Archive of Our Own ^beta

I am thinking only about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those.

Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.

The words replay in Shane’s mind, his grip on the steering wheel of his rental tightening so much he thinks he feels it creak.

The last couple of hours of his life have been a living nightmare. He’d once referred to his parents finding out about his relationship with Ilya a nightmare, but that particular moment has nothing on the sheer terror that’s been flooding his system ever since he’d finished his game earlier and heard the news.

***

“The Ottawa Centaurs’ plane went down!” J.J. exclaimed, eyes wide.

Shane, who'd just gotten dressed after his shower, immediately stiffened—his lungs suddenly felt very tight. “What?” he choked out, the word leaving him in a wheeze. He noticed Hayden immediately moving closer to him, hovering nervously.

“Yeah, it’s all over the news, see?” J.J. held out his phone for Shane to see, but his eyes were too blurry with the tears flooding them all of a sudden to make out anything on the screen. “Injuries have been reported, no specifics, and no casualties, but it doesn’t seem like there’s a whole lot of information right now…”

Shane stumbled backwards, the words hitting him like a physical blow. Hayden immediately reached out to steady him, a warm, grounding hand holding him by the arm. Distantly, he felt grateful—he’d probably have fallen otherwise. But gratitude felt irrelevant to his brain in light of what he'd just heard.

“Hopefully your buddy Rozanov is okay,” J.J. said with a low whistle, as if Shane’s entire world hadn’t been secretly ending right in front of him.

“My phone,” he managed to grit out from behind clenched teeth, and Hayden thankfully sprang right into action, reaching over Shane’s head with his free hand to grab his phone from his cubby for him, holding it out for him to take. Shane managed to unfreeze enough to take it, movements jerky and mechanical. He hadn’t gotten any notifications, which meant no calls or texts from Ilya, and instantly, his panic doubled. He tried navigating to his Instagram instead, but the tears blurring his eyes made it impossible to read anything. “Hayden—Instagram—“ he choked out helplessly, and Hayden helped him sit before taking Shane’s phone back. Distantly, he heard J.J. asking what was wrong and going unanswered, before Hayden told him to give Shane some space for a minute. He then sat next to Shane, and through blurry eyes, Shane had been able to make out that he’d opened his Instagram.

“What now, buddy?” Hayden asked, voice soft like he was speaking to one of his children.

“Messages,” Shane managed to grit out, his hands squeezing the wood of the bench beneath him in an effort to ground himself, to not let panic overwhelm him. Instagram was where any messages from Ilya would be, since he would’ve only had wifi on the plane.

He heard a quiet gasp from beside him as Hayden navigated to his messages, meaning there was definitely something there. “Buddy…” he started, voice cautious.

“What did he say?” He felt like he was going to faint, but he needed to know.

“Are you sure you—“

“Fucking read it to me, Hayden!” He’d feel bad later about snapping at his friend, who was only trying to help, but in the moment, the panic clawing at his insides prevented him from reacting any other way.

“Okay, um…” He heard Hayden take a deep breath. “Fuck, Shane, we should go somewhere…private,” he tried to protest, trying to protect him, but Shane immediately started shaking his head.

“No, no, I need to know, now, I need to know, Hayden, please just tell me, I don’t fucking care about anything else, just…just tell me what he said, please.” The tears started actually falling then, and he knew his teammates were definitely staring, but that felt irrelevant—all his brain could focus on was Ilya.

“Okay, fuck, um…just…just don’t freak out, don’t jump to conclusions, this doesn’t mean anything bad happened to him, okay?”

Dread filled Shane, seeing how desperately Hayden was trying to keep him calm. He felt himself nod, trying to act far more prepared than he actually was for whatever Hayden was about to say.

“‘You are the best thing in my life,’” he started to read, taking another deep breath before continuing. “‘I love you. Always. Maybe from the first time I saw you.’” His voice started to wobble, then. “‘I am only thinking about you right now. A million memories. Thank you for those. Whatever happens, I am with you. Safe in your heart. I believe it.’ That…that’s it.”

A sob escaped Shane, loud and painful. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if trying to keep himself from shattering into a billion pieces right there for all his teammates to see.

Because…those sounded a lot like last words.

He tried to remind himself that J.J. had mentioned no casualties being reported, but…

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Hayden tried to tell him, but his voice was thick with tears and thoroughly unconvincing. The fact that Hayden was crying for Ilya spoke volumes on its own.

“Then why hasn’t he called?” Shane sobbed, lungs burning with every heaving breath he managed to take. The edges of his vision blackened—passing out had suddenly become a very real possibility.

And Hayden hadn’t had an answer for that.

***

What happened after that is a bit of a blur. He mostly just remembers begging Hayden to help him get a rental car, the car he’s traveling in now, despite his best friend’s protests. Hayden hadn’t wanted him to drive in his current state, especially with how long the drive to Tampa would be, but had eventually realized nothing was going to change Shane’s mind. He’d initially tried to suggest that Shane fly, but there wasn’t a flight available until the next morning anyway, and Shane wasn’t exactly keen on getting on a plane, all things considered. So Hayden had helped him get this rental, got his phone hooked up to receive texts and calls through the car, and made him promise to check in every few hours, promising he wouldn’t mind being woken up. He’d also promised Shane he’d handle his absence somehow.

Shane really doesn’t care how it’s handled, frankly. He just cares about getting to Ilya.

The drive is long and silent. He calls his parents first, when he’s about an hour out of Washington. They’d called him a few times before he left, but he’d been too fucked up to answer them, not knowing what he could possibly say to them—but he knows they’re probably worried out of their minds, so he knows he needs to get it over with.

“Shane? Sweetie, are you okay? We saw the news,” his mother says immediately upon answering the phone. She sounds like she’s been crying.

“No,” he answers, too raw to even think about lying. “I’m—I’m on my way to Tampa.” There’s no point in lying about that, either—they’ll find out one way or another.

“You what?” He can hear the panic in his mother’s voice.

“Hayden helped me get a rental car,” he grits out, taking a steadying breath. “I-I have to get to him.”

He hears the low, soothing rumble of his father’s voice next. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive that far?” he asks, and Shane is grateful he’s not trying to talk him out of it like he’s positive his mother wants to.

“Yes,” he says resolutely. “I bought energy drinks, I’ll be okay. I…I don’t think I would’ve slept anyway, so…” He takes a shuddering breath. “Has there been any more news? I’ve been driving for an hour now, and I haven’t been able to check…” Any casualties? he wants to ask, but he can’t bring himself to.

“Nothing specific, I’m afraid,” his father answers. Shane can hear his mother sniffling. “All anyone knows is that there are injuries, but no details about these injuries or who on the team is even injured.”

“You haven’t heard from Ilya?” his mother asks, and he can hear the anxiety in her voice. Ilya is just as much her son as Shane is at this point, after all, and it's clear she's not taking this well.

Shane bites his lip, swallowing the lump of tears rising in his throat. “I haven’t,” he practically whispers, but thankfully, his parents hear him anyway.

He hears what sounds like a sob, followed by footsteps that get quieter until he can’t hear them anymore. “I’m sure he’s alright, son,” his father tells him, and Shane wants so desperately to believe him. He also desperately wants a hug from the man right about now—his dad gave the best hugs. “His phone might’ve broken in the accident, y’know? Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

“I’ll try not to,” he answers, even though he kind of already has. He would’ve gotten a hold of me on someone else’s phone by now if his was broken, he thinks miserably, rubbing his face roughly. “Anyway, I just…wanted to let you guys know what was going on. I’ll try to call when I get to Tampa, but…can you call me if you find anything out from the news?”

“Of course,” his father promises. “We love you, son. Tell Ilya we love him too when you see him, yeah?”

Shane’s eyes prick at that. “I’ll tell him,” he says in reply, hoping desperately that he can.

***

When he’s about an hour outside of Tampa, he realizes he doesn’t even know where to go. He has no idea what hotel, what…hospital anyone might be at.

But then he remembers he has Wyatt Hayes’ phone number.

Shane and Ilya had both gotten all the hockey camp coaches’ phone numbers to be able to communicate more easily.

“Call Wyatt Hayes,” he says out loud to the car, and after a moment, the phone starts to ring. He’s desperately hoping Wyatt is either uninjured, or not so injured he can’t pick up his phone. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Wyatt isn’t an option.

The call goes to voicemail, and Shane tries not to freak out too much. He reminds himself that it’s barely nine am, and he could absolutely just be sleeping. Especially after what was most definitely a rough night.

“Hey, Wyatt, it’s Shane. Hollander,” he clarifies, wincing immediately—Wyatt surely has caller ID and will know it’s him. “Listen, I, um, I’ve been driving all night, and I’m about an hour outside of Tampa right now, so…when you get this message, please call me back, because I—I haven’t been able to get a hold of Ilya, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me where he is. You’re kinda my only hope right now. I know this is probably weird, but I just…please, please call me back. Thanks.” He’s about to hang up, but then remembers his manners and adds, “Hope you’re okay,” before actually ending the call.

Everything in him wants to call back immediately. Wants to call as many times as it takes to get an answer. He’s been calling Ilya’s phone all night, leaving voicemails, but he can’t exactly pester Wyatt like that, as much as he wants to.

He tells himself he’ll at least give it another twenty minutes before he calls him again.

With a shaky hand, he reaches for his third energy drink of the journey, tilting his head back to get the last dregs of it. Performance diet be damned—getting to Ilya is the most important thing, and to do that, he needs to be awake. He also reaches onto the seat next to him for the protein bar he’d bought at the last gas station he’d stopped to pee at, knowing he needs food despite how little he feels like eating.

As he’s in the middle of chewing the last bite of his dry-ass protein bar, about ten minutes later, his phone rings. He nearly chokes on crumbs when the car displays Wyatt’s name, and he fumbles with the button a few times before managing to answer.

“Hello?” he coughs out, swallowing the last of the food in his mouth.

“Uh, hey, Hollander,” comes Wyatt’s voice through the speakers. “I just got your call—sorry, I was sleeping.”

“Is he okay?” Shane asks, knowing how rude it is to not even ask Wyatt if he’s okay first, but he can’t help himself.

“He’s…well, last I heard, he’s still at the hospital. He hit his head pretty hard on the seat in front of him when we crash landed.” There’s a pause. “Listen, I know you and Roz are buddies, and you’re worried about him, but…isn’t driving all night to see him a bit extreme?” he asks, confusion clear in his tone.

Shane immediately feels defensive. “It’s not,” he says flatly, clenching his jaw. “Can you just…tell me which hospital he’s at?” He can feel panic trying to rise within him again, knowing Ilya is injured, but he needs to keep it down while he’s still driving—he can freak out later.

“Tampa General,” Wyatt answers, still sounding confused. He also gives the floor and room number.

Shane takes a deep, calming breath. “Okay, thanks, Wyatt. Sorry if I woke you.”

“Hey, they might not—“ Wyatt starts, but Shane is already hanging up, and he’s not about to call back to see what he’d been about to say. He thinks he can fill in the blanks: They might not let you in.

Well, they can fucking go ahead and try to stop him.

***

“I woke up to a call from Shane Hollander this morning,” is not what Troy expects to come out of Wyatt’s mouth as they’re walking into the hospital. A few of the guys had been too injured to leave last night after they’d all gotten checked out, so everyone else is taking turns visiting. Coach, after getting himself checked out and cleared to leave, had left only long enough to get everyone checked into the hotel before coming back, and Troy knows he’d probably spent the night in Rozanov’s room—he’d definitely been the most injured one.

So Troy had come with Wyatt, a coffee in hand for their poor coach, trying not to think about what he’d done with Harris last night.

He thinks this conversation should serve as a good enough distraction.

“Really?” Troy asks, eyebrows raised. They step into the elevator, and Wyatt hits the button that will take them to the correct floor. “What did he want?”

Wyatt rubs his face tiredly. “He’s apparently been driving all night—he wanted to know what hospital Roz was at. Weird, right? I definitely thought I was still sleeping and having some weird dream when I listened to the voicemail he left.”

Instantly, Troy thinks about Rozanov’s face when they’d come out to each other, and Troy mentioned Hollander. He knows then, without a shadow of a doubt, that his assumption in that moment had to have been right. “You called him back, right?” Troy asks, a pit forming in his stomach. The elevator doors open, and they step out, starting to head in the direction of the ward their teammates are in.

“Of course, he sounded pretty wrecked, I wasn’t gonna leave him in the dark. I guess I just didn’t realize they were that close,” he answers, shrugging. “He was about an hour away at that point, so he’s gotta be here by now, because that was like two hours ago now. I doubt they’ll let him in, though, right? There’s probably a very specific list of allowed visitors…”

The pit in Troy’s stomach deepened. “Shit, you’re probably right. Fuck. Coach should be able to get him in, though, right?”

“If anyone can, it’ll be him,” Wyatt muses.

As he’s about to ask Wyatt if he can have Hollander’s number, he spots the man himself, slumped against the wall down the hall from the locked door of the unit where Rozanov’s room is located, knees drawn up to his chest with his head down. In that moment, Troy can't help but feel he looks impossibly small, and it immediately makes him kick into action.

“Shit, there he is! Can you go ahead without me? See if Coach can get him added to the list? I’m gonna go talk to him,” Troy says, feeling very out of his depth, but Rozanov has been a better friend to him than he deserves—there’s no way he’s gonna leave his partner, who clearly loves him very deeply, alone, not when he’s the only one who knows the real reason he’s even here.

“On it,” Wyatt answers without argument, taking Coach’s coffee from Troy’s hand and heading to the buzzer and pressing the button, stating his name. Troy watches him disappear into the unit a few seconds later, but Hollander doesn’t even react.

Troy creeps closer, not wanting to startle him, but Hollander seems to be in his own little world—he shows no indication that he realizes anyone else is there.

“Hollander?” he says cautiously, kneeling beside him. He sees him twitch, but he doesn’t lift his head yet. “Hey, it’s Troy. Troy Barrett. You alright? Hazy told me you drove all night.”

Slowly, Hollander’s head raises. Troy is taken aback by the swollen redness of his eyes, as well as the deep purple bags under them. There’s dried tear tracks on his cheeks. “They won’t let me in,” he croaks out.

“Yeah, Hazy’s working on that, okay? We’ll get you in there,” he promises, hoping he’s not lying, that Coach will be able to do something.

“I yelled at the nurses,” he mumbles miserably, fresh tears springing to his eyes. “They’re not gonna let me in.”

“We’ll explain, alright?” Troy doesn’t think he’s ever spoken this softly in his life, but every inch of Hollander is screaming fragile! right now. “You’re his partner; they’ll have to let you in if they know that.”

Hollander flinches at that. “You…know?”

“I guessed,” Troy replies, scratching the back of his neck. “Listen, I—you’re safe, okay? I figure Rozanov probably told you about me, which I don’t mind because you’re obviously a safe person. So like…I’m not gonna judge you, or anything.”

He watches Hollander take a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezed shut. “Thank you, I…I’ll tell them anything if it means I can see him.” He looks at Troy then, lip trembling. “How hurt is he? All Wyatt said was that he hit his head on the seat in front of him.”

The image of Rozanov, face bloodied and unconscious as the emergency crews boarded, rises unbidden to Troy’s mind. He swallows hard before answering. “I’m not gonna lie, he hit it pretty hard. I don’t know much more than you do, but…it’s definitely a concussion, at the very least.” An involuntary shiver rips through him. “I was across the aisle from him, and…I didn’t see it happen because I was bracing myself so hard, but…we hit the ground pretty hard. It absolutely could’ve been worse, but…yeah.”

Hollander is breathing harder now, head lowering to rest between his knees. “I feel like I’m going to be sick,” he says weakly, so quietly Troy almost doesn’t hear him.

“Shit, uh—hang on a sec,” he tells him, frantically looking around for a trash can and doing his best to ignore the twinge in his neck as he does so. He locates a small trash can a few feet away and manages to grab it just in time for Hollander to empty his guts into it. Troy winces, turning his face away, and tries to ignore the sound of it. Other people throwing up had always made him queasy.

“Sorry,” Hollander moans, coughing. Troy’s sure his throat must be burning, so he offers him the bottle of water he’d brought for himself. He takes it gratefully, swishing some around in his mouth before spitting into the trash, then takes a proper drink.

Thankfully, Wyatt emerges then, along with Coach and one of the nurses. The nurse eyes Hollander warily, while Wyatt and Coach just look a bit confused.

“This man was being extremely disruptive, trying to force his way into my unit,” the nurse says flatly, crossing her arms. “Why in the world would I let him in?”

“I’m sorry, I just—I drove all night from Washington, I have to see him, you don’t understand,” Hollander begs, slowly standing up on shaking legs. Troy reaches out to steady him, seeing how unsteady he is.

The nurse raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Then make me understand.”

Hollander looks around, then, at Coach Wiebe, then Wyatt, the nurse, and finally, at Troy himself. Troy gives his shoulder a squeeze, hoping it’s comforting, and nods the slightest bit.

“I—We—“ A sound of frustration escapes him. “God, fuck it, I’m his boyfriend, that’s why. So please, let me see him.”

Troy can see both Coach and Wyatt’s jaws drop, but if the nurse is shocked, she’s great at hiding it. “Can you prove it? Can anyone here confirm that?” she asks, looking around.

“I can,” Troy says immediately, giving his shoulder another squeeze. “I’ll vouch for him.”

She looks to Coach, then, who manages to pick his jaw up off the floor, unlike Wyatt. “Mr. Wiebe?”

“If Troy says so, I believe him,” Coach says immediately, and not for the first time, Troy is struck by how utterly good Coach Wiebe is.

Finally, the nurse sighs, her expression softening. “If you make any trouble, Mr. Hollander, you’re out. No second chances.”

Hollander’s knees give out at that, and Troy just barely manages to keep him upright—his neck twinges painfully, and he squeezes his eyes shut and breathes through the pain as he helps him get his feet back under him. “Thank you, I won’t cause any more trouble, thank you, you won’t even know I’m there,” he promises. He steps out of Troy’s grip, still wobbly, but follows the nurse closely as she heads back to the door.

Wyatt and Coach Wiebe linger, looking expectantly at Troy, who sighs. “Can we…not talk about this right now? I’d rather let those two speak for themselves,” he requests, hoping it’s enough for them not to push. Knowing both of them, it will be—they’re good guys.

“Got it,” Wyatt answers, and Coach nods along with him. They all silently agree to head to any room but Rozanov’s as they buzz into the unit.

***

“He’s right in this room,” the nurse tells Shane after leading him to a door. It’s mostly closed, but Shane can see the foot of the bed, the shape of Ilya’s feet under the blanket. He feels a bit ill again.

“How…how is he?” he asks, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“He’s got a concussion, broke his nose as well. Definitely gonna be sitting some games out,” she replies.

“But he’s gonna be okay?”

Her eyes soften. “Go in and see for yourself, hmm? He’s due to be woken up soon, anyway.”

Finally, Shane nods jerkily. The nurse walks away, and Shane takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and makes his way in.

The room is dim, with most of the light coming from the screens of the various monitoring devices and dimly through the curtains. Ilya is resting, bruised eyes closed, and there’s a bandage across the bridge of his nose and one on his forehead as well. But he’s breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest a balm to Shane’s tattered psyche.

Lip trembling, Shane moves closer until he’s at his bedside. Checking to make sure he’s not going to sit on any tubes or cords or anything, he sits on the bed, reaching out to rest a hand over Ilya’s, where an IV has been inserted. At the touch, Ilya’s eyes start to flutter open.

“Hey,” Shane whispers, feeling tears spring to his eyes again. He’s never cried so much in his life, and probably never will again. “Just me.”

“Shane?” His voice is a bit garbled, accent thick, but Shane wants to weep once he hears it. “You’re here? ‘M not…dreaming?” he asks, slowly blinking those beautiful blue eyes in confusion.

“I’m here,” he confirms, voice soft. He feels Ilya’s hand shift in his own until their fingers are locking together.

Ilya squints at him for a moment, like he doesn’t fully believe his eyes, but then his face splits into a goofy grin. “You look like shit,” he says tiredly.

Shane laughs wetly at that, lifting their joined hands to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckles. “Asshole, I drove all night just to see you, you know,” he tells him. “Sorry if I don’t look my best after that.”

“Just teasing,” Ilya murmurs, eyes closing. He’s still grinning. “Glad you’re here. Prettiest sight, even when you look like shit.”

“How do you feel?” Shane asks, biting his lip. “I was…fuck, Ilya, I was out of my mind with worry. There was no information online other than that your plane crash landed and people were injured.” A tear slips down his cheek against his will, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try and prevent more from falling.

“They gave me good shit,” he answers, and Shane can still hear the grin. “Do not feel much pain now. Surely will later. But I am okay, you hear?” Ilya squeezes his hand, prompting Shane to look at him, finding that the grin has softened. “I am so sorry I scared you, lyubimiyy.”

“When Hayden read me your Instagram messages…I was so scared, Ilya,” he admits, sniffling.

Ilya’s nose wrinkles. “Why did Pike read them to you?”

Of course, he’d focus on that. “I couldn’t see the screen,” Shane admits. “I was freaking out. J.J. had just announced the accident to the whole team in the locker room after the game, and I couldn’t keep it cool at all.” He tries not to think about what his team thinks, tries not to think about what Hayden had told them to cover his absence. He knows he has several missed calls from his coach, but that’s a problem for later. “Anyway, I…I felt like I was hearing your last words, Ilya. Scared the shit out of me.”

Ilya squeezes his hand again. “I…wanted you to have something, just in case,” he says softly. “We’d just lost an engine, and…I didn’t know what would happen from there. I needed you to know how much I love you, just in case I wouldn’t get any more chances to say it.”

“You must’ve been terrified,” Shane whispers, squeezing his eyes shut again.

“Was only terrified of never seeing you again.” He feels Ilya’s free hand on his face then, clumsily catching a tear. “I was so mad, Shane. Felt like we wasted so much time, and then our future was going to be gone, too. I just…I just wanted more time.”

“Your coach knows about us,” is all Shane can say in response. “A-And Troy, and Wyatt. And the head nurse, at least I assume she’s the head nurse? But, Troy was…he was so nice to me, he sat with me and kept me calm when I couldn’t get in. I’m glad he’s your friend.”

For a moment, Ilya is silent, and Shane is worried he’s angry that Shane had outed them. But then, his soft voice breaks through Shane’s spiraling. “They were good about it, yes?”

“Troy already knew,” Shane answers, taking a steadying breath. “He said he’d already guessed, which should probably freak me out more than it does, but…without him, I wouldn’t have gotten in to see you, so I’m more relieved than anything. Your Coach and Wyatt looked…really shocked, but it didn’t seem like they’d be bad about it. I didn’t stick around to find out once the nurse agreed to let me see you, though.”

“Hm, yes, I figured Troy might know. When I told him I was bisexual, he started asking questions about you. I shut them down and did not tell you, because I knew you were worried about people finding out about us if they knew I was bisexual,” Ilya snorts, wincing as the action probably makes his nose twinge.

“It was so unfair of me to ask you not to tell people about yourself, though,” Shane says miserably. “Sorry, I don’t want to bring up our fight, because you don’t need to worry about that right now, but…God, Ilya, I was so fucking unfair to you in so many ways, and I’m so incredibly sorry that I never realized it until you made me. I’m sorry it came to that fight, I should’ve— I should’ve known how hard it was for you, changing every aspect of your life and not having anyone else you could confide in. You should’ve had the freedom to tell people about yourself if you wanted to, even if it led to them connecting the dots. God, I’ve been so selfish, and it— it was all I could think about, on the way here. I will spend the rest of my life trying to fix this, I promise.”

“Shane—“ Ilya starts, trying to protest, to minimize, but Shane can’t allow it.

“Just let me be sorry, Ilya, please,” he cuts in, reaching up to rest his hand over Ilya’s, which is still cupping his cheek. “The thought of losing you put so much shit in perspective, seriously. We have wasted so much fucking time, and for what? I can’t think of a single reason that matters anymore. I would have died if you died, Ilya. Maybe not physically, but—“ The sob that escapes him is involuntary, and it takes him a moment of deep, measured breathing before he can continue. Ilya waits, silently and patiently. “You are so fucking important to me, Ilya. More important than anything else ever will be, and I’m sorry I made you doubt that for even a second. Spending the rest of my life with you is more important to me than literally anything else, hockey included. If I lost you…I’d have nothing. I need you to know how much you mean to me, seriously.”

Shane watches Ilya’s face crumple as the words sink in, and he wants to do nothing more than hug him, pull him close, but he’s so scared of hurting him that it roots him in place. “No, baby, don’t cry,” he whispers, taking Ilya’s hand from his face so he can press soft kisses to the calloused skin. He'd never called Ilya baby in his life, but it feels right to do so right now.

Ilya pulls both his hands free, causing Shane’s heart to jump into his throat, fearing rejection, but then he sees Ilya start to try to shift himself to the side, trying to make space for Shane in his narrow hospital bed. “Hey, no, don’t do that, Ilya, you’ll hurt yourself—“ he tries to protest, but the watery blue eyes of the man he loves, looking at him with such blatant need for comfort, stop him short.

“Please lie down with me,” Ilya begs softly, voice thick with tears. One slips down his cheek.

Blowing out a long breath, Shane finally nods, kicking his shoes off. “Tell me if I hurt you or make you uncomfortable,” he pleads, before carefully fitting himself into the narrow space Ilya has made for him, basically plastering himself against Ilya’s side.

“It would be worth it,” Ilya whispers, sniffling, as he pulls Shane even closer, somehow. “This is worth it. Worth everything.”

Overcome, Shane can’t help but lean in to kiss him, for once not caring that neither of them has brushed their teeth—twelve hours ago, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever have the chance to kiss the man he loved ever again, so it feels a bit silly to worry about bad breath.

“I love you,” Shane cries against his lips, resting a hand on Ilya’s chest, over the steady beat of his heart. He’s never been so grateful to feel that heartbeat in his entire life. “Whatever you want to do from here, Ilya, I’m with you. If you still want to wait, we’ll wait—if you want to tell the world, we’ll tell the world. Or if you want to do something in-between, that’s fine too, I don’t care, I just—as long as we have each other, nothing else matters to me anymore.”

Ilya reaches up to stroke his cheek, thumb sliding over his freckles. “You mean that?” he asks, cautious, and it makes Shane’s heart break all over again. He wants to kick himself for ever hurting this man, unintentional as it was.

“I would be so fucking proud to tell the world you’re mine,” Shane promises, gently wiping away Ilya’s tears.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, hiding his face in Shane’s hair. “Fuck, I love you.” He inhales deeply, squeezing Shane. “I…I don’t know how far I want to go right now, but…maybe we at least tell the rest of my team, yes?”

Shane pushes down the flutter of anxiety in his gut and nods. “We can do that.” Shifting so he can pull out his phone, he smiles a bit shyly and asks, “Can I take a quick picture? Don’t look at the screen, though, you’re concussed. I just…Mom and Dad have been freaking out, Hayden and Jackie, too. I wanna let them all know you’re alright.”

“Is fine,” Ilya sniffs into his hair. He sounds like he’s smiling, despite the tears.

Shane lifts his hand to take a quick selfie of the two of them, heart aching as he looks at it before sending it off—Ilya is smiling serenely, lashes wet with tears, with his bandaged face half buried in his hair. Shane ignores how rough he himself looks, knowing it’s not important, and opens the family group chat first.

Banged up, but he’s alright, he writes, attaching the photo.

As he’s about to send the same picture to Hayden and Jackie, his phone rings—it’s his mother, of course.

“Hi, Mom,” he says softly, tapping on the speakerphone button and resting his phone on his chest.

“We were so scared,” comes her voice through the speaker, thick with tears. “I don’t think either of us slept more than an hour or two last night. Your dad is trying to rest right now, but I’m gonna grab him in a minute if he doesn’t hear me himself. Can Ilya hear me?”

“Hi,” Ilya chimes in, sounding almost shy. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“Ilya, sweetie, no, don’t apologize,” she blubbers, and there’s the distinct sound of a nose being blown. “I’m so sorry that happened to you; it must’ve been terrifying. I can’t wait to give you the biggest hug when you come home…”

“I’d like that,” Ilya replies, choked up. “I’d like that a lot.”

Shane hears his mother take a deep breath. “Shane, listen…I got a call from Coach Theriault this morning.” The words send a shiver of cold panic down Shane’s spine, but he tamps it down as much as he can.  “He’s pretty furious you haven’t answered your phone, but I told him there was a family emergency,” she tells him, sniffling. “I know you don’t want to think about that right now, but you should call him back at some point—he’s agreed to leave you alone for the next few days, at least, but he expects answers.”

Shane tenses, biting his lip. Feeling his tension, Ilya kisses the top of his head again, reaching out to link their fingers together soothingly. “I will, once I’ve gotten some sleep,” he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m just gonna have to tell him the truth. I don’t think he’ll like it, but…I’m sick of lying. Ilya’s coach and a couple of his teammates know now, anyway, and we’re going to tell the rest of Ilya’s team too. Makes sense that I should tell my team as well.” Distantly, he knows his team will not take it well—they hate Ilya. Shane just hopes that at least Ilya’s will take it well, and he’s honestly not too worried about it, surprisingly.

“Oh, wow…that’s a big step, honey. Are you sure?” his mother asks, worry coloring her tone.

“Positive,” he answers without hesitation. “After thinking I lost Ilya…nothing else can scare me even half as much as that. I’m sick of hiding the truth. Besides, I wasn’t exactly playing it cool in front of my teammates last night anyway—I’m sure they’ve figured it out by now, or at least have their suspicions.”

“Well, you know your father and I will support you, always. Both of you. Speaking of your father, here he comes—didn’t even have to wake him up,” she says warmly.

“I just saw the picture,” comes his father’s voice, a bit distantly. “Am I on speakerphone?”

“You are,” Shane confirms.

“Perfect. Ilya, son, I’m so glad you’re alright,” he tells him, voice much clearer now as he’s clearly moved closer to the phone. “Really gave us all a scare.”

“Sorry I couldn’t contact anyone,” Ilya apologizes. “My phone is broken, I think. And they would not let me have it, anyway, not with the concussion.”

“Yeah, it looks like you banged your head up pretty good,” his mother cuts in, sounding worried.

“Hit it off the seat in front of me,” Ilya explains sheepishly. “Broke my nose, too. There goes beautiful looks.”

Shane scoffs. “As if. You’re beautiful, and will continue to be beautiful, even if your nose heals a bit crooked.”

“You are biased,” Ilya complains, but his eyes are soft, a dopey smile stretching across his face.

“Alright, well, you kids should rest now, especially you, Shane,” his father tells them, sounding lovingly stern. “We’ll let you go, but you can call us anytime. We love you both—so much.”

“Yes, we love you,” his mother echoes. “Ilya, listen to the doctors. Shane, please sleep for the love of God, you look beat.”

“Yes, mom,” Shane and Ilya answer in unison. “We love you too,” Shane adds, Ilya humming in agreement.

He hangs up after they exchange goodbyes. As Shane is typing out a message to Hayden and Jackie to send with the photo, Ilya muses, “I cannot believe you drove all night for little old me. Do you like me or something, Hollander?”

Shane rolls his eyes, wanting to shove him playfully but restraining himself. “You wish, Rozanov.”

“How are you even awake right now?” Ilya asks.

“Three energy drinks,” Shane shrugs.

There’s a beat of silence. And then, “You drove all night and broke your crazy diet, for me? Are we sure this isn’t a dream? Maybe I did die in a plane crash, now I’m in heaven.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Shane says immediately. sucking in a breath. “God, I don’t want to think about you dying anymore—I thought about it enough on the way here, thanks.”

Ilya’s teasing expression softens. “I am so sorry you had to be so scared, lyubimiyy. If I hadn’t been so out of it, I would have asked for someone’s phone. I hate knowing you were so scared and alone.”

“You’re okay, I know that now. That’s what matters,” Shane replies, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Knock knock, I brought you a gift—“ Shane tenses as someone suddenly pushes the door open and walks into the room—it’s a short, stocky blond man with short facial hair and cheerful green eyes that go wide as he takes in the scene in front of him.

“Harris,” Ilya says coolly in greeting, and Shane doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking in amusement.

“Hi,” Harris, apparently, squeaks. “Um, am I…interrupting something?”

Taking a deep breath, Shane sits up, trying not to jostle Ilya too much, and holds out a hand toward the Centaurs’ social media manager. “Shane Hollander,” he introduces himself as the man hesitantly moves closer to shake his hand. He glances over at Ilya, silently asking a question, and Ilya just nods, looking entirely too satisfied. “I’m Ilya’s boyfriend. I, uh, drove here.”

Harris’s eyes go comically wider, his hand going limp in Shane’s. Shane lets it go. “Oh. Wow. Well, I can’t say I saw this coming, like, at all, but…it’s very nice to meet you…? Big fan.”

“You mentioned a gift?” Ilya prods, cutting through the awkwardness.

“Oh, yes, um—I saw this guy in the gift shop on my way up, and I just had to get him for you,” Harris explains, holding out a small plush dog; he seems to be recovering from the shock remarkably fast. Shane takes it from him and hands it to Ilya. “I thought he looked a bit like Chiron, and that it might cheer you up a bit, although I don’t think you need as much cheering up as I thought,” he grins, eyes flicking over to Shane, who blushes.

“He is perfect,” Ilya announces, hugging the plushie to his chest. “I will name him Chiron Junior.”

“I’m glad you like him,” Harris beams. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair now—I think Evan is being discharged, maybe Nick, too. I’m gonna go check on them, see if it’s true or not.”

“If you see Troy, send him in for a minute?” Ilya asks. Shane watches Harris’ face redden a bit at the name. “I need to thank him for helping Shane.”

“Yeah, sure!” Harris answers, his smile a bit too forced, even to Shane’s eyes. “It was really nice to meet you, Shane.”

“You too, Harris,” Shane replies, hoping the smile he puts on doesn’t look too crazy. The tiredness is really starting to hit him, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before he crashes.

Harris leaves then, and Ilya reaches out to try and pull him back. “Lay back down, hmm? I am cold without you keeping me warm,” he pleads, giving his best puppy-dog eyes. Shane is powerless to resist.

He settles back down against Ilya’s side, laying an arm over his midsection and hugging him gently. “That went well,” he murmurs.

“Mm, Harris is good. Also super gay, so that helps,” Ilya grins. “Gimme kiss?” he asks, puckering his lips.

“Needy,” Shane snorts, but he leans in to kiss him anyway.

A gruff throat clearing a moment later breaks them apart. Shane feels himself go red when he looks over to find Troy Barrett in the doorway, but at least it doesn’t cause panic to flood his system.

He’s good. He can do this.

“Harris said you asked for me?” Troy questions, raising a perfect black eyebrow. He really is handsome, Shane thinks distantly.

“I just wanted to thank you for helping Shane,” Ilya replies, voice so unbearably soft that it turns Shane into mush. “He said he couldn’t have gotten in without you.”

“Oh, you don’t…you don’t need to thank me for that, really, it was nothing,” Troy deflects, looking a bit embarrassed. So different from the Troy that Shane had known from playing against him in the past.

“Was not nothing,” Ilya argues, and Shane nods along with him.

“Seriously, I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along when you did,” Shane tells him, still a bit flushed with embarrassment. “I…I completely shut down in that hallway. It meant everything that you treated me so kindly, a-and vouched for me. For us.” He gestures between Ilya and himself as he says the last part. “So really, Troy, thank you.”

Troy’s face softens. “I’m happy I was able to help. Really. When I saw you there like that…I just needed to help. Plus, Roz probably would’ve killed me if I hadn’t.”

“You know me,” Ilya coos in response. Shane rolls his eyes fondly at his boyfriend.

Troy looks between them for a moment, and Shane can sense the million questions he wants to ask, but thankfully, when he opens his mouth, all he says is, “You two look good together.”

“Ah, yes, we both look like shit right now. Match made in heaven, yes?” Ilya grins. The grin immediately turns into a bit of a wince. “Expressions hurt right now, ugh.”

“I can go get the nurse,” Troy offers. “You’re probably due for some more pain meds.”

“That can wait a minute,” Ilya says, waving a hand dismissively. “First—I would like you to ask Coach Wiebe to get Shane set up in my hotel room.”

“What?” Shane’s voice comes out louder than he’d intended it to. “If you think I’m leaving your side, you’re crazy, Ilya.”

“You need rest,” Ilya argues gently, laying a hand on Shane’s cheek. “Real rest. They are not going to keep me another night for a concussion, luchik moy—I will join you before you even have time to miss me.”

“But—“

A finger covers his lips, silencing his protest. “Please, Shane. You are dead on your feet.” Ilya’s tone leaves no room for argument. “I love you, and I always want you with me, but right now, I need you to get some sleep. You will not get proper rest here, squished into this narrow, lumpy bed with me, in uncomfortable suit you had to leave the arena in. You are going to go to the hotel, take a nice, hot shower, and then you are going to take some comfy clothes out of my suitcase, and you are going to sleep. Nothing is going to happen to me; I am safe. I will feel better knowing you’re sleeping soundly.”

“I’ll go get Coach,” Troy cuts in, jogging out of the room. He’d probably felt a little awkward, like he was intruding on something. Shane, in truth, had forgotten he was even there while Ilya was talking.

“I hate the thought of leaving you here,” Shane whispers, trying to blink away the tears pricking his eyes. He doesn’t even know how he has any tears left at this point.

“I know,” Ilya answers, thumb stroking Shane’s cheekbone. “I know you do. And I want to be selfish and keep you here with me, trust me. But it’s only for a few hours, I’m sure. I’ll be brave.”

“…I’m coming back up tonight if you’re not released,” Shane warns, sniffling.

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” Ilya murmurs, sliding his fingers into Shane’s hair to pull him in for another kiss.

Thankfully, they pull apart just before Coach Wiebe enters the room. Troy, Harris and Wyatt all hover just outside, and Shane’s heart softens knowing Ilya is so loved by this team.

“Hello again,” Coach Wiebe greets, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Shane is basically glued to his star player’s side in bed.

“Hello,” Shane replies, a bit awkwardly.

“Troy told you what I want, yes?” Ilya asks, looking at his coach expectantly.

“He did,” Coach Wiebe confirms. He turns his gaze to Shane. “I’ve gotta stay and get Dykstra and Chouinard set for discharge, but Harris has offered to get you back to our hotel, Hollander. I’ve already given him the room key, and Rozanov’s luggage was already taken there last night.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Ilya says sincerely, taking one of Shane’s hands. Shane himself is frozen, taken aback by how chill and kind Coach Wiebe is. “I…I know this is probably not what you expected, but—“

“Hey, you don’t have to explain anything to me, not now, not at all if you don’t want to,” Coach Wiebe shrugs, cutting him off. “It’s clear you two have something special, and I’m happy for you, really. As long as it doesn’t affect your performance on the ice, it’s none of my business.”

“It never has,” Ilya promises, grinning.

“Okay, I’m gonna be the asshole who asks—how long has this been going on?” Wyatt asks from the doorway. There’s a chorus of groans from the others. “What? I know you’re all dying to ask!”

Shane unfreezes, feeling his lips twitching into a smile. “Officially? We’ve been dating since 2017,” he answers, squeezing the hand holding his.

“And…unofficially?” Harris questions, seemingly unable to help himself from chiming in now that Wyatt has already opened the line of questioning.

Shane and Ilya look at each other. Ilya’s eyes dance with amusement, and Shane feels his ears growing hot. He’ll let Ilya answer this one.

“Started in summer before rookie year,” Ilya answers, shrugging, like the answer wasn’t going to absolutely blow everyone’s minds. “I tried very hard to resist this freckled dork, I’ll have you all know. But I lost that battle long ago, and…I love him, very much. More than anything, really.”

“Holy shit, Bood is absolutely going to lose his fucking mind when he finds out,” Wyatt laughs after a moment of stunned silence. “Oh my fucking God, Hollander, I hope you know you’re never getting out of coming to his barbecues whenever you’re around, going forward.”

“Are you going to tell the others?” Harris asks, green eyes wide like he simply cannot believe what Ilya had just so casually revealed. “I mean, you definitely don’t have to; the four of us will all absolutely keep your secret, but you know they’ll all be good about it, right?”

Ilya nods. “I do not want to hide this anymore, at least not from them. The rest of the world…we don’t know yet. But I am going to tell our team, and Shane is going to tell his.”

Shane nods along with him. “I don’t think mine is going to be as nice as you all have been, but frankly, I don’t have it in me to care anymore. Loving Ilya has never affected my hockey, anyway, and that’s all they should care about.”

Coach Wiebe lets out a low whistle. “You guys are brave, I’ll give you that. But we’ve got your backs, and the rest of the team will, too,” he promises, smiling warmly. He’s so different from Coach Theriault, it catches Shane completely off guard. He didn’t know coaches could be this nice.

“I wish loving each other didn’t mean having to be brave,” Shane admits, sighing. “But...it’s worth it, in the end.”

“Definitely,” Ilya chimes in, and Shane meets his eyes, smiling softly. “Last night really put it in perspective for us—being truthful isn’t the scariest option anymore.” He lifts Shane’s hand to his mouth, kissing his knuckles, and Shane is overwhelmed by the depth of love he feels for this man.

“Damn, Roz, you big softie,” Wyatt comments, grinning even harder than before.

“He brings it out in me,” Ilya says proudly.

“I’m gonna head out to talk to the nurses,” Coach Wiebe cuts in, an easy smile on his face. “Go get some rest, Hollander. You should rest too, Rozanov.”

“Thank you again,” Shane tells him, trying to ignore the pit of dread spreading through his gut at the thought of leaving Ilya.

Ilya echoes his thanks, and Coach Wiebe nods and ducks out. “I’m gonna go see Dykstra,” Wyatt adds, waving. “See ya, lovebirds.”

“Later, Hazy,” Ilya responds with a lazy wave. He then turns his gaze to Troy. “You should go with Shane and Harris,” he says. Instantly, Troy and Harris both go a bit red.

“I can manage alone,” Harris says half-heartedly, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing at Troy out of the corner of his eye. Troy looks like he’s desperately trying to think of an excuse.

“Shane is very tired. He might fall over without help,” Ilya protests, shooting Shane a look that says Work with me, here. Shane distantly remembers Ilya telling him that Troy has a crush on Harris, and it clicks.

“Sorry, I hate to be a burden,” Shane mumbles, and he means it. But it might not be a bad idea to have Troy there just in case—Shane isn’t sure if Harris could hold him up by himself if he had to.

“Oh, yeah, uh…I can help, then,” Troy finally says. “I guess you probably haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours at this point, yeah? I’m surprised you’re conscious at all.”

“Adrenaline and three energy drinks helped, but…I’m definitely crashing,” Shane admits.

“Let’s get you to the hotel then,” Harris says softly, eyebrows knitting together in sympathy.

Shane’s breath catches, and he meets Ilya’s eyes. He can tell Ilya is trying to be strong, but he doesn’t want him to leave just as much as Shane doesn’t want to leave him. “Go, sweetheart. Chiron Junior will keep me company, so I will be okay,” Ilya says anyway, cupping his face.

“You promise?” Shane asks, and God, he feels like he could start crying for what feels like the millionth time.

“I promise,” he answers. “Rest for me so I can make you take care of me all night, hmm? I will make the doctors let me leave today.”

Shane laughs quietly at that, leaning in to ever so gently press their foreheads together. “I love you so much,” he whispers.

“I love you too. So, so much,” Ilya murmurs back, tilting Shane’s head so that he can kiss him, soft and sweet.

Reluctantly, Shane pulls away a few seconds later, sitting up and turning so his feet hang off the bed. He slips his shoes back on without untying them, even though he knows he shouldn’t do that because it’ll wreck them, and slowly rises once his feet are firmly in them. “I’ll see you later,” he tells him, meaning it—he really will come back for the night if they don’t let Ilya go. One way or another, they will spend the night together.

“See you later,” Ilya hums, blowing him a kiss.

Shane lets himself be led out of the room by Troy and Harris, even though it kills him to walk away from Ilya. Shane had never seen him so…fragile, and it’s hard to rationalize leaving him alone in that state. But he knows Ilya’s right, he needs to sleep, and he’d probably just be in the way if he’d stayed there in Ilya’s bed with him.

“He’ll be alright,” Harris tells him, trying to be comforting, as they step into the elevator once they exit the ward. “He’s tough.”

“Not as tough as he likes to pretend he is,” Shane sighs, rubbing at his face. His vision is starting to go a bit funny from how exhausted he is. “But you’re right, I know, it’s just…hard to walk away from him. It was a scary night, not knowing what I’d find when I got here.”

“I wish someone would’ve known to contact you,” Troy grimaces. “I know why you guys didn’t tell anyone, obviously,” he continues, obviously in reference to his own closeted state, “but I just…I wish we’d known. We could’ve saved you a lot of fear, I’m sure.”

“I think he’s wanted to tell everyone for a while,” Shane says quietly after a moment, shame rearing its ugly head. “I didn’t realize how much of a burden our secret had become to him until just recently, and I just…I have so much regret for letting my own fear and comfort hold him back from confiding in people. He’s been so alone, more alone than I realized, and I just feel awful about it, because I was so comfortable in comparison—my buddy Hayden and his wife know, my friend Rose knows, my parents know…and my team knows I’m gay, but not about Ilya and I. Well, maybe they do now, but…that’s irrelevant right now. I was so scared that if he even told you all about his own sexuality, the rest would be figured out immediately, so I…I held him back, and it was wrong of me.”

“To be fair,” Troy begins as they exit the elevator, “I kinda figured it out immediately when he told me he was bi, so, uh, maybe you had a right to be worried about that.”

Harris gasps. “Oh my God, you already knew?”

“Rozanov took me to a gay bar in New York with Scott Hunter and Eric Bennett,” Troy explains, looking a bit embarrassed. “The one where I got your apple pin? And I just…I needed to tell someone about myself after that, and he just felt safe in that moment, I guess? And I think I made an assumption about him being straight, and he corrected me. I wasn’t expecting it at all; he really caught me off guard. But then I got thinking, and…Shane, I’ve heard rumors about you being gay, and I guess I started wondering about some things out loud, but he really did his best to protect you.” He looks apologetic as he says it, and Shane is overcome with sadness that Ilya hadn’t been able to come all the way clean to someone who would’ve supported him, all because of Shane’s own fear.

He must be telegraphing his misery on his face, because Harris stops him, patting him on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? Your fear is understandable. The league can still barely stomach the concept of players being gay, let alone their two supposed top rivals being in a relationship with each other. People are gonna have a lot to say, and it wasn’t wrong to want to protect yourself and him from that,” he soothes.

“Yeah, well…I’m done being afraid,” Shane swears, resolute. “I spent thirteen hours not knowing if he was even going to be alive when I got here. I’m done letting the opinions of other people dictate my life with him.”

“Well, like Coach said, we’ll all have your back,” Harris promises, and Troy nods in agreement.

“Thank you,” Shane says genuinely. “I’m so glad he has people like you to lean on. We don’t get much time together, so knowing he’s surrounded by people who love him makes me feel a lot better going forward.”

They make their way to Shane’s rental after that, since both Troy and Harris had taken cabs to the hospital. Shane hands the keys to Harris, knowing it would be much safer if someone else drove, and he wearily climbs into the back seat, letting Troy take the passenger seat. He thinks Ilya would be proud that he’s forcing them together.

As they’re driving, Shane realizes he’d never actually sent the photo to Hayden and Jackie, so he quickly remedies that—the drive is awkwardly silent, anyway, and he doesn’t have the desire or the energy to try and change that.

Jackie: Oh, he’s okay 😭 what a relief!

Jackie: How are you doing, Shane? You look exhausted.

Shane: Troy Barrett and Harris, the Centaurs’ social media manager, are driving me to their hotel now. Ilya insisted I go to his room and get some sleep.

Shane: I hated to leave him, though.

Hayden: Aw, buddy, at least he’s alright though, right? What’s the damage?

Shane: Concussion and broken nose, probably also just sore in general, but yeah—he’ll be alright. I guess his side of the plane got it worse, but I think only three of them were kept overnight by the sounds of it.

Jackie: Tell him we’re so glad he’s okay when you see him again, okay?

Shane: I will.

Shane: Mom said Theriault called her.

Hayden: Yeah, he’s…not exactly happy with you right now, bud. I’m sorry.

Shane: I don’t even care, honestly. Ilya is more important to me.

Shane: What about the rest of the team?

Hayden: I think some of them have put two and two together. J.J. has, and he’s pissed at both of us right now, I think. He’s just gonna have to get over it, though—they all will. You’ve been our captain for years, you’ve led us to three fucking cups, and they’d all do well to remember that!

Shane feels a little queasy. He’d known he was never going to get the warm reception they’d gotten from Ilya’s team so far, but it sounds like it might be worse than he’d even expected.

Shane: I’ll have to apologize to J.J., I know I should’ve told him sooner. I’m going to formally tell everyone when I get back, anyway.

Jackie: Oh, Shane, I’m so sorry you have to do this…

Shane: It is what it is. I don’t care if they don’t like it, as long as they can keep their feelings off the ice. Ilya is too important to me, and I’m tired of wasting time hiding how much I love him from people who should have my back.

Hayden: Well, buddy, you know you’ll always have us, yeah? I may not be Rozanov’s biggest fan, but for whatever reason, you love him, and that’s enough for me.

Jackie: Oh my God, Hayden, not the time

Shane: Thanks, asshole. Love you guys.

Hayden: We love you too ❤️

Shane smiles to himself, locking his phone and dropping it in his lap. He lets his eyes close for a moment, just needing to shield them from the early morning sun, but before he knows it he’s being gently shaken awake by Troy.

“Sorry, I hate to wake you when you’re so tired, but we’re here,” he says apologetically. “Come on, let me help you in. Harris has your charger and wallet.”

Shane is too tired to refuse the help, leaning heavily on Troy as soon as he’s out of the car. Troy gets himself under Shane’s shoulder to support him, securing an arm around his midsection, and they slowly make their way into the hotel, led by Harris. Shane dozes against Troy’s shoulder, entirely unhelpful, but he can feel his body shutting down.

They enter the elevator, where Harris temporarily helps Troy hold Shane up, but the shorter man immediately lets go once the doors open so he can dash down the hall to the correct door and get it open for them. Troy manages to get him there, grunting as he lowers him to sit on the bed.

“Stay with him for a minute?” Troy asks Harris as Shane fights to unbutton his crisp white dress shirt. His fingers are clumsy and unwieldy with exhaustion. He hears Harris agree, and then the door opens and shuts behind Troy.

“Hey, I know it’s kinda awkward, but…you look like you could use some help,” Harris offers, cheeks red.

Shane wants to argue, but unless he wants to rip his shirt open, he doesn’t think he’s going to get anywhere on his own. “Sorry, I’d appreciate it,” he mumbles, even his mouth is clumsy at this point.

Harris leans down to gently start unbuttoning his shirt for him, and as he’s getting the last few, Troy returns with a few bottles of water and snacks from the vending machine. He freezes when he sees Harris unbuttoning Shane’s shirt, and Harris goes even redder in response.

“He just needed some help,” he explains, as if he’s doing something wrong.

“Clumsy fingers,” Shane snorts, shrugging his shirt off. He’s too tired to be embarrassed about stripping in front of two relative strangers. Also, too tired to have a filter, apparently, because he adds, “Not trying to flirt with your man, Troy. I have my own.”

Troy starts choking on air at that, while Harris literally squeaks in embarrassment. “Oh, no, we’re not—it’s not like that—“ Harris tries to correct him, but Shane just sighs.

“You two are way more obvious than me and Ilya,” he deadpans. “Sort that out.” He kicks his shoes off and lies down, fighting his way under the covers, where he shimmies his pants off. “I’m going to pass out now. Thanks for all your help,” he yawns, nuzzling into the pillow beneath his head. It’s so comfortable he could weep, if he wasn’t about three seconds away from passing out cold.

He doesn’t even hear the door shut behind them when they leave; he’s already dead to the world.

***

“Promise you’ll let Shane set it up for you,” Harris warns as he hands Ilya a brand new phone, outside the door to his hotel room. It’s almost nine p.m., but the hospital had finally agreed to release him. “You’re under strict orders to avoid screens as much as possible.”

“Yes, mother,” Ilya drawls, taking the box from Harris’s hand and dropping it into his bag from the hospital. “You didn’t have to walk me all the way here, you know, I could’ve made it on my own.”

“Coach’s orders,” Harris shrugs. “He didn’t want you falling and cracking your head open even worse.”

“No offense, but I don’t think you could’ve caught me, Harris.”

“None taken,” Harris trills, grinning. “You’re probably right, but I promise I would’ve tried. Now, go get your man. And tell him thanks, while you’re at it.”

“For what?” Ilya questions, pausing as he’s about to use his keycard to unlock the door.

“For not having a filter,” he says mysteriously, starting to head off down the hall with a wave of his fingers. It doesn’t seem like he’s going to elaborate.

Ilya shakes his head at that, which he immediately regrets as it makes his world spin a bit. He steadies himself by holding on to the door handle, squeezing his eyes shut until the spins subside, before letting himself into his room.

It’s dark and quiet inside—Shane must still be sleeping. Ilya still can’t quite believe he’d driven all the way from Washington, but he knows he absolutely would’ve done the same had their positions been reversed.

He creeps inside, closing the door quietly behind him, and pulls off the sunglasses and ball cap Harris had given him to block out some of the light on the way there. He desperately hopes he doesn’t trip over anything as he heads toward the bed that he can just barely make out, but of course, he’s not that lucky—he stumbles over what must be Shane’s shoes, swearing loudly without meaning to.

He hears Shane suck in a sharp breath as he’s woken up, hears him fumble around for the lamp.

“It’s me,” Ilya soothes, just as Shane finds the switch for the lamp. Soft light fills the room, and Ilya’s heart swells with fondness as his eyes rest on his sleepy, disheveled, half-naked boyfriend.

“Ilya,” he breathes, fighting to untangle himself from the blankets so he can jump out of bed and wrap his arms around him.

Ilya winces, sucking in a breath, as his sore body is jostled. “Easy, I’m sore,” he says softly, but he wraps his arms around Shane all the same, sinking into the embrace.

“Sorry,” Shane whispers, but he doesn’t let go. “Missed you.”

“How can you miss me in your sleep?” Ilya teases, but he’d missed Shane, too—sending him away had been the hardest thing, when all he’d wanted was the comfort of being next to him, being held by him.

“Dreamed about you the whole time,” Shane mumbles into his shoulder, voice still thick with sleep. Ilya feels him shudder and squeezes him tighter despite his protesting muscles.

“Did you sleep well?” Ilya asks, pressing a kiss into his hair.

Shane hums affirmatively. “I needed it,” he admits, sighing deeply. “Might’ve made an ass of myself in front of Troy and Harris, though.”

“Harris told me to thank you for ‘not having a filter,’” Ilya tells him, a grin pulling at his lips. “Please explain.”

Shane groans, letting go of Ilya to fall back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands. “Okay, so, for context…by the time we got here, I was basically useless—Troy had to practically carry me inside, I was so exhausted. I could barely keep my eyes open, seriously. And we got in here, and Troy left for a minute, and I was trying to unbutton my shirt but my stupid fingers weren’t working, so Harris offered to help me. Troy came back in when he was nearly done with all the buttons, and he just kinda froze, and Harris tried to explain that he was just trying to help, and—“ He groans loudly into his hands. “I told Troy not to worry, I wasn’t trying to steal his man, and when Harris tried to tell me they weren’t dating, I…basically told them to sort their shit out, and then passed the fuck out.”

Ilya blinks, letting the story sink in, and then laughter bubbles up inside of him. He covers his mouth to try to stifle it, but it’s impossible—his shoulders shake with it, and it hurts, but he can’t stop. “That is incredible,” he wheezes. “Oh my God, Shane, I wish I could have seen that.”

“Please stop, I’m so embarrassed,” Shane moans, the words muffled by his hands.

“Hey, if Harris told me to thank you, then they must’ve listened,” Ilya points out, still laughing, although it’s dying down. He drops down onto the bed beside Shane, leaning against him. “They needed tough love, to stop being dense.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t my place to say that,” Shane protests, but then he sighs. “But I guess all’s well that ends well, hm? At least some good came from my embarrassment.”

“Exactly,” Ilya hums, kissing his cheek. He looks him over, then, taking in his state of undress. “I see you didn’t make it into my luggage,” he grins, reaching over and stroking Shane’s bare chest.

“No funny business,” Shane warns, catching his wandering hand.

“Aw, but it is doctor’s orders,” Ilya whines, pouting. “Care plan involves making sweet love to my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Shane says dryly, rolling his eyes. “Nice try, Rozanov.”

Ilya sighs. “Was worth a try.”

Shane stands, stretching. “I didn’t get to shower earlier either, so I think I’ll do that now,” he announces, padding over to Ilya’s suitcase to dig through it for some underwear and sweatpants, clearly taking the time to make sure there were some in there for Ilya, too. Being an overpacker is good, sometimes, he thinks.

“Can I come?” Ilya asks. “No funny business, I promise. Just want to wash off hospital funk.”

“Are you allowed to take your bandages off?” Shane questions in return, concern in his eyes.

Ilya hums affirmatively. “They sent me home with extra,” he replies, pointing toward the hospital bag he’d dropped on the floor inside the door. “Also sent new phone, which I need you to set up for me, please,” he adds, sheepishly.

“Of course,” Shane tells him, holding a hand out for Ilya to take. He allows himself to be helped up, and they head toward the bathroom together, where there are thankfully two sets of lights, one dimmer than the other. Shane opts for the dim one, considerate of Ilya’s aching brain.

“Sit,” Shane directs him, pointing to the toilet. “I’ll get these bandages off for you.”

Ilya does so without any fuss, allowing himself to be taken care of. Shane’s hands are gentle as they remove the tape holding the gauze on his forehead, gently running his fingers through Ilya’s hair after he throws it into the trash. “Your hair is a bit crusty,” he muses, as his fingers catch.

“Probably blood,” Ilya responds casually, and suddenly it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room.

“…Right,” Shane mumbles, and Ilya glances up. He can just make out the tremble of his lower lip.

“I’m okay now,” Ilya reminds him, voice soft. “I’m here.”

“You could’ve died,” Shane whispers, like it’s hitting him all over again. His breathing is picking up. “You could’ve died, Ilya—“

“But I didn’t,” he says calmly, slowly standing and cupping Shane’s face in both hands, looking deeply into panicked brown eyes. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“Fuck, sorry, I’m freaking out again,” Shane gasps, hands clutching at Ilya’s. Ilya lets go of his face to link their fingers together instead.

“Is okay,” Ilya soothes, bringing his hands to his mouth and kissing his knuckles all over. “You’re okay, I’m okay, everything is okay, Shane. Just breathe.” He pulls one of Shane’s hands to his chest to press it to his heart, letting him feel its steady beat. “Feel that? Means I am alive, here, with you.”

Shane just nods, breathing heavily. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Ilya’s. Gently, Ilya lets go of his hands and pulls him in for a hug—Shane’s hand doesn’t leave its spot on his chest, but he melts into the embrace. “I should be comforting you,” Shane mumbles miserably. “You’re the one who nearly died, Ilya. God, I’m sorry.”

Ilya shushes him, kissing the side of his head. “Like I said—scariest part was thinking I’d never see you again. But I have you here with me now, so I am okay, I promise.”

“I love you,” Shane tells him desperately, lifting his head to meet his eyes again. Ilya hates the pain and fear he sees in those deep brown eyes he loves so much.

“I love you too,” Ilya replies, voice soft. “I’m not going to leave you behind, I promise.”

“You better not,” Shane cries softly, pressing his face into Ilya’s shoulder. He’s still shaking, but his breathing seems to have calmed a bit.

“Let’s get this ugly bandage off my nose and shower now, yes?” Ilya prompts, but he won’t let Shane go until he’s ready.

“Okay,” Shane whispers, taking a deep, shaky breath. He pulls back, reaching up to remove the small bandage from Ilya’s nose. He tries not to wince at the touch—his nose is extremely tender, and Shane’s unsteady hands bump it without meaning to.

“How do I look?” Ilya asks, trying to lighten the mood. He knows he looks like shit.

“Beautiful,” Shane replies, and the earnestness makes Ilya’s breath catch in his throat. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“…You have questionable taste,” Ilya deflects, looking down at the floor.

“Maybe,” Shane laughs at that, reaching up to wipe the tears from his face. It’s the most beautiful sound Ilya’s ever heard. “But you’ll always be beautiful to me.”

“Sappy,” Ilya mumbles, walking over to the shower and turning the water on. Thankfully, it’s just a standing shower, no tub for him to try and probably fail to step over—he’s injured enough already.

Shane follows him in, reaching for a cloth and Ilya’s body wash. Before Ilya can even think about protesting, Shane is gently washing him, shooting him a look that warns him not to even try to stop him. Ilya sighs in surrender and allows himself to be taken care of.

Shane takes his time washing him thoroughly, almost clinical in his approach, much to the chagrin of the boner Ilya inevitably pops. He knows he’s not going to change Shane’s mind on “funny business” anytime soon.

When he finishes washing his body, he moves on to his hair, lathering his hands up in Ilya’s shampoo and reaching up to work it through his curls as gently as he possibly can, mindful of his head injury. The cut on Ilya’s head stings a bit as shampoo gets in it, but he thinks that was probably inevitable, and Shane is being so careful that it makes his heart melt.

“Rinse off while I wash myself,” Shane directs, reaching for a second cloth and the body wash again as soon as he rinses the shampoo off his hands.

“Yes, sir,” Ilya grins, stepping back into the spray with a salute. He runs his fingers through his own hair, trying to get all the suds out, and watches as Shane washes himself much more quickly than he’d washed Ilya, though no less thoroughly. He then quickly washes his hair, clearly trying not to tangle the long strands.

“I wish you had conditioner,” Shane grumbles.

“It’s unnecessary,” Ilya shrugs, stepping out of the way so Shane can rinse himself off.

“It’s not,” Shane argues, gently combing his fingers through his own hair to try and separate the strands as much as he can as he rinses it. “The fact that your hair is so soft without it will never not piss me off.”

“We can’t all be this lucky, I guess,” Ilya teases.

Ilya can see Shane’s eyes roll in the low light. Another moment passes, and then his boyfriend shuts the water off and opens the shower door to exit. He grabs a towel and starts to gently pat Ilya dry, not even caring about his own wetness.

“Stop fussing, I can dry myself,” Ilya tells him, trying to grab the towel from him.

“I don’t mind,” Shane insists, and Ilya can hear the unspoken Please let me take care of you.

And so he lets himself be babied without further protest. Shane dries him meticulously, wrapping the towel around his waist and tucking it in once he’s satisfied. Only then does he start drying himself, and Ilya just watches, unbearably fond.

“You hungry?” Shane asks once he wraps his own towel around his waist and heads toward the bathroom door.

Ilya considers this. He’s not exactly hungry, but he knows he should probably eat. The hospital food they’d given him earlier had been pretty disgusting, so he’d barely eaten any. “Sure,” he answers. “What are you thinking? Room service?”

Shane shrugs. “I was actually just thinking I’d order a pizza. Don’t even bother saying what I know you’re thinking, either—it’s been a weird twenty-four hours, and I want a fucking pizza, so I’m gonna eat a fucking pizza,” he says resolutely, and Ilya wants to tease him about it, but he manages to hold himself back.

“Pizza is good with me,” he replies innocently, grinning.

“Okay, let me get one ordered, then I’ll bandage you back up and get your phone set up.” He grabs his phone from the nightstand where it had been plugged in, snorting. “I don’t remember plugging this in, so Harris must’ve taken the time to do it even after I embarrassed him and Troy,” he muses, tapping away at the screen to procure their pizza. “What a nice guy.”

“Harris is awesome,” Ilya says genuinely. “Everyone was welcoming when I first moved to Ottawa, but especially him—it’s not his job to look after us, but he does anyway, so everyone loves him. It was a bit shocking, at first, to see that no one gave a shit about him being gay, but…it made me realize that maybe I landed exactly where I needed to.”

“Your team seems amazing,” Shane hums in agreement, still tapping away at the screen. “I mean, I already knew Wyatt was a nice guy after the camps, but Troy really caught me off guard. Your coach, too. It’s so different from what I’m used to.”

“You’ll love the rest of them, too,” Ilya promises. “And Wyatt wasn’t lying, Bood will make you come to his barbecues from now on.”

“I wish I had on Boxing Day,” Shane sighs, locking his phone and tossing it aside—he must have successfully ordered the pizza. “I’m still so sorry, Ilya.”

“Is old news now,” Ilya reminds him, waving a hand dismissively. “Galina even said I shouldn’t have asked something like that so suddenly.” As soon as it leaves his mouth, he remembers that he still hadn’t actually told Shane he was seeing a therapist—but he supposes there’s no time like the present.

Shane’s brows knit together in confusion. “Galina? Who’s Galina?”

Ilya takes a deep breath, sitting on the bed and patting the space next to him. Shane sits immediately. “Galina is my therapist,” he says, quietly.

He catches the widening of Shane’s eyes before he forces his face back to neutrality. “You…have a therapist?” he asks. “Since when?”

“A few months,” Ilya admits. “Shane, I…I have not been good lately. And I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want you to worry, or think less of me, which is stupid, I know, but…I was starting to scare myself. And I thought about you telling me I should find a therapist, so…I did. Only Russian therapist in Ottawa—easier that way, to explain myself. It’s been hard, but…I think it is helping. But, I did tell her about us, I’m sorry, I just—I did not want to lie, not in that room, to the person I am paying to help me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Shane tells him. He sounds a bit shell-shocked. “Patient confidentiality is a thing, anyway. But, Ilya, I’m so proud of you for taking that step, I…I know that couldn’t have been easy for you. It makes me so sad to know you were struggling silently right under my nose, God.” He blows out a long breath, rubbing his face. “I wish you’d felt like you could tell me sooner, but I don’t blame you, okay? But I also want you to know I would never think less of you for something like this, okay? If anything, it makes me admire you even more,” he continues, sounding so serious that Ilya can’t even begin to doubt his sincerity. “Thank you for telling me now—it makes me feel so much better knowing you have someone you can talk to. And, for what it’s worth…I promise I will be at that next barbecue.”

Something releases in Ilya at his words—a tangible tension in the back of his mind, gone in an instant. He’s crying before he even realizes, only clueing in when Shane wraps him in his arms, shushing him gently, and starts to rock him slowly. His sore muscles and aching head protest the movement, but he can’t make himself care about that when his boyfriend, the love of his life, is loving him so tenderly when he’s so fragile, physically and emotionally.

“You’re okay,” Shane promises, kissing the top of his head. “You’re so loved, by so many people. I can’t wait for everyone to know you’re mine, I’m so lucky you’re mine, Ilya, seriously. You are the best thing in my life, too.” The reference to his own words—ones sent in a panic on a malfunctioning plane when he didn’t know if he’d live or die, or, more importantly, see Shane again—makes him sob.

He wants to apologize for crying all over him, but instead, he simply goes with: “I love you.”

“I love you,” Shane echoes back. “Whatever the future holds…we’ll face it together. Side by side.”

Shane holds him until his tears dry, murmuring sweet nothings into his hair and rubbing his back in gentle, soothing motions. “Can I get you bandaged up?” he asks, voice soft. “I don’t want germs getting into that head wound.”

“‘M not afraid of weak little germs,” Ilya protests, not wanting to let his boyfriend go.

“We can cuddle all you want after, okay? Promise.”

Ilya groans, reluctantly pulling out of the embrace. “I will hold you to that,” he sniffs petulantly.

Shane laughs quietly, warm like honey, and gets up to retrieve Ilya’s hospital bag. “I’m gonna have to turn the big light on for this,” he informs him, regret coloring his tone. “Just keep your eyes closed, okay?”

Ilya obediently closes his eyes and lets Shane know it’s okay to turn the light on. Even through his closed eyelids, the light is an assault to his senses—it makes him feel a bit queasy.

The bed dips as Shane settles next to him again, and Ilya hears the rustling of him opening the bag and digging out the supplies he needs.

“I’m gonna clean it with some antiseptic, and it’s gonna burn,” Shane warns. “You can squeeze my leg if you need to.”

“Just do it,” Ilya tells him, taking a deep breath to prepare himself. A few seconds later, he feels a cool, wet sensation that immediately transitions into a fiery burn, causing him to swear under his breath in Russian.

“Sorry, I’ll be quick,” Shane promises, finishing with his forehead before quickly swiping it over the cut on his nose as well, making Ilya hiss. “Okay, that part is done—just gotta bandage you up.” He does so as gently as he can, fastening gauze to Ilya’s forehead with medical tape, then pressing a small bandage over his nose. Then Ilya feels him get up again, hears his footsteps move across the room, and then the awful light is gone, leaving them once again in the soft glow of the single lamp lighting the room. “There, all done. You were very brave,” Shane grins, leaning in to peck him on the lips.

“Do I get a reward for being brave?” Ilya asks, wiggling his eyebrows, which he immediately regrets due to their proximity to his head wound. Worth it for the way Shane reddens, though.

“When your head is better, I’ll give you whatever you want,” he promises, clearing his throat. “For now, you get water and painkillers. And pizza, when that gets here,” he adds, holding out the aforementioned water and painkillers for Ilya to take. He does so gratefully, throwing the pills to the back of his throat and washing them down with a swig of water. “I want you to drink all of that; you need to hydrate.”

“Yes, yes, doctor was very clear about the importance of hydrating,” Ilya grumbles, but he takes another drink from the bottle anyway.

Shane’s phone rings soon after—the pizza guy is in the lobby.  Shane hurriedly stands, pulling on Ilya’s boxers and sweats, then digs out a t-shirt as well. “Boo,” Ilya says, giving him a thumbs-down for emphasis. “A body like that should never be covered up.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not trying to get charged for indecent exposure,” Shane shoots back, shaking his head. He grabs the keycard. “I’ll be right back, stay put.” And then he’s gone out the door.

Ilya figures he should probably also put some pants on and get rid of the wet towel, so he gets up to do just that. He also puts some deodorant on for good measure, leaving it out so that Shane will be able to do the same when he comes back.

He settles back down on the bed, resting his back against the headboard, and thinks about what a crazy twenty-four hours he’s had. He thinks he should probably be freaking out at least a little bit about the fact that he’d almost died, and he thinks he probably would be if it weren’t for Shane coming all this way to be with him. Not for the first time since he’d woken up to Shane sitting beside him in his bed, he’s filled with a gratitude so profound he doesn’t think there are proper words to even describe it. Shane had rented a car and driven thirteen hours for him, despite the fact that he’d just played a game and must’ve been exhausted from that alone. He thinks about him being brave enough to tell Coach and some of his teammates about them just so he’d be able to see him. Something like that would’ve been unimaginable to him even a day earlier. He’d always known he was important to Shane, but the last day had proven just how important he actually is. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible.

Shane returns with their pizza, smiling with relief the second their eyes meet, like he’d managed to miss Ilya in the few minutes it had taken him to go down to the lobby and back. Maybe he had—Ilya had certainly missed him the second the door closed behind him.

Shane climbs into bed with the pizza box and a bottle of water for himself and settles in beside Ilya. They eat right there—something Shane would normally never do, yet he looks happy to do it in that moment. Ilya loves him so much that he could scream.

“Good?” Shane asks, swallowing a mouthful of pizza.

“Perfect,” Ilya replies, and he’s not just talking about the pizza—it’s…everything, really. Obviously, the near-death experience wasn’t ideal, but he’d go through it again to be here, with Shane, who is finally ready to not hide so much. It feels surreal.

But the pizza is really good, too.

“It is pretty good,” Shane admits, groaning. “I forgot how good pizza was.”

“Listen, if you want to keep up your crazy diet, fine,” Ilya tells him, washing down a piece of pizza with his water. “But maybe it’s okay to treat yourself sometimes, yes?”

“…maybe,” Shane concedes after a moment, and the smile he offers Ilya makes him melt.

They finish eating in relative silence, and Shane gets up to put the remaining pieces in the room’s mini fridge. “Want me to set up your phone now?” he asks before he comes back to bed.

“It can wait till tomorrow,” Ilya says disinterestedly. “Can’t use it anyway.”

Shane hums in agreement. Spotting Ilya’s deodorant, he stops to apply it before climbing back into bed, leaving himself open for Ilya to velcro onto, which he of course does immediately.

“My stuff smells good on you,” he comments, sighing contentedly as he rests his head in the crook of Shane’s shoulder. “Not as good as your own stuff smells on you, but still good.”

“I like smelling like you,” Shane confesses, kissing the uninjured side of his forehead. “Even though it definitely does smell better on you.”

“Is still nice,” Ilya hums, allowing his eyes to close.

“Tired?” Shane questions, fingers playing with his hair.

“A little,” Ilya admits. “It’s been a long day, and I didn’t rest much with the nurses constantly waking me up.”

“That’s pretty much the worst part about concussions,” Shane murmurs, gently stroking Ilya’s side with the hand that isn’t in his hair. “But you can sleep uninterrupted tonight, at least. So sleep, I’m not going anywhere,” he adds.

“Don’t want to sleep yet,” Ilya argues, tone petulant. “Want to spend more time with my beautiful, considerate boyfriend, who I’ve been away from far too much.”

“We have time,” Shane chuckles, kissing his head again like he can’t help himself. “I plan on traveling back with you—I’m not about to let you onto a plane without me.”

“Will you hold my hand if I get scared?” Ilya teases, but secretly, it makes him glad that he’ll have Shane with him on the ride home.

“Of course,” Shane answers, earnest as always.

Warmth blooms in Ilya’s chest. “My hero,” he says softly. Then, he pauses, a question on his lips that he’s slightly afraid to voice, but knows he has to. “Can we…tell the rest of my team tomorrow?”

“I figured that was the plan,” Shane shrugs, as if it’s normal for him to be so casual about something like this. “If we didn’t tell them, they’d certainly know by the time we board the plane together.”

“Okay,” Ilya whispers, relieved.

He feels Shane’s hand leave his side to cup his face instead. “I understand why you’re scared that I might, but I’m really not going to change my mind about this,” he promises, tone gentle. “I refuse to make you hide from them anymore, okay? Please trust me on this.”

“I don’t want to doubt you,” Ilya tells him, swallowing hard. “It’s just…different, from how it’s been. And I don’t want to make you do something you aren’t ready for, I would hate myself if you did—“

“Ilya,” Shane cuts in, voice firm but still soft. “You’re not forcing me into anything, I promise. I already told a few of them myself, remember?”

“To see me,” Ilya points out. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“If I had, I still would’ve chosen the same,” Shane assures him, stroking the line of his jaw with his thumb. “They’re good people, Ilya, I can tell. I think I’ll always be nervous when new people find out, because some people just really suck, but…I think the rest of your team makes me the least nervous of all, after today.”

“They’re going to love you,” Ilya promises. “Even if you play for enemy team.”

A quiet laugh leaves Shane at that. “Hopefully, they can look past that off the ice.”

“They will—they are good guys,” Ilya insists.

“I’m so glad you have a good team to support you,” Shane sighs. He’s probably thinking about his own team—Ilya had never liked most of them, and he thinks that if he finds out about any of them saying anything bad to Shane, he might just go to jail for murder.

“You can always join us next year,” Ilya singsongs, trying to sound like he’s joking, but he kind of isn’t—he knows the Centaurs would welcome Shane with open arms, even if Ilya wasn’t in love with him.

“I can’t just leave my team, Ilya,” Shane snorts. “As much as I would love playing with you instead of against you, Montreal is…important to me. Not more important than you, of course, but…they drafted me. And it’s silly, but…that’s where I want my number to be retired someday,” he admits. “It’s still close enough to you that we can keep making it work, too.”

“I get it,” Ilya soothes, tilting his head up for a quick peck on Shane’s lips. He hadn’t actually expected him to ever leave Montreal, but he had to throw it out there anyway. “We will definitely keep making it work, luchik moy.”

“When we get back to Ottawa…do you want to go to the cottage?” Shane asks suddenly. “I’m probably already in deep shit with Coach Theriault, so I might as well get a few more days off out of it.”

Ilya’s breath catches at that, and he finds himself nodding almost immediately. “I would love that,” he whispers, relishing the thought of spending a few more days alone with Shane, hidden away in their own little world.

“That’s what we’ll do, then,” Shane hums, kissing the crown of his head. “Now, come on—let’s brush our teeth and go to bed.”

“But you slept all day,” Ilya teases.

Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes, and I’m still tired, and you’re tired, so the logical next step is for us to sleep.”

“Boring,” Ilya groans, but he allows himself to be pulled off the bed and over to his suitcase to grab his toothbrush and toothpaste. Shane uses the free toothbrush provided by the hotel along with a generous dollop of Ilya’s toothpaste, and they quickly brush their teeth, with Shane being admittedly much more thorough than Ilya bothers to be.

They head back to bed after taking turns emptying their bladders, crawling under the covers this time and getting cozy. Ilya latches back onto Shane immediately, though, and Shane lets him, pulling him close as gently as he can. Ilya’s battered body aches, but it would definitely hurt no matter how he’s lying—so he’d rather be hurting while cuddled up to his boyfriend than hurting alone.

“Goodnight,” Shane says softly, tilting his head down to press their lips together in a chaste, minty kiss.

“Goodnight,” Ilya echoes, before stealing another kiss. “I love you,” he adds, squeezing Shane a bit closer.

“Love you too,” Shane murmurs, and that’s that—within moments, his breathing deepens, and he’s out.

In the morning, the team will know, Ilya thinks to himself as he closes his eyes, giddy. We will not have to hide in front of them anymore. I won’t have to pretend I’m straight, or that I’m not in love. They’ll finally know me, all of me.

It’s a thrilling thought, one that carries him into a dreamless sleep.