Chapter Text
“I am dying.”
Pointed silence meets this dramatic proclamation. There is not a shred of sympathy to be found.
“Shane. Shane. Sha—”
“Oh my God! What?”
Ilya hides a smile. “I am dying. You are my best friend, котёнок. Will you not help your dying friend?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Hungover is what you are, you big baby.” He sighs, looking a little guilty as he finally deigns to fix his gaze at where Ilya is more or less sprawled over their table. He’d been the one to drag Ilya down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, insisting the short walk would do him some good.
Had he been on his own, Ilya would have ditched the walk in favour of room service and then spent the rest of the morning curled up in bed, feeling sorry for himself.
He can never let Shane know that the awful headache he’d woken up to actually had improved somewhat once he was up and moving.
“I could have had room service, but no, you make me walk all the way here. Will you really make me stand in line for terrible buffet too?”
“This is actually one of the highest rated casino restaurants in Las Vegas and—”
“Shane.”
Shane gives another roll of his eyes. “Fine. You want your usual mountain of eggs on toast?”
“Mhm, yes, and bacon. Do not forget the bacon, Shane. It is very important.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go get your bacon.” He stands from his seat, pausing briefly by Ilya to run a quick hand through his curls. “How’s your headache?” he asks, voice gentling, and finally, there is some of that sympathy Ilya has been waiting for.
“Would be better with bacon,” he quips, grinning when Shane laughs at that.
“Spoilt,” Shane says, tugging at a curl and then walking off to get Ilya his bacon.
Two trips to the food stations later, they dig into their breakfast, playfully chirping at each other and talking shit about different guys from around the League; Ilya had not been the only drunk hockey player last night.
At some point, they are interrupted by Carter Vaughan. He walks up to their table with a plate in hand, shifting awkwardly on his feet as he gives them a hesitant grin.
“Hey! So, like, Scott isn’t up yet. Scott Hunter? He said he spoke to you guys yesterday. Anyway, I don’t know anybody here, and, like—”
“Hey, Carter,” Shane cuts him off kindly, offering him a friendly smile. “Would you like to join us?”
Carter’s shoulders sag in relief. “Yes. Thank you.” He puts his plate down on the square little table, and takes the seat opposite Ilya. “We haven’t actually been introduced. Like, officially, and stuff. I’m Carter Vaughan, but everyone calls me Carts,” he says, eyes bright as he holds out a hand for Shane to shake, and then Ilya. “Right winger for the New York Admirals.”
Ilya has to hold back a laugh. Carter is technically a couple of years older than him, but he’s giving off excited puppy vibes.
“You were rookie this year, yes? Like me and Shane?”
Carter nods. “The Admirals drafted me in ‘07, but I spent two years in the minors before this season.”
“You make it out of camp?”
“Nah, I was a call up. One of our guys got put on long term injured reserve back in November. They’ve kept me around ever since, though. I’m playing on Scotty’s line now.” He shakes his head, looking awed. “Scott Hunter, man. I still can’t believe it.”
“Scott Hunter is a very good player,” Shane says hurriedly, before Ilya can get a word in edgewise. He sends him a reproachful look, and Ilya dutifully occupies his mouth with a sporkful of eggs so as not to offend Shane’s delicate sensibilities.
“Hey, so, like, is it okay to ask for your autograph?” Carter asks once they’ve cleared their plates. He’s got his eyes on Shane, a sheepish look on his face. “My baby sister is a huge fan of yours. She’s really bought into that whole prince of hockey thing you’ve got going on. Says you’re the prettiest player in the NHL.”
“Uh…”
“Shane is the prettiest. This is true. Tell your sister she have good taste,” Ilya says approvingly, smirking at the way Shane’s very pretty face flushes with embarrassment.
“Cool! So it’s okay? I think I have a piece of paper here.” Carter roots around in his sweats and pulls out what looks like a receipt of some kind. “Does anyone have a pen?”
They don’t, but a helpful staff member is kind enough to bring them one, and then Carter is telling Shane, “Could you make it out to Naomi? She’s half Japanese like you.”
Shane blinks at him in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah, my parents divorced when I was a baby, and my dad remarried my step-mom a few years later. My dad’s a military man; they met when he was on assignment in Japan.”
Shane opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say anything, they’re interrupted by a grating voice and an ugly sneer.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the NHL’s very own diversity and inclusion hires; looks like we got the token black guy, a Russian fag, and his geisha whore.”
Ilya is already moving, halfway out of his chair when Shane basically throws himself at him.
“Public! We’re in public,” he says frantically, using all of his body weight to keep Ilya in his seat and his fists away from Jake Fuller’s smug face.
Across the table, Carter has gone ram-rod straight. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and there is a tightness around his eyes that speak of resigned familiarity. This will be far from the first time someone has spouted racist shit at him.
Fuller eyes the way Shane is more or less in Ilya’s lap, and kisses the back of his teeth, the sound loud and obnoxious. “Fucking disgusting,” he spits out, entirely unaware that Shane is the only thing keeping Ilya from attempting murder.
He’ll tolerate slights against himself, but he will not stand for Shane being the target of any kind of vitriol; if he wasn’t so fucking pissed off, Ilya would almost be impressed that Fuller has managed to be a racist, twice over, as well as a xenophobic homophobe in a single sentence.
Add in the misogyny of referring to Shane as a geisha whore, and that’s just the fucking bingo of bigotry.
“Fuller,” Shane greets, with far more calm than Ilya would have managed to convey. There’s a pause, and then Shane adds, “I see you’ve been let out of your cage.”
The delivery is flawless, the words a perfect callback to Fuller’s earlier suspension; that he’d won a silver medal at the Olympics only to go home to sit out several games for a dirty play, had been a major embarrassment.
Fuller turns an ugly red. His face contorts itself into a mask of rage, and he takes a threatening step towards them. “You filthy little—”
Ilya is about to push Shane to the side, to keep him out of the way of potential harm, when suddenly a big hand clamps down on Fuller’s shoulder, gripping him hard.
“Are these the dulcet tones of Jake Fuller, I hear?”
Ilya looks on, satisfied, as Fuller winces from the force of Scott’s grip.
“Morning, Scotty,” Carter says quietly. He looks relieved.
“Good morning, Carts. Rozanov. Hollander. You guys okay, here?”
“We’d be better if your friend took his leave,” Shane says firmly, staring at Fuller straight on. He’s being so, so brave. Ilya can feel where Shane’s fingers have knotted themselves in the hem of Ilya’s t-shirt. He is far more anxious than he’s letting on.
“You know, I think that’s a good idea,” Scott says. His voice is full of forced cheer, and there’s a hard look in his eyes. “I’d remind you, Jake, that there’s people with cell phones around.” He makes a subtle nod at the attention they’ve garnered, people looking at them with wary curiosity.
There is no hockey team in Vegas yet—the expansion won’t happen until 2017—but this particular hotel had just hosted the NHL Awards the previous night. The place has been crawling with hockey players for days. None of them will be considered superstars here, but there are still fans aplenty; people will be able to recognise them.
Fuller seems to realise the same thing. He sniffs in disdain.
“Fuck this shit,” he says. He wrenches himself away from Scott’s hand on his shoulder, and leaves with a last glare at Shane.
Ilya watches him go, anger still simmering in his veins. Good fucking riddance.
“What the hell was that all about?” Scott asks once he’s made sure Fuller is completely out of the restaurant. “I came up just as you were talking about cages. Which, by the way, sweet fucking chirp, rook.”
Shane shrugs as Scott takes a seat at their table, but when he abandons Ilya to reclaim his own seat, there’s a decidedly satisfied look on his face.
Shane isn’t much for chirping, but he can be downright cutting once the mood strikes him.
Ilya is honestly so proud.
“That guy is an asshole,” Carter tells Scott. He’s looking a little more relaxed now that Fuller is gone. “A homophobic racist asshole. Can’t believe you had to make nice with him during the Olympics.”
Scott grimaces, and Ilya has to hold back a sympathetic wince. It isn’t easy captaining a team where one of the players is so overtly against the very thing he is hiding from the world.
Ilya would know. He has personal experience—Ilya had not tolerated discrimination in his locker room in the future past. Not everyone had accepted that.
“Was it really bad?” Scott asks, looking apologetic about it, as if he is in any way responsible for another grown man’s hateful comments.
Shane nods. “Bad enough that I will be reporting him to the NHLPA and League Commissioner’s office,” he says fiercely.
He looks rattled, and Ilya wants to kill Fuller all over again. He is under no illusions; Fuller has the kind of reckless fury that would absolutely make him attack someone in a rage, and the last time someone had acted out their aggression on him, Shane had ended up in a hospital bed.
Ilya would have happily rearranged Fuller’s face before he ever let him touch Shane.
Scott sighs tiredly. “It will probably do fuck all, but at least it will go on record. That’s something, I guess.” He makes a face. “I wasn’t here for this, but I’ve witnessed other instances.” He nods at Shane in acknowledgment. “I’ll make my own report. The League keeps claiming they’re cracking down on misconduct and harassment. We’ll see what they make of this.”
“I will too, but it will not do much good, probably,” Ilya says. He looks over at Shane. “What is it called? Fuller already made dirty play against me, so I will be not objective?”
“They’ll think you’re biased,” Shane agrees. “You should do it anyway. Three reports made by three different players from three different teams will have a bigger impact even if it ends up going nowhere. It might be useful further down the line if he keeps acting like this.”
Carter snorts. “He for sure will,” he says bitterly, and Ilya doesn’t doubt it for a second. “Okay, you know what? I’m not letting that fucker ruin the rest of my day. Would you still be willing to sign your autograph for my sister?”
“Of course. You said her name was Naomi, right? Here, give me the pen.”
Carter brightens. He hands Shane the pen the staff member had found for them. “Could you sign it as ‘your friend, Shane Hollander’? It would make her year, man.”
The conversation turns to lighter topics, and as Scott goes to grab his own plate of breakfast, it’s been long enough that Shane and Ilya join him for seconds. Even Carter loads up another plate.
Once they’ve finished their meal and Shane and Ilya get ready to leave, Carter gives his thanks for letting him sit with them.
“Would it be okay to exchange phone numbers? I’d really like to keep in touch with you guys.”
“Of course, but you should know that Shane is terrible texter.”
“I’m not! I use emojis and stuff.”
“Yes, but you always get confused by text slang. It’s very cute.”
“I just don’t understand why people can’t type out the full words. It doesn’t even take that long. Grammar is important,” Shane grumbles, as if he is ninety and not nineteen.
Scott laughs at them. “Even I have been known to use the occasional abbreviation, and apparently I’m a dinosaur.”
“Yes, very old. Ancient. Almost extinct,” Ilya agrees with a cheeky grin.
Scott is the same age as Cliff, eight years older than Shane and Ilya. In normal terms, that’s really not much of a difference, but in hockey it might as well be an age. Besides, this is a bit that Ilya has committed to across two lifetimes. He’s not about to ease up now.
Scott rolls his eyes. “This is how it’s going to be, isn’t it?” he asks the world at large, sounding resigned but not terribly upset.
Next to him, Shane sighs. “You get used to it. Unfortunately,” he says, and Ilya just laughs.
He knows they love it.
**
The NHL Awards were held on a Wednesday this year, so Ilya and the Hollanders decide to stay through the weekend. It will be one of the few stretches of off-days Ilya and Shane will get through the summer, so they may as well take advantage.
Because they’re not old enough to hit the clubs or casinos, they spend their time doing a few touristy things and soaking up the sun by the pool.
Well. Ilya soaks up the sun. Shane lathers himself in several layers of sunscreen and mostly keeps to the shade so as not to damage his skin.
Ilya has now sat through a speech on the dangers of skin cancer, UV rays, and accelerated aging from two different Shanes. He forces Shane to join him in the pool sometimes, but otherwise leaves him be.
On Friday afternoon, Shane drags Ilya away from the sun beds and back to the hotel room to watch the NHL draft on ESPN.
The Voyageurs have a fairly high draft pick this year, and while the pool of prospects is nothing to sneeze at, there’s no truly outstanding ones. Shane just wants to know if they manage to pick up a defenceman of decent size and speed.
Ilya knows they will; this is the year J.J. Boiziau is drafted.
If he remembers correctly, the three of them—Shane, Hayden and J.J.—had been rookies together in the future past, which means that Pike will be moving up from the Quebec League this coming season. They’d been a tight knit group. Especially Shane and Pike with the way Hayden claimed Shane as best friend.
Ilya wonders what their dynamic will be like this time around. Shane will have a year’s worth of experience on them. Has already settled into his role on the team and has his own group of friends; Ilya can’t imagine Chris will take kindly to someone muscling their way between his friendship with Shane. He’s almost as protective of him as Ilya is.
Montreal’s locker room is not the same as it had been, when Hayden and J.J. had been the deterrent between Shane and the teammates that hadn’t been quite so accepting of his coming out.
Now, everyone knows that Ilya Rozanov is Shane’s best friend; Shane had set the tone early on for this team, even as a rookie, and Chris enforced it.
“…and with the fifth selection for the Boston Bears, from the Quebec Remparts, Jean-Jacques Boiziau.”
What?
What the actual hell?
Ilya has been messing around on his phone while Shane watches the draft, nodding along to his comments here and there, but now his head snaps up as he tunes in, watching the screen as an eighteen-year-old J.J. Boiziau gleefully makes his way to the stage.
That…wasn’t supposed to happen.
He frantically tries to comb through his memory for what the draft order had been like the first time around, but it had been a year after his own draft, and Ilya had still been stuck in Russia for that extra season; he had not been paying attention to the happenings in the NHL before he started his rookie campaign.
Surely, Montreal must have had the higher pick? And originally, they hadn’t made the playoffs that year, like Boston. Ilya can’t fucking remember. It had been so long ago for him. Had the Voyageurs finished lower in the standings than Boston and so they had the higher pick, or had they traded for it?
It doesn’t matter.
Montreal did make the playoffs in this time, while Boston didn’t. Logically, that means Boston would get the higher pick, but they’d done well enough this season that they shouldn’t have had the fifth selection. Brian must have traded for it.
Shit, Ilya hasn’t even been aware that the Bears have been in the market for a young defenceman, but then again, Brian, as GM, has knowledge of the roster that Ilya does not.
“Oh, man, that’s a steal. Brian did good there,” Shane says. “I’ve seen some of Boiziau’s clips from the Q. He would have been perfect for Montreal.” He sighs mournfully, but seems happy enough when nine picks later, the Voyageurs draft their own defenceman. Sami Iilahti from Finland.
He’s certainly got size, Ilya thinks as he watches the boy throw on his brand new Voyageurs jersey. Jesus. The Fins tend to be big, but that kid’s a monster.
He doesn’t recognise him, though, and wonders at that. Had he been drafted by another team the first time around and just never made the roster? Or had he stayed in Finland?
Ilya has no idea.
Fucking ripple effects, he thinks incredulously, and realises he has no idea how this will impact things going forward.
J.J. Boiziau is going to be a Boston Bear.
The future Ilya has lived really is becoming his past; it’s no longer a blueprint of events he can trust will happen as before. The more he changes things in the past—his present—the further they move away from his original timeline.
But isn’t that the point of all this?
Next to him, Shane is shaking his head in disapproval and snarking at Detroit's terrible first round selection. He's pressed up against Ilya’s side on the bed, graciously sharing the Trader Joe's apple chips they'd bought the day before and this is how Ilya knows Shane loves him, because Shane does not play around when it comes to his apple chips.
Yes, Ilya decides.
That's exactly the point.
Anything to have this.
The draft will continue into the next day, but Shane is satisfied with having watched the first few rounds, so once the broadcast concludes, they get ready to meet with David and Yuna in the hotel lobby. They’ve agreed on one show each for this trip, and have managed to sucker Shane and Ilya into joining them for both.
Tonight it’s Cirque du Soleil, which had been Yuna’s choice.
Tomorrow, they’ll catch Garth Brooks at the Encore Theatre, because David is a not so secret lover of country music.
(Ilya wonders if this isn’t why Shane had claimed his favourite music was country when he’d done that interview for CTV. The one that Lydia had told Ilya about back in September.)
Cirque du Soleil turns out to be amazing, but Ilya isn’t much for country, so the concert is spent mostly sneaking pictures of Shane pretending to be very engaged and uploading them to his socials. They also take a number of pictures with the fans who come up to them throughout the night.
Turns out the intersection between hockey and country music is fairly decent.
At one point, a pair of teenage girls stumble across them and frantically start searching around for a marker.
“Will you sign my arm?” one of them blurts out, blinking large blue eyes up at Ilya. “You’re my favourite player,” she adds, breathless, and solemnly swears she will never shower ever again once Ilya has written out his name on the stretch of skin between her wrist and elbow.
The other one gets an autograph too, and squeals when Shane adds his name next to Ilya’s.
“I tried your cookie recipe,” she tells him, the words tumbling out of her in a rush. “Oh my God, they were so good! Will you be posting more?”
“Uhm…” Shane says, and subtly tries to inch behind Ilya. He isn’t very successful.
It turns out to be a good night, even though David is the only one who truly enjoys the music. When Sunday comes around, both Shane and Ilya are ready to return to Montreal and Bobby’s training.
By Monday, they’re right back to it, and Bobby works them so hard they don’t really come up for air until two weeks later. By then, they’re so in need of a complete rest day they can’t be bothered to do anything but collapse on opposite sides of the couch.
“If you want any more food today, you’re going to have to get it yourself or order in. I’m not moving from this spot for hours.”
Ilya lifts his brows sceptically. “If I order from the Russian place I like, will you eat too?”
Shane makes a face. He doesn’t mind Russian food, Ilya knows, but he sometimes finds the fare too heavy. “Okay, but make sure to double the order for blinis. You always finish them off before I can get to one.”
“Yes, yes. I will get you your blinis.”
They put on the TV and turn the channel to CBC to watch the World Cup final. It’s the only game of the tournament Ilya has managed to sit down for, but he’s followed along online; Messi and the Argentinians had been knocked out in the quarter finals. The final turns out to be plenty exciting even though it remains scoreless for the longest time; the referee keeps having to hand out yellow cards, and eventually a player from the Netherlands receives a second one that makes it an automatic red, and is consequently banned from the rest of the game.
Shane shakes his head at the play. “Sloppy,” he says, and Ilya agrees.
At the end of regulation time, the game is still scoreless, but then Spain finally manages to net a goal twenty six minutes into extra time, and a few minutes later, they’ve won the game.
They watch the screen as the fans lose their minds in the stands and the Spanish players all converge on the field, jumping into each other’s arms as they celebrate their win, some of them crying tears of joy.
“I want that,” Shane says wistfully as the goalscorer cries into the neck of one of his teammates.
Ilya hums, distracted, and then blinks as he registers the words. “You want football trophy?” he asks, confused.
Shane rolls his eyes and pokes his toes against Ilya’s. “No. Obviously I’m talking about the Stanley Cup. Or an Olympic gold,” he says, exasperated.
“Obviously,” Ilya mocks, but he’s hiding a smile. “You will have that, котёнок. You’re too good not to. Being second best player in the League is nothing to sneeze at.”
He laughs when Shane’s toes dig in a little harder, his indignant, “Asshole!” a welcomed pet name.
“Anyway, that’s not what I mean. I’m saying I want to win a Cup with you.” He looks at Ilya, as serious as Ilya has ever seen him when he adds, “We’ll probably get a chance at Gold together when you eventually get your citizenship, but I really, really want to win a Stanley Cup with you, Ilya.”
And how is Ilya supposed to answer that with anything but the truth?
“I would like that too. Very much,” he says solemnly.
They’ve talked about playing on the same team before, but they both know if not an impossible dream, it's certainly a difficult one.
Shane tugs his lower lip between his teeth, looking so hesitant Ilya can’t stand it.
“What?” he asks finally, when Shane has been quiet for a long couple of minutes and Ilya’s skin is prickling with anticipation.
“It’s just—I’ve been thinking.”
“Okay?”
Shane takes in a deep breath and then exhales. “What if we signed to the same team in free agency?”
Ilya’s brows shoot up, but before he can say anything, Shane hurries to explain.
“I know, I know. We won’t be free agents until the summer of 2016, but we’ll only be twenty five by then. That’s just the beginning of our prime; plenty of excellent hockey left in us.”
Ilya looks at him, at his excited face and bright eyes. Shane really, truly wants this, he realises.
“What about Montreal?” he asks, because this had never been the plan in their first life. Shane had always been adamant that he would retire as a Voyageur.
Shane shakes his head, but he’s looking a little guilty as he says, “I love Montreal, and I hope I get to win a Cup with them, but by the time we’re out of restricted agency, they won’t have the cap space to accommodate us both.” He gives a helpless little shrug. “If I have to choose between being a Voyageur and getting to play with you, I’ll choose you every time.”
He may as well have clawed Ilya’s chest wide open and crooned those words directly at his heart.
The pain is the sweetest ache he’s ever felt, because for so long, Ilya had doubted. Had been terrified that if it came down to it, if Shane was forced to make a choice, it would always be hockey first.
“Where would we play?” he chokes out eventually, so overcome with love for Shane—any Shane, in any life—that he just barely manages to get the words out.
Shane straightens eagerly in his seat. He leans over, hand curling around Ilya’s foot, squeezing once. “I don’t know yet. We’ll figure it out, but—but you agree, then? We’ll play out the next six years for Boston and Montreal, and then we’ll sign somewhere together.”
“As long as it is not Carolina or Buffalo,” Ilya blurts out.
And really, he thinks, as Shane laughs giddily and launches himself at him, hiding his grin into Ilya’s collarbone, there was never any chance of saying no.