Freyya



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    Shane Hollander is a man who thrives on structure, routine, the solid ground of a ten-year plan. Ilya likes that about him, likes the embracing squeeze of having a life organized in tandem with Shane.

    No one would call Ilya a man who thrives on structure. But it’s there, if not in his DNA then in the patterns of his brain. A call-and-response of: they do this, I do that.

    When Ilya’s life is flayed open for the world to dissect, how will they push-and-pull their way back towards what was once a well-organized life?


    “I thought we could go through the schedules and figure out what days we’ll be in the same cities this season, or when either of us have a couple of days off in a row. Maybe make a shared calendar, so we c—”

    “A sex calendar? Your parents are arriving in thirty minutes, and you are proposing making a sex calendar?” Oh, this was delicious. He’d be able to eat out on this for years, if Shane was willing to give him that long.

    “It’s not a sex calendar! It’s just … when we might be able to see each other,” he finished, already sounding defeated.

    “And what are you planning on doing when we are seeing each other? Not fucking?”

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    27 Jun 2026

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    It’s strictly a business trip. Ilya’s her client, not her friend, and they have meetings with Porsche. She’ll probably see him for a few hours here and there, and she’s content to amuse herself for the rest of the time.

    Ilya seems to regard her trip differently.


    Ilya Rozanov: Have you heard of Berghain?
    Yuna: No, what’s that?
    Ilya Rozanov: Berlin cultural institution
    Ilya Rozanov: Bar and art and music
    Ilya Rozanov: Very iconic
    Ilya Rozanov: I think you will like it
    Ilya Rozanov: I go with my friend a bit later
    Ilya Rozanov: Come to dinner with us, then come for drink?

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    26 Jun 2026

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    The truth was, yeah, Shane married Ilya, but he’d married hockey first. He married hockey the second he signed his rookie contract with the Metros, and his courtship began long, long before. And his marriage to hockey wasn’t like his marriage to Ilya. Hockey wouldn’t ever love him back. Ilya wasn’t going to chew Shane up and spit him out at some nebulous point after he turned thirty and before he turned forty, his joints busted and his mouth full of dentures and his brain fucked to hell and back. And that marriage—his first marriage—had always come before his second, illicit shotgun wedding.

    It wasn’t ideal, maybe, but that was just how things were. Hell, it was probably the same for Ilya, too. The fuck was Shane supposed to do about it? Nothing, nothing, nothing. He liked his life just the way it was. He didn’t want to do anything different. He still doesn’t. And that’s the worst, most shameful part of it all: at the end of the day, some part of Shane will always wish he could wind back time like adjusting a watch; erase that Instagram post before it ever hit the internet and go back to the life they’d had before; the life that was slowly killing them both.

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    26 Jun 2026

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    Ilya is plummeting to his death when he closes his eyes, heart full of regret.

    When he opens them in what feels like just a second later, he is standing outside a rink in Regina, Saskatchewan. There’s a banner on the building across the street:

    World Junior Hockey Championship 2009.

    What?

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    25 Jun 2026

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    The only trick is to have no fear, and even less fear than that the more trouble one is in. Ilya cannot teach that to a man who has directed his energies into becoming, not like a saint, but like a painting of a saint, all dripping in symbolism: the way the robe drapes here, yes, that is on purpose, and the angle of the light, the patron’s face in the crowd, the instrument of the martyrdom in his hand and the fruit in the bowl on the table, all arranged except when—

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    24 Jun 2026