Chapter Text
Shane Hollander is in control. He is always in control.
It is something he is proud of, constantly being calm and focused. It is one aspect, of what makes him the best fucking hockey player in the league. He has cultivated that smooth and composed exterior to perfection, and all possible cracks are patched up immediately by polite smiles and impeccable media training.
Nothing can rattle him. Not the thinly veiled racial comments he has learned to ignore, not the weirded-out stares of his teammates, when he excuses himself - again - from a night of partying and drinking, like he isn’t performing masculinity to their expected standard. Not the blatant disregard from his coaches when he raises a concern about locker room culture. Not being too Asian, or not enough, being too intense about hockey, being too weird, too silent, too rigid in his routines. Nothing is able to leave a mark, and nothing cracks the façade of Canada’s golden boy of hockey. And Shane prefers it that way.
But it is now, at almost 9 pm, in the kitchen of his empty and dark Montreal apartment, illuminated only by the cold light of the refrigerator, that he realizes, there are some cracks after all.
It had seemed easier in the days after Rose and him had broken up, like he had proved something to all the guys around him. The comments had gotten lighter, the laughs realer, and the tone more playful. But it had quickly become evident, that this easiness had been purely superficial. Because the cracks had stayed. Sure, coming out to Rose had been a very prominent fissure in the persona he presented to the world, but he had been lucky, and she had met him with nothing but kindness and understanding. She had helped him patch the emerging crack with a friendship and an acceptance, he tries to reciprocate as best as he can.
But the other tears and ruptures? When had they appeared, and how had he missed them? Had he missed them at all, or had he simply not cared about patching them up, watching as they started to spread, dying to see what they would reveal about himself. Waiting, watching, and hoping they would finally expose what truly lay at the core of him. Something no one ever got to see. Well, not no one…
Tonight, they had played Boston here at home, and Shane had dreaded the game while simultaneously, in some fucked-up masochistic way, had been looking forward to it. There were so many things about hockey he could control. His pre-game routine, the way he put on his compression clothes and pads, the way he laced up his skates, and the way he wrapped the tape. The way the blades cut into the ice, the edges scratching against the surface, and the way his body angled himself when he skated an especially narrow turn.
What he couldn’t seem to control, was the way he tried to catch Ilya’s gaze the whole game. But the Russian hadn’t glanced at him, not even in passing, not during the face-offs. His eyes had stayed fixated on the ice, the puck, or some place right next to Shane’s face. Shane had hoped to see something in Ilya’s eyes, something that would give him an inkling on where they stood, or if he had smashed it all with his stupid anxiety and fears. But Ilya had not even given him the gratification of looking directly at him, and he had not come near him, except for one time during the second period.
Crack!
Ilya had checked him into the boards so hard that Shane’s teeth had rattled together, despite his mouth guard. His bones were shaking, and a dull ache had spread from his ribs throughout his whole physique where the other man’s body had connected with him. It had been a clean hit, even if it bordered on unnecessary aggression. The kind of hit Shane had received countless times during his career, but never before had it left him shaken like this.
“Come back!” he had wanted to scream, “Come back and do it again! If this is the only way I can still feel you and touch you, come back and do it again!”
But he couldn’t, and so he had shut his mouth, bit his tongue, and poured all his pent-up desire and desperation into the game, silently savoring the pain blooming beneath his jersey.
After that, everything had become too loud. A million noises fusing together to a cacophony of sounds that made Shane feel dizzy and on edge. His nerves were fraying, and his emotional armor was breaking down, crack by crack.
Crack!
The sound of hockey sticks on ice.
Crack!
Skate blades crunching and hammering against the boards.
Crack!
The ever-present shout of the Montreal fans that usually managed to pick up his mood, and motivate him to play the best hockey he could.
But not tonight. He played worse than he ever had before, and it showed in the end score: 2:1 for Boston. He had scored the goal for Montreal with an assist by Hayden; Marleau, and Ilya, the ones for Boston.
Shane had made an awful, frantic plan to try to find Ilya after the game. It was stupid and reckless, but he was desperate enough. He hadn’t had the courage to text him, afraid of being left on read or worse, finding out Lily had blocked his number. If he talked to Ilya, he at least had to look at Shane, to reject him.
But then he had been pulled into media duty, and when he had finished answering all the questions he didn’t care about, he had grabbed his gear and positioned himself in the hallway, so he could watch the doors of the guest locker room. It was suspiciously quiet. That was where Hayden found him.
“What are you doing?”
Shane looked at his friend and searched for an answer. “I…ah… I wanted to talk to Marleau. That goal was really something.” He knew how lame the excuse sounded.
Hayden furrowed his eyebrows. “Since when do we congratulate the enemy when he scores against us?”
“You know, he doesn’t score that often, so I thought I would tell him he got lucky.”
Hayden laughed and readjusted the strap of his gear bag. “Yes, Captain, we’ll make chirper out of you, yet.” Shane smiled weakly. “But you’re too late. The Bears have already left.”
A bucket of ice filled Shane’s stomach. “What?... When?”
His best friend shrugged. “Like ten minutes ago, during press interviews. I think they have to get back to Boston this evening, so they’re going straight to the airport. I overheard Connors in the hallway, he was upset they couldn’t go out and celebrate the win. That dude is loud.”
Shit! Shane turned on his heels and sprinted towards the exit.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
His ribs hurt, and every breath felt like a thousand needles in his side, but he pushed the heavy doors open with all his strength.
The black tour bus passed through the parking lot in front of him. He could see the team through the windows, and there, in the back, last row, he recognized a head of curls and, for the first time tonight, and also for the first time since that fateful night in a dimly lit club a few weeks ago, Shane’s gaze met Ilya Rozanov’s. His body reacted before his mind did, and he took an involuntary step forward. He could have sworn Ilya’s eyes widened a fraction before the bus turned, and all Shane was left with were red taillights, driving further and further away, a deep bruise forming on his skin, and the gnawing feeling of missing someone you were never supposed to have in the first place.
He was too late.
“Damn, you missed them.” Hayden came up behind him.
Shane felt tears forming in the corner of his eyes. He tried to take a deep breath, but his airway seemed constricted by a large mass. His brain was running at one thousand kilometers an hour, and he tried to pace his breath like he had learned during his Yoga sessions.
Inhale for the count of four – hold- then exhale for the count of six. And again.
Wasn’t that the story of his life, a list of missed chances?
“You alright?” Hayden nudged him with his shoulder.
His tone was light, but Shane could hear the careful concern hidden in the question, that always crept in when he didn't act according to his usual behavioral patterns. And what explanation could he give Hayden, really?
“Hey, I am gay and have been fucking Ilya Rozanov for almost nine years, and I think I am in love with him, but I got scared and ruined it, and now I am fighting for just a look from him like a love-sick fool, and I would do much more if it meant I’d get him back!”
“Yeah, I am.” Because what else could he say?
Hayden squeezed his shoulder, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “I am off”, he said and gave Shane another squeeze. “I have to run by the grocery store across town, Jackie has this weird craving for pickle-flavored chips. But it has to be this one specific kind, so...” He shrugged with a bright smile that suggested that he did not mind at all to drive across town, and get a specific brand of chips for his pregnant wife.
Shane forced the corners of his mouth into what he hoped passed for an acceptable smile. “I should be going, too. Rose is in town, and we are going to get brunch tomorrow.”
Hayden’s eyebrows shot up, and he snorted. “Breakfast with the ex? I don’t know who you do it? I gladly stay away from all my ex-girlfriends.”
“Well, none of them were famous movie stars.”
“Yeah, that’s also true,” a laugh rang out, “But also, they weren't Jackie, and I already have the best woman in the world.”
Shane couldn’t help but smile. He knew the other guys on the Voyageurs sometimes gave Hayden shit for being too whipped, but Shane couldn’t imagine a better feeling. Having the person you love more than anything waiting for you at home? What could be better? Hayden would be going home to a loud, warm, and bright house; a tight embrace; and wet and loving toddler kisses. Shane’s condo would be dark, cold, and empty, devoid of any light or noise.
A last greeting and a wave by Hayden, and his friend was off. Shane walked slowly to his car and threw his gear bag in the trunk. He slid into the driver’s seat and winced at the pain that shot through his ribs when he buckled his seat belt. After, he sat still for a short moment, left hand on his right side, and with his right hand, he fished his phone out of his coat pocket. He opened the messenger app and scrolled down into the abyss of his conversations until he reached a familiar name.
Lily.
Shane’s right thumb hovered over the four letters, while his left pressed into the bruise that was starting to spread over his side. The sharp pain brought him back and he cursed. He turned off his phone and threw it across the middle console onto the passenger’s seat.
The drive home passed in a blur, and Shane tried to concentrate on mundane things to stop his thought from spiraling and returning to dark blond curls illuminated by the harsh nightlight of a tour bus, glowing like a halo.
Crack!
The sound of the car doors was obscenely loud in the underground parking garage.
Crack!
The door of his condo fell shut, and Shane kicked off his shoes.
He went through his after-game-night routine and emptied his gear bag, checked on his inventory, and put the thing that needed to be washed in the laundry room. Then he went into the kitchen and took a Ginger Ale from the fridge and an ice pack from the freezer. He perched himself on one of the bar chairs and set the can on the counter before him.
This is were he finds himself now. He takes a sip and lets the familiar taste quiet his overstimulated senses. It occurrs to him that he should probably look after his body; he is a pro athlete after all, and presses the ice pack to the nasty bruise on his ribs, wincing at the pain that radiates through his side. The hurt grounds him, and he presses harder as he tries to think back. When and how the fuck had it happened? When had his control slipped? Where had the cracks come from?
But if he is really honest with himself, he already knows.
The first one had appeared in 2008, in a parking lot in Regina, Saskatchewan.
Crack!
The sound of a lighter failing to ignite.
He had told a boy with curls he wasn’t allowed to smoke, and the asshole had done it anyway. Shane had been annoyed as fuck, but he had stayed polite, of course, he always did. He knew the boy; he had watched him on tapes, every day for months before this, and he had thought he knew what he was getting into. It turned out, he fucking didn’t!
But it hadn’t been the blatant disregard of respectful public behavior, or civil decency that had caused the crack, no, it had been the smile. Ilya Rozanov’s fucking crooked smile as he shook Shane’s hand. Shane’s stomach had made a sudden swoop, and a small crack, barely noticeable, had appeared. What had thrown him off, so he hadn’t bothered to patch it up? Maybe it had been the proportionately tame chirp, Ilya had thrown after him, as he walked away, maybe it had been the loss of the game, maybe it had been the handshake, maybe…
Whatever it had been, Shane hadn’t noticed, and now he was sitting here in his kitchen, nine years later, trying to pinpoint the exact time it had started.
The second crack had been even more silent and inconspicuous.
Crack!
The sound of a water bottle, a whispered “More” in a hotel gym close to midnight. And again, that fucking smile, this time accompanied by a wink.
The next one was louder. It happened at the rink, but it wasn’t the sound of the hockey sticks beating on the ice, or the instructions from the shoot’s director. It was the laughter that followed, two boys, not being able to fight the chemistry.
Shane knows that this wasn’t the only crack that appeared that day. There was another one, shortly after, cutting through the sound of a shower.
Crack!
Water splashing violently on tiles and defined muscles that caused desire rising up and manifesting itself in a completely involuntary erection.
Crack!
The sound of a knock and the opening and closing of a hotel door.
Crack!
A kiss and unguarded passion turning his insides in the most exquisite way.
Crack!
Ilya’s wet, hot mouth. On his cock and a few months later, on a Vegas balcony.
Crack!
The ice pack in Shane’s hand makes a little sound and brings him back to the present, violent like whiplash. He tries to ignore the heavy desperation that has been sitting inside his chest for the last few weeks and has made it almost impossible to feel anything else. As a countermeasure, he desperately presses against the bruise, relishing the tenderness and ache cutting through the apathy. It hurts, trying to map the pathway of his many failures that left visible marks on his composure. But Shane needs to know how it had happened, what it was that has him sitting here, in the kitchen, pressing on a bruise at his side, left there by a man he could not stop thinking about, desperate not to let it fade and lose the only way he would be able to feel this specific touch again. It was better to hurt, than lose the last sensation of Ilya Rozanov he would ever feel.
The next crack had been one of the most profound. Gentle words, spoken softly in the bedroom upstairs.
Crack!
“You Okay?... Still okay?”
The first time Ilya had entered him and literally cracked him open as no one had before, would always be engraved into Shane’s mind. There was no way he could ever forget the overwhelming pleasure, mixed with anticipation, nervousness, and the devastating certainty that he was safe. Maybe every time he had invited Ilya into his body had resulted in a new crack. Shane wasn’t sure if he had just never realized or just hadn’t cared. Maybe a bit of both.
But it wasn’t only the physical aspect of it, Shane knows that now. He has known it since that fucking cursed afternoon on Ilya’s couch when the latter had said his name like a prayer and Shane had been struck by a want so profound, it had him questioning reality. He wanted to hear Ilya say his name again and again, over and over again. Wanted to hear it whispered feverishly, as he was being pounded into the mattress, headboard slamming at the wall, while calloused hands traveled over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He wanted to hear it ringing with laughter, wanted to hear it said teasingly, accompanied by that haunting, crooked smile. Shane wanted to hear it ringing with annoyance and exasperation, and moaned breathlessly into the darkness or the skin of his neck.
The want ran so deep it made all the cracks inside of him ache. The shards chafed against each other, and Shane knew without a doubt that this could break him beyond repair. He wanted Ilya so completely and desperately, but he knew he couldn’t have him, and if he stayed, it would destroy him. All the fears deep inside of him bubbled up to the surface: the internalized homophobia, the racial stereotypes. He couldn’t be gay; he couldn’t be in love with a man, especially this man, because it would lead to nothing but destruction and despair. It would be another part of himself he has to hide in a sport that still didoesn't welcome all the other parts of him. Another aspect on top of the ones that already make it hard for him to fit in. He had been so scared, and then he had left. He had run away from Ilya Rozanov, the first person to crack him open, strip him bare (in more ways than one), the first person who had bothered to find out what lay beneath Shane’s carefully crafted public appearance. The first to look and found nothing he saw, wanting. Shane had been fucking scared, and he had left.
And what good had it done him?
“Fuck!” Shane’s voice cuts through the silence of the condo and echoes in the hallway. He digs his thumb into the bruise and tries to let the throbbing pain override the heartache. He takes a deep breath and wills his head to empty. He schools his breathing into the composed Yoga-pace, and the familiar rhythm manages to calm some of his body. Nonetheless, he can feel tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. He has truly fucked up!
Shane is so close to shattering. He isn’t whole anymore, but a mosaic of tiny splinters, the shards held together by stolen moments in dark hotel rooms; whispered words, honeyed by a thick accent; dark blond curls and eyes that change in the light, like twinkling kaleidoscopes of blue and hazel.
Crack!
The vibrations of his cellphone on the cold marble counter makes Shane flinch. He picks up his phone, and for a brief moment, he thinks, maybe, he will see the one name he wants to see more than anything else,. But there are four different letters that nonetheless make him smile. He answers the phone.
“Hey, babe, how are you?” Rose greets him, and Shane can hear a car door being closed in the background.
He smiles at the pet name and the easy affection in her voice. When she first called him babe after their break-up, Shane had been confused. Shortly after, he had realized that she calls everyone close to her various terms of endearment. Miles is also babe, honey, darling, and sometimes, when she is pissed, bitch. Shane has also been called the latter on occasion when Rose realized a cute waiter tried to flirt with him instead of her. Although it took some time getting used to, Shane is never annoyed, because the words are always loaded with a great deal of love and humor. And that is who Rose is; this is what drew him to her in the first place. She is kind, she is loving, and genuinely cares about the people she deems worthy of her affection. When he met her, he was just too much in denial about himself, so he mistook their friendly spark for attraction. If it had been anyone else but her, Shane’s coming-out could have gone very differently. Rose had kept her promise, and they text every day, sometimes, they call and talk for hours. Shane is grateful to have someone he can actually talk to, without having to put up a front and being careful about letting something incriminating slip.
“Tired,” he answers truthfully, “The game was bad.”
“Fuck ‘em, you’re still better,” she says, like a true best friend.
“Yeah.” Shane cannot help but smile.
Rose cheers for him on the line for a few seconds. Then, in Rose fashion, she gets down to business.
”Listen,” she starts, “I know we are not on until tomorrow, but Miles bailed on me for tonight, some stupid last-minute brand deal, and I haven’t got a hotel because I was supposed to stay with him. Would it be okay if I crash in your guest room, the mattress there is so much better anyway. And it would save us a shitload of time tomorrow morning.” Shane hesitates for a moment, but Rose continues. “I know this is super last-minute, and I know you have your whole routine after a game, but I am really looking forward to seeing you. I already picked up the salmon you like, and I brought some good drinks…” Shane wants to interrupt her, but before he can say anything, she is already babbling on, “I know, you don’t drink during the season, but I do and if you want to talk to me about the qualities of the stick tap you have chosen to bring to your fancy Florida hockey game in two weeks, I need to be drunk…And I don’t want you to wallow in misery over your lost hockey game alone.”
“I don’t wallow!”
Rose laughs. “Shane, you do! You get all quiet and focused, and you look at game tape for hours, trying to find out what you did wrong. And on any other night I would let you do this, but not when I am in town, and I need my bestie to gossip about Tom Hardy’s ass, that I absolutely saw in real life and bare naked, last week.”
Shane laughs, and her easy acceptance warms him from the inside. “Well, only if you describe it to me.”
“I will, in great detail, I promise. You know I don’t believe in TMI.”
“You are a famous movie star, you should absolutely believe in TMI,” he reminds her.
“Boring!” The word cuts through Shane.
Crack!
He tries to find his voice again and clears his throat. “Then come over, you pervert.”
“Takes one to know one, babe,” Rose sing-songs. “I will be there in fifteen. See you!”
The line goes silent, and with it disappears the warmth of Rose’s voice. Shane is back in a dark kitchen with a lonely can of Ginger Ale, bruised ribs, a fragmented heart, and so much regret it could fill this whole city up to the sky.
--------------------
Ilya Rozanov was not exactly known for his impulse control. He ate, drank, and fucked what and whoever he wanted. He was famous, he was hot, he was rich, white, and he was a man. Almost nothing could touch him. But despite that, he tried never to abuse his privilege. He was an asshole, he knew that. He loved chirping people on and off the ice. But there always were lines, he’d never cross. No racist, xenophobic, or homophobic jokes had, or would ever cross his lips. He was polite and treated people with kindness and decency. His mother had made sure of that.
“Most people will only care about parts of you, Ilyushenka. But you need to find the ones that see all of you and stay.”
Ilya sinks down in the seat he has chosen at the very end of the tour bus, and lets the memory of his mother’s voice wash over him while his teammates start to fill up the empty places around him.
She had been right. People had always wanted only parts of him. Most wanted his body, or his money, or a part of the attention his fame brought with it. No one wanted to see the messy parts, the dark parts, he had carefully tucked away. But it was also her fault he was broken. He had fractured at age 12, on a quiet afternoon after practice, when he had touched a hand colder than he was used to, a hand that never would be warm again.
Blyat!
Ilya rubs his hands over his face. He needs to get his shit together. The game had been bad, he knows he is playing like shit, has been since that afternoon in Boston a few weeks ago. Since Shane fucking Hollander had walked out on him, leaving him with drying cum on his chest and got a fucking girlfriend the week after.
Ilya knows he fucked up. He knows his communication had been all over the place, but what baffled him the most, what he really needs to examine is, why it had hurt so much?
It shouldn’t have rattled him! He is used to people leaving, taking their fill of whatever part of him they want, and not staying for the rest. He shouldn’t feel like shit for weeks, and it shouldn’t feel like actual physical agony to try and avoid the gaze of a certain pair of brown eyes, or fight the urge to count a constellation of freckles he knows the exact number of (not that he has ever counted them).
It’s 105 in total!
He had allowed himself one moment of weakness, checking Shane into the boards, desperate for the tiniest bit of contact, and the last chance to feel the body he so desperately missed. His last chance to touch the man who haunted his dreams and waking hours. Just to get Shane Hollander finally out of his system.
So why does it still hurt so much?
When had he started to feel whole again?
When had all the fragments of him started to come together again? When, and how had all the cracks in his soul been repaired?
Ilya tries not to think about it, but he can’t help it. Poor impulse control, he has already established that.
The first crack had been patched up in 2008, in a parking lot in Regina, Saskatchewan. A boy with unguarded dark eyes and a shower of disturbingly pretty freckles had complimented him, shaken his hand two times in under 5 minutes, and then walked away with a penguin wave. It had been so awkward and adorable, and Ilya had to fight his smile even now, almost nine years later. It had been the first time someone had approached Ilya and meant what he said. No reading between the lines, no hidden agenda, no veiled meaning.
Ilya had never stood a chance, he had been fucked from the start.
The next crack was fixed in a hotel gym after midnight, through a conversation about cities between two frightened boys who were standing on the threshold of a new life chapter.
Then, a look of barely veiled desire in a shower, a whispered room number, a knock, and a kiss that echoed through his whole being. He had been bold from the start, never held back, and answered Shane’s honesty with the coldness and indifference he always used to keep people at bay.
This is me, you see that? You still want me, after all this?
And Shane had accepted all of it, had taken everything Ilya had thrown his way, all the ghosting and cruel words, and he had stayed. And with every answered text, every fond “Fuck you” or “Asshole”, he had put Ilya back together again. And Ilya, fucking idiot that he was, had not noticed. Well, not at first. And when he finally had and tried to do something about it, he had failed.
What had he been thinking? What had been the plan? He doesn’t know. Ilya runs his fingers through his still shower-damp hair. He had been an asshole! He had downplayed every single encounter they had had over the years, always leaving and chirping. He had been cruel and scared in Sochi and Vegas, and then suddenly he had offered Shane all the patched-up pieces of him and expected him to…what? To just take it and say, “Of course, Ilya, I am in love with you, too! Never mind how you treated me like garbage all these years.”
Ilya groans. Maybe if he had a plan for what came after? But his situation is fucked either way. Hockey is Hockey, the League is the League, Russia is Russia, and he is who he is. A man split into various parts that would probably never fit together cleanly again. And Ilya would just have to live with how things turned out. He knows he shouldn’t want to change how things turned out, shouldn’t want Shane Hollander. But the heart is an irrational organ, and it does not concern itself with subtlety. It emphasizes the truth with no regard for logic or reason. And it has been screaming the truth to Ilya for quite a long time.
A movement at the corners of his eyes catches his attention, just as the bus starts to drive. For a moment, Ilya thinks his eyes are deceiving him, because Shane bursts through the arena’s door, looking like he is being chased. For a moment their gazes meet, then Shane takes a step towards him before their eye contact is forcibly broken, when the tour bus turns onto the road.
Fuck! He needs to stay, to get out of the bus, to…
“Roz, you good?” Ilya’s head snaps to his left, where Cliff looks at him with raised eyebrows. “You seem off.”
Ilya answers the only way he knows how to when he’s feeling emotional, and things start to get too real. He lashes out. “Mind your own fucking business, Marly and leave me the fuck alone!”
Cliff scoffs. “Just saying, you have been off for weeks, sulking and brooding. Did Montreal Jane finally figure out she is too good for you? Is that why you're putting us through hell every practice?”
If looks could kill, Cliff would be dropping dead this very instant, but sadly Ilya is faced with the fact that he hasn’t developed supernatural power overnight, and that his teammate has zero survival instinct whatsoever, because he just won’t shut up.
“We thought we might have to put you on suicide watch,” his seat neighbor rambles on, “Or finally get you laid again.”
Ilya’s body fills with ice. Objectively, he knows that Marleau has no clue about his mother, but the words still land like a punch to the gut. He uses all his remaining strength to level his voice into the composed, but lethal tone of the Boston Bear’s captain. The one his team knows very well, and which sends a clear signal. Get the fuck away or prepare for blood. “I suggest you stop talking now.”
Cliff looks at him and stops immediately. He lifts his hands up defensively and nods. “Alright, sorry, captain.” Then he takes out his phone, and Ilya shifts his attention back to the dark city of Montreal and the bus that carries him farther and farther away from the one place he wants to stay.
He has two weeks to get his shit together. Two weeks until the All-Star game in Florida. Two weeks to figure out how to survive without Shane Hollander. Or worse, being in the same room with him but not being able to touch him, playing along as if nothing had happened, and watching Shane move on without him. Because Shane could never be his in the light, he could only ever be Rose Landry’s, and Ilya has to learn to live with that. The sooner, the better.
--------------------
Since the first time they met, Rose Landry knew that Shane Hollander would stay in her life.
He was kind, funny, and polite. He also understood what it meant to be a public figure, and they had immediately clicked, talking for hours. She hadn’t been surprised when he had asked for her number, so they went on a few dates, and she went to one of his games. But Rose knew the signs, and their second and even more disastrous attempt to have sex proved her suspicions. She had set Shane down, and her heart had almost broken for him at that dinner. She had made sure to stay in contact, and the spark between them had blossomed into a real friendship. They both had pretty busy schedules and various obligations, and on top of that, they tried to avoid the press, who still hadn’t caught up to their breakup a few weeks ago, because they did not want to drive the gossip machine. Although their relationship had only lasted a few weeks and had been far from serious, the media had blown it out of proportion with their coverage, still talking about their epic romance. They texted and talked on the phone a lot, but now she had a couple of weeks of free time during shoots and campaigns, and she was excited to finally meet up with him again. They had planned for brunch and gossip in Montreal, and Rose was elated that Shane, who loved his routines, was willing to turn his plans upside down and make time for her the evening before.
20 minutes after their call ends, she arrives at his apartment building and shoots him a quick text. He buzzes her in, and she storms into his condo, sheds her coat and shoes by the door before entering the kitchen, where she puts a big bag on the counter and wraps Shane in a tight hug.
“I’m sorry you lost today”, she says. Shane winces, and she breaks away quickly. “Oh shit, are you hurt?”
“Just a bruise on the ribs,” he reassures her.
“Alright, I’ll go easy on you.” Rose winks and opens the take-out bag. They chat about all and nothing, just some simple small talk to catch up with each other, while they distribute the food. Then they sit down at the counter and Rose launches into the very detailed story about a certain behind, she had promised earlier.
“…and then I open the door, because that is where they told me I was supposed to go, and there he was, pants at his ankles.” She fans herself at the memory. “I tell you, firm and perky.” She giggles, but Shane only manages a small smile. Rose turns serious and fixates him over her wine glass.
“You alright?” she asks, clocking that something is clearly up with her friend.
“Hm? ....Yeah, I think the game just got to me.” Shane shrugs, but she can see right through the act.
"If you say so.” She is not convinced and takes another sip of wine.
Rose is almost one hundred percent sure that she knows exactly what is eating at Shane. She knows he trusts her, but years of hiding have made it very hard for him to open up, and from the few instances, Shane has talked about his team, she has gathered that the Voyageur’s locker room is not the friendliest or the safest. Also, she is still learning when to push Shane to open up and when it is better to let him come to her when he is ready to talk.
But she also doesn’t know when their schedules will align again, and she is certain that this is an ‘in-person’ conversation and not one that should be held over the phone. Rose decides to put all her eggs in one basket.
“So, how’s the peg?”
Shane chokes on his ginger ale and almost spits the liquid across the counter. He coughs violently, and his eyes start to water.
“Fuck…Rose…,” he rasps.
Rose still looks at him with slightly raised eyebrows, completely unfazed by his powerful reaction.
Shane tries to look as nonchalant as possible. “There is no peg. There is no one?” he says very unconvincingly.
Rose still does not move but narrows her eyes slightly, like a predator fixating on its prey, ready to use the tiniest evidence of weakness against them. She just continues looking at him and can see Shane getting more and more flustered by the second. Her blue eyes calmly stare him down, and after a few seconds that feel like hours, she sighs heavily and leans back.
“Shane,” Rose starts, and her voice is gentle but firm. “I am an actress, so believe me when I say, I can see right through your bullshit.” She takes a sip of wine. “You know I am your friend. I am also a vault. I would never, ever repeat anything you say, without your permission, to anyone.”
Shane is fighting with himself, she can see it. He desperately wants to tell her. There is something he is hiding, and it is trying to claw its way out.
“I don’t…I mean…” He sounds anxious, and Rose decides to help him along. She smiles at him and sighs. Then she gently puts her glass down and covers Shane’s hand with her own.
“Do you know why we broke up?” she asks.
Shane snorts, and the corners of his mouth lift into a tired, humorless smile. “Because I am gay?”
Rose doesn’t take the bait. “Yes, that too,” she says, “That is one of the reasons.”
Shane raises his eyebrows. “There is more than one reason? Was I that shitty of a boyfriend?”
“No, of course not. You were an okay boyfriend, but you are an awesome friend, so I prefer the trade.” Rose smiles. ”Shane, I love you, and I will never regret dating you, even if it was just for a few weeks. I clocked you pretty quickly. Honestly, the second time we slept together was mainly to prove my suspicions.” Shane snorts again, but Rose continues unaffected and determined to see this through. “However, there was something else, I realized pretty quickly.” She squeezes his hand reassuringly to soften the truth she is to about to hit him with. “Even if you weren’t gay and would have been attracted to me, we…,” she lets go of Shane’s hand and gestured between them, “would never have worked.”
“Why?” The question slips out of Shane’s mouth almost too quickly.
Rose smiles. “Because it was and is pretty obvious that you are completely and hopelessly in love with someone else.”
She can practically see the mask crumble in real time. Tears start to form in Shane’s eyes, and a sudden sob tears free. Without a word, she leans over and wraps her arms around him. Shane’s shoulders are shaking, and Rose squeezes him as tight as she can. The angle is awkward, and the position is hurting her back, but she doesn’t let go. She rubs small circles across his back while he cries into her neck. After a few minutes, his breathing starts to even out, and he sits up. Rose holds tight onto his left hand while Shane uses the right one to wipe away the tears on his cheeks.
“I am sorry.” His voice is raw.
Rose shakes her head vehemently. “Don’t apologize,” she says. “You never have to apologize to me for being honest,” she says, squeezing his hand. “We already established this, remember?”
Shane smiles weakly and takes a deep breath. “How…how did you know?”
She sighs and lets go of his hand. Then she slides down from the bar chair, takes her wine glass, the bottle, and grabs a second, empty glass from the cabinet. She walks to the living room and beckons Shane to follow her. They sit down on the couch, and Rose fills both of their glasses despite Shane’s protests.
“Just in case,” she says. Then they settle.
Rose takes a moment to organize her thoughts. “I guess the signs were there from the beginning,” she starts. “You were always checking your phone when you thought no one was watching. At first, I thought it was just a habit, but it became obvious that you were waiting to hear from someone. And sometimes you just… kind of checked out,” she is searching for the right word, “I mean, I could tell you weren’t listening to the conversation around you.”
“I’m sorry.” Shane’s sounds ashamed.
Rose brushes him off with a wave. “It’s fine, no more ‘sorry’, I told you.” She smiles. “I recognized the signs because I have been in that situation. I mean, no one is too keen on being a rebound, but I get it. It’s not your fault, Shane.”
“I really tried,” His voice is silent. “I really tried to make it work.”
Rose’s heart aches, and she takes his hand again. “I know. But you shouldn’t have had to. We talked about this, babe, we are good.” She grins and takes a sip of wine. “Shane Hollander is ‘queening out’ for the first time and mistakes it for sexual attraction.”
Shane groans, but the corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I know that one.”
"Yes, because I taught you.”
For a few minutes, they sink into comfortable silence. Then, Rose asks as gently as she can. “Do you want to tell me?”
For a moment, she thinks Shane will brush her off, but then he suddenly grabs the wine glass from the couch table and takes a few big gulps. “I can’t tell you who he is, because he is not out.” Rose nods. “But the big picture is that we’ve casually been hooking up for a few years.” She lets out a sharp gasp, but Shane goes on. “A couple of weeks before we met, I was at his house, and he asked me to stay overnight. We had never done that before, it was only hotel rooms and quick exits. But that day…,” he stops and blinks, but Rose waits, sensing that he hasn’t finished. “He made me Tuna Melts and we talked… it was so different. And then he started this weird conversation about girls, and then we had sex, and he said my name and… I freaked out.” Shane looks at her.
“What kind of conversation about girls?”
“He just talked about his friend Svetlana who he sometimes hooks up with, but that it is not serious. Then tells me he likes girls and he likes me, but not as a person, I just have a good mouth.” He laughs bitterly, and Rose raises her eyebrows. “He asked me if I like girls because I never date publicly. It was so confusing, I had no idea what he wanted from me. Still don’t.” He takes another big swallow of wine.
“Well, it doesn’t sound like he has a degree in communication.” Rose also takes another sip of wine. “Have you two ever talked about your sexualities?” Shane shakes his head. “Hmmmm….” She tries to find the meaning behind the bits of dialogue Shane has told her. “And this guy is gay, too?”
“Ahem…” It’s written in his face that he is trying to discern how much information he can give her. “No, he’s bisexual, has been with a lot of girls.”
Rose nods. Then she sits up straight. “I mean,” she starts, “I could be completely off base here…”
“You weren’t about me.”
“Yeah, well, I could be wrong, but we have already established that he is not a particularly good communicator. And all this rambling about girls and dating…could he maybe have been trying to find out if you are gay or bi? You said you guys haven’t talked about it before.”
Shane furrows his brows, and she can clearly see that his brain is running at 1000 miles an hour. “I mean, it could be possible. English is not his first language, but even with that in mind, I just didn’t know what to make of it.” Shane looks to the side, and Rose chooses to stay silent about all the little clues he has accidentally revealed to her in his rant.
“Was there anything else?” she asks him.
“After sex, we cuddled! We had never done that before, and it was nice, like really nice.” Shane takes another swallow of his wine. “To be honest, I didn’t know how to handle that. It felt so good, and it freaked me out. So I escalated it, got us off, and then he said my first name.” He looked at Rose. “We never called each other by our first names, it was always Hollander and R…. his last name.”
“So you got overwhelmed and left?”
“Yeah. And just a week later or so, we started dating.”
Rose winces. “Oh, shit.”
Shane’s eyes start watering again. “I fucked it up.”
Rose sighs, she does this a lot this evening. “Well,” she says, “I’d say you definitely did. But so did he.” She shoves at Shane’s thigh. “Seriously, you both fucked that up.”
“I was so scared of being gay. All this time I thought I just needed to get him out if my system, and then I met you, and we got along so well, and I thought, ‘Finally, I like a girl like that’.” Shane’s voice sounds defeated. Rose takes his hand and smiles at him. “I know that is okay to be gay. I know that now, thanks to you,” he continues and squeezes her hand. “Have I ever told you how fucking grateful I am to you?”
Rose grins. “Rose Landry, patron saint of gay hockey players. I like that.”
They both laugh and drink. “Soooooo….,” she starts, “What do you want to do about it?”
Shane furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you want to continue wallowing in your heartbreak and misery, or do you want to try and fix it and get him back?”
“I…, I hadn’t really thought about it. I just figured I fucked it up, and now I have to live with it. Today I tried talking to him and…” He catches himself, and for a few moments, Shane looks off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought.
“You know,” he says, “Sometimes I am just so fucking lonely. I can be in a room full of people and still be alone. I always have to hide a part of me. Sometimes I am to Asian, sometimes I am too white, sometimes I care too much about hockey and sometimes I don’t care enough. The only time I could be myself, truly just be…was with him. And now I have destroyed it.”
Rose takes a sip of wine and thinks for a moment. “How long have you been together?”
“We’re not together. Clearly not now, but also before. We weren’t together together… exclusive… boyfriends.” He trails off.
“Ugh, fine.” Rose groans. “How long did you and you situationship fuck non-exclusively?”
“Since 2010.”
Now it was Rose’s turn to choke. “What the fuck!” She recovers and makes sure no drops of wine were spilled on the couch. “Shane, babe. That’s seven years! That is not casual at all, whatever you two fucking idiots have been telling yourselves. That is not just a fuck-buddy, Shane, that is a boyfriend.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Rose just shrugs and drinks. She knows he won’t give up on his assessment of his relationship, and honestly, she hadn’t met the other guy. “So what do you want to do about it?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughs. “Shane Hollander is without a plan? I don’t believe it.”
They remain silent for a few minutes, and Rose sips on her wine. “I have an idea,” she says, “We are going to pause this conversation, we are going to watch a movie, drink more of this wine, because you do not have a game until in a few days. Then we go to sleep, and you think about what you want to do about your hot, big-dicked not-boyfriend. In the morning, when we are both rested, we order in a humongous brunch, drink some more, and make a plan.”
Shane smiles. “How do you know he has a big dick?”
“Call it an educated guess.” Rose raises her eyebrows questioningly. “Am I wrong?”
He grins. “No.”
They both laugh, and she clinks their wine glasses together. “Okay,” Shane says then. “That sounds like a good idea.”
They put on an action movie, in which Rose gets kidnapped and gossip about the bad writing, her terrible co-star and how the director was definitely sleeping with the sound technician. She doesn’t bring up the guy anymore, but her thoughts are racing. She doesn’t want to pry, but she can’t help but try to make up a mental image of the man who has her friend drinking wine on a weeknight during the season. When the movie has ended, Rose silently washes the dishes and puts them away, while Shane sorts the take-out trash into its designated bins. Before they part to get ready for bed, Shane lets out a heavy breath.
“I thought about it,” he says, “I have decided what I want to do.”
Rose waits for him, even if she already knows what he is about to say.
“I want to try to make it right. I want him! But not like before. I want the real thing. No more casual.”
“So you want to lock him down?”
Yes.” His voice is sure.
Rose grins. “Okay! Let’s do it. But honestly, I might be underqualified for the job. I can’t seem to attract enough straight guys to even try for a serious relationship. If you want to lock him down, you need ‘wife energy’. Do you know anyone with that kind of rizz, someone you trust?”
Shane nods, a small smile on his face. “Yeah, I do.”
-------------------
Jackie Pike loves being pregnant. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be in this situation for the fourth time. But some aspects of this just suck. With the twins, it was the morning sickness, not just the first three months, but almost up to the seventh month. With Arthur, it was the PPD that had held her in a chokehold. It was a very dark time, and it had scared her and Hayden so much that even though they both wanted a fourth kid, it had taken a lot of very hard conversations to get to the point of trying again. And now, with this one, the insomnia was a real bitch. So that is why she is still awake at 11:45 pm, doom scrolling on her phone, when Shane’s texts come through.
Shane: Hi Jackie, sorry for disturbing you this late.
She smiles. She loves Shane Hollander. From all her husband’s teammates, she is so glad that it’s the captain of the Voyagers who turned out to become his best friend. Because honestly, the other guys are some of the most misogynistic, racist, and homophobic fuckers she knows. Hayden doesn’t talk about it much, and she knows he is in a tough position. Hayden is not a forceful person, and she loves him for it, but he avoids conflict like the plague and can be a coward. She knows it’s hard for Shane in the locker room, she has pieced it together from the little bits Hayden tells her and how Shane behaves at team meetings. Maybe that is why she feels so protective of him. He is godfather to her children and like a brother to her.
Shane: I wanted to ask you a big favor.
Shane: Rose is in town and you always said you wanted to meet her.
Oh, the famous Rose Landry. Shane’s and hers relationship had been too short-lived, so she and Hayden had never gotten around to meeting her. The relationship itself had come as a surprise to Jackie. She had been a wild card during her first years of college, a time she fondly and proudly refers to as her ‘slut years’. Her gaydar isn’t perfect, but let’s just say, there is a reason she didn’t try to chat up Shane instead of Hayden the night they all met for the first time. Even though Shane is hot as hell.
Shane: I know this is super last-minute, but could you come have brunch with us tomorrow?
Shane: I mean, would you please come, sorry. You could meet Rose and I have to talk to you about something.
She smiles. Shane is just so typically Canadian. Always polite, always apologizing, and considerate of others. Jackie wishes he sometimes would stop being so nice and take up the space he deserves, instead of making himself small to fit other people’s expectations.
Shane: Please don’t tell Hayden. About me needing to talk.
The last message makes her sit up straight carefully, so as to not wake up Hayden.
Jackie: Hey, is everything alright?
Shane: Oh, sorry, did I wake you?
Jackie: No, pregnancy insomnia. Was awake anyway.
Shane: Shit, that sounds awful.
Jackie: Well, not as bad as throwing up.
Shane: Yeah, that seems right.
Jackie: So, what is this about?
Shane: I really want you to meet Rose, but I kind of need your help with something. It isn’t something bad or serious, just… it is just very hard to explain over text.
Jackie: Okay! I was worried for a moment.
Jackie: I can make time tomorrow, Hayden wanted to take the kids to the zoo, and I’ll just ask my parents to go with him.
Shane: Thank you that would be awesome! We’re going order in, so no need to prepare something. Just bring yourself.
Jackie: Alright! This is a very nice surprise, I am looking forward to meeting a famous movie star. ;-)
Shane: Thank you so much, I really appreciate it. See you at 9 at my place?
Jackie: That works. See you.
She puts her phone down and settles into the mattress next to her husband. Maybe trying to figure out what Shane could want from her will finally put her to sleep.
--------------------
Svetlana Vetrova knows she is a smart woman. Or better said, she is a bad bitch. She also knows that a lot of people, mostly men, underestimate her. It doesn’t help that her main interests are fast cars and hockey, which are both very male-dominated areas. But her parents did not raise a quitter, and so she has learned not to give a shit about what everyone thinks about her. Maybe that is why she has trouble connecting with women, which results in most of her best friends being men. And she knows they try, but even Ilyusha, bless him, who has been with her through thick and thin and carries his enormously big heart in the right place, is a multiple times concussed jock and can be, kindly put, quite dense at times.
They are in his bedroom watching the game, gossiping about the players.
Matheson is absolutely a very mediocre player and has no place in the All-Star Game. They should just let her make that decision.
Ilyusha is wearing shorts and nothing else, like he has an allergy to shirts after 9 pm. She is in her underwear and a Boston t-shirt, a birthday gift from Ilyusha. They are sharing a bed and have been comfortable doing so for forever, even if it doesn’t lead to sex any more. The sex had been good, but Svetlana has already decided a while ago that they are done with that. The easy sexual connection they shared is gone, and if she is honest, she doesn’t mourn or miss it. The times they’ve slept together in the last months is almost zero, anyway. They had been lucky, growing up in a country that hates parts of them, namely his sexuality and the color of her skin, to have the possibility to always come back to one another when they needed physical intimacy. And Ilyusha is a great lay, has always been, but it is no fun to sleep with someone who is clearly thinking about somebody else.
She loves him to death, but she has standards.
Luckily, there were never any romantic feelings between them, thank god! She would go through fire for her best friend, but the thought of entering a relationship with him has her almost physically gagging, and she knows he feels the same. It might sound harsh but, they have always been honest with each other. Well, almost.
Svetlana knows that Ilyusha is in love, she knows that their name is Jane, and she also knows that the name is fake. She also knows why the name and the gender are fake. She covered for Sasha and him a few times when they were young.
Jane has been around for a long time, almost nine years, and Svetlana has watched Iluysha fall deeper and deeper in love, despite his best efforts to downplay it. But to be honest, it bugs her that he hasn’t talked to her about it. Also, because they have clearly been fighting, and for the last few weeks, Ilyusha has been a wreck. He even started smoking again!
It had gotten so far that Marleau had texted her on behalf of the team if she knew how to get them back together. But Ilyusha is a vault with walls so high they’d reach the moon. She knows, if she pushes too hard, he will just snap at her and retreat even further. So she waits and shows up for him, just like always, with nothing more than a suspicious hunch lingering at the back of her mind, but maybe she can poke the bear a bit.
“You’re playing on the same team as Hollander this year, right?” She tries to make it sound as nonchalant as possible.
Ilyusha takes a drag of the cigarette, before answering her. “Is he also mediocre?”
Svetlana recognizes the nervous habit for what it is. Trying to maintain control in an emotional situation. He has always started fidgeting when he is trying to suppress his feelings. She shots him a quick look.
“No, he is amazing.” And to bring her point home: “Those hands. And he’s gorgeous.”
Ilyusha rubs his nose. More fidgeting. “If you say so.” He says it like it is nothing, but after years of knowing him, she knows all his tells.
Svetlana hopes he can see the deadly side-eye she is throwing his way. The meaning is clear: Stop deflecting, idiot. I can see right through your bullshit!
He looks at her. “What?”
She tries to level him with a deadly stare. It is the same one she always used to get him out of the clubs, when it was time to go and he behaved like a whiny toddler, wanting to stay.
Ilyusha has been obsessed with Shane Hollander his whole life, and the obsession has seemed logical. They were the best in the world, played for two teams that have been rivals for decades, and so they were pitted against each other at any given possibility. He consumed everything about Hollander, from reviewing and keeping up to date with his stats, watching all his games, and the ‘boring’ character piece about him on ESPN. The latter even multiple times, she has seen it in his watch history when she was searching for a movie a few months back. This obsession has transcended hockey and…
FUCK!
The dots suddenly connect and she almost jumps of the bed. It sounds crazy, but at the same time everything makes complete sense: the time frame, since Montreal Jane has made an appearance, the secrecy, the codename. And honestly, who else could it have been, for both of them? There was no one else who could challenge them, no one else who understood what they were going through? And they are both very hot, that definitely added to the appeal.
But wasn’t Hollander dating this actress? Rose Landry is her name. How did that happen?
In a matter of seconds, Svetlana decides on a strategy.
“You know he’s gorgeous and you know he is good.”
Like a coward Ilyusha avoids her gaze and turns back to the TV. “He’s very good,” is all she gets.
But Svetlana has smelled blood and she isn’t a quitter. “I would love to see him on a line with you,” she says, keeping her voice and face calm and matter-of-fact.
“Not sure he can play wing.” Ilyusha shoots back. He still hasn’t realized that she is on to him. Eugh, men!
“But you can,” she goes, saying the one thing she knows will piss Ilyusha off the most, trying to get him to lower the defenses he has put up.
It works and he looks at her offended. “You would have him center me? Me?” He crawls towards her and she starts laughing.
“The people would love it.”
Ilyusha pulls her down. “The people are wrong!” he shouts and pretends to elbow her into the mattress. “The people are wrong!”
They laugh and she is relieved so see his playful side, even if it is just for moment. He puts his head in her lap and she starts rubbing his scalp. She can feel him relaxing against her and thinks for a moment. She needs him to open up, so she can actually help him.
Svetlana isn’t cruel, but her best friend is a fucking idiot, so she decides to go in for the kill. “I wonder how many outfits Rose Landry will bring. She has such good style.”
She can feel Iluysha go suddenly tense under her hands. Direct hit!
“Ilyusha,” she starts, careful to keep her voice as soft as possible, “what happened with him?”
It is a direct question, but as soon as she asks it, she realizes it gives him too much room to deflect.
“I don’t know what you mean. Nothing happened.”
Svetlana sighs, but her fingers keep combing through his curls. “You know I am not stupid, right?
“I never said you were, but…”
She doesn’t acknowledge his attempts to divert and downplay, she has already decided that from now on, she just takes it as a fact, that her Ilyusha is in love with his greatest rival. No more pretending. She can’t help him if they’re still pretending.
“How long?”
There is a long stretch of silence, and Svetlana fears she has pushed too far, but then he speaks so silently, she almost misses it.
“Summer before Rookie season.”
The words land like a punch to the gut. Nine fucking years!
All this time and he just kept it inside without anyone helping him navigate this mess. He was a teenager back then, and so, she guesses, was Shane Hollander. Two boys growing up while navigating a demanding job and impossible feelings. She had always known that Ilyusha’s partying and playboy personality were coping mechanisms, but she never realized the depths of what he hid from her, from the world.
Svetlana concentrates on soothing the man in her lap again. “What changed in the last few weeks?” She keeps her voice and her hands soft and gentle.
“I fucked up. He left.”
His voice sounds so sad and empty, Svetlana’s heart clenches. She is not a crier, never has been, but the sheer devastation in Ilyusha’s voice makes her eyes burn. She doesn’t ask what happened, she knows this is not the right place and time. She can feel the exhaustion radiating from his body, all the effort of keeping this part of himself hidden is catching up to him, now that the secret is finally revealed. She gently continues to rub his scalp.
“Sleep,” she says, “Tomorrow we talk.”
Ilyusha nods, and after a few minutes, his breath evens out. Svetlana carefully lifts him off her lap and tucks him beneath his blanket. She turns off the TV and the lamps in the bedroom, then slips under the covers on the right side of the bed.
He looks young and vulnerable in the dark. She thinks about the last weeks and the empty shell that existed instead of her best friend. It is clear that Shane Hollander makes a difference in Ilyusha’s life. She doesn’t know anything about their relationship, she doesn’t know what happened and she sure as fuck doesn’t know why Shane Hollander is dating Rose Landry when he could have Ilyusha. Just because she doesn’t want to date him doesn’t mean he isn’t a catch for anyone else. In this nine years, he surely must have gotten a glimpse of the enormous heart that lives beneath the cocky Russian asshole-facade. This must be something more for Shane Hollander, too, because nobody keeps coming back for nine years without a good reason, even if the sex is great.
“Fucking men,” she thinks. Then she closes her eyes and starts planning.