doesn’t belong here anymore.
He exhales slowly, the sound uneven, catching slightly in his chest before he can steady it.
“…okay,” he says again, quieter this time.
To no one. His gaze drifts toward the door. Lingers. Then drops.
It didn’t mean anything.
It never did.
His chest ached anyway.
His eyes burned like it had meant everything.