Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cliff Marleau was in Montreal when the news broke, which was either terrible luck or the universe's idea of efficiency. He'd been visiting his sister—she'd just had a baby, he was supposed to be looking at tiny socks and pretending he understood what a "sleep schedule" was—when his phone lit up with seventeen notifications in the span of thirty seconds.

He read the headline. Read it again.

Then he watched the video.

It was a Fanmail clip—one of those personalized birthday messages players recorded for fans. Hayden's face, cheerful and oblivious, wishing some guy named Brad a happy birthday. Standard stuff. Cliff had done a hundred of them.

But behind Hayden, visible through a doorway that should have been closed, two figures were pressed together in a way that left nothing to interpretation. Ilya's hand on someone's jaw. The someone's eyes closed, leaning into it.

The someone was wearing a Montreal jersey.

The fan who'd received it—Brad, presumably—had posted it to Twitter with a string of shocked emojis and the caption UHHHH IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS???

Six hours later, the whole world knew.

Cliff called Ilya, who didn't answer.

He called again. Voicemail.

Third time: voicemail, and this time Cliff left a message. "I'm coming. Don't do anything stupid. I mean it, Ilya."

Then he called an Uber to Hayden Pike's address.

Cliff had spent years learning to curb Ilya Rozanov's worst impulses. Not on the ice—on the ice, Ilya was untouchable, a goddamn artist with a stick—but off it. Cliff had talked him out of bar fights, bad interviews, worse hookups. Had driven him home when he was too drunk to stand and too proud to admit it. Had watched Ilya burn through his own life like he was daring someone to stop him, and had decided, somewhere along the way, that he'd be the one to try.

When Ilya had demanded a trade to Ottawa, Cliff hadn't understood. Boston was good. Boston had finally started winning. Boston had him.

But Ilya had looked at him with those unreadable eyes and said, "I am needing to go, Cliff. You are not understanding, but I am needing this."

And Cliff had thought: there's nothing here he's running from. Not anymore.

Which meant he was running toward something.

Now, watching that video for the third time in the back of the Uber, Cliff finally understood what.

He didn't knock. The door was unlocked—Montreal boys and their false sense of security—and Cliff walked into the middle of what was clearly already a disaster.

J.J. was pacing Hayden's living room like a caged animal, his voice sharp and rising. "—explains everything. The missed shots, the soft plays along the boards when we're up against Ottawa—"

"J.J., stop—" Hayden was standing by the kitchen counter, phone in hand, looking like he wanted to be literally anywhere else.

"No, think about it! Remember that game in February? He had a clear shot and he passed it to no one. And Rozanov scored thirty seconds later. I thought he was just having an off night, but what if—"

"He wasn't throwing games."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know Shane, and he wouldn't—"

"You didn't know he was fucking Ilya Rozanov!"

Cliff closed the door hard enough to make them both jump.

Hayden looked up. Whatever he saw in Cliff's face made him go pale.

"Marleau. Hey. I didn't—how did you—"

Cliff ignored him. His eyes were on J.J. "What did you just say?"

J.J. had the grace to look slightly uncertain, but he didn't back down. "I said maybe Shane's been throwing games. For his boyfriend. You can't tell me it's not suspicious—"

"I can tell you it's bullshit." Cliff crossed the room. "I've known Ilya for years. If Shane was throwing games for him, Ilya would never forgive him. You know why? Because Ilya would rather lose than win because someone let him. That's not love to him. That's pity. And Ilya Rozanov would burn the entire relationship down before he'd accept pity."

J.J.'s mouth opened. Closed.

"Shane wasn't throwing games," Cliff continued. "Shane was probably distracted. Because he was hiding the biggest secret of his life from everyone he knows, and that takes a toll. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Because instead of asking your teammate if he was okay, you're standing here accusing him of betraying you."

The silence that followed was brutal.

J.J. sat down heavily on the arm of the couch. The fight drained out of him so fast it was almost visible. "I didn't... I wasn't thinking."

"No. You weren't."

"I was just—the video, and then I started thinking about all the times things didn't add up, and I—" He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Shit. Shit. I almost called him. I almost called Shane and accused him of—"

"But you didn't."

"Only because Hayden took my phone."

Cliff looked at Hayden, who shrugged uncomfortably. "He was spiraling. Someone had to stop him."

It was the first decent thing Hayden had done all day. Cliff filed it away.

"Okay." Cliff made himself take a breath. Redirect. "We can deal with the game-throwing idiocy later. Right now, I need to know what happened. The video. How."

Hayden's face did something complicated—guilt and defensiveness and more guilt, all layered on top of exhaustion. "It was a Fanmail. Some guy named Brad—it was his birthday." His voice was flat. "I recorded it at Shane's place because we were hanging out after practice and the deadline was that day."

"And you didn't check the background."

"I checked! I looked at the frame and it was just the hallway. I didn't know the door was going to—" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. "They must have come in while I was recording. I didn't hear them. I was focused on getting the take right, and then I uploaded it and went to practice, and I didn't—I didn't know."

"The fan posted it."

"He's a grown man. I don't know why he—maybe he thought it was exciting, or he wanted clout, or—" Hayden's voice cracked. "It doesn't matter. I'm the one who recorded it. I'm the one who didn't check. This is on me."

Cliff stared at him. The anger was still there, hot and sharp, but underneath it was the same fear that had been clawing at his chest since he'd first seen the headline.

"You're right," he said flatly. "It is on you."

Hayden flinched.

"I'm not going to pretend it's okay, because it's not. You took something from them—the chance to do this on their own terms. That's not something you can give back."

"I know—"

"But standing here assigning blame isn't going to help anyone." Cliff looked between them—Hayden, guilt-stricken and lost; J.J., still reeling from his own near-miss. "So here's what's going to happen. We're driving to Ottawa. And we're going to show up for them, because that's the only thing we can do."

J.J. looked up. "You want us to come?"

"I want Shane to have his team. Even if his team is a bunch of idiots who don't deserve him."

"But I almost—"

"Almost doesn't count. You didn't call him. You didn't accuse him." Cliff held his gaze. "You still have a chance to be the friend he needed you to be. Don't waste it."

J.J. swallowed hard. Nodded.

Hayden hadn't moved. "He's not going to want to see me. Rozanov. After what I did."

"Probably not."

"So why should I—"

"Because Shane needs you. And because you owe him." Cliff looked around the apartment. "You have a car?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Then you're driving. Let's go."

Hayden's car was a mid-range SUV that smelled faintly of pine air freshener and old coffee. J.J. climbed into the backseat without a word. Cliff took the passenger seat, already regretting not having his own vehicle.

But he'd taken an Uber from his sister's place like an idiot, too focused on getting to Hayden to think about logistics. And now he was trapped in the passenger seat for three hours, unable to do anything useful while someone else controlled the wheel.

Hayden adjusted his mirrors. Checked his blind spot. Put the car in reverse with excruciating care.

"Sometime today," Cliff said.

"I'm being careful."

"You're being slow."

"I'm backing out of a parking spot."

"At the speed of continental drift."

Hayden's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. He finished backing out—finally—and pulled onto the street.

Cliff's knee bounced. He checked his phone. Nothing from Ilya.

"Which way to the highway?" Hayden asked.

"How do you not know how to get to the highway from your own apartment?"

"I know how, I'm just—I usually use GPS—"

"Jesus Christ." Cliff pulled up the route on his phone. "Left at the light. Then straight for about two kilometers."

Hayden turned left. The light ahead turned yellow, and he slowed to a stop.

"You could have made that," Cliff said.

"It was yellow."

"Yellow means speed up."

"Yellow means caution."

"It means caution if you're a coward."

Hayden's hands tightened on the wheel. "I'm trying to get us there in one piece."

"At this rate, we'll get there next week."

"Do you want to drive?"

"I don't have a car here, remember? Because I dropped everything to come yell at you?"

"Then maybe let the person who does have a car drive it without commentary."

Cliff opened his mouth to snap back, then stopped. Breathed. Hayden was right—being an asshole about the driving wasn't going to get them there faster. It was just displacement. Something to do with all the fear and anger that had nowhere else to go.

"Fine," he said tightly. "Just—get on the highway."

"That's what I'm doing."

The light turned green. Hayden accelerated through the intersection at a reasonable speed. Cliff forced himself to look away from the road.

His phone was still silent.

They made it to the highway without further incident. Hayden merged into traffic, settled into the middle lane, and set the cruise control at exactly the speed limit.

Cliff watched the speedometer with physical pain.

"You know the limit's more of a suggestion," he said.

"You know I have a clean driving record."

"Congratulations. Very impressive. Also very slow."

"We're going 100."

"In a 100 zone. Which means everyone else is going 115. Which means we're effectively going backwards."

"That's not how physics works."

"That's exactly how highway physics works."

J.J. leaned forward from the backseat. "Can you two not do this for three hours?"

"Tell him to drive faster."

"Tell him to stop backseat driving from the front seat."

"I'm not backseat driving. I'm providing helpful feedback."

"You've critiqued my speed, my braking, my lane choice, and my mirror-checking. In fifteen minutes."

"And yet you haven't improved on any of them."

Hayden made a noise that was almost a growl. But he moved into the left lane and let the speedometer creep up to 110.

"Thank you," Cliff said.

"Go to hell."

"Probably."

The car settled into something approximating silence. Outside, the Montreal suburbs gave way to farmland and scattered trees. The sky was gray and low, threatening rain that hadn't decided whether to fall yet.

Cliff checked his phone again. Still nothing.

He typed out a message: I'm on my way. Please answer your phone.

Sent. Delivered. No response.

The first thirty minutes passed in tense silence. Cliff stared out the window, watching the gray landscape blur past. His mind kept returning to the video—Ilya's hand on Shane's jaw, the softness in his expression. A version of Ilya that Cliff had never seen.

Years. According to Hayden, they'd been together for years. Which meant Ilya had requested the trade to Ottawa not to escape something, but to be closer to someone. Every phone call since then, every visit, every late-night text conversation—Ilya had been keeping this from him.

The thought sat like a stone in his chest.

"I still can't believe it," J.J. said from the backseat, breaking the silence.

Cliff didn't turn around. "Believe what?"

"Any of it. Shane and—" J.J. made a vague gesture. "Him."

"His name is Ilya."

"I know his name."

"Then use it."

J.J. was quiet for a moment. "Shane and Ilya. It doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense to you."

"I'm just saying—of all the people in the world, Shane picked the guy who makes everyone's life miserable? Who trash-talks him every time they play? Who—"

"Who what?" Cliff finally turned around. "Finish the sentence."

J.J. met his eyes. There was something hard in his expression now—not just confusion, but something uglier underneath. "Who's probably been playing him this whole time."

The car went very quiet.

"What did you just say?"

"Think about it." J.J. leaned forward, warming to his argument. "Rozanov's a snake. Everyone knows it. He manipulates people, he gets in their heads—that's his whole thing. And now suddenly he's dating the captain of a rival team? The guy who's supposed to be leading Montreal against him?" J.J. shook his head. "Come on. You can't tell me that's not suspicious."

Cliff stared at him. The anger was rising in his chest, hot and sharp, but underneath it was something colder. Something that wanted to hurt.

"Say that again," he said quietly.

"I said it's suspicious. I said maybe Rozanov's been using Shane. Getting close to him so he can—"

"So he can what?" Cliff's voice dropped. "Steal team secrets? Sabotage Montreal from the inside? What's the endgame here, J.J.? What's Ilya's master plan?"

"I don't know, maybe—"

"Maybe what? Maybe he seduced Shane to gain some kind of competitive advantage? Maybe he's been faking a relationship for years just to fuck with Montreal's playoff chances?" Cliff laughed, and it came out ugly. "Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how insane that sounds?"

"It's not insane—"

"It's completely insane. It's delusional. You're so desperate to make Ilya the villain that you've invented a conspiracy theory that doesn't even make sense."

J.J.'s face flushed. "I'm not inventing anything. I'm looking at the facts—"

"What facts? What facts, J.J.? The fact that Ilya's been calmer this year than I've ever seen him? More settled? Less hell-bent on self-destruction?" Cliff shook his head. "Something changed for him. Someone changed him. And I'm just now realizing what that was."

"The fact that he's been distracted," J.J. cut in. "The fact that he's been hiding something from everyone. The fact that he picked someone who hates us—"

"Ilya doesn't hate you."

"He literally said he was going to end my career!"

"After you cross-checked him! That's called hockey, J.J.! That's called talking shit during a game! It's not a declaration of war, it's not a blood feud, it's just—" Cliff stopped. Forced himself to breathe. "You're looking for reasons. That's what this is. You can't accept that Shane chose someone you don't like, so you're inventing reasons why that choice must be wrong."

"I'm not inventing—"

"You are. You're sitting there telling me that Ilya Rozanov—the guy I've known for years, the guy I've watched struggle and fail and pick himself back up a hundred times—is some kind of mastermind manipulator who's been playing a long con on your teammate. And the only evidence you have is that you don't like him."

J.J.'s jaw tightened. "I have more evidence than that."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that Shane's been weird all year. Like the fact that he's been lying to everyone. Like the fact that every time we play Ottawa, he—"

"He what? Plays hard? Competes? Does his job?" Cliff shook his head. "You keep circling back to the games, J.J. Like you can't let go of this idea that Shane's been betraying you. But have you considered—even for a second—that maybe Shane's just a person? That maybe he's been dealing with something incredibly hard and it affected his performance sometimes? That maybe the lying wasn't about you at all?"

"Then who was it about?"

"It was about him. It was about survival." Cliff's voice cracked. "Do you have any idea what it's like? To hide something that big, for that long? To wake up every day and perform a version of yourself that isn't real? To sit in a locker room full of your teammates—your friends—and know that if they found out the truth, everything might fall apart?"

J.J. didn't respond.

"Shane wasn't lying to hurt you. He was lying to protect himself. And Ilya too. Because the world isn't safe for people like them. Because one wrong word to one wrong person can end a career. Because—" Cliff stopped. His throat was tight. "Because people like you look at them and see a conspiracy instead of a love story."

The car was silent. Even Hayden seemed to be holding his breath.

"That's not fair," J.J. said finally. His voice was smaller now. "I'm not—I don't have a problem with Shane being gay. I told you that."

"No. You have a problem with Shane being with Ilya. Which you think is different, but it's not. Not really."

"It is different—"

"How? How is it different?" Cliff turned fully in his seat now, staring J.J. down. "You say you're fine with Shane being gay. You say you support him. But the second you find out who he's actually with, you start talking about manipulation and conspiracies and—what was it? 'Slumming it?' Is that what you think? That Shane's slumming it with Ilya?"

J.J. flinched. "I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it. I can see it on your face." Cliff's voice was flat. "Shane Hollander, golden boy, captain material, could have anyone he wants—and he chose Rozanov? The trash-talker? The showboat? There must be something wrong. He must be getting played. Because there's no way someone like Shane would actually want someone like Ilya. Right?"

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what it is. You've decided Ilya isn't good enough for your friend. And instead of examining that, instead of asking yourself why you feel that way, you've invented a story where Shane's a victim and Ilya's a predator. Because that's easier than admitting you might be wrong about him."

J.J. was quiet. His face had gone pale.

"I've known Ilya for years," Cliff continued. "Years. I've seen him at his worst—drunk, stupid, trying to self-destruct. And I've seen him at his best, which is—" His voice caught. "He's loyal. Fiercely loyal. The kind of loyal that means he'll fight anyone who hurts the people he loves. Including himself."

"That doesn't sound healthy."

"It's not. But it's real. It's the realest thing about him." Cliff shook his head. "The guy you see on the ice? The trash talk, the showboating? That's armor. It's a character he plays because it's easier than letting people see what's underneath."

"And what's underneath?"

"Someone who's terrified." The word came out raw. "All the time. Of not being good enough. Of being found out. Of being left behind. He pushes people away because he's convinced they're going to leave anyway, and if he drives them off first, at least he's in control."

J.J. was staring at him. "You really believe that?"

"I don't believe it. I know it. I've spent years proving to him that I'm not going to leave. Years of showing up even when he made it hard. Even when he pushed. Even when he did everything in his power to make me give up on him." Cliff's throat was tight. "And now I find out he's been hiding this whole part of himself—the most important part—and I didn't even know. So don't talk to me about manipulation, J.J. Don't talk to me about Ilya using people. Because the only thing Ilya's ever done is try to survive in a world that was never safe for him."

The car was silent.

Hayden's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"I didn't know," J.J. said finally. His voice was hoarse. "Any of that. I didn't—"

"No. You didn't. Because you never tried to know him. You just decided who he was based on—what? A few games? Some trash talk?" Cliff laughed bitterly. "You don't know Ilya. You don't know the first thing about him. And you definitely don't know enough to decide he's not good enough for Shane."

"I never said—"

"You implied. You said Shane could do better. You said Ilya was 'playing' him. You said—" Cliff stopped. He was shaking. He hadn't realized how angry he was until right now, until the words were pouring out and he couldn't stop them. "You said my best friend was a predator. You said the person I love most in this world was a manipulator and a snake. And you don't even know him."

J.J. looked like he'd been slapped. "The person you—"

"Not like that." Cliff cut him off. "Don't make it weird. I mean—he's my family. He's been my family for years. And you just—" He turned back around, staring out the windshield. "Forget it. You wouldn't understand."

The silence stretched. Outside, a transport truck rumbled past in the next lane. Hayden kept his eyes fixed on the road, clearly trying to become invisible.

"I'm sorry," J.J. said eventually. His voice was rough.

Cliff didn't respond.

"I mean it. I wasn't—I wasn't thinking about him as a person. I was thinking about him as a problem. Something threatening Shane."

"He's not a threat. He's never been a threat."

"I know. I—" J.J. stopped. Started again. "I don't know him. You're right about that. I only know the version on the ice, and I just—assumed that was all there was."

"Most people do. He works hard at making sure of it."

"Why?"

"Because it's safer." Cliff's voice was tired. "If everyone hates the character, no one gets close enough to see the person."

The car was quiet for a while.

Then J.J. said, "We've all seen him, though. Off the ice, I mean. The parties. The women."

Cliff went still.

"He's been through half the puck bunnies in the Eastern Conference," J.J. continued, his voice taking on that ugly edge again. "And now suddenly he's in a committed relationship? Suddenly he's in love?"

"Watch it," Cliff said quietly.

"I'm just saying—"

"I said watch it."

But J.J. kept going, like he couldn't stop himself. "The guy's a whore, Marleau. Everyone knows it. Every road trip, every bar night—"

"Don't." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "Don't you fucking dare."

J.J. stopped.

Cliff turned around slowly. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs to hide it.

"You want to say that again?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "You want to call him that one more time?"

J.J.'s face had gone pale. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes you did. You called my best friend a whore. Because he's had casual sex. Because he's slept with women." Cliff could feel his pulse in his throat. "That's what you think of him. That's what you've reduced him to. Not a person—just a body count."

"That's not what I—"

"That's exactly what you said." Cliff's voice was shaking now too. "You looked at someone I love and you decided that his sexual history means he's incapable of real feelings. That he can't actually love Shane. That it must be—what? A game? A manipulation?"

J.J. didn't respond.

"People are allowed to have sex, J.J. Casual sex. Lots of it. And that doesn't make them broken or damaged or incapable of real relationships." Cliff breathed through his teeth. "It makes them human."

The car was very quiet.

"I'm sorry," J.J. said. His voice was small. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No. You shouldn't have."

"I just—" J.J. struggled for words. "I don't understand how someone goes from that to this. To a secret relationship that's lasted years. It doesn't add up."

"It doesn't have to add up. People are complicated. Sexuality is complicated." Cliff turned back to the windshield. "Maybe Ilya was running from something. Maybe he was trying to fill a void. Maybe he just liked sex and didn't see the point in being precious about it. I don't know. But none of that—none of it—means he can't love Shane."

The silence stretched.

Then J.J. said, quietly, "What if it's easier for him to walk away?"

Cliff frowned. "What?"

"I'm just—" J.J.'s voice was uncomfortable but pressing forward. "He's been with women. Lots of women. So when this gets too hard—the media, the league, all of it—isn't it easier for him to just... go back to that? Find some girl, settle down, pretend this never happened? Shane doesn't have that option. Rozanov does."

The car went very cold.

"Let me make sure I understand you," Cliff said slowly. "You're saying that because Ilya's been with women, he's not really committed. That his relationship with Shane is just—what? A phase? A detour? Something he can walk away from when it gets inconvenient?"

"I'm not saying—"

"That's exactly what you meant. And it's bullshit." Cliff stared at him. "You don't know anything about Ilya's sexuality. None of us do. But you've already decided that because he's slept with women, he's got one foot out the door. That Shane's the one who's really committed and Ilya's just—what? Playing around until something easier comes along?"

J.J.'s face flushed. "That's not what I meant."

"Do you think Ilya hasn't thought about that? Do you think it hasn't occurred to him that his life would be easier if he just—suppressed this part of himself and married some woman who'd look good in photos?"

J.J. didn't answer.

"That's a choice he makes every single day. To be with Shane instead of taking the easy road. And you're sitting there acting like that choice doesn't count because he has other options." Cliff shook his head. "The fact that he could walk away and doesn't—that's not a weakness. That's the whole goddamn point."

The car was silent.

"I didn't think about it like that," J.J. said finally. His voice was rough.

"No. You didn't think about it at all. You just—" Cliff stopped. Made himself breathe. "You're so focused on protecting Shane from Ilya that you're not seeing what's actually happening."

"Which is?"

"Which is that they love each other. Actually love each other. And maybe that's scary, and maybe it doesn't make sense to you, but it's real."

An hour passed. The argument had burned itself out, leaving behind something quieter and more exhausted. Hayden drove. J.J. stared out his window. Cliff watched the road and tried not to think about all the things he still didn't understand.

He kept coming back to the women.

J.J.'s words—ugly as they were—had lodged something in his brain. Not the slut-shaming, not the assumptions about commitment. But the question underneath.

What had all that been about?

Years in Boston, Cliff had watched Ilya cycle through women like he was trying to set a record. Different faces, different names, none of them lasting more than a night or two. Cliff had assumed it was just—Ilya being Ilya. Self-destructive. Reckless. Trying to fill some void he wouldn't acknowledge.

But now he was doing the math, and the math wasn't adding up.

If Ilya was gay—if he'd been hiding it all along—then those women weren't just reckless hookups. They were cover. Performance. A systematic effort to appear straight, night after night, year after year.

That wasn't self-destruction. That was self-harm.

Cliff thought about what that would mean. Ilya going home with women he didn't want. Doing things he didn't want to do. Performing attraction he didn't feel. All to maintain a lie.

His stomach turned.

But then—Ilya hadn't seemed unhappy with the women. Hadn't talked about them like they were a chore. He'd been casual about it, sure. Dismissive, sometimes. But not disgusted. Not like someone forcing himself through something painful.

So maybe the women were real. Maybe Ilya was bi, or something else entirely. Maybe the attraction to women was genuine, and Shane was also genuine, and Cliff had spent years pathologizing something that wasn't broken.

That was almost worse, in a way. Because it meant Cliff had been judging. Had been treating Ilya's love life like a problem to manage, when really it was just—a life. Complicated and messy and not Cliff's to fix.

"You're thinking loudly," Hayden said.

Cliff glanced at him. "What?"

"You've got that look. Like you're working through something you don't have all the pieces for."

"Maybe I am."

Hayden was quiet for a moment, navigating around a slow-moving truck. "The women thing?"

Cliff didn't answer.

"I've been thinking about it too," Hayden admitted. "Since I found out about Shane. Wondering if this is—" He hesitated. "If it's real. For Rozanov, I mean. Or if Shane's going to end up getting hurt."

"That's Shane's risk to take. Not yours to decide for him."

Hayden was quiet.

Cliff stared out the windshield. "I spent years watching him. Picking him up from apartments at 2 AM. Making jokes about his 'conquests.'" His voice was bitter. "And I never once asked if he was okay. If any of it was what he actually wanted."

"Would he have told you the truth?"

"Probably not. He's—" Cliff stopped. "He's very good at deflecting. At making everything into a joke. But I should have pushed harder. I should have asked the real questions."

"You can't blame yourself for not seeing something he was actively hiding."

"Can't I?" Cliff laughed humorlessly. "I was supposed to be his safe person. The one who saw past the bullshit. And I didn't see this."

Hayden didn't have an answer for that.

The silence stretched. Outside, the landscape had shifted to scrubby pine forests, the sky still gray and low.

"What about his family?" Hayden asked. "Rozanov's, I mean. Do they know?"

Cliff opened his mouth to answer. Then closed it.

He didn't know. He had no idea. Until a few hours ago, he hadn't known there was anything for Ilya's family to know.

"I don't—" He stopped. Started again. "They're in Russia. That's—that's all I know for sure."

"Russia's not exactly..." Hayden trailed off.

"No. It's not." Cliff stared out the windshield. "It's never been safe there. Even before the laws. Ilya left in 2009, and back then there wasn't a formal law against being gay, but that doesn't mean it was okay. It was—" He searched for the words. "Culturally, it was shameful. Dangerous. The kind of thing that got you disowned. Beaten. The kind of thing you never, ever talked about."

J.J. was quiet in the backseat.

"And then in 2013, they passed the propaganda law. Made it illegal to even talk about it—to 'promote' homosexuality to minors, they said. Which basically meant you couldn't be out in public. Couldn't acknowledge it existed." Cliff's jaw tightened. "Ilya was already here by then. Already in the NHL. But his family wasn't. His family was still there, living under a government that was telling everyone that people like Ilya are pedophiles. Predators. Threats to children."

"Jesus," J.J. breathed.

"He's been watching from here," Cliff continued. "For over a decade. Watching his country get worse and worse. And now—after this video—everyone knows. Which means everyone back home knows too."

"Do you think they'll—" J.J. stopped. "What happens to them? Now that everyone knows?"

"I have no idea." Cliff's voice was rough. "I don't even know if he has family. I don't know if there's anyone back there who—" His throat tightened. "I don't know anything. Because I never thought to ask. Because I didn't know there was anything to ask."

The weight of that sat in the car.

"Russia's unpredictable," Cliff continued after a moment. "Sometimes they ignore things. Sometimes they make examples. Ilya's famous enough that it could go either way."

"That's terrifying," J.J. said quietly.

"Yeah." Cliff's voice was hollow. "And I'm sitting here realizing I don't know if my best friend has anyone left back home. And I can't ask him, because he's not answering his phone, and I'm stuck in this car for another—" He checked the time. "Hour and a half. Not knowing anything."

The silence that followed was heavy.

"I'm sorry," Hayden said. "That you're finding out like this. All of it."

"Yeah." Cliff turned back to the window. "Me too."

They stopped for gas outside Casselman

Hayden filled the tank while J.J. went inside to pay. Cliff leaned against the car and checked his phone.

Still nothing from Ilya.

He typed: Please answer. I need to know you're okay.

Sent. Delivered. Nothing.

Hayden finished with the pump and came to lean next to him. "Anything?"

"No."

"He's probably just dealing with—"

"Don't." Cliff shoved the phone in his pocket. "Don't tell me he's fine. You don't know that."

"You're right. I don't." Hayden was quiet for a moment. "But you know him. And you're still coming. So he's got someone who gives a shit. That's worth something."

Cliff didn't respond.

J.J. emerged from the gas station with terrible coffee and a bag of chips. They got back in the car.

"Can we talk about something?" Hayden asked, once they were back on the highway.

"Depends."

"Whether we made it hard. For them to come out."

The words settled into the car like stones.

"What do you mean?" J.J. asked.

"I mean—Shane hid this for years. From everyone. And I keep thinking—why?" Hayden's hands tightened on the wheel. "We're not homophobic. We wouldn't have—"

"Wouldn't have what?" Cliff asked quietly.

Hayden didn't answer.

"When's the last time you said something positive about a gay person? In the locker room. In front of Shane."

Silence.

"When's the last time you pushed back on a joke? Called someone out for saying something shitty?" Cliff shook his head. "That's the thing about safety. It's not just about not being hostile. It's about actively being welcoming."

"I didn't make jokes," Hayden said.

"Did you stop them?"

No answer.

"I made jokes," J.J. admitted from the backseat. His voice was small. "'That's so gay.' The stupid stuff. I didn't think anyone was listening."

"Shane was always listening."

"I know that now." J.J.'s voice cracked. "I marked myself as unsafe. Didn't I?"

"Yeah. You did."

The car was quiet.

"I'm going to do better," J.J. said. "I mean it."

"Good."

"Is it enough?"

"No," Cliff admitted. "But it's a start."

Three hours in. Cliff's phone buzzed.

He grabbed it so fast he almost dropped it.

Ilya.

You are coming?

Yeah, Cliff typed, his heart pounding. Almost there.

A pause. Then: You are alone?

Cliff hesitated. No. Hayden and J.J. are with me. Hayden's driving.

A longer pause. Hayden. The one who made video.

Yeah.

Why is he coming.

Because Shane needs his team. Even the ones who fucked up. Cliff paused, then added: And because I didn't have a car.

Nothing for a minute. Then: And J.J.?

He wanted to come. He's— Cliff stopped typing. Started again. He was spiraling earlier. Saying stupid shit. But he didn't do anything.

What kind of stupid shit.

Cliff stared at the screen. Ilya deserved to know. But typing it out felt like a betrayal of something—he wasn't sure what.

He almost called Shane. To accuse him of throwing games.

The pause that followed was long enough that Cliff checked to make sure the message had sent.

He thinks Shane throws games. For me.

He was scared and stupid. Hayden took his phone before he could actually call.

But he was going to.

Yeah. He was going to.

Another long pause. Then: Shane will want to know this.

I know. I'm sorry.

Is not your fault. A pause. Then: Thank you. For telling me.

I didn't want you to be blindsided.

I am always blindsided. Is nice to have warning for once.

Cliff didn't know how to respond to that. Before he could figure it out, another message came through.

You are angry. That I did not tell.

Yes.

I am sorry.

I know.

A longer pause. Then: The women. You are wondering.

Of course Ilya knew. Ilya always knew.

Yeah, Cliff admitted. I am.

I am bisexual. The women were real. But also sometimes... escape. Distraction. Is complicated.

Cliff read the words three times.

Okay, he typed. We can talk about it more later.

You are not disgusted?

Why would I be disgusted?

Some people think is worse. Like greedy. Like cannot be trusted.

Cliff thought about J.J.'s words in the car. About the assumption that Ilya would leave for a woman when things got hard.

Some people are idiots, he typed. You're allowed to be complicated.

A pause. Then: I do not make sense to myself most days.

Welcome to being human.

Another pause. Cliff.

Yeah?

Thank you. For coming.

I'm always going to come. That's what this is.

What is this?

Family.

A long pause. Then: Okay. Family.

They turned onto Shane's street and Cliff swore under his breath. News vans. At least four of them, clustered outside a modest townhouse halfway down the block. Photographers milling on the sidewalk.

"Jesus," Hayden breathed.

"Keep driving," Cliff said. "Go around the block. We'll find another way in."

They parked on the next street and cut through a neighbor's yard. The back fence was low enough to climb. The door was unlocked—either Shane was expecting them or he'd just stopped caring about security.

Shane was waiting in the kitchen. He looked wrecked—dark circles under his eyes, hair unwashed, wearing a hoodie that was too big for him.

"You came," he said.

"We came."

Shane's eyes moved past Cliff to Hayden and J.J. His expression flickered—hope, hurt, walls going up.

"I'm sorry," Hayden said immediately. "Shane, I'm so sorry. About the video. I should have checked—"

"I know." Shane's voice was flat. Exhausted. "I know you didn't mean to."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No. It doesn't." Shane paused. "But you're here. That's something."

From deeper in the house, Ilya's voice: "Is Hayden there?"

"Yeah."

"Tell him I am still angry about video."

"He can hear you."

"Good."

Hayden flinched but didn't argue.

J.J. hadn't moved from just inside the door. He looked like he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.

"Shane," he finally managed. "I need to tell you something."

Shane's expression shuttered. "J.J.—"

"I almost accused you of throwing games."

The words landed like stones. Shane went very still.

"After I saw the video," J.J. continued, pushing forward, "I started thinking about all the times you played bad against Ottawa, and I—I almost called you. I had my phone in my hand. Hayden took it before I could—"

"I know." Shane's voice was quiet. "Ilya told me."

J.J. looked stricken. "How did he—"

"Cliff told him. On the drive." Shane's eyes were hard. "At least someone thought I deserved a warning."

"Shane, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking—"

"No. You weren't." Shane's eyes were bright. "That's twice now, J.J. Twice you've thought I was capable of betraying the team. And both times, I was just trying to survive."

"I know. I'm sorry—"

"I can't do this right now." Shane cut him off. "I can't look at you and pretend everything's fine when it's not."

"I understand. I'll go—"

"You can't go anywhere." Shane's voice was tired. "There are reporters out front. You'd lead them right to the back door."

J.J. stopped. The reality of the situation seemed to hit him—trapped in a house with someone who couldn't stand to look at him.

"Guest room is upstairs, second door on the left," Shane said flatly. "Stay there until I'm ready to talk."

J.J. nodded, blinking rapidly. "Okay. As long as it takes."

He turned and headed for the stairs. The sound of his footsteps faded. A door closed.

Shane sagged against the counter.

"You okay?" Cliff asked.

"No." Shane laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm really not."

Shane looked at Cliff. "Thank you. For bringing them."

"They needed to come. Both of them."

"I know." Shane's eyes moved toward the living room. "He's in there. He's been—" His voice cracked. "It's been a long day."

"For everyone."

"Yeah." Shane stepped aside. "Go. He needs to see you."

Cliff walked into the living room.

Ilya was sitting on the couch, knees drawn up, looking smaller than Cliff had ever seen him. The usual armor was completely gone. When he looked up and saw Cliff, something in his face cracked open.

"You came," he said.

"I came."

"Even though I did not tell you."

"Even though."

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Ilya unfolded himself from the couch and crossed the room, and Cliff met him halfway, and they were holding onto each other like the world was ending.

Maybe it was. A little.

"I'm sorry," Ilya mumbled into Cliff's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"I know." Cliff tightened his grip. "We'll talk about it later. All of it. But right now I just need you to know that I'm here. Okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Ilya nodded against his shoulder.

They stood there for a long time, holding on.

The house settled into an uneasy quiet as evening turned to night. Hayden had claimed the couch, his snores already rumbling through the living room. Shane and Ilya had retreated to the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them. Cliff had taken the armchair, intending to rest his eyes for just a minute.

He didn't remember falling asleep.

J.J. couldn't sleep.

He'd tried. The guest room was comfortable enough—a double bed with clean sheets, blackout curtains, a nightstand with a lamp that cast warm light. Shane's house. Shane's guest room, for Shane's guests, and J.J. was here as something else entirely.

He stared at the ceiling and replayed the last twelve hours on a loop.

The guy's a whore.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that, out loud, about someone he didn't even know. About someone Shane loved.

That's twice now, J.J. Twice you've thought I was capable of betraying the team.

Shane's face when he'd said it. The way his expression had shuttered, gone flat and distant. Not angry—worse than angry. Tired. Like J.J. had confirmed something he'd always suspected.

And both times, I was just trying to survive.

J.J. pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw stars. He'd been so sure. So righteous. Standing in Hayden's apartment, connecting dots that didn't exist, building a case against Shane based on—what? A bad game in February? A passed puck that went nowhere?

He'd wanted it to be true. That was the worst part. Some small, ugly part of him had wanted to believe that Shane was the villain, because that was easier than accepting that Shane had been hiding something this big for this long. That J.J. hadn't noticed. That J.J. hadn't been safe enough to tell.

The house was quiet. It was past midnight now—hours since Shane had sent him upstairs, hours of lying in the dark and cataloging every terrible thing he'd said or thought or almost done.

He needed water. Or air. Or something.

J.J. slipped out of bed and padded down the stairs, trying to be quiet. The living room was dark except for the glow of a streetlight through the curtains. He could hear Hayden snoring softly on the couch. Cliff was sprawled in the armchair, dead to the world.

The kitchen light was on.

J.J. hesitated at the doorway. Shane was sitting at the small table, a mug of something in his hands, staring at nothing. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up at odd angles, still wearing that oversized hoodie.

"I can go back upstairs," J.J. said quietly.

Shane looked up. For a long moment, he just studied J.J.'s face, like he was looking for something. Then he shook his head.

"Sit down."

J.J. sat.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. The kitchen clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights briefly illuminating the window.

"I couldn't sleep either," Shane said finally. "In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to—" J.J. stopped. "I can leave. If you're not ready."

"I wasn't ready twelve hours ago. I'm not sure I'm ready now." Shane took a sip of his drink—tea, from the smell of it. "But I don't think ready is coming. So we might as well do this."

J.J. nodded. His throat felt tight.

"I don't know where to start," he admitted. "I've been lying up there for hours trying to figure out what to say, and I just—" He shook his head. "Everything sounds like an excuse."

"Then don't make excuses. Just tell me what happened."

J.J. took a breath. "I saw the video. And I panicked. And instead of—instead of worrying about you, or wondering if you were okay, I started—" He stopped. "I started looking for reasons. Ways it made sense. Ways it wasn't real."

"Why?"

"Because if it was real, then you'd been lying to me. For years." J.J.'s voice cracked. "And I couldn't—I didn't want that to be true. So I made up a story where you were the victim. Where Rozanov was manipulating you, or using you, or—"

"Where I wasn't responsible for my own choices."

"Yeah." J.J. looked down at his hands. "I told myself I was protecting you. But I wasn't. I was protecting myself. From having to admit that you didn't trust me enough to tell me."

Shane was quiet for a moment. "And the game-throwing thing?"

J.J. flinched. "That was—" He struggled for words. "I was spiraling, and I kept thinking about all the times you'd played badly against Ottawa, and I just—I started connecting dots that weren't there. Building a case."

"Against me."

"Against both of you. But mostly—" J.J. swallowed hard. "Mostly against the idea that this was real. That you'd actually chosen him. Because if you'd chosen him, then you'd also chosen not to tell me, and that meant—"

"That you weren't safe."

The words hit J.J. like a punch. He looked up at Shane, startled.

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" Shane's voice was quiet but relentless. "You're not mad that I'm with Ilya. You're not even mad that I hid it. You're mad because I didn't trust you. And instead of sitting with that—instead of asking yourself why I didn't trust you—you decided I must have been manipulated. Because that was easier than admitting you might have done something wrong."

J.J. couldn't speak. His throat was too tight.

"You want to know why I didn't tell you?" Shane set his mug down. "It wasn't because I thought you'd out me. It wasn't because I thought you'd be cruel about it. It was because—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "It was because I knew you'd have opinions. About Ilya. About whether he was good enough. About whether I was making a mistake."

"I wouldn't have—"

"You would have. You did. The second you found out, you decided Ilya was the problem. That he was using me, manipulating me, whatever." Shane's voice was sharp now. "And that's exactly what I was afraid of. That I'd tell you the most important thing in my life, and you'd make it about whether you approved."

J.J. felt sick. "Shane—"

"I've spent years hiding this. Years. And it wasn't because I thought people would hate me for being gay. It was because I knew—I knew—that people would have opinions about Ilya. That they'd judge him based on what he's like on the ice, or how many women he's slept with, or whatever. And I couldn't handle that. I couldn't handle watching people I cared about tear apart the person I love."

"I didn't know—"

"You didn't ask." Shane's voice cracked. "You didn't ask about him. You didn't ask what he's like, or why I love him, or what our relationship is actually like. You just assumed the worst and ran with it."

J.J. stared at the table. His eyes were burning.

"I'm sorry," he said. It came out barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry. I was wrong about everything. About you, about him, about—" He shook his head. "I was an asshole. A complete asshole. And I don't know how to fix it."

Shane was quiet for a long time.

"This is the second time," he said finally. "The second time you've accused me of betraying the team. You know that, right?"

J.J. nodded miserably. "I know."

"The first time—during the losing streak—I told myself you were just stressed. That you didn't mean it. That we'd move past it." Shane's voice was heavy. "But now it's happened again. And I have to ask myself—is this a pattern? Is this just who you are?"

"It's not—I'm not—" J.J. struggled for words. "I don't know why I do this. I don't know why my first instinct is always to assume the worst."

"Then figure it out." Shane's voice was firm but not cruel. "Because I can't keep doing this, J.J. I can't keep wondering when the next accusation is coming. I can't keep waiting for you to decide I've betrayed you again."

"I know. I know, and I'm—" J.J.'s voice broke. "I'll do whatever it takes. Therapy, whatever. I'll figure out why I—why I keep doing this. I'll fix it."

"I hope so." Shane picked up his mug again. "Because I don't want to lose you as a friend. But I can't be your friend if you don't trust me. And right now, it's pretty clear that you don't."

"I do trust you—"

"No. You don't." Shane met his eyes. "If you trusted me, your first instinct wouldn't be to assume I was capable of throwing games. Your first instinct wouldn't be to invent a scenario where I'm being manipulated. Trust means giving someone the benefit of the doubt. And you've never given me that. Not once."

J.J. didn't have an answer for that. Because Shane was right. Every word of it was right.

"I'm going to do better," J.J. said. His voice was rough. "I don't know how yet. But I'm going to figure it out. I promise."

"Don't promise me." Shane stood up, carrying his mug to the sink. "Promise yourself. And then actually do it."

"I will."

Shane rinsed his mug, set it in the dish rack. He stood with his back to J.J. for a moment, his shoulders tight.

"Ilya's a good person," Shane said quietly. "I know you don't see it yet. But he is. He's kind, and he's loyal, and he loves me in a way I didn't know was possible." He turned around. "I need you to give him a chance. A real chance. Not for my sake—for yours. Because you're missing out on knowing someone incredible, and that's your loss."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do." Shane walked toward the doorway. "We're going to have to work together, J.J. We're on the same team. I need to know that when I step on the ice with you, you're not wondering if I'm about to betray you."

"I won't. I swear."

Shane paused at the doorway. Looked back at him.

"I want to believe that," he said. "I really do."

Then he was gone, his footsteps quiet on the stairs.

J.J. sat alone in the kitchen for a long time, staring at nothing.

He thought about his father. About coming home from school when he was fourteen and finding his mother crying at the kitchen table. About learning that his father had been having an affair—not for months, but for years. About watching his mother try to piece herself back together while his father made excuses and apologies that never quite rang true.

He'd sworn, back then, that he would never be blindsided like that. That he would see the warning signs. That he would never let someone lie to his face while he smiled and believed them.

And somewhere along the way, that had curdled into something else. Into suspicion. Into assuming the worst. Into looking at the people he loved and waiting for them to betray him.

Shane wasn't his father. Shane had never been his father.

But J.J. had been treating him like he was.

He dropped his head into his hands and sat there until the first gray light of dawn started to creep through the windows.

Cliff woke to the smell of burning.

For a disoriented moment, he thought he was back in Boston, in Ilya's apartment after one of those long nights, bracing himself for the inevitable discovery of whatever culinary disaster Ilya had attempted. Then the unfamiliar ceiling came into focus, and the events of yesterday crashed back in like a wave.

The video. The drive. J.J. upstairs. Shane falling asleep against Ilya's shoulder.

He checked his phone. 6:47 AM. Maybe four hours of sleep. It would have to be enough.

The burning smell was getting stronger.

Cliff pulled himself out of the armchair and followed it to the kitchen, where he found exactly what he'd expected: Ilya standing at the stove, glaring at a pan of what might have once been eggs, while smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

"You're going to set off the fire alarm," Cliff said.

Ilya didn't turn around. "Fire alarm is already disabled. Shane has learned."

"Shane's learned to disable his fire alarm so you can cook?"

"Shane has learned that I am stubborn and will not stop trying." Ilya poked at the eggs with a spatula. They did not respond well. "Is act of love. The disabling."

Cliff leaned against the doorframe and watched him. In the gray morning light, Ilya looked younger than his years. Softer. The sharp edges that usually defined him were blurred by exhaustion and something else—something raw and unguarded that Cliff had only ever seen in glimpses before.

"Where's Shane?" Cliff asked.

"Still sleeping. He did not sleep well—kept waking up, checking phone, checking me." Ilya's voice softened. "I told him to rest more. That I would be fine."

"Are you? Fine?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment. Then he turned off the burner, conceding defeat to the eggs. "No. But I am here. Is something."

"Yeah. It's something."

Ilya scraped the ruined eggs into the trash with more force than necessary. "You want coffee? Coffee I can make. Coffee does not require—" He waved the spatula vaguely. "Technique."

"Coffee sounds good."

Ilya moved to the coffee maker with the ease of someone who'd done this hundreds of times. Cliff watched him—the familiar movements, the way he measured the grounds with unnecessary precision, the slight furrow between his brows as he concentrated.

This was Ilya in Shane's kitchen. Ilya who knew where the mugs were kept, who had disabled the fire alarm, who moved through this space like he belonged here. Like this was home.

"You're staring," Ilya said without turning around.

"I'm observing."

"Is same thing."

"It's really not."

Ilya snorted. The coffee maker gurgled to life. He turned and leaned against the counter, arms crossed, finally meeting Cliff's eyes.

"So," he said. "We talk now?"

Cliff had known this was coming. Had been bracing for it since the drive, since the text messages, since the moment he'd seen the video and felt everything shift.

"Yeah," he said. "We talk now."

They took their coffee to the back porch—a small concrete slab with two weathered Adirondack chairs that had seen better days. The morning was cool and gray, the kind of early autumn day that couldn't decide whether it wanted to rain. A wooden fence blocked the view of the neighbors. Private. Quiet.

Ilya sat in one chair. Cliff took the other.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The coffee steamed between them. Somewhere nearby, a bird was singing something inappropriately cheerful.

"I don't know where to start," Cliff admitted.

"Then I start." Ilya's voice was quiet. Careful. "I am sorry. For not telling you. For letting you find out like this—from video, like stranger. You deserved better."

"Yeah. I did."

Ilya flinched slightly, but he didn't look away. "I wanted to tell you. So many times. But every time I tried, I—" He stopped. Made a frustrated gesture. "The words would not come. I would open my mouth and nothing would happen."

"Why?"

"Because I was scared." The admission came out raw. "Because you are—you have been—" Ilya struggled for the words. "You have to understand. I have never told anyone. Not about Shane, not about—any of it. My whole life, I have been hiding. First in Russia, where it was not safe. Then here, where it is better but still—" He shook his head. "I learned very young that hiding is how you survive. And I got so good at it that I forgot how to stop."

"I'm not Russia," Cliff said. The hurt crept into his voice despite his best efforts. "I'm not the league. I'm your friend. I would never have—"

"I know. I know that." Ilya leaned forward, urgent. "This is what I am trying to explain. It was never about not trusting you. It was about—I did not know how to trust anyone. Not with this. The hiding became—" He searched for the word. "Automatic. Like breathing. I did not decide not to tell you. I just... didn't. Because not-telling was all I knew how to do."

Cliff sat with that. Tried to imagine it—a whole life built on concealment, so deeply ingrained that even safety felt like a trap.

"But you told Shane," he said.

Ilya's expression shifted. Softened in a way Cliff had never seen before. "Shane was different."

"How?"

"I don't know how to explain." Ilya stared into his coffee. "With Shane, I did not decide to tell. It just—happened. We were fighting. I was angry. And I said things I did not mean to say, and then it was out, and I was terrified." He paused. "And Shane just—looked at me. Like I was still me. Like nothing had changed."

"And that's when you knew?"

"That is when I knew I was in trouble." Ilya's mouth quirked slightly. "Because I had never had that before. Someone who saw the truth and did not run. And I thought—if I can have this, with Shane, maybe I can learn to have it with others. Maybe I can learn to stop hiding."

"But you didn't. Not with me."

"No." Ilya's voice was heavy with regret. "Because with Shane, I had no choice. The words came out before I could stop them. But with you—with you, I would have had to choose. And every time I tried to choose, I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I was afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of losing you."

The words hung in the air between them.

"You are my best friend, Cliff. You have been for years. The only person who—" Ilya's voice cracked. "The only person who ever refused to leave. And I thought—what if I tell you and you look at me differently? What if you start to wonder about every time we—" He made a vague gesture. "In the locker room, or on road trips, or—"

"You thought I'd think you were perving on me?"

Ilya winced. "I know it sounds stupid—"

"It sounds insulting." Cliff set his coffee down. "You've known me for years. Have I ever given you any reason to think I'd react like that?"

"No. But I have seen others—teammates, friends—who seemed safe until they weren't." Ilya met his eyes. "It only takes one time, Cliff. One person who reacts badly. And then everything is ruined. Everything you built."

"So you didn't take the risk."

"I could not survive losing you." Ilya's voice was barely above a whisper. "If I told some random person and they reacted badly, I could cut them off. Move on. But you—" He shook his head. "You were too important. I could not risk it."

Cliff felt something shift in his chest. The anger was still there—a dull ache that would probably take a while to fade. But underneath it, something else was growing. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.

"You're an idiot," he said quietly.

"I know."

"You should have told me."

"I know."

"But I get it." Cliff picked up his coffee again. Took a sip. It was getting cold. "I don't like it. I'm still pissed about it. But I get why you were scared."

Ilya was quiet for a moment. "You are not leaving?"

"I drove three hours with two guys who said terrible things about you, just to make sure you were okay." Cliff raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

"I think," Ilya said slowly, "that I am very lucky. And very stupid. And I do not deserve you."

"Yes you do." Cliff held his gaze. "You deserve people who show up. And you've got one. So stop arguing."

Ilya's mouth twitched. "This is very bossy."

"Get used to it."

They sat in silence for a moment. The bird was still singing. The coffee was definitely cold now.

"Can I ask you something?" Cliff said eventually.

"Yes."

"The women." He kept his voice careful. Neutral. "You said you're bisexual. That they were real. But you also said—escape. Distraction." He paused. "What did you mean?"

Ilya was quiet for a long time. Long enough that Cliff started to wonder if he'd pushed too far too fast.

"Is complicated," Ilya said finally.

"I figured."

"I am attracted to women. This is true. Is not performance, not—not cover." He stared into his cold coffee. "When I was with them, I wanted to be there. That part was real."

"But?"

"But I was not always with them for the right reasons." Ilya's jaw tightened. "Sometimes I was with them because it was easier than being alone. Because having someone—anyone—made the hiding feel less heavy. Because if I was seen with women, no one would ask questions."

"So it was real, but also—"

"Also escape. Yes. Both things at once." Ilya looked up. "I am not proud of this. I used people. Not cruelly, I hope—I was always honest that it was casual. But I used them to fill a space that could not be filled by casual sex and strangers."

Cliff thought about all the mornings-after. All the times he'd picked Ilya up and made coffee and joked about his "conquests." He'd thought he was being a good friend. Supportive. Non-judgmental.

Now he wondered if he'd just been another person letting Ilya hide.

"I should have asked," Cliff said. "If you were okay. All those times—I just assumed you were having fun. Living your life. I never thought—"

"You could not have known."

"I could have asked."

"And I would have lied." Ilya's voice was matter-of-fact. "Because that is what I did. What I do. You cannot blame yourself for not seeing through lies I spent my whole life perfecting."

"I can blame myself a little."

"If you insist." Ilya almost smiled. "But I would prefer you did not."

Cliff was quiet for a moment. "What about Shane? Was he—at first—was he an escape too?"

"No." The word came out immediately. Certain. "Shane was never escape. Shane was—" Ilya stopped. When he continued, his voice was different. Softer. Wondering. "Shane was the first person who made me want to stop running. I looked at him and I thought—I could be still, with this person. I could be known. And that was terrifying, but also—"

"Also worth it?"

"Also everything." Ilya's eyes were bright. "I did not know it was possible to feel this way. To want someone to see all of you—even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts."

"That's why you didn't tell me." It wasn't a question. "Because you didn't know how to let anyone else in. Shane was already more than you thought you could have."

"Yes." Ilya nodded slowly. "Shane took everything I had. All my courage. There was nothing left over for—" He gestured vaguely. "For expanding. For letting other people see."

"But you're doing it now."

"I am trying." Ilya's voice was heavy. "Every instinct tells me to close down. To protect myself. But Shane says—" He paused. "Shane says that love is not love if you have to hide it. That the people who matter will stay."

"He's right."

"I am trying to believe that."

"I'm staying." Cliff held his gaze. "In case that wasn't clear."

Ilya nodded. Something in his shoulders loosened. "It is clear now."

They sat in silence for a while. The gray morning was starting to brighten, the clouds thinning to let through pale hints of sun.

"Your family," Cliff said eventually. "Do they know?"

Ilya went very still.

"I don't—" Cliff stopped. "You don't have to answer that. I just—I realized yesterday that I don't know anything about them. About what this means for them."

The silence stretched long enough that Cliff started to regret asking.

"My mother is dead," Ilya said finally. His voice was flat. Distant. "Long time now. I was twelve."

Cliff's chest tightened. Twelve. Ilya had been twelve years old.

"I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"How could you know? I do not talk about it." Ilya stared at his cold coffee. "She—it was suicide. She was—" He stopped. Started again. "She was sad. For a long time. And then she was gone."

Cliff didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. Twelve years old and his mother had—

"She knew about me," Ilya continued. His voice was strange now. Almost detached, like he was talking about someone else. "She was the only one. I did not even have words for it yet—I was just a kid, I did not understand—but she saw. Somehow she saw." He paused. "She told me it was okay. That there was nothing wrong with me. That I should not let anyone make me feel ashamed."

"She sounds like she loved you."

"She did." Ilya's jaw tightened. "She loved me, and then she left me."

The words hung in the air, heavy with old grief and older anger.

"I know it is not—I know she was sick. That it was not about me." Ilya's voice cracked. "But I was twelve. And my mother was the only person who knew who I really was, and then she was gone, and I was alone with my father, who—" He stopped.

"Who what?"

"Who was not a good man." Ilya said it simply. Factually. "He was not cruel, exactly. Just—cold. Distant. He believed what he was raised to believe. That men should be a certain way. That anything else was weakness." He shrugged. "I learned very quickly not to let him see anything real."

"Is he still—"

"Dead. A few years now." Ilya's voice was flat. "Alzheimer's, at the end. He did not know who I was for a long time before that."

Cliff sat with that. The loneliness of it.

"I have a brother," Ilya added, almost as an afterthought. "We do not speak."

"Why not?"

"Because he is like my father. Because when our father died, he—" Ilya stopped. His jaw worked. "He said things at the funeral. About our mother. About weakness. About what kind of person does that to their family." He looked at Cliff. "I have not spoken to him since."

"So there's no one."

"There is no one." Ilya spread his hands. "My mother has been dead since I was a child. My father is dead. My brother is—" He shrugged. "Not my brother. Not anymore. So you are asking if my family knows about the video—there is no family. There is no one to tell."

Cliff sat with that. Eighteen when he came to North America, already years into hiding, his mother dead and his father cold and his brother lost.

"I'm sorry," Cliff said. It felt pathetically inadequate.

"For what? You did not do anything."

"For not knowing. For not asking." Cliff shook his head. "All this time we've been friends, and I didn't know your mother was dead. I didn't know about your father, or your brother. I didn't know—" He stopped. "I didn't know anything that mattered."

"You knew me."

"Did I?"

Ilya was quiet for a moment. "You knew the me I was able to show. That is—" He paused. "That is more than most people get."

"It's not enough."

"Maybe not. But it was what I could give." Ilya met his eyes. "I have not talked about my mother in—I do not know. A long time. Shane knows, because Shane knows everything now, but before him—" He shrugged. "I do not talk about her. It is easier to pretend she did not exist than to explain how she died."

"Because of the stigma?"

"Because of everything." Ilya's voice was tired. "In Russia, suicide is—shameful. Weakness. And to be the child of someone who—" He stopped. "People look at you differently. They wonder what is wrong with you, what you did to make her—" He cut himself off. "I learned very young that some things are easier to bury."

"You were twelve. It wasn't your fault."

"I know that." Ilya's jaw tightened. "I know that now. But when you are twelve and your mother is dead and everyone is whispering—" He shook his head. "You learn to stop talking about it. You learn to hide."

Cliff thought about that. About a twelve-year-old Ilya, already learning to bury the important things. Already building the walls that would define him.

"Is that when it started?" he asked quietly. "The hiding?"

Ilya considered the question. "Maybe. Or maybe it was always there and she was the only one who made it safe to not hide." He paused. "After she died, there was no one. Just me and my father and my brother, and neither of them—" He made a vague gesture. "Hockey. Hockey was the only thing that made sense. The only thing I was allowed to be good at."

"So you buried everything else."

"I buried everything else." Ilya nodded. "And I came here, and I kept burying, and—" He stopped. "And then there was you. And Shane. And I started to wonder if maybe I did not have to bury everything forever."

"But you still didn't tell me."

"No." Ilya's voice was heavy. "Because I did not know how. Because every time I tried, I heard my father's voice telling me that real men do not—" He stopped. Shook his head. "It does not matter. I should have told you. I was afraid, and I let the fear win."

"You were protecting yourself."

"I was hiding. There is a difference." Ilya looked at him. "You said that, on your drive. That hiding and protecting are not the same."

"I was angry when I said that."

"You were right."

Cliff didn't know how to respond to that. The conversation had gone somewhere he hadn't expected—deeper, darker, more painful than he'd been prepared for.

"She would have liked Shane," Ilya said suddenly. "My mother. She would have—" His voice wavered. "She always said she wanted me to be happy. That she was sorry the world made it so hard for people like me." He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye. "She did not get to see me happy. She did not get to see me—any of it."

"She knew you, though. You said that. She saw you."

"For twelve years." Ilya's laugh was wet. "Twelve years. And then I had to learn to be invisible all over again."

Cliff moved without thinking, reaching over and gripping Ilya's arm. "You're not invisible now."

"No." Ilya looked at him. His eyes were bright. "No, I am very visible now. Everyone has seen the video. Everyone knows."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." Ilya took a shaky breath. "I know what you meant. And I—" He stopped. "I am glad. That you are here. That you know. That I do not have to—" He gestured vaguely. "Pretend. With you."

"You never had to pretend with me."

"I did, though. I always did." Ilya shook his head. "But maybe now I can stop."

"Yeah." Cliff squeezed his arm. "Maybe now you can."

They sat in silence for a long moment. The morning light was finally starting to warm, the gray giving way to something softer.

"Come on," Cliff said eventually, standing. "Let me make you some eggs that your mother would be proud of."

Ilya looked up at him. Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or gratitude.

"She was not a good cook either," he said quietly. "We would have—how do you say? Bonded."

"Over burnt eggs?"

"Over terrible, terrible eggs." Ilya almost smiled. "She burned everything. I learned from her."

"Well, I'm breaking the cycle. Come on."

They went back inside. The kitchen was still empty, the house quiet around them.

Cliff cracked eggs into a pan and didn't burn them, and Ilya watched with something like wonder, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like the beginning of something new.

Shane found him in the kitchen an hour later, after the eggs had been eaten and Ilya had finally gone back to bed. Cliff was washing dishes—something to do with his hands, something to keep him from checking his phone every thirty seconds for news alerts.

"You don't have to do that," Shane said from the doorway.

Cliff glanced over his shoulder. Shane looked marginally better than he had last night—still exhausted, still wearing Ilya's hoodie, but something in his face had settled. Softened.

"I wanted to." Cliff turned back to the sink. "Couldn't sleep anyway."

Shane crossed to the coffee maker and poured himself a cup from the pot Cliff had made. He leaned against the counter, watching Cliff scrub at a pan that was already clean.

"He told you," Shane said. "About his mom."

Cliff's hands stilled. "Yeah."

"He doesn't tell anyone that. Ever." Shane's voice was quiet. "It took him almost a year to tell me. And even then, it was—" He stopped. "It was an accident. He was having a nightmare, and when he woke up, he just started talking. Like he couldn't stop."

Cliff set the pan down. Turned to face Shane properly. "I didn't know. Any of it. The whole time I've known him—"

"He's good at hiding." Shane shrugged. "That's kind of his whole thing."

"I should have seen it."

"How? He didn't want you to see." Shane took a sip of his coffee. "That's not a failure on your part. That's just—who he is. Who he had to become."

Cliff dried his hands on a dish towel, taking his time. There was something he needed to say, and he wasn't sure how to say it.

"Thank you," he said finally.

Shane blinked. "For what?"

"For—" Cliff gestured vaguely. "For him. For making him—" He stopped. The words weren't coming out right. "When he left Boston, I didn't understand. I thought I'd done something wrong. Pushed too hard, or not hard enough, or—I don't know. I spent months trying to figure out what I could have done differently."

"It wasn't about you."

"I know that now." Cliff met his eyes. "He was running toward something. Toward you. And I didn't—" His throat tightened unexpectedly. "I've never seen him like this before. The way he is with you. The way he talks about you. It's like—"

"Like what?"

"Like he's finally stopped holding his breath."

Shane was quiet for a moment. His hands tightened around his coffee mug.

"He does that thing," Shane said slowly. "Where he's in a room full of people and he's performing the whole time. Being Ilya Rozanov, hockey star, loudest guy at the party. And you can see it, if you know what to look for—the way he's always on. Always watching. Always ready."

"Yeah. I know."

"The first time I saw him stop—" Shane shook his head. "It was maybe six months in. We were at my place, just watching TV, and I looked over and he was asleep. Just—out. Completely relaxed." His voice softened. "He told me later that he never falls asleep around other people. That he can't. But with me, he just—"

"Felt safe."

"Yeah." Shane looked at him. "That's what I want to give him. That's all I've ever wanted to give him. A place where he doesn't have to perform."

Cliff nodded slowly. He thought about all the times he'd seen Ilya passed out on a plane or a bus and realized now that even that had been a kind of performance. The appearance of rest without the reality of it.

"He's lucky to have you," Cliff said.

"I'm lucky to have him." Shane's mouth quirked. "Even if he burns everything he tries to cook."

"The eggs this morning were a war crime."

"You should see what he does to pasta." Shane was almost smiling now. "I've had to replace two pans."

"That sounds like him."

"It really does."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment. The house was quiet around them—Hayden still snoring faintly from the living room, Ilya finally sleeping in the bedroom down the hall.

"I owe you an apology," Cliff said.

Shane frowned. "For what?"

"For not—" Cliff struggled for the words. "When J.J. was saying all that shit in the car. About Ilya manipulating you. Using you. I defended Ilya, but I didn't—" He stopped. "I didn't think about what it meant for you. To have your teammate—your friend—assume you were a victim. Like you couldn't make your own choices."

Shane's expression flickered. "J.J. said that?"

"He said a lot of things." Cliff's jaw tightened. "He was scared and stupid and—he's going to apologize. He's upstairs, waiting. But I wanted you to know that I see it. What he did. And it wasn't just about Ilya—it was about you too. About not trusting you."

Shane was quiet for a long moment. He stared into his coffee like it held answers.

"People have been making decisions for me my whole life," he said finally. "Coaches. Managers. My parents, when I was young. Everyone had an opinion about what I should do, who I should be." He paused. "Ilya was the first person who just—asked. What I wanted. And then listened to the answer."

"That's rare."

"It shouldn't be. But it is." Shane looked up. "I chose him. That's what J.J. doesn't understand. I chose this—the hiding, the risk, all of it. Because Ilya was worth it. Is worth it."

"I know."

"Do you?" Shane's voice sharpened slightly. "Because you drove three hours defending Ilya. Which I appreciate. But you also didn't know about any of this. You didn't know we existed. So I need to know—" He stopped. "I need to know that you see me too. Not just as Ilya's boyfriend. Not just as the person who's good for him. But as—"

"As your own person."

"Yeah."

Cliff nodded slowly. "I see you, Shane. I see someone who looked at my best friend—all the mess, all the walls, all the shit he carries—and decided he was worth loving anyway. That's not—" He shook his head. "That's not nothing. That's everything."

Shane's eyes were bright. He looked away, blinking rapidly.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm not usually—it's been a long couple of days."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I know. I just—" Shane laughed wetly. "I'm not used to this. People knowing. People seeing us. It's—"

"Terrifying?"

"Yeah. But also—" He paused. "Also kind of a relief? I've been hiding for so long. And now everyone knows, and it's awful, but it's also—I don't have to lie anymore. I don't have to pretend."

"That's worth something."

"It's worth everything." Shane met his eyes. "I love him. I know you know that, but I need to say it out loud. To someone who matters to him. I love him, and I'm not going anywhere, and whatever happens next—the media, the league, all of it—I'm going to be there."

Cliff felt his throat tighten. "He knows that."

"I know he knows. But I needed you to know too." Shane's voice was steady now. Certain. "Because you're his family. You have been for years. And I'm not trying to replace that—I'm just—"

"Adding to it."

"Yeah." Shane nodded. "Adding to it."

Cliff crossed the kitchen and pulled Shane into a hug.

Shane stiffened for a second—surprised, maybe—and then relaxed into it, his forehead dropping to Cliff's shoulder.

"Thank you," Cliff said quietly. "For loving him. For staying."

"Thank you for commandeering my teammates and making them drive you here." Shane's voice was muffled but almost amused. "I hear it was very dramatic."

"I didn't commandeer. I strongly suggested."

"Ilya said you almost made J.J. cry."

"J.J. made himself cry. I just facilitated."

Shane laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of him. He pulled back, wiping at his eyes.

"God. What a mess."

"Yeah." Cliff smiled slightly. "But it's our mess now. All of us."

"That's either very comforting or very terrifying."

"Probably both."

"Probably." Shane took a shaky breath. "I should go check on Ilya."

"He's okay. We talked."

"I know. But I want to—" Shane shrugged. "I just want to see him. Make sure he's real."

"I get that."

Shane paused at the kitchen doorway. "Cliff?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For coming. For all of it." He hesitated. "Ilya always said you were the best person he knew. I didn't really understand what he meant until now."

Cliff didn't know what to say to that. His throat was too tight for words.

Shane seemed to understand. He nodded once, small and private, and then disappeared down the hall toward the bedroom.

Shane was making more coffee when J.J. finally came downstairs later that morning.

He looked up when J.J. appeared in the doorway—hesitant, uncertain, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to be there.

"Coffee's almost ready," Shane said. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the stove."

J.J. nodded. Got a mug. Stood awkwardly by the counter.

The silence stretched.

"I've been thinking," J.J. said finally. "About what you said last night. About why I do this."

Shane waited.

"My dad had an affair." J.J.'s voice was rough. "When I was fourteen. He'd been seeing someone for years—years—and none of us knew. My mom, my sister, me. We all just—believed him. When he said he was working late, or had a business trip, or whatever. We believed him."

Shane's expression shifted. "J.J.—"

"I'm not saying that as an excuse." J.J. held up a hand. "I'm saying it because—I think that's where this comes from. This thing I do, where I assume people are lying. Where I look for betrayal everywhere." He swallowed hard. "I swore I'd never be blindsided like my mom was. And I think—I think I've been so focused on not being fooled that I forgot how to actually trust people."

Shane was quiet for a moment. "That makes sense."

"It doesn't make it okay."

"No. It doesn't." Shane poured two cups of coffee, handed one to J.J. "But it helps me understand. Why you keep doing this."

"I'm going to get help." J.J. wrapped his hands around the mug. "Therapy. Whatever. I need to figure this out, because I can't keep—" He stopped. "I can't keep hurting the people I care about because I'm scared of being hurt first."

Shane nodded slowly. "That's a good start."

"It's not enough."

"No. But it's something." Shane leaned against the counter. "I'm not going to pretend everything's fine, J.J. It's not. You really hurt me—not just yesterday, but last time too. And it's going to take a while before I trust you again."

"I know."

"But I'm willing to try. If you're willing to do the work."

J.J. felt something loosen in his chest. "I am. I swear I am."

"Then we'll figure it out." Shane took a sip of his coffee. "But J.J.?"

"Yeah?"

"If this happens again—if you accuse me of something like this again—we're done. Not as teammates, but as friends. I can't keep giving you chances to hurt me."

J.J. nodded. "I understand."

"Good."

Ilya found J.J. twenty minutes later.

J.J. was still in the kitchen, nursing his coffee and staring out the window at the reporters still camped on the street. He heard footsteps and looked up to find Ilya standing in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"So," Ilya said. "You are the one who almost accused Shane of throwing games."

J.J. set his mug down. "Yeah. That was me."

"And you are the one who called me—what was word? Whore?"

J.J. flinched. "Marleau told you."

"Marleau tells me everything." Ilya crossed to the coffee maker, poured himself a cup. "He is very upset about this. He says many bad things about you on the drive."

"I deserve them."

"Yes. You do." Ilya turned around, leaning against the counter. His posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp. Watchful. "So. You have things to say to me?"

J.J. took a breath. "I'm sorry. For all of it. The things I said about you—I didn't know you. I still don't know you. And instead of admitting that, I made up a version of you that was easier to hate."

Ilya didn't respond. Just watched him.

"I called you—" J.J. couldn't even say the word again. "I said terrible things about your sex life, like it was any of my business. Like it said anything about who you are. And then I said you couldn't be trusted because you've been with women, like that's—" He shook his head. "That's bullshit. I know that now."

"You did not know before?"

"I didn't think about it. Which is almost worse." J.J. met his eyes. "I was so focused on protecting Shane that I forgot to ask what he actually needed protecting from. Spoiler: it wasn't you."

Ilya was quiet for a long moment. Then he took a sip of his coffee, considering.

"You know," he said slowly, "when I first met Shane, I think he is too good for me. Golden boy, everyone loves him, perfect record. And I am—" He shrugged. "I am mess. I know this. I am too loud, too much, too—" He waved a hand. "Everything."

J.J. didn't know what to say.

"But Shane, he does not see it this way. Shane sees me, and he does not flinch. He does not try to fix me or change me. He just—" Ilya's voice softened. "He just loves me. As I am. Even the parts that are too much."

"He's lucky to have you."

"I am lucky to have him." Ilya set his mug down. "And I do not need your approval, J.J. I do not need you to think I am good enough. But Shane—Shane wants his friends to understand. So, I am willing to try. If you are."

"I am." J.J. stood up. "I want to know the real you. Not the version I made up in my head."

Ilya studied him for a moment. Then, slowly, he extended a hand.

"Then we start over. Yes? Clean—how do you say? Clean page?"

"Clean slate." J.J. took his hand. "Yeah. Clean slate."

They shook. Ilya's grip was firm but not aggressive. When he let go, some of the tension in his shoulders had eased.

"Shane says you are not bad person," Ilya said. "Just scared. I understand scared. I have been scared my whole life."

"I'm sorry you had to be."

Ilya shrugged. "Is not your fault. Is just—how world is, for people like me." He picked up his coffee again. "But maybe we make it better. Little bit at a time. Yes?"

"Yeah." J.J. nodded. "Little bit at a time."

Ilya almost smiled. It was the first real expression J.J. had seen on his face—not the on-ice showboat, not the guarded stranger, but something genuine. Almost warm.

"Okay," Ilya said. "Then we are okay. For now."

"For now," J.J. agreed.

It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet. But it was a start.

And sometimes, that was enough.

Cliff found them all in the living room an hour later—Shane and Ilya on one couch, J.J. and Hayden on the other, coffee cups scattered on the table between them.

"Did I miss the reconciliation?" he asked from the doorway.

"We're working on it," Shane said. "It's a process."

"Processes are good." Cliff dropped into the armchair. "Better than screaming matches, anyway."

"There was almost a screaming match," Hayden offered. "But then Ilya made a joke about my driving and it kind of broke the tension."

"My driving commentary was very helpful," Cliff said.

"Your driving commentary was a war crime."

"Agree to disagree."

Ilya shifted, leaning more heavily against Shane's side. He looked tired—they all looked tired—but there was something different in his face now. Something lighter.

"So," he said. "What happens now?"

The question hung in the air. Outside, they could still hear the faint murmur of reporters on the street. The story wasn't going away. The hard parts were still coming.

But for now, in this room, they were together. All of them—the mess and the mistakes and the beginnings of something better.

"Now," Cliff said, "we figure it out. Together."

Shane's hand found Ilya's. Ilya's fingers interlaced with his.

"Together," Shane repeated.

And for the first time in days, it actually felt possible.