Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shane knows it’s risky. It’s objectively a bad idea. But he’s followed through on a bad impulse before and was rewarded for it. Well, until recently.

He leaves the hotel with a nervousness in his underbelly that is distantly familiar to him. It’s the same restless, primal unease with which he waited for Ilya to knock on the door of hotel room 1410.

It’s been years, but he’ll never forget the room number. He’ll never forget anything about their first night. Or any night he shared with Ilya. Every detail has been etched into him. Without them, he wouldn’t recognize himself. Without them he was blank.

Boring.

The word echoes in his head in a specific, rounded accent.

Not so boring now, he thinks to himself defiantly, as he’s off to meet a nameless, faceless guy who slid into his dm’s on Grindr. As if proving Ilya wrong would release him of the hold the Russian still had on him. Prove that he’s moved on, that’s he’s grown into a Shane Ilya doesn’t know anymore. Doesn’t own anymore. A Shane who doesn’t need nor want Ilya. A Shane who fucks guys on Grindr. He wants to be that Shane. In the vain hope that Shane doesn’t miss Ilya the way he does.

Stop thinking about Rozanov. Fuck.

He seeks new memories. New… etches.

So when future archeologists dig up his bones they won’t read them like a love letter to Ilya Rozanov.

Shane knows it’s risky.

But he doesn’t know he’s risking a nightmare worse than being outed.

He doesn’t know that tonight he won’t be etched, he’ll be broken.

+++

3 HOURS EARLIER

+++

The crowd is deafening as Shane and Ilya skate up to center ice for the face-off at the start of the third period.

They’d both been on the bench before then. Shane stole many glances in Ilya’s direction and never caught him looking back. The Russian player was mechanically following the puck with his gaze, as it was passed from player to player and stolen by the other team. He wasn’t really reacting to anything though, like none of the action was really registering, in spite of how singularly focused he seemed.

Not happy when the Raiders stole the puck.

Not angry when the Metros stole it back.

When the whole Raiders’ bench erupted with rage when a Metro’s defenseman slammed the Raiders’ left wing into the boards, Ilya didn’t move a muscle.

As they get into position for the face-off, Ilya is still uncharacteristically stoic and refusing to meet Shane’s gaze. He doesn’t even goad him the way he always would, the way players always do, in an attempt to unsettle him. But Ilya’s silence was more unsettling than any crass chirp his devilishly creative mind could come up with.

“Rozanov,” Shane simply said. Because what else could he say on center ice, while the ref readied to drop the puck? But he hoped Ilya would hear in his tone more than his name. It was both a plea and apology. He’s grown accustomed to Ilya hearing inflections in his voice that others dismiss as monotone, but if anything resonates now, Ilya’s face betrays none of it. His expression is harder and colder than the ice they stand on.

The puck drops.

Shane wins the face-off and skates off before the Russian gets any momentum, getting some distance between them. Ilya is the more powerful skater, faster on the long distance between goals, but Shane is the more explosive one. As soon as he takes off, he know he doesn’t have long. Ilya is hot on his heels and will soon catch up, force him into the boards. Shane sees a clear line to Hayden and he passes the puck along.

It’s a full second after passing the puck that Ilya rams into him.

Shane grunts in pain as he makes contact with the boards. He’s crushed between the solid wall and the solid body of the Russian player. Not until Ilya skates away can Shane suck in a breath again and once he has enough air in his lungs to shout, he calls after the Russian: “What the fuck?!”

He had already passed the puck. Either Ilya had not been paying attention at all, or he checked him on purpose. Either way, it was a foul.

The Raiders fans in the stadium are cheering though, drowning out any boos from the few Metros fans loyal enough to make the trek down from Montreal.

The ref doesn’t halt the play. Marleu easily bodies Hayden off the puck, passes it to Ilya, and the Raiders’ captain score, causing the crowd to absolutely erupt.

While the team celebrates their newly won lead, after the two teams had been tied throughout the second period, Hayden skates up to Shane.

“You ok?”

Shane experimentally rolls his left shoulder. It hurts, but it didn’t dislocate. His ribs hurt too, bruised for sure but they don’t feel broken. He has enough experience to be able to tell the difference. “Yeah,” he feels confident making that call.

“What a fucking asshole,” Hayden spits, looking over to where the Raiders are still celebratorily patting Ilya on his shoulder pads. “The ref too. That was an obvious foul.”

The game starts anew.

The Raiders win.

As the two teams line up to go through the motion of shaking each other’s hands, Shane seeks out Ilya on the ice. The foul gives him an in. An excuse to talk to him, even under the watchful gaze of thousands of fans.

“I was off the puck,” Shane points out and he hates himself for how he doesn’t even sound remotely mad because all he can be in that moment is relieved that Ilya isn’t avoiding him and instead looks him dead in the eyes.

“Sorry,” Ilya says flatly and Shane is taken aback by the easily apology until he recognizes a beat later that it’s probably sarcasm.

Shane wants to apologize. Not for anything that happened on the ice tonight. But for the last time he saw Ilya. For leaving like he did. He had already apologized, on his way out the door, but he felt a deep-rooted need to say sorry again, now that he understood that in his panic he had broken something fragile and precious and Ilya won’t help him put it back together again, just keeps hiding pieces so nothing fits anymore.

But they don’t have much time. They’re supposed to shake each team member’s hand and then clear the ice.

Asking to meet at Ilya’s house seems wrong, given how things ended last time. Shane feels like he has no right to ask to be invited back. But he wants to talk. So before their private moment drags on too long and becomes suspicious, he says: “We’re at the Hilton. I’m 803.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then:

“Good for you,” Ilya spits and he skates off.

Shane’s not sure if that was a rejection, although the cold that flash freezes his bones suggests that it is. His movements are jerky as he goes through the motions of being a respectable captain, representing his team and then finally he can leave the ice and seek out some warmth.

The Metro’s are quiet as they shower. They typically are after a loss. J.J. pipes up about the foul, says that the ref was biased and this somewhat livens up the team, steers them away from despondent shame and into a righteous outrage.

Shane ignores it all as he stands under the hot spray of water.

“You ok?” Hayden asks for the second time that evening.

Shane blinks, submerging from his thoughts. Wondering if the storm in his head raged so loud Hayden could hear. “Huh?”

His teammate pointedly looks at his torso.

Shane looks down at himself. There are bruise lines forming on his shoulders and ribs that follow the familiar contour of his gear. The padding protects them, absorbs the brunt of the force, but with a powerful impact the edges especially dig in and leave marks. He shrugs. “It’s nothing.” It really is. He’ll be stiff and sore but that’s a hurt he can stand.

Once he’s halfway dressed, he can’t resist any longer and he reaches for his phone. His last text exchange with Ilya is weeks old. He types: Hilton. 803. In case Ilya didn’t hear, or forgot.

He remembers fondly one night when Shane was in room 1313, but Ilya heard 1330 and showed up to the wrong room. Thankfully, he didn’t run into any other Metro player, just two random women who, if Ilya’s story was to be believed, were very willing to welcome him into the room after they had gotten over their initial shock.

“I think maybe they think I am gigolo,” Ilya had said, breathless from laughter.

“Gigolo?” Shane had smiled so wide it hurt. “How do you even know that word? Last week you couldn’t think of the word ‘headboard’!”

“I know only useful words!”

Shane had turned coy then. “‘Headboard’ isn’t useful?”

Ilya swallowed his laughter, leaving nothing but a playful, proud glint in his eyes. “As word, no. To tie you up, yes.”

He had crowded him them, pressing hot kisses under Shane’s jaw, grabbing his wrists and pinning them to the wall above Shane’s head…

Shane is pulled back to the present when a bubble appears in the app, indicating that Ilya is typing.

The reply makes him feel cold again.

No.

Just…

No.

Because “Hilton. 803.” is really a question: Will you come over? And Ilya understands that. Ilya understand things even when they are not literal. Ilya understands Shane.

Will you come over?

The answer is no.

He stands frozen but his mind races, remembering their schedules, calculating how long until they were both either in Boston or Montreal again. But he realizes their teams won’t play each other again before the All-Star game in Tampa and that was still five weeks away.

Five weeks.

They were used to not meeting in person for stretches of time that last months. The prospect of their next rendez vouz being only five weeks away would have made him giddy in the past. So soon, he would happily think to himself and start counting the days. Now, after so long already apart and more than just physical distance between them, five weeks felt like an eternity.

In desperation, he starts to type.

Please can we talk? In person? I want to say-

He stops himself. Say what, exactly? Beyond an apology, he hasn’t figured it out yet, but he knows for sure he doesn’t want to say it in a text message. He hopes that if he can just be in the same room as Ilya, alone, the words will come. The truth will come. He deletes everything and starts over.

We won’t get another chance until All-Stars. That’s five weeks from now.

He deletes that too. Because Ilya knows this. Ilya knows this and still the answer is no, he doesn’t want to see Shane, doesn’t want to talk to him.

He types: I’m sorry. He nearly hits send on that but shakes his head and deletes it. Over text it would be at best meaningless, at worst seem manipulative.

“Planning to meet up with Lily?” Hayden teases him.

Shane puts his phone away and finishes pulling his shirt on. “No, she’s busy,” he says. He’s an awful liar but he’s pretty sure Hayden is one of the few people who never caught on to that.

“Oh.”

Shane realizes he’s been so rattled he’s entirely forgotten to do his regular spiel of pretending there is no Lily and even if there was he certainly wasn’t hooking up with her.

Hayden regards him with an expression that Shane thinks might be pity and it makes the team captain look away.

“Hey wanna hang out and watch a movie or something?” The other suggests.

Yeah, it’s definitely pity, Shane notes. “Nah. I’m gonna pop a painkiller,” he gestures down at himself, referring to his bruised torso, “and then straight to bed.” His face and neck go warm at the word “straight”. Because nowadays, every time he uses this innocent word, his brain reminds him, without even a shred of innocence, that he’s not straight. The context of the word doesn’t matter. Since his epiphany, it’s just a thing his brain does.

Rose picked up on it in one of their many face times since they broke up and now likes to tease him about it. That doesn’t help.

“Sure.” Hayden claps him on the shoulder.

Shane winces as the slap lands right on a sore spot.

“Oh, shit, fuck. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

Shane chuckles. “It’s fine, I can take it.” After a thought he half-jokes: “But maybe I’ll take two painkillers.”

“Shane Hollander living it up.”

“Fuck you.”

Hayden playfully punches him, but on the elbow, where there’s no bruising.

The team piles into the bus and are shuttled the short distance to the Hilton hotel. A group agrees to go to the hotel bar and the rest splinters off to their own rooms.

They don’t always have the privacy of having a room to themselves. Shane will admit, but only to himself, that in any other city but Boston, he prefers to share a room with Hayden. Sitting in quiet company as they both swipe through social media on their phone or put on a movie that has Hayden falling asleep in the first ten minutes.

Shane always catches himself wishing he could have that with Ilya; quiet nights watching a movie.

Life on the road feels lonely and unlike his teammates Shane doesn’t find refuge or distraction in clubs with random women. Hayden is a bit of a security blanket. He also doesn’t go out, for obvious reasons. Hayden always talks about how he likes being on the road because he actually gets to sleep through the nights, instead of getting woken up by crying babies and toddlers scared of the monster under the bed. But in reality Hayden spends his evenings texting Jackie, asking about the kids, and smiling at all the pictures she sends at the end of every day.

Shane always catches himself wishing he could have that with Ilya: a family.

He shakes his head.

Don’t think about that.

The answer is no.

Ilya doesn’t want to see him. Not tonight. Not five weeks from now.

As he stands in his hotel room, he remembers standing in Ilya’s living room. Short-circuiting with the same fearful realization that it’s so easy for Ilya to just end things and move on. It’s happened before. After their first time; Shane’s first time.

Ilya had been relentless, without being pushy, to get them to that point. Kept reminding Shane how much he wanted it. How he wanted him. Kept making himself available to him.

Unlike Shane, Ilya actually has a social life. It is all over the tabloids that Jackie likes to read; and Hayden pretends he doesn’t. Ilya is always in some exclusive club. There isn’t a VIP section in Boston, Montreal, or any other city in Northern America where he hasn’t literally charmed the pants and skirts off patrons. Of course only Shane knows about the pants, the public only knows about the skirts.

Shane is also the only one to know that Ilya willingly sat out on all that excitement whenever Shane was in Boston, or Ilya was in Montreal. He’d text him his address, or hotel and room number as an open invitation and not once did Shane doubt that if he’d shown up on any of those given nights, at any moment, Ilya would have been there, waiting for him.

When it finally happened, when Shane finally took Ilya inside his body like that, it was the most vulnerable, most intense experience of his life and as much as he should have been, he hadn’t been scared before, or regretful after, about who he was sharing with it. Ilya was the only one he wanted to share that intensity with.

While Ilya was in the shower – Ilya Rozanov in Shane’s shower – Shane had laid in bed waiting for his heart to settle. He could still… feel Ilya inside of him. Feel him in his pleasantly overstimulated nerves. He wondered if that feeling would still be there in the morning and if it wasn’t, he would ask Ilya to give him that feeling again.

But that was silly. He soon realized.

Ilya wouldn’t be there in the morning.

The Russian player had plopped back down into bed with him, fresh out of the shower.

In his absence Shane had wiped himself down with a tissue and had kicked the soiled sheets of the bed.

As Rozanov got settled, Shane closed his eyes. He should shower, he was filthy, but more than that he was sleepy and oddly content with the state of… everything. Even the drying sweat on his skin.

His shampoo smelled so good in Ilya’s curly hair…

His eyes had been closed for barely a second when Ilya announced he had to go.

And Shane wasn’t brave enough to ask him to stay.

But it was ok, he consoled himself, already looking forward to the next time.

Then six months passed with Ilya having no interest in “next time”. He didn’t want to see him, didn’t even want to text him back.

It humiliated Shane to know how little that night meant to Ilya. How easy it was for Ilya to cut him out of his life: just ignore his “boring” texts and go back to the clubs; go back to the women and all the other men who could satisfy him just as well, or probably better, than Shane could.

For Shane, there is only Ilya.

For Ilya, Shane is replaceable.

So when Ilya first invited him to his house, first asked him to stay, first made him food, first and finally engaged in conversation with him, first… first said his name…

Well, it just reminded Shane of that other first they’d had shared and how easy it was Ilya to discard him afterwards.

Ilya was finally giving Shane everything he had wanted after that first time. But all Ilya had really given Shane after that first time, was a painful lesson. One he had taken to heart.

He had accepted the limitations of what they could be and, frankly, had eventually found some security in understanding exactly where those limitations were. Not even a kiss was guaranteed. After Las Vegas, he knew exactly what to expect moving forward and he was ok with that. Or… maybe had just very successfully convinced himself he was. Whatever. There were rules.

We have sex. We don’t talk. Not before or after. It is ok to shower. If we’re in his room, I leave. If we’re in my room, he leaves.

That was simple.

But then Ilya went and made it all complicated. He changed the rules and changed something within Shane too. Changed how “ok” he felt, or thought he felt, with the whole arrangement.

Because complicated… was nice.

He doesn’t doubt Ilya thought it was nice too. Ilya doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. He wanted Shane to stay, he wanted to make him tuna melt, he wanted to watch TV with him.

And maybe if Shane hadn’t left, Ilya could have wanted even more. Could have wanted everything. Could have wanted the same things Shane had once dared to want.

He knows he hurt Ilya when he left. But Shane was too afraid of getting hurt himself.

If he had let himself enjoy it, if he had let himself get attached, if he had himself become accustomed to the new rules… how long until Ilya would shake things up again?

How long until Ilya would have grown bored with Shane and realized how much more exciting it was to pick any one of the number of hot women lined up in every city? How long until he realized just how perfect Svetlana was for him? How long until he remembered how easy it was to cut Shane out of his life?

Just a simple text. A single word.

No.

Shane stares at it now. Forces himself to face the finality of this.

Maybe he’s with Svetlana right now…

He shakes his head.

He needs to not think about Ilya tonight. Or ever again.

There is only Rozanov, captain of the Boston Raiders, a team that stands between the Metros and their third consecutive cup.

He wishes he could erase all the memories of their nights together. He knows he can’t do that, but, pragmatically, he thinks maybe he can overwrite them and become a new Shane. A Shane who doesn’t give a shit about Rozanov.

He thinks the best place to start is for Il-Rozanov to not be his only sexual experience with a man.

Fuck, maybe that’s why he’s been so singularly focused on him. He’s never known anything different.

Yeah, he needs different.

He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and starts googling bars and clubs in Boston. That’s how normal people meet others for sex, right?

He flinches – actually flinches – at the visceral memory of standing on the dance floor in a club in Montreal, watching Rozanov put his hands, God, those hands, all over some girl.

However slim the odds are of repeating themselves, he knows that wherever he goes, he’ll worry. He’ll just spend his time searching the faces of the crowd, pretending not to hope one of them is familiar.

Ok. No clubs.

He feels absolutely insane when his next thought, and one he follows through on, is to download Grindr.

He only knows of the app because it had become part of locker room banter. Whenever one of the guys was on his phone for too long, he’d risk getting whipped with a wet towel and accused of perusing through the catalogue of local gay men. Shane had personally fallen victim to that joke quite a few times while he was just smiling at whatever text Ilya – fuck – Rozanov had sent.

After downloading, the first step is to make a profile and he spends way too long on that.

Name? Obviously he can’t put Shane Hollander. He’s not exactly famous in Boston the way he is in Montreal, but he’s self-absorbed enough to think his name might ring a bell even here. 

Just Shane then? Even that feels too close to home.

He leaves it blank for now.

Pictures are the next hurdle. He doesn’t want his face on here.

With a blush he remembers a folder on his phone, titled “Cottage Reno 2012”. He never renovated the cottage, he had built to be perfect and it was. The top pictures in the folder are from the bathroom renovation of his parents’ cottage, after that it’s dozens of photo’s of himself. He’d taken them to send to Rozanov. The Russian had started this, of course. After he first sent that dick pic, he’d regularly sent him photo’s of himself. Never with his face though. Always low enough that even his cross pendant was out of frame. It was so stupid, if anybody caught their phones unlocked and scrolled through their chat, the ruse of the names Lily and Jane would be rendered pointless as it was obvious they were both talking to another man. But after some coaxing – ok, several months of coaxing – Shane had began to reciprocate.

Pictures of his chest with his nipples hard. Pictures of his abs sweaty and flexed after a workout. Pictures of his cock in his hand, white on his knuckles. Pictures of his ass, including one where the end of his dildo was visibly poking out between his cheeks.

Suddenly, he feels guilty for showing any of these to anyone other than Rozanov. Because they were for him.

Another silly thought he has to shake out of his head.

He selects one picture that he thinks isn’t too overtly sexual. It’s one of the first pictures he had ever sent. It’s just his reflection in the bathroom mirror, from upper thigh to under his chin. He’s wearing sweatpants and that’s it. He’s not hard. He’s not glistening with sweat. He’s not even flexing. He remembers the moment, he remembers thinking how he’s trying so hard to be sexy only to take the picture and realize none of that translated. It was a skill that took him a while to learn.

He wonders if picking a faceless profile picture would only draw attention to the fact that he’s trying to hide his identity, but he can’t take a new picture, his torso all bruised from the game. Besides, it’s one thing to risk one person recognizing him, but who knows how many users might swipe past his profile, only increasing the odds of a hockey fan finding it.

Without showing his face, he feels self-conscious about interested parties not realizing he’s… not white. He doesn’t want whoever he ends up meeting up with to be disappointed that he doesn’t look a certain way. But while he mulls over that he sees there’s a field for ethnicity as well as age, height, body type, and sexual position. He fills in all the details and he likes how formal it all feels, like he’s filling out a form at the doctor’s office. Although he never told his doctor what he’s putting into his Grindr profile now; that he’s a bottom.

He spends way too long trying to write a sexy text for his profile only to come to accept that that too is a skill that would take him a while to learn. So for now he just emphasizes what he’s looking for in a direct, no-nonsense way: a no-strings-attached, one-night-stand. Condoms non-negotiable.

When he hits “Create account” he gets an error and is reminded that he hasn’t filled in a name for his profile yet.

He can’t put in Shane. He can’t drop any clues, anything that might jog a memory with someone. Moreover, he’s not quite ready to hear anybody else say his name in the throws of sex yet.

He puts in Jin. A Japanese name. It sounds a little like Jane, his previous alter ego.

He creates the account and starts swiping through the app, quickly discovering that faceless pictures are the norm, so he feels less awkward about that. What he feels more self-conscious about is his chosen name, since at least half of the men he encounters just have sexual inuendo’s as their name.

Looking through the profiles feels impersonal and clinical but he can’t deny there is an appeal to that. And this is normal, right? This is what gay men do. He yearns to be normal within these new parameters that he has for himself. He’s always felt so abnormal, so out of place, a fish out of water. That’s only gotten worse since he was able to accept that he is gay. But he can achieve normality within that, right?

Soon, messages are popping up so he goes to check them out.

The first handful are bots, he’s pretty sure at least. The guys have joked about this too. Apparently it’s also a problem on the straight equivalent of this app.

“Give up, J.J., the only DM’s you’re gonna get are from the bots. No human wants to fuck your ugly ass.”

The next one reminds Shane of Rozanov and he can’t deny the warmth that starts at the tips of his ears, spreads to his cheeks, and then sinks down inside of him, to between his legs. The musculature of his torso. The light hairs around his nipples. The darker hairs between his navel and the edge of the image. The pale skin dotted with moles. Shane has mapped Rozanov’s moles like constellations, and the moles on “8oston 8ody 8uilder” don’t line up. It’s not him. Also, the profile text confirms that the 8 instead of a B in his name is a reference to his 8 inch cock and Rozanov aims higher with his brags – since he can back it up.

He ignores his “I got what you want” message because what he wants is to not be thinking about Rozanov, so he can’t pick a guy that reminds him of the Russian player.

The next guy has “Thorne” as his name. No innuendo. No bragging. His picture does the bragging for him. No face, just a broad chest and ripped abs on display, one arm out to flex his bicep, show off his muscles and the faded tattoo there.

The name sounds so overly masculine that Shane assumes it’s as fake as Mr. “8oston”. Although it’s not outside of the realm of possibility that Thorne is his real name, it sounds more like the character in a cheap romance novel.

But the idea of being with a guy named Thorne after being with a girl named Rose draws a chuckle out of Shane.

Thorne’s message just reads “Hi Jin :)”. It’s simple and a little awkward in a way that feels earnest. It’s disarming. It’s something Shane himself might have sent after many discarded drafts. In fact, he sends back: “Hi Thorne”

The other man immediately starts typing.

It’s pretty straight forward from there. Transactional even. But Shane supposes that’s only normal.

Thorne assumes Jin is a Boston local, and why wouldn’t he? He casually suggests meeting up at a certain park. The way he brings it up, with little extra information, implies it might be a regular spot for random men to meet up. Some concern seeps into Shane’s underbelly but when he googles the name of the park he is put at ease. It’s just a small square of grass in a downtown area surrounded by buildings that all have names that sound like hip bars and restaurants. Shane hasn’t been invited out to the middle of nowhere, it’s a pretty public environment. Whoever decided to name the patch of greenery a "park" was really taking liberty with the definition of the word. 

He's not entirely sure how that works then for their purpose, but he doesn’t have a counter offer, so he accepts.

Thorne hits him back instantly, like he had the message typed out already.

I can be there in 30.

Shane doesn’t like when people do that. Thirty what? Thirty days? Thirty years? He knows people mean minutes when they say this, but it annoys him. He recognizes he’s being petty though, possibly subconsciously looking for an excuse to back out.

He goes back into google, goes to maps and figures out how long it would take him to get there. It’s nearby, close enough to walk. About twenty minutes. At his pace, less than that.

Same, he replies.

Again, an immediate reply: See you soon :)

He has a couple of “date outfits” that his stylist put together for him, but those are all at home. Probably for the best. He shouldn’t be treating this as a date.

All he has packed for this trip to Boston are a pair of casual black pants, some sweats, T. shirts, and hoodies. So he puts on the pants, a white tee, nearly makes the mistake of putting on his Metros hoodie but switches it out for an Adidas one and realizing his jacket has Metros branding as well, he layers another hoodie, with a zipper, over top. He puts on a cap that he’s pretty sure he’s stolen from Hayden at one point, because all of Shane’s caps are Metros caps and this one isn’t.

It is not a sexy outfit but he supposes that won’t really matter. He doesn’t suspect Thorne will be particularly picky and he reminds himself that he shouldn’t be either.

This is casual.

He can be casual.

Still though, when he picks his phone off the bed on his way out, his muscle memory has him checking his chat with Rozanov. The “No.” still just sits there at the bottom of the chat, the way a brick sits at the bottom of Shane’s gut looking at it. He switches to google maps, studies the directions and heads out. He’s good at navigating off the memory of a map, so he pockets his phone.

Shane has underestimated the bitter cold of Boston that night. As an Ottawa-born Canadian living in Montreal, he has a high tolerance for cold but was clearly too cocky thinking a shirt and two hoodies would be warm enough.

He sets a walking pace that keeps the worst of the cold at bay but that means he’s at the little park sooner than expected. He stands by the fountain at the center. The spouts are turned off, the water is frozen solid. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps his body moving in place to ward off the icy cold. The little park is indeed surrounded by bars and restaurants, a couple of which are especially loud. The howling wind carries the booming bass. Because of the cold, nobody loiters outside. Everyone approaches the area from one corner, so there must be a parking lot or public transport that way, then they filter into the different establishments.

It's just public enough to not feel unsafe, while simultaneously also just quiet enough to not feel perceived; like he risks getting recognized. He definitely sees the calculated appeal of the rendez vous point.

He’s nervous, but not scared. Awareness tugs at the back of his mind that maybe he should be. Alone and meeting a stranger off the internet. His mother would be so mad. But Shane feels confident in his strength. He’s a pro athlete; a hockey player for God’s sake. He knows how to fight. Even if he only usually does so on the ice. And within the rules and regulations of the sport. If it comes down to it, he’s a fast runner too.

He stills when a lone figure cuts across the grass, making a beeline towards him. The man slows, squinting at him as he approaches and the one fear Shane did have wells up and expresses itself with an unbearable heat in his face and neck. Did he just get recognized?

The man closes the distance with a lopsided smile. “Hi. You’re Jin, right?”

The heat lets up. So this is Thorne then. “Yeah.” He takes a hand out of his pocket to offer a handshake.

Thorne chuckles before he accepts and notes: “This is more formal than how I usually do it.”

The heat returns, as shame this time. Shame at doing this wrong. “Oh, sorry.” He puts his hand back into the pocket of his hoodie.

“No, no worries.”

Thorne is… not what Shane expected. While the coat he wears hides a lot, Shane is certain that the picture he used on his profile is either old or not him at all. The height and weight info certainly doesn’t check out. He’s supposed to be taller than Shane but in reality he is just a tad shorter. He’s definitely less broad. Less broad than Shane and less broad than the picture suggested.

Shane thinks he should be miffed about this but he finds it disarms him. It suggests Thorne is maybe a little insecure and that feels unthreatening. Especially combined with the arrogant but objectively accurate observation that Shane could definitely take Thorne in a fight.

With Thorne seemingly not recognizing him, the encounter feels riskless now and Shane can muster a smile.

There’s an awkward silence where they look at each other with nothing to say. It lasts long enough for Shane to blurt: “I don’t really… do this. Often.”

Thorne takes it as his cue to take the lead. He gestures in a vague direction and says: “There’s an alley behind that bar where I always… You know?”

“Ok.”

Another beat of Thorne looking at him and saying nothing and Shane having nothing to say either.

But then Thorne starts to walk and Shane follows, allowing the other man to lead him to this alley.

As they near the row of buildings on the northern edge of the little park, he can see a narrow, dark alley in between two of the buildings. A noisy, booming club on the left and a little, quieter bar to the right.

Shane slows his gait as they near the entry of the alley. It’s only just wide enough for a garbage truck to back up into it and empty the dumpster that’s positioned about halfway.

While it’s narrow and dark, it doesn’t feel very secluded. Anyone walking by and bothering to throw a look down the alley could still catch a glimpse of them. Unless they hide themselves behind the dumpster, which doesn’t appeal to Shane at all and the twist in his gut alerts him that this isn’t going to work for him. He should have expected this and he feels embarrassed at not anticipating what a turn-off this is for him.

Thorne takes notices and pauses. He explains: “At the end you can round a corner, get behind the bar, it’s completely private there.”

“I’m sorry,” Shane says before Thorne has even finished. He gaze darts from the alley to the man’s face and back again.

For a moment Thorne doesn’t say anything, maybe hoping that if he waits a bit Shane will change his mind again. But that’s not going to happen.

“I’m sorry, to have made you come all the way out here,” Shane says diplomatically once he sorts through his thoughts, slipping into his press-voice to make it easier to speak.

Thorne purses his lips but he says: “Hey, no, don’t worry about it.” Although it looks like he is still processing the rejection. At least he doesn’t jump to anger or guilt-tripping.

Shane makes an apologetic face and takes a step back. His hands are still in his pocket because it’s really too cold for any skin to be exposed and he wonders, half bemused, how this would have worked if he had followed through. Just pull down his pants over his ass and let Thorne sidle up behind him, pulling his dick out through his fly? Huddle together in Thorne's big coat?

He starts to say goodnight, but Thorne interrupts him: “How about we grab a drink instead?”

The man nods at the bar to the right of the alley.

Shane hesitates.

Thorne smiles. “Hey, it’s ok, seriously. Look, it’s not the first time a guy has backed out on me, especially on a cold night like this.” He laughs as if he had the same thought Shane just had. “I always just end up grabbing a drink with them instead.”

That gives Shane pause. So that is normal then? If that’s the normal, expected thing to do, he feels like he should. It would be impolite otherwise. He glances at the neon sign over the entrance and through the windows inside. It’s looking pretty empty but he prefers that. “Ok.”

His answer seems to surprise Thorne at first, but after a slow blink he jolts into action. With a barely-there touch to his elbow that Shane allows, he guides him up the front steps and through the door, into the bar.

Walking into the warmth is an instant relief.

The bartender greets Thorne by name, so the man wasn’t lying when he said he was a regular here.

Shane loiters by one of the booths near the door, if it was up to him it’d be where he’d prefer to sit. But Thorne crosses the space and seats himself at the bar, so Shane follows and slides onto the bar stool next to the other man.

“Sup man,” Thorne says to the barkeep. “Can I have the usual?”

The other nods and turns his back to them.

To Shane, Thorne says: “It’s certainly much warmer in here, huh?”

“Yeah. Definitely.” When his gaze starts to drift away from Thorne’s face, finding eye contact exposing, he forces himself to keep looking at him as Thorne speaks up again.

“It might snow later.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Did you drive here?”

Shane shakes his head.

“Uber?”

“I walked.”

“Oh, you live close by?” Thorne smirks and leans in to bump his shoulder against Shane’s. “We could have just gone back to your place.”

Shane shoots an alarmed look at the bartender, who puts two bottles of beer in front of them.

Beer. Of course. The usual is apparently a Corona. Shane hopes he doesn’t visibly grimace.

“I’m just kidding,” Thorne is quick to follow up. He picks up his beer and gives thanks to the bartender with a nod. He takes a swig.

Knowing he’s expected to drink as well, Shane takes a small sip and immediately rubs his finger against his lips to wipe the taste off them as inconspicuously as he can.

Thorne smiles at him, but then looks down at his phone. Shane can’t see the screen, but he sees the man is typing and he figures he’s probably on Grindr again, slipping into someone else’s DM’s, hoping to arrange a successful hook-up for the night. He supposes it’s still early enough in the evening and Thorne is already at this preferred location anyway.

Shane looks around. There’s not much to the bar. Nothing special. The people of Boston seem to agree. There’s three guys playing darts and a couple in the booth in the corner, but that’s it. There’s an emergency exit in the back, off to the side of the bar, that probably leads right into the alley where Thorne fucks his Grindr conquests. Crates of beer half block the exit, which is surely a violation. Music is playing at a volume just slightly above comfortable. He knows himself well enough to know he doesn’t have long until it will irk to a point of not being to speak through his irritation anymore.

He shifts on the stool, wondering if he should just excuse himself and leave, as impolite as that would be after Thorne just bought him a drink.

“You don’t like Corona?” The man asks in that moment.

Shane twists back around to face him. Thorne still has his phone in his hand but is at least looking at him. And smiling at him. Not wanting to explain to this stranger that Shane hates all beer and would actually much prefer a ginger ale, he grabs the bottle and takes another sip. Not until Thorne looks down at his phone again does Shane give into the urge to wipe his lips.

Thorne chuckles at his phone, so his DM endeavors must be going well.

“Maybe I should just…” Shane’s too polite to finish the sentence but not too polite to leave. He’s sliding off the stool already.

“No! Please. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He pointedly puts his phone down on the bar, screen facing down. “Sorry.”

“It’s ok. You probably want…” to fuck. Another sentence he’s too polite to finish.

“There’s still time,” Thorne says. “It’s early. I’m in no rush. Please.” He raises his bottle of beer in an unrequited toast and takes a drink.

Shane shuffles back onto the stool and takes another sip.

“So, you live in the area?”

“Hm?”

“You said you walked.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I live in the area.” He hopes this lie doesn’t lead to Thorne fishing for an invitation to come with him after all.

It doesn’t. “Some place nice?”

Shane shrugs. “Nice enough.” He’s not familiar with the area at all and if living here would be “nice”.

“You’re not from Boston though, are you?”

The question makes Shane go rigid but he relaxes when Thorne points out the obvious: he doesn’t have the accent. “No,” he admits.

“Canada?”

He stiffens again. What a goddamn roller coaster of alternating stress and relief this conversation is becoming. “The accent?” He surmises. 

Thorne grins. “You’ve said ‘sorry’ enough for it to be noticeable.”

He dreads that Thorne might be familiar enough with ice hockey for it to click why there is a Canadian in Boston right now. Even if he assumes Shane, or Jin rather, is just a fan traveling to support the Montreal team, it would get dangerously close to putting two and two together.

The phone on the bar buzzes with a new message. Thorne ignores it, giving Shane his undivided attention.

“What about you?” Shane deflects. “Are you from here?” Thorne doesn’t have the Boston accent that Shane only knows from TV either.

“Nah,” the man says with a drawl but then doesn’t elaborate. He takes a swig of his beer instead. His eyes glitter with mirth as he watches Shane.

In the silence, Shane takes another sip.

I’m terrible at this, he berates himself. If he can’t talk about hockey, he’s stumped for conversation.

For the first time since stepping out of his hotel room, he think about Rozanov. Rather than give himself grief for his thoughts circling back to the Russian man, he focuses on it being a good sign that it’s the first time he’s thought of him for, well, at least half an hour now. Some sort of record, he’s sure. Maybe that was as successful as he could reasonably expect this out-of-character outing to be.

So as a reward he allows himself to dwell on the memory of sitting on Il-Rozanov’s couch and Rozanov letting him talk about hockey and answering his questions about hockey. He remembers them talking about Rozanov’s signature fake-out goal-scoring puck trick that he pulled in a previous game against the Metros. For the first time in the play-offs, his trick didn’t work, because Shane had caught his tell studying replays and had warned their goalie about what to look out for.

Rozanov’s indignant expression had scared him for a second. Had he ruined the mood by ruining his trick? But then Rozanov had erupted in laughter and teased him about how many hours of footage Shane must have watched of him to figure this out and then Rozanov had warmed Shane’s heart when he had said:

“You really were not lying when you said I am an awesome player to watch.”

“You remember I said that?” Shane had blurted.

Rozanov had shrugged. “It was memorable.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.” Another shrug. “Really embarrassing. I thought you were fan girl.”

“You didn’t think that! You knew who I was.”

Rozanov had ignored him and droned on with a bemused tone: “I wanted to say: I don’t have pen. I can’t give autograph.”

“Fuck you.”

Rozanov had finally been talking to him and he made it so easy, it felt so effortless. How was Shane supposed to have that with anybody else if hockey was off-limits for fear of getting recognized and outed?

Thorne does his best to keep the conversation going with questions that feel like he might read them in a “How To Date For Dummies” type of self-help book. Shane gives clipped answers, always conscious that he can’t reveal too much. In the meantime he occasionally takes a small sip of beer, something Thorne teases him for it and that’s the second time Shane thinks of Ilya. Fuck. Rozanov. Rozanov knows Shane likes to drink ginger ale. If Rozanov had ordered a drink for them both, he would have ordered a vodka on the rocks for himself, or a coke if he was playing the next day, and a ginger ale for Shane.

A forlorn truth catches up to Shane that he might never be able to let another man get to know him well enough to even just know his drink order. Or at least not until he retired. Unless he wants to get outed, which he very much doesn’t. It’s his worst nightmare.

Thorne’s phone starts to buzz again, not with a received message but an incoming call. The man rejects the call without even looking and Shane is flattered until Thorne declares: “We should head out.”

Thorne has finished his beer in the meantime but Shane hasn’t even downed half of his.

Shane nods and when he clocks Thorne looking at his half-full bottle of beer, he feels self-conscious. It’s rude not to finish. So he puts the bottle to his lips and gulps it down, hoping he isn’t making a face while doing so. When he puts the empty bottle on the bar, the man claps his shoulder and says “Heck yeah!” Shane’s mouth curves into a smile, then wipes both the smile and the beer off his lips.

He slips off the stool and turns to face the front door but Thorne coaxes him to follow him out the back, explaining: “Shortcut through here. To my car.” At Shane’s panicked expression the man chuckles. “Don’t worry, I’m not inviting you home. I’m off to meet a friend. But I can drop you off along the way?”

His talking and the thoughtful question distracts Shane to a point that he thoughtlessly trails after Thorne to the back of the bar and then out the door. The protest that they shouldn’t be using the emergency exit dies in the back of his throat because clearly Thorne is a regular, he knows the bartender, so surely this was… normal.

There’s a tiny, dark hallway, lit only by the emergency exit sign over the outer door. When Thorne cracks it open, the cold air bites at them and Shane draws up his shoulders.

“Mind your step,” Thorne says as he leads Shane down the three, uneven concrete steps.

The near familial concern for his safety, tone not unlike Shane’s mom’s when she tells him to drive safe, delays Shane from fully processing the environment he’s stepping into.

The outdoor space behind the bar is completely enclosed by the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. There are some windows, but they’re all blacked out. There’s another emergency exit across. Around the corner to the left is the narrow allow with the dumpster blocking half of it. To the right, there’s nothing. The bar or restaurant next door is much deeper and connects to the building at the back.

There is no short-cut. It’s a dead-end.

Before this realization sinks in, pain explodes across his face. He staggers backwards, nearly tripping over the bottom step he came down from but the steel railing catches him, albeit painfully, prodding into the small of his back. He tastes blood as his teeth cut his inner lip.

Around the corner, a man had been lying in wait and punched Shane as soon as he stepped out.

Once the burst of stars in his vision clears, Shane sizes up the guy. He’s big. A head taller than him and the kind of wide a man becomes from both working out and eating a lot. Heavy with muscle and fat. He’d put that weight behind his punch.

The absolutely ludicrous thought pops into Shane’s mind that with the help of Thorne he'd be able to take the big brute but immediately on the heels of that is the grim realization that this isn’t going to be a 2-v-1 in his favor. It’s a 1-v-2.

While Shane is still somewhat dazed, the cap gets snatched off his head and the big man whistles.

“Holy shit. It really is Shane fucking Hollander.”

Shane’s stomach drops. He backs up to create some distance, get himself out of arm’s length from the guy. He’s aware though that he’s backing up into the dead-end.

“I told you I wasn’t messing with you,” Thorne snipes.

The big man shrugs. “You know what they say about the Asians.”

They all look alike, hangs in the air. Neither of them speak it out, they just laugh.

“To be honest, I really wasn’t entirely sure until I got him into the bar and looked up a picture of him.”

More laughter.

“I’m glad you texted. This is going to be fun.”

Thorne’s reply has Shane’s blood run cold. “Even with the roofie I don’t think I’d be able to overpower this guy alone. Not yet at least.”

Roofie. The beer.

The usual that Thorne ordered included the bartender slipping a pill into Shane’s open bottle of Corona before serving it to him.

He just drank the whole bottle.

Shane knows that he’s running out of time. He shouts at them: “I can still take you both!” He makes sure to be as loud as possible, in the vain hope someone will hear him. But they are completely boxed in by other buildings. He hears the droning bass coming from the club next door. The wind howls across the rooftops overhead. The street out front, around the corner, all the way down the long alley he had peered through before, sees only sparse foot traffic in the bitter cold.

Nobody is going to hear him.

The condescending laugh that makes the big guy’s shoulders shake in his coat makes Shane’s stomach churn.

Hyper aware of the ticking clock as his body absorbs the drug he’s been given, Shane makes his move. He catches them both off guard by focusing on Thorne first. A single right hook has the man crumbling to the ground, not out-cold, but momentarily incapacitated. Then Shane tries to push past the big man, one hand flat on his chest, the other curled into a fit to land a targeted punch to his gut. The man grunts and does take a step back and Shane tries to run, more confident in his ability to outrun the brute than to overpower him in a fist fight. But before he gets some distance between them, big hands grab his hoodie and yank him back.

Shane is thrown into a wall and it knocks the air out of him. Before he can even take a breath, the big one crowds him. He holds him in place against the wall with one hand on his throat and then starts punching him in his ribs, which were already sore and bruised from the game tonight. The punches land so hard and so fast Shane is afraid is going to black out. The pain is so overwhelming his body doesn’t function; he can’t even punch back, he hasn’t even been able to draw in a breath.

When the guy finally relents and steps back, Shane doubles over, clutching his side, sucking in air in spite of how much that burns.

The man is panting as he helps Thorne up from the ground.

Shane straightens up and woa… he stumbles. A wave of dizziness crashes into him. He puts a hand on the wall behind him to steady himself.

Time is running out.

He lunges forward again and lands a couple of good punches, the first of which on the man’s big square jaw. Two big hands close around his throat and he is pushed back against the wall again. He fights the instinct to wrap his hands around the man’s thick wrists. He knows he won’t be able to pry those paws off his neck. He keeps punching him, as hard as he can. He punches to hard he thinks he might break his hand but he doesn’t let himself stop.

He's pulled forward, into the man’s chest and then slammed back again. The back of his head connects with the brick wall. There’s a crack and it feels like his head might explode. His vision goes black for a few seconds.

By the time he is let go of, he doesn’t have the strength left to stand upright. He drops down to his hands and knees and that’s when Thorne kicks him in the stomach hard enough that he collapses flat on the ground and Shane knows that it’s over.

The big man bears his weight down onto his back, his knee digging painfully between Shane’s shoulder blades. He grabs Shane’s right wrist and pulls his hand behind his back. When Shane struggles, the man forces his arm further and Shane lets out a loud wail when his shoulder dislocates. The guy lets go of his wrist and his arm drops down, he can barely move it now. So all the guy has to do is hold onto Shane’s left wrist and he really has no way to fight back.

With his free hand the man pulls a rag out of the pocket of his coat and hands it to Thorne, who pries Shane’s jaw open and stuffs the cloth into his mouth; as much of as will fit, as deep as it will go. So deep it causes Shane to gag and he has to control his breathing to stop himself from throwing up for fear of choking on his own vomit.

He screams around the rag as his pants get pulled down but the cloth absorbs all the noise and any sound his makes is barely louder than the drumming of his own heartbeat in his ears. He thrashes as much as he can but the man on top of him shifts to fully pin him down, adding his other knee to the small of Shane’s back. He’s so heavy on top of him even Shane, as strong as he is, is immobilized. Thorne controls his legs by kneeling on the back of his thighs while he violates Shane with his fingers first.

Shane sobs uncontrollably. He cries so much his nose gets stuffy and with his mouth blocked he’s afraid he might suffocate. It’s a constant, conscious battle to take shallow breaths through his nose.

Thorne’s left hand gropes his ass and slips under his double hoodie and shirt to drag his short fingernails down his side and Shane flinches as much as he physically can, being restrained as he is, when the rough touch passes over his sore ribs.

There’s a conversation about condoms. Thorne doesn’t want to use one but his friend urges him to, so there’s no DNA.

“As if this guy’s gonna narc,” is Thorne’s reply, but then he grumbles: “Fine.”

He is right though. Shane won’t report this. How could he? This story starts with him seeking out anonymous gay sex on Grindr. As if he’s going to out himself only to get told he got exactly what he was looking for.

He’s heard enough stories like this. There’s several guys in the league who’ve been accused of assaulting women and the few women that have come forwards have been dismissed as sluts and gold diggers. Accused of wanting “it” but getting greedy afterwards when they learned how much money can be made from settlements.

Shane won’t get accused of lying for the money, of course. He has his own money. But he knows the truth will get twisted somehow. The headline will be that he’s gay and a slut who likes to let other men fuck him…

Even though his body grows weaker and weaker the longer everything drags on, he continues to fight, using what little energy he has left to try and buck the big brute off of him, without success. But when Thorne presses into him, all the fight bleeds out of Shane.

It’s done now. There’s no undoing this.

Shane’s only hope is that the drugs will soon make him pass out, so he doesn’t have to feel this anymore, so he doesn’t have to hear the slapping of skin against skin, a sound that used to add to his arousal.  

“Good?” The big guy asks.

Thorne groans and laughs breathlessly. “So good, man. Tight,” he hisses.

“Well hurry the fuck up, it’s cold.”

“Come on, I’m fucking Shane Hollander, don’t rush me.”

From then on, Shane thankfully slips in and out of consciousness, only catching snippets of exchanged words and grunts, and feeling the occasional press of Thorne’s fingers into his ass cheeks but he’s out cold again before registering the touches are hard enough to leave bruises. At some point he feels a blinding pain in his right shoulder.

For the third time that night, he thinks about Ilya and he latches onto the mental image of him.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Ilya.

Shane sucks in a deep breath through his mouth and only several heartbeats later it dawns on him that there’s no longer a rag stuffed into his mouth and no crushing weight bearing down on his back.

His eyes flutter open to see a thin layer of snow on the ground. He blinks when a snowflake lands on his lashes. Experimentally he moves his body. He feels heavy and sluggish but unrestrained. After a few more breaths he rolls over, groaning as he does. His throat feels raw and sore, he must have screamed longer than he knew, with that cloth in his mouth. He flexes the fingers of his right hand. Pain radiates down his arm but he can move it. At some point, in the struggle, while he was barely awake, it must have popped back into the joint.

The ground is ice cold against his exposed buttocks. He barely has the strength to raise his hips up so he can pull up his pants.

He sits upright. That dizziness is still there. A new fogginess too. He remembers what happened, the broad strokes at least and some disconnected details, but not all of it. He should be grateful but he doesn’t like not knowing exactly what happened. Did the other guy fuck him too or was it just Thorne?

Shane scoots back until he can lean against the wall. That’s about as much strength as he can muster. His body feels weak and not entirely within his control. It’s a challenge to force it to move.

He sits for a while, hoping that if he just waits long enough, the pain and drowsiness will ease away enough for him to be able to stand up and walk back to the hotel. But he just drifts off again, against his will.

It’s the shivering that wakes up. More snow has fallen in the meantime. It’s melting on his clothes, making him wet and that much colder.

He can’t stay out here, it could kill him. But even with that awareness it’s hard to motivate himself to move.

But as sleep threatens again, he forces another attempt to get up from the ground.

He can’t manage. He’s too heavy. Too weak. Of all the things he should be feeling right now, it’s frustration that bubbles to the surface. Frustration that his body can’t do something as simple as get up from the ground.

He needs help and that realization has a sob rip out of him, followed by silent, hot tears. The thought of being seen like this, the thought of the truth being known to anybody but himself, is mortifying.

For the fourth time that night, he thinks about Ilya and a calm settles in his chest.

He wants Ilya.

He wants Ilya to come and lift him up in his arms and carry him home and wash his body in the shower and then hold him in bed.

Shane shifts so he can fish his phone out of his pocket. He searches Lily in his contact list and hits the green phone icon.

It rings once. Twice. Three times…

Shane is holding his breath the entire time.

After the sixth ring it stops and Shane hears: “Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. That outgoing message is way too targeted right now. He knows the voice mail after six rings means Ilya rejected his call. He hangs up before the beep. Ilya probably thinks he’s still trying to invite him to room 803 at the Hilton. Or that Shane wants to whine some more about Ilya’s foul on the ice. All of that is distant and unimportant now to Shane, but to Ilya, that’s probably still the biggest thing of his night.

Unless he went out, Shane’s mind supplies. Maybe he’s at a club right now. Fuck, maybe he’s even nearby. He lets out a wry laugh at the thought that Ilya could literally be at the club next door, the music of which bleeds into the night sky. He doesn’t laugh much, laughing hurts, like everything else.

It takes him a minute to gather the courage or maybe the selfishness to try again. He hits the call button.

The call goes straight to voicemail.

“Hi, this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail.”

Shane writhes in pain at the rejection and wonders dumbly if maybe it the most hurtful thing he had experienced tonight. In spite of the message, Shane waits out the beep but then is at a loss for words. As humiliating as it is to have it recorded onto Ilya Rozanov’s voicemail, he merely sobs and it gets louder and louder as he loses control over himself. He hangs up just before his pathetic “please” gets recorded. He really needn’t have bothered to hang up, his voice barely has any volume, he can hardly hear himself.  

He puts the phone down in his lap, tears falling onto the screen as he uses his left hand to open their app and start typing a message.

I need help, he types. I’ve been- he stops, panic claws at him as the word comes to mind. His breaths come quicker and quicker. Then he types it out, barely able to see the screen through his tears.

I need help. I’ve been raped.  

He can’t bring himself to send it. He doesn’t want that message to be out there, to exist in the world as this real and permanent thing. He deletes the last word and replaces it with assaulted. He can’t hit send on that either. Another attempt: attacked. Even that he doesn’t want to put in a goddamn text message.

Everything but “I need help” gets deleted and before he can second-guess it, he sends it.

It pops up in the chat.

I need help.

Delivered.

Shane waits and waits and waits but that little text under his message doesn’t update to “read”.

He adds the word he didn’t want to have on the voicemail.

Please.

Delivered.

He’s in a club somewhere, isn’t he? He’s probably dancing with a beautiful woman right now. Sliding his hands over her curves, pressing his chest against her back. As much as that hurts, it’s less painful than the other possibility. That Ilya is home alone right now. On his couch. Just watching TV but really not paying attention. Not doing anything other than purposefully ignoring Shane’s calls and messages.

Shane is hyperventilating now. The alley seems to shrink. The brick walls close in on him. He needs to get out of here! He can’t stay here any longer! He doesn’t want to be here! What if they come back? What if the bartender wants a piece of him too?

He picks up the phone again and puts it to his ear.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

“Heyyy buddy,” Hayden drawls sleepily. “Changed your mind about that movie?”

Shane can’t speak. He sucks in panicked breaths.

“Shane?” Hayden immediately sounds alarmed. He no longer sounds tired. There’s rustling as he must be getting out of bed. “Are you in your room?”

He can’t talk! He can’t talk!

“It’s ok, buddy, I’m right here. Just stay on the line with me. Breathe with me.” Hayden does a performative, deep breath, audible over the line. He does it again. Even though Shane can’t yet follow along, Hayden says: “You’re doing good. You’re breathing. That’s all you need to do. It’ll slow down.”

He’s right, Shane’s breathing is starting to normalize.

Hayden does another deep, loud breath and then jokes: “I have a fourth kid on the way, buddy, I’m a breathing coach pro.”

It’s not funny. Will anything ever be funny again? But it’s so Hayden that it’s reassuring.

Shane hears knocking from Hayden’s end.

“You in there? Can you open up?”

Hayden is outside of his hotel room.

“Are you here?”

Finally, Shane manages: “No.” He grits it out but for as much effort he puts in, he’s still barely audible. His voice is gone from screaming around the rag.

Thankfully though, Hayden heard it. “…Are you with Lily?”

New hot tears roll down his cheek. “No,” he wheezes.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes…” He clears his throat as he definitely didn’t make a sound there and fuck clearing his throat hurts. He tries again, louder this time: “Yes.”

“No, you’re not, I’m right here, ok? You hear me?”

“Mhm.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

Shane squeezes his eyes shut in concentration as he searches his memory for the name of the bar. He knows he looked up at the neon sign before they headed inside, but it’s blurry, like so many other details. He remembers the name of the park though, so he whispers that and added: “Behind a bar.”

That wouldn’t help Hayden much, there are several bars surrounding the little park, but Hayden just says he’s on his way.

“Stay on the line with me,” Hayden says, sounding out of breath. He must have looked up the location and noted it’s close enough to walk. He sounds like he’s jogging but still talking to Shane all the while and this isn’t unusual to how their shared workouts go. Hayden always talking talking talking. The normalcy of it holds further panic attacks at bay.

The drugs also take effect again. When he opens his eyes and sees his hand, with his phone, in his lap he realizes he has passed out again for a bit. Putting the phone back to his ear, he hears Hayden is still talking, without expecting any response. His friend is just keeping him constantly aware that he’s there, that he’s coming, that everything will be ok.

“You don’t remember the name of the bar, buddy?” Hayden asks and it clues Shane in that he must have reached the park and is overwhelmed by the number of bars there to choose from.

“Uhm…” He scrunches up his face. He can’t recall. “The neon sign was orange.” His voice is still nothing more than a whisper.

“Orange. Orange. Orange.” There’s a pause. “I think I see the one, buddy. Hold on… Yeah, there’s an alley to the left of it.”

Shane starts to cry again, but with relief now. Hayden is close.

+++

20 MINUTES EARLIER

+++

Hayden lounges in bed. He has the TV on, too loud to be polite, but whoever is in the room left of his is just going to have to forgive him. Because to the right is J.J. and he is not alone.

And she is not quiet.

He’s watching the replay of the night’s game. Well, not really watching. The constant roar of the crowd is just the most effective white noise to drown out J.J.’s consolation prize. Hayden’s eyes are glued to his phone, slowly scrolling through the pictures Jackie sent throughout the day, of all the kids, herself, and her parents who came over to watch the game with her. There’s even a picture of the charcuterie board. When Hayden’s not around, Jackie does fancy stuff like “charcuterie boards” when she watches the games. When Hayden is home, it’s sliders and pigs-in-a-blanket.

They’d just been on a long phone call together. Jackie had put him on speaker while she went through the nightly routine of bath time and then bed time. Over the phone he read the kids a story he knows by heart – or, so he thought, Jackie jumped in with some corrections. Then they went to sleep and Jackie let him rant about the game and then she told him about her day and it calmed him.

He sighs contently.

He’s a lucky guy.

His thoughts circle to his friend. He wants this for Shane.

He casts a glance up at the screen when the words of the announcers register and looks up just in time to see the replay of Ilya bodying Shane into the boards even though Hayden had the puck at that point.

“What a fucking asshole,” he grumbles, getting worked up all anew.

He flicks his gaze up at the ceiling when J.J.’s girl starts to get even louder.

What the hell is he doing with her and is it something Hayden needs to ask him to teach him?

He closes the app and lays the phone down on his chest. He can’t be looking at his in-laws while listening to that.

He considers jacking off but that seems gross.

He wonders if Shane is still up, if he could join him in his room and watch a movie there. He’s kinda too sleepy for a movie though.

Hayden’s room has two beds, he thinks they might have all been assigned big rooms with two beds. It happens sometimes, no rhyme or reason to it. Just the benefit of early bookings. So he could just crash at Shane’s to escape J.J.’s valiant effort to make a single Boston girl louder than an entire stadium full of Boston fans.

He considers it, but ultimately decides against it. Shane is either already gonna be asleep or maybe Lily wasn’t too busy after all. Either way, Hayden doesn’t want to be a bother.

He looks down the length of his body at the TV screen. Coach is going to give them a stern talking-to tomorrow about their performance. They really need to step-up their game or else the play-offs will end early for them. Although it does cross his mind that it would be nice to be home in Montreal and not traveling through the end of the season. Jackie hides it well, for his benefit, so he can focus, but he knows the toll pregnancy takes on her and the more he’s around to help out, the better.

The game ends and the conversation of the commentators is not enough to drown out the activities next door.

Holy fucking shit, J.J., how are you still going?

In that moment, Hayden’s phone vibrates and he plucks it off his chest.

The screen displays “Captain Ginger Ale”. 

Hayden smirks. He’s quick to answer the call and put the phone to his ear.

“Heyyy buddy. Changed your mind about that movie?” he hasn’t even finished speaking before his heart drops into his stomach as all he hears on the other side is Shane hyperventilating.

He shoots upright in bed and clambers out. “Shane? Are you in your room?” There is no answer. Hayden is already stepping into his shoes and grabs his keycard and coat on his way out the door. With rushed steps he makes his way down the hall to the stairwell, knowing Shane’s room is down one floor on the far end. He talks to him all the while and tries to coach him with some calm breathing.

He reaches the door marked 803 and knocks. “You in there? Can you open up?” Hayden waits and listens. He presses himself against the door and momentarily holds the phone away from him. Shane is hyperventilating so loud, he should be able to hear him through the door if he was in his room, unless maybe if he was in the bathroom.

“Are you here?” He speaks into the phone.

When he first hears Shane’s voice, finally, it sends a cold shiver down his back. His voice is raw and barely audible. He says only one word, but it’s all he needs: “No.”

Hayden hesitates for only a second and then asks, choosing his words carefully: “…Are you with Lily?”

Another weak “no”.

Concern for his friend builds. “Are you alone?”

The affirmative answer breaks his heart. As quiet as Shane’s voice is, there is such deep loneliness in that single word, that small “yes”. Hayden steels himself. “No, you’re not, I’m right here, ok? You hear me?”

“Mhm.”

“Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

It takes a while to get a general location. In the meantime, Hayden is racing down the staircase, too afraid he might lose connection in the elevator. By the time he is in the lobby he has the name of a park and google maps shows that it’s not far, so he doesn’t bother arranging a car and he runs.

Fuck, it’s cold. But he’ll warm up soon enough.

The cold air bites at his cheeks as he sprints down the streets without any concern about losing his footing. He does slip once on a patch of ice under the fresh snow, but manages to stay upright.

His mind is calm because he has a mission. It’s a mindset he remembers having whenever Jackie goes into labor. When someone is relying on him, he needs to not disappoint them. He needs to keep his mind from racing. He can’t follow them into a panic, then they’d only spiral further down together.

Soon he reaches the park, basically a soccer field in the middle of a bar district. A fountain at the center and a dotted line of trees along the perimeter. All around are bars and clubs. Overwhelmingly many. He’ll search each and every one of them if he has to, but he prefers to do this quickly, for Shane’s sake.

His friend remembers the color of the sign out front and Hayden’s gaze lands on a neon orange sign on a bar at the Northern side. Running up to it, he recognizes the black space beside it as a narrow alley and he lets Shane know he is close. Shane did say earlier he was behind a bar, so he probably doesn’t need to head in.

Hayden has no idea why Shane was at a random bar in Boston. At a glance it looks like a shitty place too.

The alley is a black void and if he had any wherewithal at all right now, any capability to be concerned for his own safety over Shane’s, he might think twice about stepping into it. But he jogs past the dumpster midway without hesitation. His eyes adjust to the darkness. Light from the streetlamps doesn’t reach this far and the clouds that shed snow block the moon. But the general light pollution of the big city reflects off the grey blanket that hangs overhead.

He rounds the corner and for the first time his pace falters as his gaze lands on his friend. It falters, but he doesn’t pause, he doesn’t stop. He pushes through and closes the distance. “I’m here, buddy.” He pockets his phone in the final steps.

The closer he get, the better he sees how bad it is.

He’s familiar with Shane’s panic attacks and his meltdowns where the captain goes quiet and reverts into himself. He was expecting… something like that. That he’d gone out, with Lily perhaps and that he’d just gotten… overwhelmed.

But it’s worse.

It’s so much worse.

He’s badly beaten up. He sits slumped against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him. There’s a streak of blood down his chin. A bruise blooms on his cheek. There are unmistakable, red handprints on his throat. Every breath he takes makes a wheezing sound. Frankly, with how bad he looks, Hayden is just grateful he’s still breathing at all.

Did he run into Raiders fans? Why would they give them any crap? Their team won tonight!

When Hayden kneels down at his friend’s side, he notices:

The fly of his pants is undone.

He instantly knows. He just knows. The devastated look in Shane’s wet eyes is all the confirmation he needs.

Hayden tries not to let anything show on his face and he’s conscious not to touch him no matter how much he wants to for his own sake. “I’m here, buddy. I got you,” he whispers and his voice cracks. He shrugs off his coat and drapes it over Shane, tucking the collar under his chin. It doesn’t help much with his violent shivering. His clothes are wet from the snow and who knows how long he’s been out here in the cold.

Dangerously long, Hayden suspects, judging by the blue color of Shane’s lips.

“I can’t get up,” Shane whispers.

“Buddy,” Hayden swallows thickly. “I think we need to call 9-1-1.”

Shane’s bottom lip and chin quiver at that. “No… No, I don’t want-…” Fresh tears pour down his cheeks.

“I know, but Shane… I’m sorry, I think we really have to.”

The black hair at the back of Shane’s head is matted with what looks to be dried blood. He’s suffered a head injury, he could have a concussion. He’s clearly hypothermic. And who knows what more damage has been done to subdue a guy like Shane.

Shane is strong. Hayden knows this better than most. He has the stamina of a work horse and the brute force of one too. He noted his bruised and bloodied knuckles before he covered him with his coat and he knows how hard Shane must have fought. For that to have not been enough… it scares him to think about.

“Please, no…” Shane begs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I just want to go home.”

Hayden doesn’t point out that they are far away from home. It adds to his concern that he could be concussed. He’s not thinking clearly.

But after what’s happened to him, Hayden feels conflicted about calling an ambulance without Shane’s permission. He doesn’t want anything to be done to Shane without his consent. So he himself begs: “Shane, I really think you need a doctor. Please? Please let me call?”

There is a long pause but finally, thankfully, Shane nods his head.

Hayden wastes no time and dials 9-1-1 and gives instruction for where they are. When asked what kind of emergency it is he says: “My friend has been-” He stops himself. “Beat up. At least. But… maybe worse.”

Shane shrinks on himself at the realization that Hayden has figured it out.

The dispatcher asks for clarification: “Assaulted? Raped?”

Hayden just hopes the volume on his phone is low enough that Shane didn’t have to hear her ask that so casually. He understands it’s her job, she’s been desensitized to this, probably needs to be to get through her shift. He knows she’s not being insensitive but it’s so wrong to hear someone describe the nightmare his best friend has gone through so matter-of-factly. “Yes,” Hayden replies, voice cracking again.

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

She asks him more questions, about what kind of injuries he can see and every so often she assures him the ambulance has been dispatched and she keeps him updated on the ETA.

About ten minutes later he hears footsteps and the rolling wheels of a gurney.

Hayden steps back to let the EMT’s do their job, but he stays close and talks to Shane as much as he can without interrupting the paramedics.

Fuck, seeing Shane get lifted onto gurney nearly has Hayden’s knees buckling under him. He’s used to guys getting rolled off the ice on gurneys, but thankfully that’s never been Shane. He never thought he would have to be witness to this off the ice.

Thankfully, Hayden is allowed to join them in the back of the ambulance and ride along to the hospital. Shane keeps drifting in and out even though the EMT riding in the back asks him to stay awake, urging him to keep his eyes open.

“What’s wrong?” Hayden asks.

“He might have been drugged.”

It just keeps getting worse and worse…

Shane is awake again by the time they arrive at the hospital and they wheel him through the double doors of the emergency room. Hayden stays as close by as he can.

They deposit him on a bed in a private exam room, probably given the nature of his… attack. The added benefit is that he doesn’t have to remain in the crowded open space of the emergency room where someone might recognize him.

It’s clear the doctor does recognize him though. A silver haired woman in a white lab coat over black scrubs backs into the room, her gaze glued to the chart she’s holding and she reads out his name: “Shane Hollander.” There’s a pause as she looks up at him.

The doctor pulls out a stool and takes a minute to explain to Shane that she will be examining him and that two female nurses will come in to help. She reminds him that at any point if he tells them to stop, they will stop.

Hayden isn’t sure Shane is processing anything. His eyes are glazed over as he stares down at his hands in his lap.

“Do you want your friend to stay?”

Shane doesn’t respond but he reaches out for Hayden’s hand and holds on tight, like he’s afraid that no matter what he wants, Hayden will walk away.

As if. As if he would leave his friend alone like this.

Hayden squeezes his hand back and holds on with an equally tight grip.

The nurses come in and the examination begins.

They cut him out of his hoodie and T. shirt because of the groan he lets out when they try to move his right arm to help him out of his clothes.

Jesus, he is badly beat-up.

Hayden had seen him earlier than evening; had seen the familiar bruise pattern from his gear. That pattern has been fully obscured by new, huge bruises, the biggest and darkest of which on his left flank.

When they shimmy his pants down, Hayden respectfully turns around, without ever letting go of Shane’s hand.

He’s seen the captain naked like a million times. Ok, maybe not a million times, but definitely a lot. But he’s never seen him like this. It feels wrong for anybody to see him like this.

With his back turned to Shane, his face hidden from view, Hayden allows himself to cry silently.

The doctor suggests doing a rape kit.

It’s the first time Shane speaks up. “No.”

Hayden gives his hand another squeeze. “Buddy-”

“I said no,” Shane  says hoarsely.

That’s the end of it.

Hayden feels himself vibrate with rage. Not with Shane, of course. At whoever did this to him. He’s going to get away with it.

At the end of the lengthy examination, the nurses shuffle out of the room and the doctor rattles of a list of Shane’s injuries.

A skull fracture with concussion, broken cheekbone, three broken ribs, a broken hand, a resolved shoulder dislocation, and extensive bruising. They still have to wait for the results of the bloodwork, but she suspects he had been slipped a benzodiazepine like Rohypnol.

Two hours later Shane’s hand has been splinted, his arm is in a sling, and he’s been redressed in his pants and the zip-up hoodie they didn’t have to cut off of him. It’s dried in the meantime. With Hayden’s coat slung over his shoulders and Hayden’s cautious hand hovering near Shane’s left elbow, they walk out of the hospital and a taxi takes them back to the hotel.

Much to Hayden’s chagrin, the driver recognizes Shane. The man assumes Shane’s injuries are from the game and hockey players get hurt all the time so he doesn’t treat it too seriously. He ribs Shane a little for letting Boston’s “top brawler” Ilya Rozanov ram him into the boards. Under different circumstances, Hayden wouldn’t think much of it. It’s just good-natured chirping from a hockey fan. But now, it makes his blood boil.

As a petty revenge, he doesn’t tip the dude when they get out at the Hilton. Some shitty blog site might post about that if the driver bothers to complain on social media. 

In the elevator, Hayden studies his friend’s face in the mirror. Shane has gone catatonic. Hayden doesn’t know whether to be relieved or all the more concerned.

He shuffles after Shane into his hotel room. The thought occurs that he needs to ask if Shane even wants him to stay. He’s terrified the answer might be no. He doesn’t want him to be alone. He opens his mouth to ask, but Shane says, in that weak, wrecked voice he has now:

“I need to shower.”

“Ok.”

“I need… help. I think.” He looks down at himself, at his arm in a sling and his splinted hand.

“Ok.”

In the bathroom, Hayden helps Shane undress. Once more he is reminded of Jackie. After she’d given birth the first time, she needed help showering too. He treats Shane with the same gentleness.

Shane steps into the shower stall naked and Hayden joins him still wearing his boxers and grey T. shirt. He softly suggests that Shane should put his left hand on his shoulder, to help him balance and he’s warmed when Shane does exactly that.

Hayden takes the shower head out of the holder and aims it at the wall while he waits for the water to warm up. Once it’s at a comfortable temperature, he rinses Shane’s body, taking care not to get his splint wet. They didn’t have anything to wrap it with to keep it dry. Then, after asking permission, he puts his hand under Shane’s left armpit to hold him steady and free up Shane’s left hand so he can use a soapy cloth to properly wash himself. When Shane shamefully admits that it’s hurts too much to bend down, Hayden takes the cloth and kneels in front of him.

He doesn’t think twice about it. Given the circumstances, it isn’t even awkward. He simply reminds Shane to put his hand on Hayden’s shoulder again and then he diligently and thoroughly cleans Shane’s legs; every inch he wouldn’t have been able to reach himself without bending forward.

To fill the silence, he mentions helping Jackie shower, after giving birth. That he was happy to be able to do something for her. He hopes Shane recognizes that he feels the same way about this moment. He’s happy to help. Shane shouldn’t feel any guilt or shame about that. He’s not a burden, or a task. Being entrusted to take care of him like this is a privilege and Hayden treasures it. He treasures their friendship. More than he’s usually emotionally mature enough to communicate.

Once the suds have been rinsed off Shane’s skin Hayden guides him out of the shower and gently dries him with a towel which he then wraps around him and he helps him sit on the toilet where Shane waits as Hayden rifles through his suitcase for underwear and comfy clothes.

He returns with the clothes bundled in his arms and nearly drops them to the tiled floor when he sees his friend, hunched in on himself, looking at his knuckles again. He seems to be focusing on that injury in particular and Hayden suspects it’s because it reminds how hard he fought back.

He puts the clothes in the sink and kneel down in front of him. Slowly, very slowly, he reaches up and takes a tender hold of Shane’s left hand. He waits for Shane to return his eye contact before he says in hushed voice: “I have an idea. How about we take a picture of this?”

Shane’s brow furrows in confusion.

“You probably don’t remember everything. And as time goes on, the memory might get blurrier still. But… something that you should never forget, is how hard you fought. So you can never blame yourself for not fighting hard enough.”

Shane’s face contorts in agony and Hayden can tell he’s already blaming himself. His own voice gets scratchy with emotions as he begs him to believe him when he says: “None of this is your fault. Look at this,” he slightly raises his left hand. “And look at your broken hand. You gave him a hell of a fight.”

Shane lets his head drop. His shoulders jerk as he’s trying to contain his sobs. “Them,” he whimpers.

Hayden’s heart does a painful twist in his chest. “What?” He’s pretty sure he heard him. Pretty sure he understood what he meant. But he wants to be wrong.

“Them,” Shane repeats hoarsely. “There were two of them.”

“Shane…”

The broken man is quick to say: “I don’t know if they both-…” He swallows. “I don’t remember- I don’t- I passed out. I-…I don’t remember.” He shakes his head and grits out: “Just take the picture. Just take it.”

Hayden takes his phone out of his back pocket and snaps a picture of Shane’s two hands in his lap. Next, he backs up a little, so more of Shane’s body fits into the frame and he asks if it’s ok.

Shane nods curtly.

So Hayden takes one picture that shows Shane from the knees up.

These pictures will be hard to look at, but nobody, including Shane, will ever be able to deny that he gave it his all to fight off these monsters.

He pockets the phone again and then helps his friend get dressed and into bed.

He walks around to the other side and asks “Can I?” while holding the sheets.

With Shane’s permission Hayden climbs into the same bed, even though there is a second bed available. Shane lies on his left side, towards the center of the bed, so Hayden turns onto his right shoulder to face him. He slowly inches a hand out towards Shane, which lies on the sheets palms up. Shane doesn’t pull away so Hayden takes hold of it, gently.

Shane closes his eyes, squeezing out more tears.

“I’m here, buddy,” Hayden whispers. “You sleep. I’m here.”

The doctor had warned him not to be scared that Shane would probably sleep long and deeply tonight, as a result of the suspected drugs in his system.

Before he drifts off, Hayden asks: “Do you want me to call Lily?”

The corners of Shane’s mouth curl down. His chin wobbles. “I already did… Il-Lily doesn’t want me anymore.”

Hayden’s body goes stiff with rage and he hopes he doesn’t squeeze Shane’s hand because of it. After taking a few breaths through his nose to compose himself, he grits: “Lily really is an asshole then.”

Shane has passed out. His face looks relaxed now.

Probably for the best, this isn’t the right time for Hayden to let it slip that he knows Lily is Ilya Rozanov.

Like, fuck, of course he knows. He’s Shane’s best friend and also he’s not oblivious.

Well, ok, maybe he was a little bit, for a little while.

And yeah maybe it was purely by accident how he first discovered Lily was a dude, but after that Hayden had put together the puzzle pieces pretty quickly.

Shane wasn’t exactly a sly guy, not even when he had a secret to guard. The two of them spend so much time together and are so comfortable around each other, it was only a matter of time until Hayden caught glimpses of Lily’s name on Shane’s phone. He was happy for Shane, he’d never seen him chase a girl, invest time like that. He always figured Shane would be married to the sport until he’d retire, in spite of Hayden’s and Jackie’s well-intended interference.

Then one day, recently, the coach had knocked on the door of their shared hotel room and asked Shane to step out for a moment. “Captain stuff,” he explained at seeing Hayden’s raised eyebrow.

“Captain stuff,” Hayden had pettily repeated.

Being the polite and eager-to-please man that he is, Shane had rushed out the door to give the coach his attention and in his haste he had left his phone on the bed, screen up, chat open, a string of new messages from Lily popping up. He knew it was Lily because it was the only contact in Shane’s phone that had an emoji paired with it: the pink heart.

Hayden was not reading the messages. He couldn’t read the text from where he stood at his own bed, stuffing his clothes into his suitcase because their flight was at the ass crack of dawn tomorrow. And he wasn’t trying to read the text. He just kept glancing at the phone as more messages filled the chat and he chuckled at how down-bad Lily must be, begging for Shane to engage.

And as he happened to be looking over, an image filled the screen.

An image of a man’s torso. A pale, muscly chest. Something wet on his abdomen that Hayden was pretty fucking sure was cum, but it was too far to see. And… a big – like huge - erect cock, held in a loose fist.

Hayden took longer to look away than he was proud of, but sheer shock had his gaze glued to the screen for a full second, long enough to be able to register all the details he could see standing about 6 feet away from Shane’s bed.

“Holy shit,” He blurted then. He pointedly looked ahead at the wall but there was no unseeing that.

Lily is a guy.

Lily is a guy with a fat fucking cock.

Shit, I really can’t unsee that.  

All this time, Shane had been texting and sexting a man. It’s been years! Hayden had been seeing the name Lily pop up on Shane’s phone for years!   

The realization that Shane is gay, or at least bi, shocked him for only about ten seconds and then he thought: yeah ok maybe that checks out. It certainly explained a lot.

He heard Shane try and fail to unlock the door with his keycard. Seriously, why is that a struggle in literally every hotel? He didn’t want to get caught standing there, holding, of all things, a ball of his own goddamn underwear, with a picture of “Lily” still face up on the bed, clearly visible.

So before the door unlocked and opened, Hayden soundlessly slipped into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the shower. So he could pretend he’d been in there the whole time and didn’t see anything he wasn’t supposed to see.

He never told Shane about it. He figured Shane kept it a secret, even from him, for a reason. It hurt at first. It hurt enough that he had to talk about it to Jackie. It was hard, because even telling his wife felt like he was violating Shane. But this was Jackie, he told her everything. She helped him see how Shane keeping this secret wasn’t about him and Hayden shouldn’t make it about himself. This was a huge thing for Shane to struggle with and if he felt the best way to protect himself was to even not disclose it to his best friend, then Hayden had to trust that was the right choice for him.

“So… what does Lily look like?” Jackie had teased him.

“Ah, fuck, I don’t want to think about that!”

She gleefully punched his arm. “Come on! Is he… big?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“You are enjoying this way too much.”

Jackie cackled. “Do you think he’s a hockey player?” She gasped and jested: “Do you think it’s another guy on the team?”

Hayden off-handedly replied: “No, I’d recognize the body if it was one of our own.”

“Oh, you’d recognize the body, huh?”

“Shut up!” He playfully pushed her down onto the bed and successfully distracted her.

But later, like days later, her question rang in his head.

“Do you think he’s a hockey player?”

Because, well, see, firstly: obviously “Lily” was a Boston bloke. Hayden had figured out Lily lived in Boston long before he had found out Lily was a dude – with a huge goddamn fucking cock, couldn’t ever forget about that part. That didn’t help him narrow down who Lily was.

But they were about to play against Boston on home ice and Shane was smiling at his phone and typing text after text. And it hit Hayden in that moment that Shane always had places to be, things to do, when the Metros were in Boston – totally not to hook up with Lily – or… when the Raiders were in Montreal. It clicked for him that Lily was either a player for the Boston Raiders, or one of those hyper dedicated fans who somehow always have the spare time and the disposable income to travel wherever their favorite team goes.

It would sound crazy to anyone other than a massive hockey fan, but it was infinitely more unlikely that such a devoted Raiders fan would be willing to fuck the captain of the rival team, than someone on the actual Raiders team. Those types of fans are more gung-ho than any player. Hayden doesn’t believe for a second they’d travel to Montreal to cheer for their team and then afterwards go over and fuck the rivaling Captain…

With their giant fucking- stop!

No, it was much more likely that a player didn’t care enough about team rivalries off the ice to let it stand in the way of a good lay.

Hayden rifled through the Boston team list in his head. Maybe someone who got traded often, so they weren’t too attached to the team? No, that didn’t make sense, because Lily and Shane had been hooking up on Boston vs Montreal nights for years, almost a decade even. Besides, if he entertained the idea that Lily was a Raider, then even someone like Shane, who lived and breathed hockey and was loyal to the team to a fault, didn’t let the team rivalry stop him.

Marleau came to mind. He was a big guy who might have a big dick. But when Hayden pictured Marleau naked, he pictured him hairy. Very hairy.

Fuck, now this whole thing had Hayden picturing men naked?

This is so messed up, his mind supplied. And then it conjured up the most messed-up thought of all:

What if it’s Rozanov?

He was about it laugh it off but instead he froze on the bench, a lovesick Shane beside him, completely unaware of anything going on in the locker room as he continued to give his phone his undivided attention.

Ilya Rozanov.

Ilya.

Lily.

That fit way too fucking well.

He sat there gaping like a fish on land.

It would also explain why Shane never told Hayden about it. Because surely Shane knew Hayden would be ok with him being gay, right? He hoped so. He hoped his best friend knew he wasn’t a piece of shit who wouldn’t support him. But Hayden hated Rozanov’s guts and Shane knew that for sure. Rozanov was Shane’s ultimate rival. Their rivalry was a literal selling point for the MHL. Of course Shane had to be extra careful keeping that a secret, even with Hayden. Maybe especially with Hayden.

There was an easy way to check…

Hayden straightened his back. He reached out a hand and poked Shane’s hip to get his attention. Once Shane peeled his gaze away from his phone screen, Hayden asked: “You gonna make Rozanov sweat tonight?”

Shane freezes and goes beet red, because he thought Hayden was talking about the plans he was clearly making later tonight, that’s where his mind was at. He wasn’t thinking about the game before then, about making Rozanov sweat on the ice, chasing after him to steal the puck.

Outwardly, Hayden remained calm and made sure to clarify he meant on the ice and it relaxed Shane.

But in his head he was screaming:

Oh my fucking God Lily is Ilya!

Shane has been hooking up with Ilya fucking Rozanov!

That took a while to process. And a lot of help from Jackie.

Now, Hayden lies in bed with Shane and watches him sleep, still holding his hand. He’s relieved at how peaceful he looks, even though he knows it won’t last. For now, Shane doesn’t have to be afraid. Safe and sound asleep.

He’s a beautiful man. Inside and out.

And now, after hooking up for almost a decade, Ilya doesn’t want him anymore? The asshole can’t be bothered to give a shit about Shane when he’s hurt? What, just because this isn’t the fun part, it’s not worth his time?

Hayden stews in his own rage. He had always known Rozanov was a goddamn asshole and God fucking shit was he proven right about that tonight. Shane called him and he didn’t show up for him!

He’s going to kill him.

He’s going to fucking kill him.

Everything is silent until out of nowhere, in the middle of the night…

Someone softly knocks on the door.

+++

5 HOURS EARLIER

+++

Ilya storms into the Raiders’ locker room, face screwed into a grimace.

While his teammates celebrate and clap each other on the back, Ilya is angry. So angry.

He wishes he was angry with Shane, because that would be so much easier.

Instead, he’s angry with himself.

That bodycheck was unforgiveable. The ref should have penalized him for it. Shane had passed the puck to Pike. Ilya just wasn’t paying attention, he hadn’t been looking at the puck. Shane was absolutely flying across the ice and Ilya put in all his strength to catch up. When Shane passed the puck, he slowed down and Ilya was going too fast when he…

It wasn’t the hardest he had ever bodied another player, but it was the roughest he’d ever been with Shane.

It was an accident, but it was an accident that happened because he was bringing thoughts and emotions onto the ice that don’t belong there. This sport is too dangerous to engage in it distracted. So it was still Ilya’s fault.

He jerks off his gear.

Marleau comes up next to him and maybe he sees something is off and wants to cheer up his captain with a compliment, but he goes about it the wrong way when he celebratorily bumps Ilya’s shoulder and says: “Good bodycheck. Hollander felt that one all game for sure.”

“Gonna feel it for days,” Connors chimes in from across the locker room.

Ilya snaps. He rears up from his seat and punches Marleau on his square jaw.

The laughter that had filled the locker room dies down instantly.

The players on either side of Ilya and Marleau step in and pull the two apart as they exchange blows.

“What the fuck, Roz?!” Marleau shouts, one hand cupping his hurt jaw, the other half-heartedly scrambling to pry off the arm that is looped around his chest to hold him back.

Ilya throws Russian curses his way as he struggles in the hold of their goalie.

Their coach comes in and with a powerful bellow he has everyone settling down.

Marleau heads off for the showers and Ilya is finally released so he can slump back down on the bench.

“We’ll talk about this later, Rozanov,” the coach warns before making his retreat.

The cheerful atmosphere from before is now nowhere to be found. The guys whisper to whoever is next to them and Ilya is aware of them throwing confused glances his way. Ilya catches one of his team members hiss: “What the fuck is wrong with him?” He isn’t trying to be quiet about it like the others and makes eye contact with the captain as he says it.

What’s wrong with him is that for the first time in his life he wanted something more than sex with someone and it blew up in his face!

Ilya pointedly looks down as he yanks the last of his gear off. He hates this. He hates wearing his emotions on his sleeve. It’s too exposed. Too vulnerable.

As disgusting as he feels, inside and out, he decides he will skip on showering in the locker room. He doesn’t want to be here any longer than he needs to be. So he uses a small towel to dry off his sweat and then pulls on joggers and a shirt.

His phone buzzes on the shelf above his head and he grabs it only because it will serve as a prop for him to try and pretend that he doesn’t feel like he’s wearing his skin inside out while the entire team keeps staring at him.

It’s a message from “Jane”. The first since the one of Ilya inviting him to come over to his house, two months ago.

Hilton. 803.

He pauses for a moment to think wryly of how many texts just like this one have accumulated in this chat over the years. But for the first time, the invitation doesn’t excite him, nor warm him, nor endear him to how Hollander is always mimicking him, even in text messages. Following whatever example Ilya has set.

It doesn’t make him angry either.

It makes him sad.

Because all Shane wants from Ilya now is a chance to apologize, like the good Canadian boy he is and then probably suggest that they should be friends.

In a split second Ilya sees a future in which he, as one of Shane Hollander’s friends, gets invited to his wedding and has to watch Rose Landry get the thing Ilya wanted: a life with Shane, full of publicly celebrated love.

He recoils.

No. Nonononono.

And that’s exactly what he sends back: “No.” He closes the app and lays the phone face down on the bench. He knows how definitive it is. It feels like slamming a door in Shane’s face. But he has to. He has to slam shut doors and put up walls, lay down barbed wire coils and land mines. Put back in place all the barriers that had been there before, that he taken down one by way to let Shane get closer and closer and closer…

A wave of nausea has him doubling over and he hides it by slipping on his shoes and spending too long tying the laces.

As soon as his stomach has calmed down, he grabs his backpack and storms out of the locker room. Nobody stops him from leaving. Nobody invites him to join them in a victory lap across several bars and clubs. When the door falls shut behind him, he can hear conversation pick up but he doesn’t stick around to hear what his team has to say about him behind his back.

He’ll patch things over at the next practice. Flimsy excuses have always worked well enough for him to cover his tracks, because the truth is too preposterous to occur to anyone. He’ll pretend to be frustrated that Shane had nearly outskated him.

It was true, Shane was getting faster with every passing season. Or maybe the real truth was that Ilya was getting slower? Weighed down and held back by this growing realization that he cares about Shane Hollander than he does about hockey. It’s almost self-sabotage. If he lets his career slide, their rivalry becomes uninteresting. Fans will forget all about it and pit Hollander against someone else, someone who puts up a more rewarding fight. And then maybe-

Ilya stops that thought process and quickens his step to the private parking garage. He doesn’t need to bother himself with that line of thinking anymore.

His foot is heavy on the gas pedal as he drives home. He hasn’t gotten a ticket since the cup win. Every time he’s been pulled over, the cop recognizes him and all his speeding ever costs him is an autograph or a selfie. He’s grown resentful of the attention over the years, even while actively reaping the benefits. More and more often he wishes he could just disappear.

Maybe to Montreal…

He grips the steering wheel tighter.

No.

Usually racing through the streets lets him outpace his racing mind and his thoughts have calmed by the time he pulls into his driveway. But not this time.

He paces in his kitchen, only stopping to rip open the fridge and pull out a beer.

It’s the sight of the cans of ginger ale that stop him dead in his tracks.

It’s been weeks since that afternoon and he hadn’t been able to get rid of them. He’d tried one and decided he definitely did not enjoy it, because it kind of tasted like Shane’s mouth but not quite; not close enough. He should have dumped the rest out in the sink, but instead he keeps them in the fridge. As if Shane is about to saunter around the corner any moment, still sweaty and thirsty from a quickie in Ilya’s bed.

He’s replayed that afternoon in his head a million times and each time feels like picking a scab off a wound and making it worse but he can’t stop it. He can’t stop obsessively picking at it.

He’d gone grocery shopping in the morning. Usually, he’d let someone do that for him, but buying ginger ale felt like smuggling contraband. As if Shane Hollander was the only person in the world to drink the fizzy stuff and everybody knew it. The store didn’t stock any ginger ale in the refrigerated section, so he worried the drink wouldn’t be cold enough by the time Shane would come over. He knew Shane was specific about what he eats and drinks and Ilya didn’t want to disappoint and put him off.

The food was trickier than the drinks. Shane was obsessive about his diet and what he ate was the kind of stuff that made Ilya unhappy just thinking about. But he remembered an interview Hollander had done, one of those fluff pieces meant to humanize him to the masses. The interviewer had asked the Canadian captain about his favorite cheat meal and after some prodding Shane admitted he likes tuna melts. The interviewer had been openly disappointed with how lame that was, but it was the most Shane allowed himself to indulge with food. Shane doesn’t normally ever eat cheese or bread, but tuna melts were irresistible to him. 

Ilya had to look up what the fuck a “tuna melt” was because how do you melt a fish? But, oh, the melted part was about the cheese. Right. He will never admit to anybody how long he spent googling the perfect tuna melt recipe, scrolling through way too many reviews on cooking blogs.

For dinner they would do take-out, he had decided then. Because he had used up all his brain power. He’d just order whatever Shane wanted. Much easier, but still, thoughtful, yes? “Accommodating”, that’s the word. He wanted to be accommodating. 

At some more prying from that interviewer, Shane recalls - fondly, if the article is to be believed - that his dad always took him to get cinnamon rolls after practice. But he hasn't allowed himself a cinnamon roll since he was drafted, no matter how much he wanted one. So Ilya got cinnamon rolls for breakfast, but also eggs and protein shakes from the brand Shane signed with, as a safer back-up. Because he had little faith he could convince him to eat a cinnamon roll, especially on game day, and he wasn't planning on pushing the matter.

He wanted to make Shane feel at ease, not make him self-conscious about how particular his wants are.

Ilya happens to like how particular his wants are, because it made him feel like he knew Shane. They don’t know much about each other, they rarely talked and Ilya knows that's on him. But he knows Shane likes ginger ales, tuna melts, the color blue, headphones not earphones, proper spelling and grammar in texts, shampoo from a Korean brand Ilya had to order online, and the labels cut out of the inside of his shirts.

Ilya had spent a good ten minutes picking a pair of sweats and a T. shirt that he thought Shane would like to lounge in and then painstakingly cut the labels out of both, leaving no irritating edges or threads behind.

Ilya has never known someone like that. Never cared to know someone like that.

He forgets to drink his beer, staring instead at the empty bar stool at his kitchen island that Shane occupied, curiously watching Ilya go through the steps of making a tuna melt. Ilya had prepared everything beforehand, so he didn’t have to embarrass himself by pulling up the recipe. Invested in making it seem like he made tuna melts all the time. That his house was the place to be for ginger ales and tuna melts and blue bedsheets and nice shampoo and labelless clothes. The kind of house where Shane Hollander could feel at home.

He nearly flings his can of beer across the room but he stops himself and dumps it out in the sink instead. He needs something stronger.

But shower first. He is still disgusting after his game.

After he’s all cleaned up and dressed in his favorite, comfortable clothes, he pours himself a vodka and settles on the couch. The thought crosses his mind to go out. Find a warm body to distract himself with. But he knows he won’t be able to. What would make tonight any different from last Friday when he went home alone? And the time before that? And the time before that?

He sips his drink, flipping through channels and stops when he comes across a replay of tonight’s game. The commentators are talking about both coaches deciding to bench the rivaling captains at the top of the first period. One commentator remarks that it’s a mistake not letting the two take to the ice and give the crowd what they want. The other jabs that neither Rozanov nor Hollander have been at the top of their game lately.

“Well, we know what has Hollander so distracted,” the first one jokes.

“Or rather, who has him so distracted.”

Ilya’s skin crawls but he tosses the remote out of reach without changing the channel, accepting this as some kind of punishment for his foul on the ice.

When one of them finally says her name it’s like a punch in the gut.

“So who do you think has Rozanov so off his game?”

The irony of the camera then taking a moment to zoom in on Shane, chewing on his mouthguard like he always does, looking intense like he always does, while the commentators throw names of famous actresses and models back and forth. Most of whom Ilya has never heard of. One of whom Ilya did actually hook up with a couple of years ago, unbeknownst to anyone.

The game starts and Ilya watches Marleau body Pike off the puck with ease but then fumbles the pass so the Metros steal it back. He’s watched the first two period from the other side of the board. Sometimes, he catches a glimpse of himself sitting on the bench, staring, but he doesn’t remember any of it. None of it registered.

Between the first and second period, the commentators commiserate about the 0 goals scored so far and nitpick the lackluster plays from both teams. They bemoan the decision from both coaches to still not put their captains on the ice for the face-off at the start of the second period. The Metros finally score a goal, off the face-off, which has both the crowd and the commentators groaning. The Raiders redeem themselves shortly after, tying the goal. And then it becomes a boring and fruitless game of puck-stealing again, neither team manages to find the net.

But when the third period starts and Rozanov and Hollander take to the ice, the men perk up.

“Finally, some spice on the ice,” one jokes.

“Oh you know Rozanov gets spicy.”

Ilya subconsciously straightens up. He observes the stiffness in Shane’s body like the man standing right in front of him at center ice wasn’t Ilya himself and this was all new.

“Rozanov is locked in.”

“Dog with a bone. I love it when he gets like this. I know most fans prefer to see him get under his opponents skin, but when he’s quiet like this, you know he’s confident. No mind tricks.”

“Just hat tricks,” the other quips.

Ilya isn’t even listening or else he would have rolled his eyes.

The puck drops and watching himself he looks like he’s stuck in quicksand with how slow he is to react. Shane gets the puck and then he’s off. God, he’s fast when he takes off. Like one of Ilya’s sport cars that Shane isn’t the least bit impressed by. But Rozanov chases after him with the steady power of a freight train. And when they collide… well it’s much like a freight train ramming a sports car. It’s devastating.

The commentators let out a big “Woa!” in unison and one of them is quick to follow-up with:

“Oh the crowd is loving this.”

“Well this is what they came for.”

Watching it from the bird’s eye perspective of the camera, it’s even more brutal than he remembers. It’s shocking Shane didn’t crumble to the ice after that hit. The fact he can remain upright shows his strength. 

Rozanov scored a goal with the stolen puck. The broadcast shows a replay of the goal and then several replays, different angles, of the hit before that.

The commentators are making excuses for Ilya, saying it was a clean hit, as if the puck hadn’t been on Pike’s stick by the time Ilya crashed into Shane.

“He couldn’t have stopped in time anyway.”

No, but he could have diverted, if he’d been paying attention.

He jolts at the sound of his phone ringing. He feels the buzzing of it against his thigh as it sits in the deep pocket of his sweats.

Not now, not tonight, he thinks. He can't deal with Alexei or his dad on top of everything else.

He fishes it out of his pocket and blinks at the name on the screen.

Jane.

Shane has never called him. Ever.

Ilya stares at it. His thumb hovers over the green icon. He considers it.

No.

He can’t.

Even over the phone Shane’s voice will sound too good, too sweet, too irresistible. He’ll say he’s sorry and Ilya will say it’s ok because he’s hurt Shane enough tonight. He’ll pretend it was never a big deal, like there’s not a sixpack of ginger ale still in his fridge, like he didn’t cut the labels out of his clothes for him, like he wasn’t wearing that exact shirt right now, after never washing it... And before Ilya knows what’s happening, he’ll be a groomsman at the Hollander-Landry wedding.

No.

He declines the call and regret plummets into his gut like brick into an icy pond. Before he can second-guess himself, he switches off his phone, so he won’t be tempted to call back, or read the messages that he’s sure Shane is in the process of typing up right now. He tossed it to the far end of the couch and it disappears between the pillows where he hopefully won’t even be able to find it if he gets drunk enough.

On TV, the game continues.

Neither team scores another goal. Not surprising. Ilya had been even more lost in his own thoughts, processing the hit. And Shane was dealing with the aftermath of the hit in his own way, guarding his left side and not playing forcefully enough.

The Raiders win, but it’s an ugly victory.

“The Raiders send the Metros back home, their spot in the play-offs hanging by a thread.”

“I’m sure Hollander wouldn’t mind being back in Montreal full time while X-squad is still shooting.”

The two commentators share a lewd laugh.

Ilya downs his drink.

“That’s why his game sucks so much lately.”

He curses at the TV in Russian. Even at his worst, Hollander could still skate circles around 90% of the guys in the league! He shouldn’t be so defensive. For starters because this is a local broadcast, these are Boston men, accent and all. Of course they’re gonna shit talk the captain of the other team. But mostly, Ilya shouldn’t jump to his defense because that’s Rose Landry’s job.

She was probably watching live, he thinks bitterly, surrounded by her fancy friends. She’s probably mad as hell at Rozanov for bruising up her boyfriend’s perfect body.

Ilya knows she has no idea of all the things he’s done to that body… he’s left bruises before; the shapes of his fingertips on his thighs and his hips. Shane had complained that he hadn’t dared to shower in the locker rooms for a week after that, for his of his teammates noticing.

Ilya didn’t say that he wanted them to look and wanted to see. See that Shane is taken. He’d just chuckled and suggested Shane should get even.

That night, as Ilya fucked into him so hard he had Shane keening. His back arched off the bed. His hole clenching with every thrust. Shane dragged his fingers down Ilya’s back and while his nails were short, some had managed to scratch the skin, leaving unmistakable marks. The shiver that traveled down Ilya’s spine was enough to push him over the edge, spilling into the condom.

Shane had yelled, actually yelled: “No!” Locking his ankles at the small of his Ilya’s back and urging him to keep moving his hips. “Don’t stop! Roza-ah! Ah!” He was close but not close enough. He snaked an arm between them and desperately stroked his wet cock, the precum he’d been leaking let his hand glide smoothly over his shaft. The sound was obscene. It was so slutty. It was perfect.

But Ilya couldn’t keep going. His cock was softening and becoming so hyper sensitive it was painful. Plus he needed to get the condom off.

He stopped and grabbed Shane’s wrists to pin them to the pillow. The whine that Shane let out was criminal.

“Shh… Shhh…” He leaned in and whispered in his ear: “I take care of you.”

Shane sobbed once. “But you’re getting soft now…”

Ilya smirked. He loved it when Shane was so thoroughly fucked out of his mind and needy he was beyond any shame. “There’s other way I take care of you.” He let go of Shane’s wrists, lustfully taking note that Shane didn’t move his hands an inch. He pried his ankles apart and slipped out of him.

The Canadian man whimpered at the loss. His eyes were squeezed shut. “I don’t want a blowjob, I want you to fuck me until I come.”

“You should have thought about that before you made me come.”

“’S not my fault,” he muttered.

Ilya peppered kisses to his face. “Yes it is. You make sounds too sexy. Hole too tight.” Too tight for Ilya’s cock, but not too tight for him to easily slip two fingers into him now, wet and pliant.

Shane threw his head back on the pillow and moaned but his face was still twisted into a frustrated expression. “Your fingers aren’t going to be enough now.”

“I know,” Ilya cooed, but still made a valiant effort, curling them inside him and pressing the pads of his fingers into his prostate.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

He got Shane so close to the edge that he was too distracted to notice when Ilya extended himself towards the bedside table and pulled open the drawer to get the thing he’s noticed before, but never commented on.

The dildo.

It was wrapped in a velvet bag. It’s weighty. It’s big.

Ilya sat back between Shane’s legs and caught his glazed expression. He smirked at him, noting the lack of protest. Shane just eagerly waited, not a hint of shame as Ilya opened the bag and shook the toy out into the palm of his other hand.

And Ilya smiled, because he finally knew the color.

It was blue.

And Ilya’s heart did a silly thing when he realized: he wasn’t surprised.

He fucked Shane with the toy. Fucked him with it so hard his wrist hurt afterwards but he didn’t care. Not with the sounds the man was making and the way his strong thighs were bracketing Ilya’s body. He was about to make Shane come untouched again when he changed his mind at the last second and took the crown of his cock into his mouth and moaned when he tasted his release.

When Shane came down from his high, he was mortified. Mortified that Ilya had known the entire time exactly where to find his toy. Mortified that he now had the answers to his questions: “What color? Is big?” – Blue and yes. Mortified that he had left scratches on Ilya’s back; scratches that everyone would notice and recognize.

And the Raiders did. The next day when they hit the showers after practice, Ilya made it a point to turn around and face the showerhead, showing his back to the entire room. The marks were bright red and the other men whistled when they caught sight of him. They celebratorily clapped him on the shoulder and asked inappropriate questions that Ilya refused to answer and smirked when they called him a tease.

Ilya is halfway through his second glass of vodka when he wonders if Rose has fucked Shane with his dildo yet. Shane apparently being bi, much like Ilya, didn’t change what he likes in bed. Ilya knows what he likes in bed, the same way he knows about the ginger ales and the tuna melt. And the things Shane likes in bed, are things Rose can’t deliver. Not without the toy.

Does she get him so high on pleasure too that he forgets to be self-conscious and just asks for what he wants?

He gets up from the couch and leaves his glass on the coffee table, deciding, maybe a little too late, that he doesn’t want to get drunk. Drunk at a club is fun. Drunk home alone is just going to make him wallow in self-pity more.

He turns off the TV which, in a cruel twist of fate, was playing one of her movies, unknowingly he’d been half-watching most of it, while his thoughts drifted. It’s nearly at the climx, she’s about to get rescued from her kidnappers by the too-old-to-be-her-love-interest action star.

She’s pretty. And Shane is pretty. They’ll have pretty babies one day.

Ilya’s stomach turns upside down at the thought.

He slides open the door to the backyard and steps out into the bitter cold night. He tips his head back and feels the pinpricks of snowflakes landing on his face and when they melt on his skin, they hide his tears.

The thing that hurts the most of all?

He knows it’s his own fault.

He remembers all the times Shane tried to talk to him after sex and every time, Ilya brushed him off, not willing to risk getting attached. Foolishly thinking that he had any say in the matter; that he could stop the inevitable. At times he was an outright dick to Shane, putting in an effort to make it impossible for Shane to actually like him as a person, so that if Ilya ever slipped up, Shane could be trusted to secure a safe distance between them; keep him at arms’ length, rather than fall into his arms the way Ilya craved.

One ginger ale and one tuna melt couldn’t undo years of groundwork Ilya had painstakingly laid.

And then… fuck… there’s the other part of the afternoon that kept replaying in his head.

“Do you like them? Girls?” And when Shane said yes, Ilya pointed out: “I never see you with girls.”

He basically told him: I thought maybe you’re gay because I never hear of you dating women.

And then Shane went and made sure nobody else could make that mistake by finding himself the hottest, most desirable, most public, most unattainable woman in Montreal. In the entirety of the North American continent, arguably. A woman who holds his hands for the paparazzi to see. A woman goes to his games wearing his jersey. A woman who invites him to her birthday party and has Shane Microbiotic Diet Hollander stuff his face with a slice of cake. A woman who dances with him in the hottest club in Montreal, with her hands under his shirt… touching a body that used to be Ilya’s. A woman who even the Boston based sports commentators can’t stop talking about.

Ilya and Shane had been rivals on the ice for over a decade, but for the first time, Shane beat him at his own game.

And it was Ilya’s own goddamn fault.

The cold of the night gets to him. He stands barefoot in the snow and his toes are going numb. He suffers it for as long as he can stand it, letting it sober him up. Then he walks back inside and he lifts his shirt to dry his face, pretending it’s only wet from melted snow.

He stalks towards the far end of the couch and fishes his phone out from between the cushions. But as soon as he has the device in hand, he chucks it back down, like it’s burned him.

If he turns it on he will text Shane. He knows he will.

He’ll text something stupid, like: don’t marry Rose.

What the fuck. He doesn’t need to go around planting more stupid ideas in that pretty head of Shane’s.

He’s pacing again.

“You don’t text your sex buddy not to marry his girlfriend,” he warns himself in Russian.

He stops.

“You tell him. You tell him in person.”

Ok, that iss the vodka talking, but it’s making a good point...

“And then you tell him you-” He stops himself. He is not about to say that out loud for the first time to just himself.

With hurried steps he heads for the front door and snatches his keys along the way. He nearly walks out barefoot again, but backtracks to put on shoes and a jacket too.

He isn’t drunk, but still, driving was a dumb idea. Just not the dumbest idea he is currently acting on, so it seems too unimportant to dwell on. He makes sure to stick to the speed limit, even if that has him gritting his teeth and wringing the steering wheel.

All the while, the only thought in his head:

Hilton. 803.

He should probably use that time to think of what to actually say, maybe ask the linger effect of the vodka for input. But he’s not about thinking right now. He’s all about his feelings. And he knows they’ll just pour out when he will lay eyes on Shane.

It’s risky, walking into the Hilton hotel lobby where the entire Metros team is spending the night. This is Boston, people know Ilya here. The staff at reception shoots him a look. He’s not even wearing a baseball cap or anything, curly hair on display. But they’ve been doing this for years now and nobody has ever caught on. Or maybe some poor janitor or night maid did, but they never came forward, either out of decency or because there is a difference between suspecting the unthinkable and actually knowing and having the proof to back it up.

Thankfully one of the elevators is on the ground floor so he doesn’t have to wait out in the open. He takes a deep breath as he watches himself in the reflection on the inside of the elevator doors. There’s a bit of color to his cheeks, from the alcohol and from the cold and maybe from the nerves too, that he feels fluttering in his belly.

The ride up to the eight floor feels like it takes forever, like time slows down in an attempt to wait him out until he changes his mind. But Ilya is stubborn. He’s doing this. He has nothing to lose. He’s already hurting, getting rejected again won’t hurt him any more. And he doesn’t want to friends with Shane anyway, so it doesn’t matter if he crosses a line and pisses him off and makes it so the Canadian captain never wants to see him again. Rather that than be a groomsman and watch him marry Rose Landry.

Room 803 is near the elevators and that feels exposed, but it’s almost one in the morning, so he supposes there’s not a big risk that he’ll run into anyone.

He reaches into his pocket, meaning to whip out his phone and shoot Shane a text to let him know he’s hear. They never knock to avoid anybody in the neighboring rooms overhearing. But he realizes with a breathy curse that in his haste he left his phone on the couch.

After a split-second of hesitation, he knocks on the door as softly as possible.

He bounces on the balls of his feet the way little kids do when they line up to meet him; an energy somewhere midway between excited and anxious.

The absolutely ridiculous thought that pops in his head is: what if Rose Landry opens the door?

But then his brain reminds him of the embarrassing moment earlier that day when he had used google to try and find out if Rose had traveled down from Montreal to watch the game. Paparazzi stalking the X-squad set posted pictures online that confirm she is still in Canada, filming.

Still, he gets a surprise when he sees who does open the door.

It’s Pike.

There’s a flare of jealousy even worse than Ilya has ever felt towards Rose.

Shane is fucking Pike when Rose isn’t around?

The guys slips out of the hotel room and closes the door behind him soundlessly and then, before Ilya has processed the unexpected situation…

Pike fucking decks him.

The punch lands on Ilya’s jaw with a dull thud. To Pike’s credit, he put enough of his meager weight behind it to fling Ilya’s head to the side.

A Russian curse slips out of him, hissed through gritted teeth.

He balls his fists at his sides but resist the urge to punch back, knowing that if he does punch him, he’ll do some actual damage. Pike is fast on the ice and Ilya will begrudgingly admit to nobody but himself that he’s a good stick-handler, but the guy is a lightweight. If Ilya punches him, fueled by all the rage and jealousy he’s coursing through him right now, he’ll break something and get himself into trouble. Shane won’t like it if he hurts his friend and… back-up fuck-buddy.

When he stops seeing red he recognizing Pike too is doing his best to hold back from more violence. The guy is visibly shaking. His face is flushed. A vein in his forehead looks about ready to pop. But what stands out above else to Ilya, are his red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes.

Pike has been crying.

The guy seethes: “You fucking asshole.”

“What I do?” Ilya pointedly rubs his jaw. “You punch me.”

“Because you’re a piece of shit and you deserve it.”

“Is about foul? Was accident. Get a grip.”

It’s almost laughable the way they are both forced to whisper their way through this argument, neither of them wanting to draw attention.

“This is about you being a selfish prick who doesn’t deserve him.”

There was a truth to that but he wasn’t about to ever tell Pike he’s right about anything. He opens his mouth to fire something back but it dies in his throat when something clicks.

Pike knows.

Shane must have told him because no way this dimwit could have figured out what nobody else had.

Conversationally, Pike had him on the ropes, so he kept verbally punching him.

“I always knew you were a fucking shithead. I told him. I told him you’re an asshole. I can’t believe he trusted you and you just walk away.” He takes a breath through his nose like a bull about to charge.

Ilya has his hands up, trying to get a word in edgewise. “Pike. Pike.”

But Pike bulldozes on: “You just take what you want from him and when he needs you the most, you can’t be fucking bothered to show up for him. You don’t want him anymore?” He spits the words but still with the wherewithal to keep his voice hushed. “How about caring about what he wants for once?”

“Whatthefuckyoutalkabout?” He hisses before Pike can continue his tirade.

Pike blinks at him, maybe struggles processing the question with how rushed it was and how Ilya’s accents gets more pronounced when he gets heated. But eventually he says: “He called you tonight.”

“Yes,” he sees Pike open his mouth to throw confusing accusations at him again, so he’s quick to continue: “I did not pick up.”

Pike gapes like a fish for long enough that it would have been funny under any other circumstances.

“Pike, what happened?”

The Canadian stares at him. “You really don’t know.”

“No, I don’t know nothing.” He realized after the fact that’s a double negative but doesn’t bother correcting himself. His heart is hammering in his chest. Now that Pike has shut up, Ilya can actually consider what he said.

When he needs you the most, you can’t be fucking bothered to show up for him.

“Rose break up with him?” Ilya asks as that’s what comes to mind first: heartache. Probably because that has been the state Ilya has been in. He can’t help the hopeful lilt to his tone, even though he feels like a piece of shit about it. If Shane is sad about Rose, Ilya shouldn’t selfishly gloat.

Pike scrunches up his face. “What? No.”

Ilya grimaces.

But then Pike shakes his head and continues: “I mean, yeah. They broke up. But like… a month ago or something.”

Ilya’s relief is short-lived because now he’s back to wondering what did happen for Shane to need him the most.

Rather than elaborate and give Ilya useful information, Pike is set off again. “Why the fuck are you even thinking about Rose right now? Are you jealous?” He scoffs. “Oh who exactly? Of Rose, or of Shane?”

“You say I think about Rose Landry because I want to fuck Rode Landry?” He hisses, prodding a finger into Pike’s chest. “I don’t give shit about Rose Landry.” He stops short of admitting that at one point, definitely drunk, he googled how common it is for actors to die on set and when the search engine spat out some examples of stunts gone wrong, he’d followed up typing into the bar: does Rose Landry do own stunts?

“I only care about Shane,” Ilya says solemnly. “Please. What happened to Shane?”

Pike deflates. After steadfast holding Ilya’s gaze, he finally looks away.

Ilya’s heart sinks. “Please,” he whispers. Quiet not because he needs to be, but because he can’t find his voice.

Pike thinks, perhaps still not trusting Ilya enough to divulge any information. “He was beat-up,” he says.

Ilya’s jaw clenches. He gives a curt nod. Raiders fans, no doubt. The Metros probably went out for a drink to commiserate the loss and ended up in the wrong bar. He can’t stop the accusation that slips out of him. “Why weren’t you there to help?” He notices there’s no bruise on Pike’s face, nor any damage to his knuckles. He definitely hadn’t been in a fist fight tonight.

“Why weren’t you there?” Pike fires back without missing a beat.

“I’m here now,” Ilya declares, apologetic. He hopes it counts for something. “Let me in.” He juts his chin at the door. “I want to talk to Shane.” His voice slips into a low tone that makes it clear he’s not above shoving Pike into the wall, taking the keycard he saw him pocket when he snuck out, and letting himself in.

“He’s asleep.”

“He’ll wake up.”

“Rozanov.”

“Pike.”

“I- I need to ask him first. If he even wants to see you.”

Ilya sighs impatiently. “Fine.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Ok.” Pike turns and unlocks the door.

Ilya knows he’s in the wrong, but that doesn’t stop him from following Pike into the hotel room before he can close the door behind him. The Canadian makes an attempt to block Ilya’s way but, well, that’s never worked out for him on the ice either. He needs the big Metros defensemen for that. Ilya elbows Pike out of his path with an ease than should embarrass the Canadian player.

He strides past him into the room, expecting the commotion to have woken up Shane. Another thing he knows about Shane: he’s a light sleeper.

But he stops in the middle of the room when he sees Shane still sound asleep in one of the beds, the sheets on the other side tousled in a way that suggests Pike had been in bed with him.

Shane lays on his left side. His right shoulder is in a sling. His right hand is in a splint. Bruises discolor his face. His bottom lip is split. It’s much worse than he imagined.

“Fucking asshole,” Pike hisses at him.

Ilya ignores him. Doesn’t even peel his gaze away from Shane’s form. His body goes cold. “Why still asleep?”

“I told you he was asleep.”

“Yes. Why still asleep? He is light sleeper.”

“I know that,” Pike argues petulantly, like one of his - fuck - seven children? “I’m his best friend. I know him pretty well. Better than you.”

Ilya is not here for a competition. He walks around to the side of the bed Shane sleeps on. Pike trails after him, hovering like a mother hen. When Ilya reaches down a hand, meaning to tenderly stroke Shane’s unbruised cheek, Pike snatches his wrist and hold him. Only because Ilya allows it. He could easily shake free. He quirks an eyebrow at the other.

“You can’t just touch him.”

“I thought you knew me and Shane touch each other,” he deadpans.

Pike bristles. “Whatever. You can’t touch him now.”

“Why does he not wake?” Ilya demands. He shakes his hand out of Pike’s grip.

“Because he needs to sleep,” Pike says after a pause.

“He take something? For sleep?”

More hesitation before Pike stiffly nods.

Ilya takes off his jacket and drapes it over the chair behind him.

“What are you doing?”

Ilya shrugs. “He sleeps. I wait.” He nods at the other bed. “I sleep here too.”

Pike looks like his eye might start to twitch at any moment at the thought of sharing a room with Rozanov. “No.”

“I did not ask.”

“I really fucking hate you.”

“Ok.”

With that, their stand-off ends.

Pike crawls back into bed, next to Shane and Ilya tries not to feel any sort of way about that. He plants himself in the chair, because it’s closer to Shane than the free bed. He’s not tired now anyway. From his seated position, he can’t see Pike anymore over the slope of Shane’s body. He watches his back, watches the barely perceptible movement of his torso as he breathes.

At some point, Ilya doesn’t know how much time has passed, he hears Pike’s snoring. His poor wife. And poor Shane, for sometimes having to room with him. But maybe he always takes a pill to help him sleep when he has to bunk with his teammate.

Ilya scrubs his face. He wishes he had his phone on him, so he could check if Shane left him a voice mail or any text messages. He feels terrible for rejecting the call, knowing what happened. He wondered if Shane called before he was attacked, or after. Either way, if Ilya had answered, he could have been of some help at least. Could have set him on a different trajectory if it was before. Could have been there for support at the hospital if it was after.

Privately, he’s relieved Pike is always there for Shane.

He’s a shitty hockey player. But he’s a pretty good friend.

He keeps vigil but eventually his eyelids droop and he slumps in the seat more and more until he’s low enough to rest the growing weight of his head on the low back of the chair. After that, he falls asleep pretty quickly.

When he next opens his eyes, he’s looking up at the ceiling where the pink and orange light of the sunrise dance. Nobody had bothered to close the curtains on the window behind Ilya. He blinks a few times, waiting for the fog of sleep to fully drift away. The more his brain clear, the more it registers how sore his body is after spending the night in the chair.

He lifts his head up and freezes when he makes eye contact with Shane.

He lay on his back now, his head tilted to the side to face Ilya. His bruises look darker now.

Shane blinks in surprise. Not at seeing Ilya, it seemed like he’d been staring at him for a while. He’s just caught off guard by Ilya waking up and locking gazes with him. It doesn’t last long, brown eyes moving to avoid looking directly at Ilya.

Ilya gingerly straightens up in his seat. Not just to be mindful of his sore muscles, but also because there is something scared and fragile to Shane’s expression and instincts tell Ilya that he moves too suddenly, Shane will be spooked.

He cranes his neck to confirm Pike is still asleep on the other side of the bed. Apparently he doesn’t snore when he’s on his side.

Then Ilya slowly leans forward, closer to Shane, leaning his forearms on his knees. “Hey,” he whispers. Not for Pike’s sake.

Shane doesn’t speak, nor look at him.

“Pike told me what happened.”

Shane’s chin wobbles. “Did he?” His voice is raw. It sounds painful to speak.

One time, during an informal, friendly game of hockey, after practice, when nobody was wearing their gear, Marleau had fired a puck at the goal and by sheer misfortune Ilya was in the way and he took that puck straight into the abdomen. Hearing Shane’s wrecked voice kind of hurt like that.

“Was it Raiders fans?” Ilya tries to make conversation.

Shane’s brow twitches into a frown.

“Who beat you up?”

Shane’s expression relaxes. He swallows thickly and then nods.

“Fuckers,” Ilya hisses. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your call.”

“It’s ok,” Shane whispers hoarsely. He’s still not looking at him.

“No. Don’t forgive. Don’t.” He scoots towards the edge of his seat to get even closer. Close enough so he can reach out to touch Shane’s shoulder.

But before he does, Pike shoots upright in bed, startled awake by a dream, and Shane flinches so violently it’s followed by a hiss of pain and he’s scrunching up his face. His body is taut as he rides out the wave of pain.

“Shit, buddy, I’m sorry.” Pike’s hands hover over him but he never touches him. His gaze darts to Ilya and he acknowledges stiffly: “Rozanov.”

“Pike.”

Shane carefully raises himself up into a seated position and leans back against the headboard. His face remains permanently twisted in discomfort although he grunts: “I’m ok”.

Without a word Ilya gets up and walks into the bathroom. There he finds clean glasses and he fills one with water. He walks back out, catching the secretive look Shane shoots Pike’s way. He doesn’t say anything as he holds the glass out to Shane and waits for him to take it with his left hand.

While Shane sips, Ilya sits down again. At least now he feels a little less useless. A little.

With every swallow Shane winces but he forces himself to drink at least a third of the water, if only, Ilya suspects, because it gives him an excuse to ignore him, as he’s focused on the task of hydrating his throat and body.

“Pike,” Ilya starts, “Is ok if you give me and Shane minute?”

Pike’s gaze darts to Shane with open concern. “Do you- Is that alright with you?”

Shane takes two more sips, stalling, but then nods.

Pike checks the time on his phone and declares that he’s gonna go talk to the coach, then offers to sneak some food out of the breakfast buffet for Shane, so room service doesn’t have to see him like this.

“Not hungry,” Shane manages with his weak voice.

Pike gives him a smile that Ilya wants to describe as fatherly, in spite of his lack of reference. “Sorry buddy, but I don’t care. I’ll be back in like, half an hour, ok?”

Shane nods.

Pike slept in a shirt and jeans, so once he’s stepped into his shoes, he gives the two of them one last look and then he’s out the door, finally leaving them alone.

Ilya is about to speak when Shane beats him to it.

He just grouses: “I need to piss.” He holds the glass of water out and Ilya understands he’s expected to take it, so he does. With his left hand now free, Shane uses it to help himself maneuver to the edge of the bed. In spite of how slow and careful he’s being, every movement seems to cause him pain. He’s taking sharp breaths while biting down any other sounds.

Ilya puts the glass on the nightstand and reaches out to help as Shane gets to his feet. But as soon as his fingers touch Shane’s elbow the man yanks himself away and groans as twisting his upper body aggravates his injuries. He half doubles over, freezing as he breathes. Eyes screwed shut.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Ilya hasn’t heard his own voice this panicked since he was twelve years old. He doesn’t touch him again, no matter how badly he wants to.

Shane straightens up and shuffles to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

Ilya smooths a hand down his stomach, trying to soothe away the sudden onset of queasiness.

Shane doesn’t even want me to touch him anymore. He grieves this like a death.

He sinks back down into the chair and waits.

He’s had to wait for Shane to pee often enough to know he’s taking uncharacteristically long now and he’s aware Shane is avoiding him and possibly stalling, killing time until Pike returns. But Ilya doesn’t push anything and he waits patiently. Using the time to sort through his thoughts.

He decides he’s still going to say what he came here to say. He doesn’t believe it will change much, but he believes Shane deserves to hear it, after all these years. And maybe also because he deserves to say it.

The door unlocks but doesn’t open right away. Another clue Shane has been using the bathroom to hide.

Eventually, the door slowly opens and Shane steps out, gaze glued to the carpet. He doesn’t come back to the bed, he lingers by the door, even though he looks dead on his feet. It’s like he’s trying to stay close to an escape route.

Ilya stands but doesn’t approach him. Doesn’t want to send him fleeing back into the bathroom. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I make statement at the next pre-game conference. Tell fans I don’t want this. Fights only belong on the ice.” He takes a deep breath. “And about that… I also am sorry about what I did. The bodycheck.” He swallows the lump in his throat. Him ramming Shane on the ice that night would have made the beating he suffered afterwards even worse. Maybe even hampered his ability to defend himself. He puts his hand on his stomach again. Keeps it there. He might be sick.

Shane listens and says nothing. He’s starting to tremble, maybe from the exertion of holding his battered body upright.

“And I am sorry for not answering your call. That will never happen again. I will always answer when you call,” he promises and he hopes that Shane believes it to be true. And there is another thing he needs him to believe. He steels himself. “But that is not what I came to say. I came to say,” he halts when he sees Shane close his eyes in the same way one might close their eyes when they are expecting to get hit. “I came to say… I love you.” It feels both right and wrong to say the words out loud. On one hand, it’s a relief. And as soon as he speaks the words he knows just how true they are. But on the other hand, there’s six feet of distance between them that feels as wide as a whole hockey rink and as cold too.

For the first time since he woke up, Shane looks at him. For a beat, his eyes are unreadable, but Ilya holds his gaze and allows himself to be scrutinized. He knows Shane isn’t very good at judging facial expressions, but he hopes the other man sees nothing but vulnerable earnesty on his face.

And then… Shane breaks before his eyes.

A sob rips out of him and his face contorts in agony. His knees buckle under him but before he sinks down to the floor Ilya has crossed the distance between them and holds him up. He tries to touch him as little as possible, because Shane had shirked away from him before, but now Shane presses himself into Ilya’s chest and loops his left arm around his shoulder to twist his fingers into the fabric of his shirt over his back. He tucks his nose under Ilya’s jaw and tears wet his skin and the collar of his shirt as Shane wails uncontrollably. His entire body shakes. His chest jerks with each struggling breath.

Ilya wraps his arms around him, tight enough to make him feel secure and he knows it will aggravate his bruises but it seems to be what Shane needs. One arm is high enough that he can pet a hand through his hair.

He rocks him gently from side to side and lets him weep. “I am here. I got you,” he whispers in his ear. “You cry. Is ok. Is ok.” He battles to not let his own emotions show. That’s not what Shane needs. Shane needs him to be strong.

Last night must have been terrible, for Shane to crack like this. They are used to getting beatings on the ice, but off the ice was different. There it is personal. Ilya has been bothered by his fair share of rowdy “fans” and some punches had been thrown, but never so bad it left him injured the way Shane is now.

Shane’s crying softens only because the last of his energy bleeds out of him. Ilya can tell he’s hanging all of his weight off Ilya’s shoulder as he clutches him, fully relying on him to not fall to the ground. The trust there is a precious treasure to Ilya and he knows Shane trusts him like this, right now, because he told him he loved him. Because he put that out there, made himself vulnerable first so now Shane can be vulnerable. Whether he feels the same way doesn’t matter in the moment. Ilya will never regret saying those words to him.

Once’s he’s quieted down to sniffles and whimpered breaths, Ilya turns them little by little, with small steps. The way teenagers slow dance at prom, at least as far as Ilya has seen in movies. He shuffles Shane back two steps to the foot of the bed and he carefully lowers him down. He would gladly hold him for hours, but Shane’s body was too battered to be hanging off Ilya’s shoulder for that long, even with his uninjured arm.

With Shane seated at the edge of the bed, Ilya kneels in front of him. He reaches up and brushes away his tears and Shane leans into the touch, pressing his cheek into Ilya’s palm, eyes closed but softly, not screwed shut like they were and he covers Ilya’s hand with his own, grounding him. Ilya’s heart is full of both fondness and concern. Maybe those two always go hand-in-hand.

He strokes his thumb back and forth on Shane’s cheek, touch impossibly light so he won’t hurt him, but he revels in it for as long as he is allowed.

Shane’s eyes flutter open and his eyebrows pinch together as he reaches for Ilya’s jaw. “What happened?” His voice catches Ilya off guard every time, it’s so gravelly and low volume.

Ilya musters up a grin. “Ah, Pike left a bruise, did he?”

“Hayden punched you?”

“Mm.”

“Why?”

“Because I deserved it,” he says and he means it. When Shane’s frown deepens Ilya takes his hand and kisses his bruised knuckles. It's indulgent and selfish affection and he knows he should push his touches no further. But it's hard when Shane looks like fragile, like pieces are breaking off of him and all Ilya wants to do is hold him, to hold him together. “Is no matter to me. Only you matter to me. Hm?”

Shane pulls his hand back into his lap and looks down at it.

Ilya puts his hands on the edge of the mattress on either side of the other captain. “Did you report to police?”

Shane miserably shakes his head.

Ilya purses his lips at the answer. It’s not what he was hoping for. “Why not?”

He shrugs with his left shoulder.

“Shane, when fans become animals they need to be rounded up and put in cage.”

“It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

“Yes, is simple,” Ilya stresses. He shouldn’t be arguing with Shane but the thought of these assholes getting away unpunished has him seeing red.

“It’s not!” Shane snaps, voice cracking. “It’s my fault!”

“No! Shane. Is not.” Reactively, he reaches for his face – when he had been doing so well keeping his hands to himself, fuck – but Shane leans back, ever so slight, enough to let Ilya know the touch is unwanted, so he puts his hand back on the mattress.

“You don’t even know what happened.”

“Then tell me,” he suggests calmly. “I will listen. And then I will tell you again: is not your fault.”

Shane scoffs.

Ilya doesn’t pressure him, he’s comfortable enough on his knees on the carpeted floor, nothing he’s not used to, that’s for sure, so he waits patiently.

Shane takes a deep breath.

Ilya holds his.

“I was meeting up with someone,” Shane starts and in his softest whisper yet, adds: “For… sex.”

Ilya schools his face. Shane wasn’t even looking at him, but in case he glanced up, he didn’t want to see jealousy or any other ugly, selfish emotion.

“When I got to the place, I chickened out.” He pinches the fabric of his sweats between his fingers and rolls it back and forth as he talks. The repetitive motion keeps him calm. “He made it seem like that was ok. No hard feelings. He bought me a drink.”

Ilya feels like his stomach is starting to flip inside out.

“There was something in the drink.”

There it goes. Inside out. Acid pooling in the bottom of his gut. Heart dropping down into it.

“By the time we left, his friend was waiting for us.”

Ilya’s body is trembling. So is Shane’s.

Shane weeps again. His fingers twist into the fabric of his sweats, hand clenching into a fist. Under the bruises and broken skin his knuckles go white. “I think I fought,” he whimpers while shaking his head at himself. He wails: “I think I fought but I don’t remember!”

“You fought,” Ilya assures him and wow his voice barely sounds any better than Shane’s. “You fought hard. Your body proves it.”

Shane nods miserably, he blinks his eyes open and through the tears he looks at his battered hands. “It wasn’t enough.”

“You gave it your all. That is always enough.”

“It wasn’t enough to stop them. They- They-” He looks at Ilya for the first time.

“I know. You don’t have to say it. Is ok.” Tears are pouring down Ilya’s face.

Shane is hyperventilating now. His left hand comes up to his throat and scratches at tender skin there. “I have to,” he stammers out. “I have to. I’m gonna choke on it otherwise. I have to!”

“Ok. Ok. You say it then. I am here.”

Shane struggles for the word as much as he struggles for breath. After a few aborted attempts, he blurts it out in a raw cry: “They raped me!”

Ilya straightens his shoulders, clinging to his strength. “I know,” and just as he promised, he says: “Is not your fault.” One day Shane will believe him, he will make sure of it.

When Shane leans forward, Ilya rears himself up to meet him halfway. He wraps his arms around him again and with a hand at the back of his neck, he guides Shane’s face into the crook of his shoulder. With the other hand he rubs his back, hoping the touch will soothe him. Shane is desperately sucking in shallow breaths and spilling quiet tears into Ilya’s shirt.

Ilya doesn’t know what to say, there is only one thing he can think of, so he says it over and over: “I love you.”

Today, Shane might not believe him yet when he says it wasn’t his fault, but he hopes he will believe that he loves him and that what happened last night doesn’t change that.

“I love you, Shane. I love you so much. I’m so in love with you. I’ve only ever been in love with you.”

Slowly, Shane’s breathing normalizes and then all of a sudden he relaxes in Ilya’s hold and he says against the tear-soaked skin of his neck: “I love you too.”

Ilya smiles in spite of everything and says into Shane’s hair: “Thank you.” He doesn't deserve these words, not today at least, but that's just Shane. Shane is generous. And all Ilya can be is grateful and even more in love.

It’s only a few moments later when there’s a knock on the door and right after the door unlocks.

The two disentangle from each other and wipe at their own faces to dry the tears.

Pike walks in and, too his credit, makes absolutely no remark about what he sees. He’s holding a big plate of food that he puts down on the bed next to Shane, while he talks about smuggling the food out of the buffet like it was a covert operation, as if any of the staff would have actually given him any grief about it.

The plate is stacked with a variety of fruits, a bowl of yoghurt, and, boldly, a cinnamon roll.

Sometimes it makes Ilya jealous, how close Pike and Shane are, but in the moment, it only endears him to see how deeply Pike knows Shane as well. The fruits and the yoghurt he got because Shane is most likely to eat those. But the cinnamon roll he got because Pike too knows that when Shane was a kid, it was his favorite treat and something that could bring him comfort now, from all the fond memories attached to the taste.

Shane glances down at the plate and mumbles that he’s not hungry.

The other Canadian plops down on the bed, putting on a casual act for Shane’s benefit. He leans his weight back on his hands and crosses his ankles. “Buddy, I already told you, I don’t give a fuck. You’re gonna eat.” He pushes the plate one inch closer to Shane.

“You talk to your kids like that, Pike?”

Pike rolls his eyes at Rozanov.

“I’m not a kid,” Shane mutters in protest. As if to prove his point, he reaches tentative fingers out.

Ilya expects him to pick up a piece of sliced banana, or a strawberry at best. But to his surprise and delight, he grabs the cinnamon roll. He tears off a small piece and munches on it. Then tears off another, bigger piece.

Ilya melts at the sight of him. He exchanges a look with Pike, who is equally fond.

Ilya is not as brave as Shane, but in that moment he dares to believe that Shane will be alright. And he and Pike will be there for him along the way.

+++

FOUR MONTHS LATER

+++

Hayden has the room to himself. Shane is on the list as his roommate, but whenever they’re in Boston, the captain sleeps at Rozanov’s. Nobody but Hayden knows. Being privy to that secret makes him miss rooming with his best friend a little less.

Having phone sex with his wife also makes him miss having a roommate a little less.

When he walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered and ready for bed, there is a knock on his door.

One of the Metros guys, he’s sure. The running joke is that Hayden has become a bit of a den mother. Everyone’s go-to if they forgot their phone charger or toothpaste.

Or lube.

With a sigh he saunters over to the door and doesn’t even bother to check through the peephole before opening. He blinks in surprise at Rozanov, who stands in the hallway alone, no Shane in tow.

A panic claws at Hayden’s throat and his voice is strained as he asks: “Is everything alright with Shane?” He’s been doing better. He’s recovering. Therapy is helping. It's a mantra he says to himself every time he worries for his friend. 

But even though they’re not sharing a room tonight, they still bunk together often enough while on the road for Hayden to know Shane still has nightmares that have him waking up in a cold sweat.

Once, Shane has asked to see the pictures Hayden took of him that night. Shane doesn’t want them on his own phone, so Hayden keeps them, safeguards them, and has them ready when Shane needs to remind himself how he broke his own body trying to protect himself.

Sometimes when the captain gets bodychecked on the ice he needs to sit out the rest of the game to quietly deal with a panic attack.

Hayden pays close attention to his friend and he didn’t notice anything off today during the game but he knows Shane hates playing here. Knows his skin crawls at the idea that they might be in the crowd.

Rozanov reassures him Shane is fine. “Is home.”

Boston won’t be Rozanov’s home for much longer. He’s a free agent next season and he’s been planning a transfer to Ottawa. To be closer to Shane throughout the year and, Hayden suspects, because neither of them feel particularly at ease, or “at home” in Boston, with the knowledge that those monsters are here somewhere.

“Then why-” He doesn’t get to finish the question. He recoils when Rozanov shoves his phone in his face.

“I need your help.”

That’s new. Hayden blinks at the screen. It’s a picture of a half naked man in a gym, flexing in front of the mirror. His head is out of frame. Wait, that’s my gym, he clocks and then: “What the fuck, that’s me!” And finally: “Why the fucking fuck do I have a Grindr profile, Rozanov?”

The Russian lets out an exaggerated sigh and lowers the phone to glower at him.

“Where did you even get that pic of me?”

“From your Insta. You post too much. Very vain.” He turns the phone briefly to glance at the image and remarks off-handedly: “You need do more spider curls.”

“Oh fuck off.”

“And from other pictures, please, no skipping leg day. You are hockey player. Is embarrassing.”

Hayden groans and throws his gaze up at the ceiling. “What did you need my help with, Rozanov?” He demands.

“Ah. See.” He angles the screen to Hayden again.

Hayden glares at the picture of himself. On Grindr. “What if someone recognizes me?”

The Russian scoffs. “Please. Who recognizes 15^th best player of Montreal?”

Hayden wants to retort but admittedly… he never gets recognized. Not even when he’s wearing his fucking Metros cap and hoodie. His gaze droops to the text below his image.

Twink with a size kink, he reads. Looking for threesome. He curses at Rozanov in French just because he knows how much the Boston captain hates that.

“Get your head in game, Pike,” Rozanov barks, very captain-like.

And even though Rozanov isn’t his captain, Hayden snaps his mouth shut.  

“I found him,” Rozanov declares with a dangerously low tone.

Instantly, Hayden knows who he means. He wonders how long Rozanov has been tending to this trap on Grindr to finally ensnare him.

“Check DM’s.”

He takes the phone from Rozanov and goes to the private messaging tab, ignoring Rozanov’s jab about how he sure was quick to find DM’s on Grindr. He doesn’t feel like quipping back as he reads the text exchange between “himself” and… Thorne. He can only imagine what Rozanov had been feeling, texting back and forth with this pathetic excuse of a man, setting up a hook-up between him, Thorne, and Thorne’s “big friend”.

Ah, the size kink thing in the profile was bait to get Thorne to involve the other beast.

The agreed upon meeting place: the alley behind the bar.

Memories make him dizzy and sick and he barely resists the urge to put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Rozanov is asking him to come meet these monsters.

“Wait… are you planning to kill them? I- I have a family, man. I can’t-”

“Ugh. Not kill.” Rozanov makes a dismissive gesture with his giant hand. “I want to. But no. Is not ok with Shane.”

He says that like it’s a conversation the two have actually had.

“We beat them up,” he declares with determination. “Bad. Worse even then they beat up Shane. We bring our sticks. We dislocate both shoulders. Break both cheekbones. You do small guy. I do big guy. And when done, we do bartender too.”

Hayden feels something primal swirling in his chest. Jackie would be disappointed, but yes, he wants this. “They’ll recognize you,” he warns.

“Yes. But they can’t do nothing. Can’t call police. They know they rat themselves out too if they do.” He pockets his phone and locks gazes with Hayden. “So. You help?”

A smirk spreads across Hayden’s lips. “I help.”