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Shane got showered and changed faster than he ever had in his life. He found a private corner of the hallway outside the dressing room and did something he’d never done before: he called Ilya Rozanov. He wasn’t expecting him to answer, but he wanted the missed call to at least be recorded on Ilya’s phone. He wanted Ilya to know he was concerned. But Ilya did answer. “Hollander?”
“Goodbye, Hollander.” “Wait,” Shane said, way too loudly. Ilya waited. “Just...call me, all right? If you need to talk. Or text me. Whatever. But... I’ll listen. I want to help, if I can.” Ilya was silent for a moment. “You did. Thank you.”
Shane was suddenly struck by a ridiculous idea. Or maybe it was a brilliant idea. He decided to share it before his brain had a chance to figure out which. “Tell me everything you want to say,” he said. “In Russian. I won’t understand but...maybe it will help?” There was a silence that was long enough for Shane to physically cringe at himself. He was
about to take it back, when he heard Ilya quietly say, “Okay.” The next several minutes were filled with Ilya’s voice, sounding more animated and flustered than Shane had ever heard him.
It felt intimate—like they were somehow sharing a bigger secret now than when they slept together. And there was something undeniably sexy about hearing Ilya speak so fluidly in his mother tongue.
Shane shifted on the stairs. “I wish you were here now.” Shane couldn’t believe he had actually allowed himself to say that out loud. They didn’t wish to be together. They reluctantly hooked up when they were in the same city because it was something to do.
He felt his mortification melt away when Ilya said, in a low voice, “Me too.”
Ilya stopped into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. While he waited for it, he tried not to
imagine scenarios where Shane would somehow translate every word that Ilya had just said. Mostly he had just been ranting about his family, but he had included an admission that he wished things could have been different with his father. That he had stupidly always hoped that his father might tell him that he was proud of him. That admission would have been embarrassing enough, but Ilya had also slipped in an “and on top of everything, I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it.”
It was a secret he had been carrying for far too long, locked away so deep inside that he had even been keeping it from himself. But as soon as he let himself acknowledge it, and now say it, he felt relieved. Not because he could do anything about these feelings, but at least he had allowed himself to accept them.
“Should you really be alone right now?” Shane asked. “I am not alone,” Ilya said. “You are here now, yes?” Shane’s hand flew to his chest to make sure his heart was still beating; he could have sworn it had just melted into a gooey
puddle.
“What about your bedroom? What is it like?” Shane didn’t want to talk about his stupid bedroom, but he understood what Ilya was doing. He left his living room and headed for the bedroom. “It’s nice. Pretty basic. I mean, it’s enormous. Big windows. But not much in it.”
“What color is your bed? The blanket?” “Blue. Like, navy blue.” “I knew it.” Shane smiled and sat on the bed.
I want to become American. Or Canadian. But I am in America, so...” In that moment, Shane wished like hell that Ilya played for a Canadian team. “You should,” Shane said. “Have you looked into—?” “We should get married,” Ilya said. “What?” Shane flushed right down to his toes. “Not to each other,” Ilya said. Then he started laughing and couldn’t stop. “I knew you didn’t mean to each other,” Shane lied.
“There is a nice Russian girl in Boston. American, I mean. But from Russia. Svetlana. I like her. I could marry her, I think.” “Oh.” “She is...what is word?...sensible. Marriage would be like business deal, yes? Just until I am citizen.” “You don’t love her, then?”
“No,” Ilya said quietly. He sounded like he was falling asleep. “Not her. No.”
He’s never going to be your boyfriend, Shane. Oh god. That was what Shane wanted, wasn’t it? He didn’t just want to be Ilya’s dirty secret. He didn’t want their relationship to be nothing but sex. He wanted to comfort Ilya when he was sad, and talk to him on the phone, and snuggle together on the couch and watch movies. He would take the short phone call they had just shared over any of their sexual encounters.
He pulled his T-shirt off and dropped it on the floor, then stacked some pillows in front of the headboard and settled himself on the mattress. He sent Shane a video call request.
Shane accepted, and then there he was, filling the screen of Ilya’s iPad. He was wearing a hoodie and...glasses? “Holy shit, Hollander! Do you wear glasses?”
Shane tapped on the screen and flipped the camera. Suddenly, Ilya was looking at a king-size bed with a navy blue comforter. “That’s the bed,” he heard Shane say off camera. “Oh, is it?” “Fuck you. You asked for this.
I was the one in that hotel room in Vegas with you, yes? No one else.” “Yeah,” Shane breathed. “Just you.” “Are you hard right now, Hollander?” “What do you think?”
Ilya smirked. “Show me. Get on your knees. Face the camera. Show me.” Shane obeyed immediately, which Ilya found incredibly hot.
“I’d take you in my mouth. I’d suck you all the way down. Fuck, I... I wish I could. Right now.”
“Mm. Me too. Love your mouth, Hollander.” He loved a lot of things about him.
“You are very beautiful,” Ilya said. Shane smiled without opening his eyes. “Come on.” “Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.” “I have no idea why. I hate them.” “Noooo...” Ilya moaned. “Hollander. They are stunning.” “Stunning?” “Yes. Am I not using that word right? Very beautiful. Um...take my breath?”
“The first time I met you. Those freckles...” “The first time? You mean at the World Juniors? In Saskatchewan?” “Yes.” Shane huffed out a surprised laugh. “You were such a dick to me.” “Mm. I did not like you. Just your freckles.”
“Tell me about this man in Mexico.” “There’s not much to tell. He was big. He looked like he was, y’know, what I was looking for.” “A big, strong top?” Shane looked so embarrassed, Ilya took pity. “Was he? What you needed?” “No. I mean, sort of. But...” “Did he hurt you?” “No. He just wasn’t...” Ilya needed to hear it. “Wasn’t what?” Shane clenched his eyes shut and said, “You. He wasn’t you.”
“I think...” Shane said, his voice strained already, “I think the winner should be whoever holds out the longest. More impressive.” “No way. You would cheat.” “I would not! Cheat how?” “I can’t see your hand. You could just stop.” “I won’t.”
Ilya shrugged. “Fine. You always shoot off so fast anyway. Will be an easy win for me.”
“Holy fuck,” Shane panted. “That was huge. I’m a mess over here.”
Ilya flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’m fucked,” he murmured in Russian. “I am so fucking in love and it’s horrible.”
“I should let you sleep,” Shane said. “Da. Yes. Okay.” And then... Shane kissed the tips of two fingers and reached out and touched them to the screen. And Ilya’s heart fucking stopped. “Good night, Ilya.”
He had buried his father yesterday, but he hadn’t cried. He hadn’t cried in over ten years. But he knew, in that moment, that he had to end this thing with Shane. It was never supposed to have gotten to this point. He was never supposed to have fallen in love with Shane Hollander. He should have ended it long before because now it was going to hurt so fucking much.
Ilya grinned and launched himself after him, but this time Shane was flying and Ilya was struggling to close the gap and then... Oh god. No. It happened so fast, Ilya could barely process it. One second, Shane was racing down the ice, and the next he was slamming against the boards after colliding hard with Cliff Marlow.
And then he was crumpled and motionless, on the ice, and Ilya didn’t know what to do.
Ilya wanted to touch him and know that he was really, really okay. He had barely slept last night. He’d spent the whole night sick with worry and refreshing sports sites looking for news of Shane’s injuries. He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Shane’s unmoving body on the ice.
“You scared me,” Ilya admitted. “Scared myself.” “But you will be okay?” “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I wanted to tell you last night. I wish I could have texted you. I was—” “Shhh.” Shane’s eyes fluttered closed as Ilya’s fingers trailed into his hair. “I had been looking forward to last night,” Shane murmured.
“Yes.” “I’m mostly mad at Marlow for fucking that up.” Ilya laughed.
Even now, just knowing that Ilya had made the trip to the hospital filled Shane with a tingly warmth. Shane was so completely in love with him. He would hit his head all over again just to be alone in that quiet hospital room with those careful fingers and those concerned eyes. He was in love with him and he could never, ever tell him that.
Ilya reached for the remote, and was about to turn off the television when... Holy shit. Holy. Shit. Scott fucking Hunter was kissing a man. Not, like, one of his teammates on the cheek in an “I love you, bro” kind of way. Scott Hunter was kissing a man wearing street clothes full on the fucking mouth. It looked like tongues were involved.
Ilya just stared at the television, at Scott Hunter and his probable boyfriend. Or Scott Hunter and the random cute man he had pulled out of the crowd. Ilya couldn’t process what he was seeing. How could it possibly be real? But there Hunter was, smiling at this mystery man like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. And holding his face as he leaned in to kiss him again. Ilya felt like he was watching all
the worst things about his life getting sucked up by a tornado. Then the cameras cut away, and Ilya looked at his phone. Jane: What is happening??!!! Did he really just do that???!!! Ilya stabbed the call button. There was only one ring before, “Holy shit, Ilya! Can you belie—” “I’m coming to the cottage.”
But still, he would have liked to have shaken Hunter’s hand. Instead, he had sent him an email. He had written several drafts of the email before sending one that simply acknowledged Hunter’s bravery. He had chosen his words carefully, because he didn’t have Hunter’s courage. Not yet, anyway. But maybe Hunter would figure out what Shane was actually trying to say anyway.
He wanted to be the best hockey player in the world, and he wanted to be in a relationship with the man he could finally admit he was in love with, without shame or fear. But he couldn’t. All he could have were these two weeks alone with Ilya, hiding where no one would find them.
“I’ve, uh, I’ve been looking forward to this,” Shane said. “Yes. Me too.” Shane smiled and took one hand off the steering wheel. He reached over and Ilya quickly tangled their fingers together and squeezed. Two weeks. For two weeks they could pretend that their situation wasn’t impossible.
Shane made a little moaning sound and plunged his fingers under Ilya’s ball cap, knocking it to the floor. He tangled his fingers in Ilya’s hair and began walking him backward to the leather sofa. They hadn’t been together for months. The ridiculous thing was, Ilya hadn’t been with anyone in all that time. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t wanted to be with anyone else.
“Fuck,” Shane panted. “I’m...it’s been kind of a while... I might not last long.” “Yes. Same. But we have two weeks, right?” Shane laughed. “Right.” Then, “Wait...same?” “Hm?” “You said ‘same.’ You haven’t...been with anyone? Lately?” Ilya grimaced. He probably shouldn’t have admitted that. But... “No.”
“Like, not since—?” “No. Not since. Can we please get back to—?” “Really?” Shane pulled back so he could look Ilya directly in the eyes. He looked stunned and way, way too happy. “Is not a big deal, Hollander. Relax.” “It’s been, like—” “Months. Yes. Which is why I would really like to—”
Shane was twisting strands of Ilya’s hair around his fingers and gently releasing them; Ilya was tracing his fingertips over Shane’s
