Work Text:
A secret relationship with the captain of the Boston Raiders required discretion. Shane excelled at discretion. Ilya did not.
The corridor outside the visiting press room at TD Garden smelled of concrete and floor cleaner and, beneath that, popcorn being swept up in the arena above. Shane had finished his media obligations twelve minutes ago. He'd given clean, forgettable quotes about puck possession and defensive coverage and had complimented the Raiders on a hard-fought game, because that was what you did when you won 3–2 in someone else's building.
He should have been on the bus by now.
Instead, he was standing in a corridor, scrolling through notifications he'd already read, waiting for a door to open.
It did.
Ilya came through the double doors at the far end of the hall, suit jacket hooked over one shoulder, tie loosened. His hair was still damp. There was a small cut along his jaw from where someone had caught him with a stick in the second period, and Shane had spent the remainder of that shift wanting to rip the offending player's arms from his body. Even though the offending player was a member of his own team.
"Good game," Shane said, because someone might hear him say it.
"Not good enough." Ilya glanced up the corridor. A broadcast tech was coiling cable near the press room door, paying them no attention. "You are still here."
"I was waiting for you."
The corner of Ilya's mouth lifted. "Careful, Hollander. People will think we are friends."
"God forbid."
They fell into step. Side by side, a careful distance apart. Close enough that Shane caught the scent of Ilya's aftershave: cedar and a warmth Shane had come to associate with the collar of Ilya's coat, his pillowcase, the hollow of his throat.
"I have been thinking," Ilya said, dropping his voice, "about that photo."
Shane's stomach tightened. "Don't start."
"The one from after the charity game. You, in the Raiders hoodie, with the..." Ilya mimed flipping someone off, grinning. "A work of art."
"Delete it."
"Why? Is evidence." His grin widened. "Photographic evidence that Canada's golden boy is a disaster."
"I was hungover. You got me drunk."
"I held no gun."
"You kept handing me shots."
"And you kept drinking them. Nobody forced you to eat McDonald's at four in the morning, either."
Shane rubbed the back of his neck, fighting the pull at the corners of his mouth. "I was starving."
"You were wearing my team's hoodie."
"It was cold. Someone gave it to me."
"I gave it to you."
"Exactly. Your fault."
Ilya leaned closer. When he spoke again, his voice shifted into something louder, sharper. His rivalry voice. The one built for cameras and press scrums and the performance of mutual hatred. "I have photographic evidence, Hollander. One post and your whole reputation? Finished."
Shane laughed before he could stop himself, the sound too bright for the corridor. He swallowed it. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me." Ilya's eyes were lit up with it. "One post. World sees their golden boy eating Big Mac in enemy hoodie. Flipping off camera. Hair like bird nest."
"Bird's nest. And fuck off."
"I am powerful man with dangerous information."
"You're an idiot."
They reached the point where the corridor forked: visitors' exit to the left, home team to the right. As they slowed, Ilya's hand brushed Shane's. A set of keys pressed into his palm. Still warm from Ilya's pocket.
"My place," Ilya murmured, without looking at him. "Later."
Shane closed his fingers around the metal. "Remember what I said about discretion?"
"Remember what I said, Hollander." Ilya's voice carried as he peeled away towards the home side. Warm and teasing and a fraction too loud. "One post and you are finished."
"Goodnight, Rozanov."
Shane turned left without looking back.
What he could not have known, and could not have seen, was the press credential clipped to the lanyard of the woman standing just past the press room door. She'd been scrolling on her phone, half-listening, until photographic evidence had sharpened the air. She was still standing there as Shane's footsteps faded, thumbs already moving.
Ilya's bedroom was warm and dim, the curtains drawn against the streetlight. Shane lay on his back with Ilya's head on his chest, one arm curled around him, fingers tracing absent shapes on Ilya's bare shoulder.
"You're a menace," Shane said.
Ilya hummed against his skin. "You like it."
Shane kissed the top of his head. Damp curls, cedar soap, sweat. He did like it. He liked everything about this: the weight of Ilya against him, the rumpled sheets, the ache in his thighs, the quiet. No cameras. No rivals. No corridor voice. Just Ilya's breathing and Shane's fingers in his hair and the city outside reduced to a faint hum of traffic and distance.
"Are you happy?" Ilya asked.
"Right now? Yes."
"No. About the game. You beat my team tonight. Are you happy about that?"
Shane grinned at the ceiling. "Of course."
Ilya lifted his head. Even in the dark, Shane could see the offended furrow of his brow. "Of course?"
"You asked."
"You could have lied. You could have said, 'I take no pleasure in your suffering, Ilya.' Like a gentleman."
"I'm not going to lie about beating you. I scored twice."
"I also scored twice."
"And still lost."
Ilya sat up. The sheets pooled at his waist. "I think you should apologise."
"For winning?"
"For being so smug about it."
"I'm not smug. I'm honest."
"Apologise."
"No."
"Shane Hollander."
"No."
Ilya's hands found Shane's ribs.
The first touch was a warning. Shane saw it coming and flinched, but he was too slow. Ilya's fingers dug in and Shane's composure collapsed. He yelped, a sound he would deny under oath, and tried to squirm away, but Ilya was faster. He swung a leg over and straddled Shane's hips, pinning him with his weight.
"Apologise," Ilya said, grinning down at him.
"No, fuck, stop—"
Ilya did not stop.
Shane's laughter came in gasps, high and breathless and wrecked. He bucked under Ilya's weight, grabbed at his wrists, but couldn't get purchase. The sheets tangled around his legs. His abs ached from laughing and from the game and from earlier, and tears were forming at the corners of his eyes.
"Say sorry," Ilya said.
"Never—"
Ilya found the spot under Shane's left rib, the one Shane could not defend, and Shane shrieked.
"Mercy," Shane managed, between desperate, wheezing breaths. "Mercy, please—"
Ilya's hands stilled.
His weight settled. His thighs were warm and solid on either side of Shane's hips, and in the sudden quiet Shane could hear his own ragged breathing and the hammer of his pulse and nothing else.
Ilya leaned down. Took Shane's face in both hands. Thumbs against his cheekbones. Close enough that Shane could feel his breath.
He didn't kiss him.
"Ask nicely," Ilya whispered.
Shane's brain emptied. The laughter evaporated, replaced by a heat that started low in his stomach and spread until his skin prickled with it. Ilya's hands on his face, Ilya's weight on his body, Ilya's mouth a centimetre from his own. The word please was forming before Shane had decided to say it.
"Please stop tickling me."
Ilya's grin was slow and triumphant and devastating. He brushed his nose against Shane's. Then he kissed him. Soft and warm and unhurried, and Shane felt his whole body unclench beneath him.
Three days later. Montreal.
Shane's phone was, for once, the first thing he reached for when he woke up. Not because his routine had changed. Because Hayden had called eleven times between 5 a.m. and 6:14 a.m., which meant that either someone was dead, someone was traded, or the internet had done a thing.
He called him back.
"Buddy." Hayden's voice had the texture it took on for situations Shane was not going to enjoy. "Have you been on Twitter?"
"I don't go on Twitter."
"Today might be a real good day to start."
"What happened?"
"There's a tweet going viral from a TSN reporter. She's saying that after the game on Wednesday, someone overheard Rozanov threatening you in a corridor at TD Garden. With, quote, 'photographic evidence' that would 'finish you.'"
Shane's pulse kicked. "What?"
"The direct quote is: 'one post and you are finished, Hollander.' The reporter alleges they heard Rozanov say it. TSN took it to the league, and the league confirmed the exchange happened. Ring any bells?"
Shane closed his eyes. The corridor. Ilya's voice, a fraction too loud, doing his rivalry performance. One post and your whole reputation? Finished. A joke. A stupid, warm, private joke between two people who happened to be standing in a semi-public hallway.
He ran the moment back. The broadcast tech had been coiling cable near the press room door when they'd first stopped, but he'd been gone by the time Ilya switched into his rivalry voice. Shane was sure of it. He'd checked. He always checked. Which meant someone else had been there. Someone he hadn't seen. Possibly near the press room, with a reason to linger.
His jaw tightened.
And then the league had confirmed it. The league, who hadn't been in that corridor, who had no recording, no context, no evidence beyond a reporter's paraphrased quote, had confirmed that the exchange "happened." As if they knew. As if they'd been standing right there. They hadn't confirmed what was said, or what it meant, or that it was two people who loved each other messing around after a game. They'd just confirmed enough to keep the fire burning, because the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry filled arenas and sold broadcast rights and generated the kind of engagement that made sponsors salivate, and the truth of what had actually been said in that corridor was worth less to them than the story.
"He was joking," Shane said. His voice was flat.
"I figured. But care to fill me in on what the joke was, exactly? Because forty-eight thousand retweets say the internet would also like to know."
"Forty-eight thousand?"
"And climbing. It's trending. #RozanovReceipts is a hashtag. There's fan art already."
"Fan art of what?"
"Rozanov holding a manila envelope while you cower behind Drapeau."
"I would not cower behind my goalie."
"I know, buddy. The internet doesn't know you like I do."
Against his better judgement, Shane opened Twitter. The search bar auto-suggested #RozanovReceipts before he'd finished typing.
@TSNMarcDupont · 14h
Sources: following BOS-MTL on Wednesday, Rozanov was overheard telling Hollander he has "photographic evidence" that could "finish" him. Rozanov's exact words: "One post and you are finished, Hollander." League sources confirm the exchange took place but declined to comment further.
❤️ 68.4K · 🔁 72.1K · 💬 12.7K
@benchminorpod · 12h
ROZANOV HAS RECEIPTS ON HOLLANDER???? THE RIVALRY JUST DROPPED A NEW SEASON AND WE. ARE. NOT. READY.
❤️ 58.4K · 🔁 34.1K · 💬 8.3K
@hockeydrunk · 11h
okay but what could Rozanov POSSIBLY have on Shane "I Eat Kale For Fun And Mean It" Hollander. this man has never jaywalked in his life. he signals before changing lanes in an empty car park.
❤️ 81.3K · 🔁 42.6K · 💬 12.1K
@mtlforever22 · 10h
This isn't rivalry anymore. If Rozanov is threatening Hollander with compromising material, the league needs to investigate IMMEDIATELY. This is targeted harassment and it needs to stop. Shane Hollander is one of the classiest athletes in professional sport.
❤️ 24.7K · 🔁 12.2K · 💬 5.8K
@hockeymom_jean · 10h
I am DISGUSTED. Shane Hollander has given EVERYTHING to this league and Rozanov thinks he can BLACKMAIL him? Suspend him. Fine him. Ban him for life. Make an EXAMPLE. This is absolutely unacceptable behaviour from a so-called captain.
❤️ 21.4K · 🔁 8.1K · 💬 4.9K
@metrosgirl_ · 9h
if rozanov is blackmailing hollander the entire city of montreal will burn boston to the ground and that is not a threat it is a PROMISE. try us. 🔥🔥🔥🔥
❤️ 42.6K · 🔁 21.8K · 💬 7.3K
@nhl_accountability · 9h
The NHL needs to address this immediately. A captain threatening another captain with "photographic evidence"? This is conduct unbecoming. Rozanov should face disciplinary action. Full stop.
❤️ 19.1K · 🔁 11.4K · 💬 3.1K
@rozanov81stan · 8h
ilya you beautiful unhinged man WHAT DID YOU DO. bestie i am BEGGING you to behave for once in your life
❤️ 37.8K · 🔁 14.1K · 💬 5.2K
@hockeytakes247 · 7h
Hot take: whatever Rozanov has on Hollander is a photo of him jaywalking and Hollander is losing sleep over it because he's THAT much of a boy scout 😂 #RozanovReceipts
❤️ 94.5K · 🔁 51.7K · 💬 15.8K
@mikiiiiii_mtl · 6h
i have theories about what rozanov has on hollander and I WILL be making a thread. buckle up this is going to be long. 🧵
❤️ 18.2K · 🔁 7.8K · 💬 3.1K
@dailyfaceoff · 5h
Sources confirm the Hollander-Rozanov exchange took place in a semi-public area of TD Garden after Wednesday's game. The nature of Rozanov's "evidence" remains unknown. Both players have been contacted for comment. Neither has responded. More to come.
❤️ 39.3K · 🔁 24.9K · 💬 8.4K
Shane closed the app. Opened it. Closed it.
"You still there?" Hayden asked.
"This is the league," Shane said. His jaw was tight. "TSN went to the league and they gave them a quote. 'League sources confirm.' This is them, stoking the fire. They've been dining out on our rivalry for a decade. We're setting up the foundation, being civil, and they're panicking because they can't market us as enemies anymore."
"That's... not a bad theory, actually."
"Ilya will say the same thing."
"I'm not calling Rozanov."
"I'll deal with it." Shane breathed. The annoyance was calcifying into resolve. "I'm going to post the photo."
"You're going to what?"
"If I post it myself, there's nothing to threaten me with. Story dies."
"Shane. Do you remember what you look like in that photo?"
"Yes."
"You look like you lost a bar fight with a cheeseburger."
"I'm posting it."
"At least talk to Farah first."
That was reasonable. Shane hung up and opened his texts.
Shane
Are you seeing Twitter
Farah
I've been seeing Twitter since 4am. My phone hasn't stopped. What happened in that corridor?
Shane
He was joking. It's not what it sounds like.
Farah
I assumed. What's the photo?
Shane
Me. At a McDonald's. From the charity game.
Farah
...that's it?
Shane
I'm wearing a Raiders hoodie and flipping off the camera.
Farah
Oh, Shane…
Shane
I was drunk
Farah
I'm not judging. I'm trying not to laugh. Look, from a PR standpoint: post it yourself. Control the narrative and there IS no story. The mystery is worse than the truth.
Shane
That's what I was thinking
Farah
Post it to your verified account. Short caption. Don't be defensive. Let it speak for itself.
Shane
OK
Farah
And Shane? This is going to be fine. This might actually be good for you. You could use some humanising.
Shane
What's that supposed to mean??
Farah
I say this with love: your Instagram is aggressively boring.
The photo lived in a folder on Shane's phone labelled Misc, where files went when he couldn't bring himself to delete them but didn't want to examine why.
He'd considered getting rid of it. More than once. He'd also, on two occasions he would never be admitting to anyone, looked at it too long and felt his chest go warm with a tenderness he hadn't expected. The version of himself in this photo existed nowhere else. Unguarded. Messy. Visibly and irreversibly human.
He was in a vinyl booth at a McDonald's. A proper one. Yellow tables, paper tray liners, the works. His hair had surrendered entirely, shoved up on one side and flat on the other, and he was squinting against the fluorescent lighting with the expression of a man who'd made several bad decisions in quick succession and was about to make another. In his left hand: a half-eaten Big Mac. His right hand: middle finger, aimed at the camera.
At Ilya. Of course it had been Ilya.
And then the hoodie.
An oversized Boston Raiders hoodie, the black one with the logo across the chest, bunched at the wrists and swimming on Shane's frame because it wasn't his. Ilya had pulled it off and dropped it around Shane's shoulders in the McDonald's car park because Shane had been shivering in a T-shirt and Ilya took care of him in small, invisible ways that nobody else would ever see. The dare to wear it inside had come from one of the Raiders' defencemen. Shane had been drunk enough to comply.
Now the whole internet was about to see Canada's golden boy in the enemy's colours.
He opened Instagram, went to his profile: blue tick, three hundred thousand followers, a grid so meticulously curated it could have been a corporate brochure. He tapped the upload button.
He typed a caption. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Too defensive. Too long. Too much like he cared.
In the end, he went with two words.
shanehollander ✓
[Photo: Shane Hollander, visibly hungover, in a McDonald's booth at approximately 4 a.m., eating a Big Mac, wearing a Boston Raiders hoodie, flipping off the camera.]
shanehollander Exhibit A.
He posted it, locked his phone, placed it face down on the kitchen counter, picked it up, checked, put it down.
Within twenty minutes, the photo had been screenshotted and reposted across every platform that existed. Twitter. TikTok. Reddit. Hockey forums Shane didn't know the names of. Fan accounts. News outlets. His verified blue tick stared back at him from screenshots he hadn't authorised but couldn't object to, given that he'd posted it himself.
By noon, the post had a hundred and twelve thousand likes and counting.
TikTok was first with the reaction videos. Shane scrolled past one where a girl stared at the photo in silence for six full seconds, then fell sideways off her chair. It had four million views. Another showed someone holding their phone up to their housemate and filming the exact moment their expression shifted from confusion to hysterical laughter. Two point six million. A third was a man in a Metros jersey doing a dramatic reading of the original TSN tweet, pausing at "photographic evidence," cutting to Shane's photo, and then playing a funeral march. Seven million.
Shane closed TikTok. He was not sure why he'd even opened it.
Instagram was worse. Or better. He could not tell.
Shane read the word serving four times. He was not serving anything. He was sitting in a McDonald's.
He read no thoughts just vibes and could not parse a single part of it.
Twitter was keeping pace.
@benchminorpod · 38m
UPDATE: ROZANOV'S INCRIMINATING EVIDENCE IS SHANE HOLLANDER EATING A BIG MAC IN A RAIDERS HOODIE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. WE ARE WITNESSING HISTORY. SOMEONE GET THIS MAN A SPONSORSHIP DEAL.
❤️ 189.2K · 🔁 112.1K · 💬 24.9K
@hockeytakes247 · 34m
I CALLED THE JAYWALKING THING. THIS IS EVEN BETTER THAN JAYWALKING. I HAVE PEAKED. I WILL NEVER HAVE ANOTHER TAKE THIS GOOD.
❤️ 121.7K · 🔁 58.4K · 💬 16.1K
@NHLfanatic_ · 30m
shane hollander just became the most relatable athlete on the planet. that's my captain eating fries at 3am in the enemy's hoodie giving the finger to god. I would die for him. i'd die twice.
❤️ 146.4K · 🔁 74.8K · 💬 18.6K
@rozanov81stan · 28m
ilya rozanov tried to end a man's whole career with a mcdonald's receipt. this is the greatest rivalry in the history of sport and I refuse to hear otherwise. king behaviour. icon. legend.
❤️ 93.3K · 🔁 42.1K · 💬 11.8K
@metrosgirl_ · 22m
...ok I take back the burning boston thing. this is the funniest thing that has ever happened in the history of organised sport. I am HEALED. i am BORN AGAIN. 😂😂😂😂
❤️ 127.9K · 🔁 59.4K · 💬 13.8K
@hockeynight_ · 18m
Shane Hollander has committed the following crimes: 1) McDonald's 2) Raiders merchandise 3) Profane hand gestures 4) Being awake at 4am. The NHL should suspend him immediately. Give him life. Lock him up. 🔒
❤️ 218.8K · 🔁 111.3K · 💬 22.2K
@TSNMarcDupont · 15m
Well. I did say more was coming. Didn't expect this. Fair play, Hollander. #ExhibitA
❤️ 89.4K · 🔁 39.7K · 💬 9.9K
@hockeymom_jean · 12m
You know what. I retract my earlier tweet. Every word. I was wrong. This is the most charming thing I've ever seen. Go eat your fries, sweetheart. 💕 #ExhibitA
❤️ 152.3K · 🔁 58.9K · 💬 17.2K
@nhl_accountability · 8m
...we also retract our earlier statement. This is objectively hilarious. Carry on.
❤️ 84.6K · 🔁 31.2K · 💬 7.4K
Shane closed the app.
He read the word villain eighteen more times across three platforms and felt his ribs constrict around his lungs.
The fans were calling him wild. They were calling him a bad boy. They were calling him unhinged. There was a word that kept surfacing—era—used in a way that didn't match any definition Shane had encountered. An era was a period of time. The Jurassic era. The Victorian era. His McDonald's trip had lasted forty-five minutes. That was not an era.
Someone had commented shane's villain arc is everything i needed today and Shane stared at it until the letters lost shape.
He wasn't a villain. He was a man who occasionally ate McDonald's when he'd had too much to drink. He recycled. He drove a fuel-efficient car. He had never, to his knowledge, committed a single villainous act, and the thought that thousands of strangers believed otherwise made it difficult to breathe.
He called Hayden.
"Hayd. What does villain era mean?"
"Oh no."
"People keep saying it. And 'unhinged.' Am I unhinged?"
"Shane, it's a joke. They love it. They think it's great."
"How is calling someone a villain a joke?"
"It's an internet thing. It means you did something unexpected and they think it's cool."
"Since when is eating breakfast cool?"
"Since you did it in a Raiders hoodie while flipping off the camera. Come on, man, that's funny."
Shane rubbed his forehead. "Someone said I'm 'serving.' I don't know what that means."
Hayden sighed. "I don't think I'm the right person to explain this to you."
"Then who is?"
"Anyone under thirty. Or Rozanov. He's chronically online."
Shane
What does "villain era" mean
Ilya
😂😂😂😂😂
Shane
Not funny
Ilya
Is extremely funny
Shane
People think I'm unhinged
Ilya
You are a little unhinged
Shane
I am NOT
Ilya
You posted the photo yourself Hollander
To your verified account
That is unhinged
Shane
To kill the story!
It was strategic!
Ilya
Yes. Very strategic. Very villain.
Shane
STOP saying villain
Ilya
[screenshot: @NHLfanatic_ "shane hollander just became the most relatable athlete on the planet. that's my captain eating fries at 3am in the enemy's hoodie giving the finger to god. I would die for him. i'd die twice."]
Shane
WHY WOULD SOMEONE DIE FOR ME EATING BREAKFAST
Ilya
Is figure of speech Hollander
Shane
I know it's a figure of speech
I'm not stupid
I just don't understand why they'd use THAT one
Ilya
Because they love you
Shane
They're calling me a VILLAIN
People who love you don't call you a villain
Ilya
On the internet they do
Is how internet works
Shane
Someone said I have "chaotic energy"
I meal prep Ilya
I have a spreadsheet for my grocery shop
Ilya
😂😂😂
Yes this is why they love it
Because you are the most organised man alive and you were eating Big Mac at 4am in my hoodie
Is the contrast
Contrast is funny
Shane
YOUR hoodie
Great
So now I'm a villain
AND a thief
Ilya
[screenshot: raidersszn "hollander wearing our colours. DEFECTION CONFIRMED. welcome to boston king 👑 we accept you. come home."]
Shane
I'm not defecting
That hoodie was a DARE
Ilya
Nobody knows that 😂
Shane
Someone called me a "bad boy"
Ilya
You ARE a bad boy
My bad boy 😏
Shane
This is your fault
All of it
Every single part
Ilya
You are welcome
Shane
Someone said this photo "cured their depression"
How
It's me eating breakfast
Ilya
Is very good breakfast
Shane
Someone said I'm "serving"
I'm NOT A WAITER
Ilya
HOLLANDER 😂😂😂😂😂😂😂
Shane
WHAT
Ilya
Serving is a compliment
It means you look good
You are giving the people what they want
Shane
I'm giving them a MIDDLE FINGER
Ilya
Yes and they love it
You are an icon
Shane
Someone said "no thoughts just vibes"
What does that MEAN
Ilya
It means you are not overthinking
Which is ironic because you are currently overthinking everything
Shane
I'm going to kill you
Ilya
With what? A Big Mac?
Shane
I hate you
I genuinely hate you
You said it in a CORRIDOR where people could HEAR you
Ilya
I was being funny
Shane
You were being LOUD
Ilya
Also that
Shane
I'm never speaking to you again
Ilya
[screenshot: @hockeytakes247 "imagine being the best hockey player alive and your biggest scandal is french fries 🍟"]
Shane
Stop sending me tweets
Ilya
[screenshot: captaincanaada "the baddest man in the NHL sitting in a mcdonald's booth at dawn in a raiders hoodie. i need this in the louvre."]
Shane
Stop
Ilya
[screenshot: bigmacshane "I made this account thirty seconds ago and I have no regrets. we ride at dawn."]
Shane
Someone made an ACCOUNT, Ilya
Ilya
You are famous Hollander
Shane
I was already famous
This is different
This is bad famous
Ilya
Is good famous
Trust me
Shane
I don't trust you
You started this
Ilya
[screenshot: @hockeymom_jean "I retract my earlier tweet. Every word. I was wrong. This is the most charming thing I've ever seen. Go eat your fries, sweetheart. 💕"]
Shane
Why did you send me that one
Ilya
Because she called you sweetheart
I am jealous
Shane
I can't do this
People think I'm a bad person
Ilya
Nobody thinks you are a bad person
Shane
They're calling me a villain
Villains are bad
Ilya
Shane
Shane
I recycle
I RECYCLE Ilya
Shane put his phone face down on the kitchen counter.
His hands were cold. The rhythm of his breathing had gone wrong somewhere around villain and hadn't found its way back. He knew he was spiralling. Knowing changed nothing. The word unhinged had shed its letters but not its weight, and every laughing emoji blurred into a single high-pitched hum that said: they're laughing at you, not with you, they think you're a joke, you're—
His phone rang.
incoming call
Ilya Rozanov
Shane picked up on the second ring, because he always picked up for Ilya, even when he wanted to strangle him.
"Open the door, Hollander."
Shane blinked. "What?"
"Your front door. Open it."
Shane crossed his flat in five strides, phone still pressed to his ear. He turned the lock, pulled the door open, and there was Ilya.
On his doorstep. In Montreal. With a duffle bag over one shoulder and his phone still at his ear.
They stared at each other. Ilya hung up and pocketed his phone.
"Surprise."
"What—how are you—what?"
Ilya stepped past him into the flat, dropped his bag in the hallway, and shrugged off his coat as if this were his own home and he'd merely been out for groceries. "Game is day after tomorrow. I came early."
"How early?"
"This morning."
Shane closed the door. His brain was doing several things at once and none of them well. "You've been in Montreal since this morning and you've been sending me screenshots this whole time?"
"I was multitasking." Ilya hung his coat. Turned. His expression had softened. "Come here."
Shane didn't move. "You watched me spiral for an hour and you were in the same city?"
"I was meeting with Farah. Then I was coming here. Then you started texting, and..." He tipped his head. "I was distracted. By how funny you are when you are confused."
"I'm not confused. I'm frustrated."
"You told me you recycle."
Shane closed his eyes.
"Shane." Ilya's voice was close. He'd crossed the hallway, and his hands were on Shane's arms, warm and steady. "They love you. I keep saying this. Everything they said today, every stupid word? That was love. The internet shows it badly, but it is love."
Shane opened his eyes. Ilya was right there. Stubbled jaw, warm hazel eyes, that cut on his chin fading to a thin pink line.
"Villain means nothing on the internet," Ilya said. "It means you did a thing they did not expect, and they were delighted. They are saying, oh, he is not a hockey robot. He eats McDonald's and wears stupid hoodies and makes rude gestures like a real person. And they liked you more for it. Not less."
Shane breathed out through his nose. "That's a compliment?"
"Yes."
"And unhinged?"
"Also a compliment."
"How?"
"Because the internet is stupid and wonderful and you do not have to understand it. You just have to trust me when I tell you that every person calling you unhinged right now is saying they like you."
Shane leaned back against the wall. The plaster was cool through his T-shirt. "Hayden said the same thing."
"Hayden is sometimes correct. Broken clock."
"He said you'd explain it better."
"I am better at most things than Hayden."
Shane let out a breath that turned into a laugh. Small and tired and relieved. "I'm sorry I said I'd kill you."
"Which time?"
"All of them."
"I forgive you. Because you are fragile."
"I'm not fragile."
"You told me you recycle. As proof you are not evil."
"It is proof."
"Is adorable."
Shane shoved his shoulder, but there was no force behind it. "Why Farah? You said you were meeting with Farah."
Ilya's gaze shifted. Not evasive. Careful. "Yes."
"About what?"
A beat. Ilya's hands were still on Shane's arms. He rubbed his thumbs against the fabric of Shane's sleeves.
"Ottawa," he said. "Transfer paperwork. Is done."
Shane blinked. "Done? I thought Farah wasn't filing until the summer."
"Boston was willing to deal now. Better to lock it in." Ilya shrugged. "Farah said if we wait, price goes up. So I came to Montreal, signed some papers. Is official. Just not announced."
They'd talked about this for months. The plan had always been to keep the transfer quiet until the off-season, slotted in between the noise of free agency so nobody would look too closely at why Ilya Rozanov wanted to play two hours from Shane Hollander. Shane had assumed the paperwork would happen then too. A problem for future Shane, filed away in the same mental drawer as summer and cottage and after.
But it was done. Signed. Ilya would finish the season in Boston, and then he was coming to Ottawa, and the distance that had defined their entire relationship was about to shrink from five hundred kilometres to two hours on the 417.
"You flew to Montreal to finalise your transfer to Ottawa," Shane said, "and instead of telling me, you spent an hour sending me screenshots of people calling me a bad boy."
"You were very upset about the bad boy thing. I did not want to change the subject."
"Ilya."
"Also," Ilya said, and his grin broke wide, "was too funny."
Shane grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him. Hard, right there in the hallway, his back against the wall and Ilya's hands sliding from his arms to his waist. Ilya kissed him back with a sound low in his throat, and Shane felt the hum of the day finally, finally go quiet.
When they pulled apart, Ilya kept hold of his face. Thumbs against his cheekbones. That same gesture from a few nights ago in Boston, the one that made Shane's thoughts dissolve.
"I love you very much, Hollander."
"I love you too. Even though you're the worst person alive."
"I am the worst person alive who is moving to Ottawa for you. Two hours away. In the summer."
Shane smiled. It was the first easy breath he'd taken all day. "Yeah. You are."
Ilya kissed his forehead. "Now. Am I making you dinner, or are we ordering McDonald's?"
"Get out of my house."
"Two hours, Hollander. I can be annoying in person all the time now."
Shane pulled him closer by his belt loops. "You're not going anywhere."
Ilya smiled against his mouth. "No," he agreed. "I am not."
Later, after dinner and ginger ale and an argument about whether serving would ever make linguistic sense, Shane checked his phone one final time. His post had four hundred and eighteen thousand likes. The #ExhibitA hashtag was still trending. Someone had edited his McDonald's photo onto the cover of Time magazine. McDonald's Canada had commented on his post: DMs are open, Shane. 🍟
He showed Ilya, who laughed so hard he choked on his water.
"Endorsement deal," Ilya wheezed. "With McDonald's. Farah will be thrilled."
"Farah will murder me."
"No. She will make you a lot of money and then murder you."
Shane put his phone face down on the coffee table. Ilya was stretched out beside him on the sofa, one arm behind his head, looking at Shane with an expression that was soft and lazy and warm.
Shane couldn't remember the last time they'd had two evenings together in the same week. Their relationship ran on stolen hours: a few minutes in a corridor, a phone call before bed, the occasional overnight disguised as coincidence. But tonight Ilya was on his sofa in Montreal, and a few nights ago Shane had been in Ilya's bed in Boston, and the improbability of it sat warm in his chest.
Then he thought about the other tweets. The ones from before he'd posted the photo. The fury. Disgusting behaviour. Suspend him. Ban him for life.
His smile faded.
"What?" Ilya asked.
"The things they said about you. Before I posted." Shane picked at a thread on the sofa cushion. "People were calling for you to be suspended. Fined. Someone said you should be banned from the league. They were saying you were harassing me."
Ilya looked at him. Steady and unbothered. "And?"
"And doesn't that upset you?"
"No."
"People wanted you banned, Ilya."
Ilya stretched, resettling himself against the sofa arm. "There is a saying in Russian. Sobaka layot, karavan idyot."
Shane waited.
"Dog barks," Ilya said, with the careful cadence of a man translating in real time. "Caravan keeps going."
"Right."
"Meaning... people bark. I am the caravan. I keep going. The dog is..." He waved a hand. "Not important."
"So you're a caravan."
"I am a caravan."
"That's your takeaway."
"Is a very good saying. Sounds much better in Russian." He looked at Shane sideways. "Point is, I know what is true. You know what is true. Some stranger on the internet with strong opinion and bad avatar does not change what is true."
Shane let out a breath. "You really don't care?"
"I care about you. I care about Irina foundation. I care about hockey and I care about this." He gestured between them. "A woman who wants me banned for taking photo of my boyfriend eating a Big Mac? No. She can bark."
Shane huffed a laugh despite himself. "She did retract it, to be fair."
"Because she saw the photo and realised I am not a villain." He paused. "Only you are the villain now."
"Oh, fuck off."
Ilya grinned and pulled Shane closer by the back of his neck. Shane went easily, tucking himself against Ilya's side.
"Thank you," Shane said. "For coming."
"I was always coming. The photo just made it more urgent."
"The photo you took."
"The best photo I have ever taken."
"It's me eating a Big Mac."
"Yes." Ilya's smile went quiet. Fond. "And you were happy. You were not worrying about anything. You were not planning three steps ahead. You were just... there."
Shane's throat tightened. "I was there because of you."
"Someone has to drag you places, Hollander."
"Yeah." Shane swallowed. "Someone does."
He leaned over and kissed Ilya, soft and slow, and tasted warmth and certainty and the rest of their lives, two hours apart.
raidersfan99 IS THAT OUR HOODIE. IS THAT A BOSTON RAIDERS HOODIE ON SHANE HOLLANDER. I NEED TO LIE DOWN AND NEVER GET UP. ❤️ 29,201
metros.forever the incriminating evidence is shane eating a big mac at 3am and i am literally on the floor. literally deceased. i have passed away. ❤️ 22,891
beckysaucee shane hollander's villain era just DROPPED and it's him with a hangover and a burger 💀💀💀 this is peak. this is the peak of sport. ❤️ 42,102
hockeybro99 THE MIDDLE FINGER. this man is UNHINGED. main character energy. ❤️ 28,445
puckbunny_mtl the raiders hoodie is an act of war and I am obsessed. defcon 1. ❤️ 15,100
jamieleigh23 rozanov's big blackmail is that hollander likes french fries. i am crying actual tears. this man threatened nuclear war over a big mac. 😂😂😂 ❤️ 34,032
captaincanaada the baddest man in the NHL sitting in a mcdonald's booth at dawn in a raiders hoodie. i need this in the louvre. ❤️ 28,200
metros_stan Bad Boy Hollander. That's it. That's the comment. no notes. ❤️ 14,456
sportsnet_fan We have updated Shane Hollander's official player bio to include "McDonald's enthusiast" and "Raiders sympathiser." ❤️ 51,401
chirpking imagine being the best hockey player alive and your biggest scandal is french fries 🍟🍟🍟 this man is an icon ❤️ 31,500
megs_hockey this photo has cured my depression, cleared my skin, watered my crops, and paid off my student loans ❤️ 16,780
raidersszn hollander wearing our colours. DEFECTION CONFIRMED. welcome to boston king 👑 we accept you. come home. ❤️ 35,230
mapleleafs4ever he's SERVING. absolute unhinged energy. no thoughts just vibes and a big mac. ❤️ 14,890
lilhockeybee this is the most chaotic thing shane hollander has ever done and it's eating breakfast. i would take a bullet for this man. ❤️ 29,890
rozanov_updates the funniest part is that rozanov genuinely believed this was blackmail material 😂 my man really thought a big mac was going to end shane hollander's career i am SCREAMING ❤️ 48,102
jennaaaaaa_ shane's villain era: mcdonald's, middle fingers, and a rival's hoodie. someone give this man a netflix deal immediately. i'd watch twelve seasons. ❤️ 15,340
bigmacshane I made this account thirty seconds ago and I have no regrets. we ride at dawn. ❤️ 58,870