Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane was kissing Ilya Rozanov.

Shane was kissing Ilya Rozanov.

Key word: Shane. Since he was the only one actually doing the kissing.

Ilya stood rigid against him, unmoving, as though frozen in the exact moment he’d breathed Shane’s name. For one horrible second, Shane thought he’d miscalculated entirely. That this was it, that he’d misread the whole night.

He almost pulled back.

Then he felt it, barely there, Ilya’s hand twitching at his side, reaching for Shane’s hips. Hope flared, reckless and blinding. Shane leaned in harder, deepening the kiss, parting Ilya’s lips with his own. He slid his tongue forward, testing, and then…

Ilya opened his mouth.

The contact was brief and electric. It was devastating. But the moment their tongues brushed, Ilya jolted like he’d been burned. He shoved Shane away with more force than either of them seemed prepared for. Shane stumbled back, balance unsteady from the alcohol, while Ilya staggered in the opposite direction, his lower back hitting the marble counter with a dull crack.

They stared at each other.

“What are you doing?” Ilya demanded, breath coming fast, cheeks flushed. His eyes were furious but beneath that, unmistakably, heartbreakingly sad.

“I’m doing what you’ve wanted to do all night,” Shane shot back.

The words tumbled out unfiltered, alcohol stripping away whatever self-preservation he might have had left. Even so, a sharp pang of doubt cut through him.

What if he’d imagined it?

The looks across the rink. The way Ilya’s voice dipped when it was just the two of them. The lingering fist bumps. The smiles that lasted half a second too long. The way Ilya had watched him on the dance floor.

Maybe it had all been wishful thinking.

Maybe Shane was just drunk. And stupid. And about to ruin his entire career over a crush he hadn’t known what to do with.

“You do not know what I want,” Ilya heaved, voice rough, almost cracking. He dragged a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was trying to stave off a migraine or a breakdown.

“Really?” Shane asked quietly. He heard it in his own voice, the vulnerability, the near-whine. Hated it. Couldn’t stop it.

Ilya looked at him then, eyes piercing through him, and just sighed. “Shane—”

“Don’t…” Shane cut in quickly, heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy. The alcohol wasn’t helping either. “Don’t you feel it too?”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“It does not matter what I feel!” Ilya suddenly exploded, the words ricocheting off the tiled walls.

“Yes, it does!” Shane fired back, stepping forward again despite himself.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ilya said, voice breaking now, not with anger, but with something rawer. “Because I will always be the coach who took advantage of his captain. That is all this will ever be!”

The words landed like a fist to the chest.

Shane’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.” He blinked hard, trying to steady his vision. The edges of everything felt soft. Blurry. His head was warm and heavy, thoughts slipping over each other without much coordination.

“It is reality.” Ilya said resolutely, but to Shane, reality felt flexible right now.

“It’s not taking advantage if I want it,” Shane insisted, the desperation seeping through now. “I’m not a kid. I’m not naïve. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

“And I am the one who is supposed to know better,” Ilya shot back. But even that sounded frayed. Less sharp than usual. His accent thicker. His words just a fraction delayed, like he was choosing them through fog.

Shane squinted at him.

Ilya’s hair was messier than usual. His ridiculous leopard-print shirt, which only he could pull off, was half-untucked. His pupils were blown wide, dark against the green of his eyes. His breathing wasn’t steady. His hand was still braced against the counter like he needed it.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. The bass from the club pulsed faintly through the walls, absurdly distant from the wreckage unfolding in the bathroom.  

Shane just stared. 

“Know better than what?” he demanded. “Than wanting someone who wants you back?”

“You are not listening,” Ilya snapped, though there was no real bite left in it. Just strain. “We cannot afford to want each other. That is just not something we can do.”

“God, I’m not asking you to marry me!” Shane shot back, exasperation breaking through the heat.

“Whatever you’re asking for is dangerous and irresponsible, and I don’t know what you were expecting by barging in here!”

Shane’s chest tightened at the unfamiliar words, feeling scolded. The heat drained out of him, leaving something far more fragile in its place. He replied, softer now. “I was just expecting honesty, Ilya.”

Ilya’s eyes flashed. “Honesty changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” Shane countered, stopping short in front of him. “Because right now you’re acting like I’m some victim you have to shield from yourself.”

“Okay! You’re right.” Ilya said sharply. “You are not a victim. But you are my captain.” His composure cracked again, frustration bleeding through. “I decide your ice time. Your program layouts. I travel with you. I will be in every press conference. If this comes out, it will not be framed as some mutual, romantic—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “It will be framed as me crossing a line. As me taking advantage of you.”

“And you care more about how it’s framed than about what’s actually happening?” Shane asked, quieter now, but no less fierce.

“Nothing is happening!” Ilya fired back. “Nothing is happening because I care about your career. I care about the years you have ahead of you. I care about not being the reason sponsors pull out or committees start whispering.”

Shane stared at him.

At the man who had once filled arenas. At the legend who had rebuilt himself out of a career-ending injury. At the coach who never let his edges show.

And now, under fluorescent lights and too much alcohol, he looked almost fragile.

He looked resigned. As if Shane had already lost whatever he’d been fighting for, but Ilya looked the farthest thing from victorious. Like a man who had already chosen the outcome, even if it split him open.

“So, what,” Shane demanded, the words coming faster now. “We just pretend this conversation never happened? That I didn’t kiss you. And that you didn’t kiss me back, even if it was just for a second?” Shane asked, nearly hissing towards the end.

The room felt too warm. His skin buzzed. His heart wouldn’t slow down. Every emotion was turned up too high, like someone had cranked a volume knob and broken it off.

Ilya’s eyes darted to the floor, his jaw and fists clenched.

Shane stepped forward and had to catch himself on the edge of the counter beside Ilya before straightening back up. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind Ilya, and it only confirmed how wrecked they both looked. Flushed. Unsteady. Eyes too bright.

“You were jealous,” Shane said, and even he could hear the slight slur now. Could hear how inappropriately he was speaking to his coach. But he didn’t care. This wasn’t Coach Rozanov. This was Ilya Rozanov, the guy who wanted him but was too scared to admit it. “On the dance floor. Don’t pretend you weren’t.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened, but his response came a beat too slow. “You were provoking me.”

“Yeah,” Shane admitted immediately. “I was.” The honesty surprised even him. “I wanted to see if you’d react,” he continued, words spilling easier now, alcohol stripping away whatever filter he usually clung to. “And you did.”

Ilya dragged a hand down his face again, exhaling shakily. “I just wanted some air.”

“Oh, did you?” Shane raised a brow.

The room swayed slightly when he took another step closer, but he didn’t stop. He could see it now, the way Ilya’s control was thinning at the edges. The way his gaze kept dropping to Shane’s mouth despite everything he was saying.

“You kissed me back,” Shane said again, quieter. “Even if just for a second.”

Ilya’s breath hitched slightly. He didn’t deny it.

Shane’s voice softened, vulnerability cutting through the haze. “Don’t you feel it too, Ilya?” He asked again.

This time, when Ilya looked at him, there was no anger.

Just the same unsteady heat and the unmistakable awareness that neither of them was sober enough to pretend they didn’t want this.

Ilya’s jaw clenched.

Then, suddenly, his hand shot forward.

He grabbed Shane by the back of the neck.

It wasn’t gentle. His fingers threaded into Shane’s hair, firm and possessive, and he yanked him forward until their foreheads nearly collided. Shane stumbled with the motion, a breathless sound escaping him as his hands instinctively went to Ilya’s waist to steady himself.

They were chest to chest. Closer than ever before.

Ilya’s grip tightened slightly at the base of Shane’s skull, anchoring him there. Not kissing him. Not yet. Just holding him in place.

Shane’s breath stuttered.

“You think I do not feel it?” Ilya asked, voice low and rough, so close their mouths nearly brushed when he spoke.

Shane could feel the heat of his breath. Smell the alcohol on it. See the way his pupils were blown wide, his composure hanging by a thread. Ilya’s thumb pressed slightly into the sensitive spot behind Shane’s ear, just enough to make his knees feel weaker than they already were.

“You think I have not been fighting this?” Ilya continued, words slipping out heavier now, accent thicker with drink and emotion. “Every practice. Every look.”

Shane’s fingers tightened in the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.

The world had narrowed to this small, flickering bathroom. The bass outside. The buzz overhead. The steady burn where their bodies touched.

Ilya leaned in closer, until their noses brushed.

Still not kissing him. The restraint was somehow worse.

“You are being reckless, Hollander,” Ilya murmured, breath uneven, “This is not who you are.”

“This is exactly who I am.” Shane muttered back, chasing Ilya’s mouth only for Ilya to pull him up short, fingers tightening in his hair, holding him there like a dog on a leash. The control sent a violent shiver down Shane’s spine, going straight to his cock. “Not reckless,” he breathed. “Just honest.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened at that.

“Then answer me honestly,” Ilya said. He shifted closer, mouth grazing the shell of Shane’s ear, not quite a kiss, just the barest brush of heat that made Shane’s breath hitch. Ilya’s grip tightened slightly as he tilted Shane’s head, exposing the line of his throat. His lips skimmed down to his neck, slow and deliberate, still not fully kissing, just tracing.

“Shane,” Ilya murmured against his skin, voice low and threaded with something dangerously unsteady. It took everything in Shane not to moan right there. “You could have anyone in this club. Anyone. But you want the one person you cannot have. Are you telling me this isn’t about a challenge? That you don’t want to prove to yourself that is one more impossible thing that only you can pull off? That just because you shouldn’t, doesn’t mean you can’t?”

For a moment, Shane almost recoiled, insulted by Ilya’s line of questioning.

As if this were about ego.

As if Ilya thought he was just another trophy.

But then Shane felt it.

The hesitation in the way Ilya’s mouth lingered at his throat. The faint tremor in his breath. The way his fingers flexed at the base of Shane’s neck, not in dominance, but restraint.

It clicked.

Ilya was trying to give him a way out.

Trying to make himself less desirable. Less meaningful. Trying to bruise Shane’s pride so he’d walk away first.

Shane almost laughed, because clearly, Ilya didn’t know him well enough. 

One thing about Shane: he would rather die than ever give up first.

He caught his own gaze in the mirror over Ilya’s shoulder and huffed a quiet, sarcastic laugh.

“Ilya,” Shane breathed, pulling back just enough to look him straight in the eye. “I’m not an idiot—”

“I never said you were,” Ilya cut in quickly, almost urgently.

“—and like I said, I’m not reckless either.” Shane’s voice steadied, even if his body didn’t. “I wouldn’t have come in here without knowing exactly what I wanted.”

That was the part Ilya didn’t understand.

Shane had been thinking about talking to him all week. Ever since the room-service incident in his hotel room. Shane had replayed it a hundred times.

The way Ilya had lingered at the door.

The way his voice had dropped when he’d said goodnight.

The way his eyes had dipped, just once, to Shane’s mouth.

For days afterward, Shane kept arguing with himself. Telling himself he was reading into it. That he was being arrogant. That just because he wanted Ilya didn’t mean Ilya wanted him back.

He’d even tried not to think about it. Which, of course, meant he’d thought about it constantly. On the ice. In the gym. In the quiet seconds before sleep. He’d questioned whether he should even be questioning it at all. Whether the entire thing was just some elaborate projection born out of admiration and proximity and the intoxicating weight of Ilya’s attention.

But tonight was the confirmation Shane hadn’t known he was waiting for. And since he’d come so far already, Shane wasn’t about to let Ilya rewrite it into something smaller just because he was scared of what it meant.

“I wouldn’t be standing right here,” Shane continued, his eyes flicking down to the place where their bodies met before returning to Ilya’s gaze, “if I didn’t think that what I wanted was also what you wanted.”

He moved a fraction closer.

Their hips aligned and the reaction was instant. Ilya’s breath caught. 

“Hockey is the most important thing in my life,” Shane said, more serious now. “I would be nothing and nowhere without it, so it goes without saying that my career means everything to me. And I know you're the same.” His jaw tightened. “Do you honestly think I would come up to you if I didn’t also think that this—” he gestured between them, the charged air, the inches of space that felt like a live wire, “—was something we could do without our careers being at stake?”

Ilya didn’t answer immediately. He studied him instead. His gaze moved over Shane’s face like he was trying to separate impulse from conviction. The flush in his cheeks from the alcohol. The brightness in his eyes. The stubborn set of his jaw.

He was looking for cracks.

For hesitation. For signs this was bravado. A drunken dare. There was conflict in his eyes, like he wanted to believe him. Like he was afraid to.

“What exactly do you mean by this?” He asked finally, measured and careful, as if bracing for impact.

Shane exhaled slowly.

Of course Ilya would force him to define it. To strip it of vagueness. To make sure there was no room for misinterpretation later.

“Do you want me to spell it out for you?” he asked, aware of the edge in his tone, the challenge, the dare. The wild glint returning to Ilya’s eyes only fueled him.

Shane leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“I want you to fuck me,” he said plainly.

The shift in Ilya was immediate.

His gaze darkened with something deeper than want. Hunger layered with fear. Shane felt it like a current between them, electric and dangerous. His heart slammed against his ribs. Heat coiled low in his stomach at the sheer intensity of being looked at like that.

Ilya’s eyes flicked to his mouth.

Shane smirked without meaning to.

He had him.

He could feel it, the thin thread of control Ilya was clinging to, fraying strand by strand.

And then, just as quickly, Ilya let go.

His hand slid from Shane’s neck. He stepped back. Space rushed in like cold air. He moved to the far wall near the hand dryers, leaning against it as if distance alone could restore order.

“I believe that part,” Ilya said, gaze steady but still burning. “But I do not believe you would have come up to me if you were not drunk.”

The retreat stung more than Shane expected. He straightened instinctively, refusing to look abandoned.

“Is that the problem?” Shane scoffed, though something tight coiled in his chest.

Ilya didn’t answer.

Which meant yes.

Shane stepped forward again, slower this time.

“If that’s all it is,” he said, voice lowering, “I’ll come to you tomorrow. Sober.”

The promise settled between them.

“I’ll knock on your door. You can give me this whole speech again. About responsibility. Optics. Power. Whatever.” His eyes locked onto Ilya’s. “And I’ll still tell you I want you to fuck me.” 

His pulse hammered in his ears at the disbelief that he was actually saying these things to Ilya. 

“And if you still walk away,” Shane added, softer now, more dangerous for it, “at least you won’t be able to blame the alcohol.”

Ilya opened his mouth to answer–

The bathroom door slammed open. The bass from the club flooded in at full volume, bright and jarring after the cocoon of tension they’d built. Both of them flinched on instinct, as if caught in something far worse than they were actually doing.

“Yo, Coach. Shaneeee,” Hayden drawled, blinking at them through glassy, drunken eyes.

Shane’s heart shot straight into his throat.

God. 

If Hayden had walked in thirty seconds earlier, when they’d been chest to chest, hip to hip, Ilya’s hand in his hair, there would have been no explaining it. No smoothing it over.

Shane forced his pulse down from his ears. Forced his shoulders to relax.

“Hi, Hayd,” he said, praying his voice sounded normal.

“Sorry, man, gotta take a fat piss.” Hayden stumbled toward the urinals without a second thought. “What are you two just standing in here for?”

Shane opened his mouth—

“Just catching up,” Ilya answered smoothly. Professionally. He didn’t dare look at Shane. Whatever heat had been coiled in his voice moments ago was gone. In its place was something polished and neutral. In its place was Coach Rozanov, appropriate and distant.

Shane felt the change like cold metal against bare skin.

“Coach,” Hayden continued loudly, already mid-stream. “I saw you with that girl, man! She’s still waiting outside for you.”

The words landed like a slap.

Shane’s jaw tightened before he could stop it.

Ilya’s cheeks flushed instantly, a faint red climbing up his neck.

“Amara…” he muttered under his breath, almost to himself.

The name lodged somewhere unpleasant in Shane’s chest.

He could see it again with awful clarity, the way she’d been pressed close to Ilya on the dance floor earlier. The way Ilya kissed her, held her in a way Shane had only dreamt of. She was beautiful. She was uncomplicated. She was someone who didn’t require moral calculus or risk assessments.

She was someone who wasn’t his captain.

“Yeah, coach,” Hayden laughed. “She’s hot. You better not keep her waiting.”

Shane kept his gaze fixed forward, jaw locked, expression carefully blank. Inside, though, something sharp and ugly was turning over.

Was Ilya going to take her home? Was he going to let himself have the uncomplicated version of tonight? Kiss her in the back of a cab, forget the taste of Shane’s mouth, the words he’d thrown down like a promise?

The jealousy hit him harder than he expected, hot and humbling and humiliating.

It was ridiculous. He knew it was ridiculous. He didn’t own Ilya. He didn’t even have him. Whatever existed between them was unfinished, undefined, balanced on a line neither of them had been brave enough to cross until tonight. 

He had no right to feel possessive, but that didn’t stop it from burning all the same.

Ilya cleared his throat, and Shane caught the subtle shift as he pulled himself back together, shoulders straightening, expression smoothing into something professionally casual. “Thanks, Hayden,” he said evenly. But for a fraction of a second before he looked away, his eyes flicked to Shane’s. There was no triumph there. No dismissal. Only conflict and something that looked dangerously close to regret.

“Guess you shouldn’t keep her waiting,” Shane said, aiming for lightness and missing triumphantly, instead sounding sarcastic and sharp.

Ilya held his gaze this time.

A beat. Two.

Something unspoken passed between them, something like an acknowledgement that whatever had almost happened hadn’t disappeared simply because it had been interrupted.

Shane didn’t know what to do with it. 

Ilya’s jaw flexed once, as though he were swallowing down something he couldn’t afford to say. Then he stepped forward, walking right past Shane and reached for the door, walking out into the noise, into the waiting girl, into the version of himself that made sense to everyone else.

Shane stood there for a moment longer, listening to the music swell and swallow him whole. 

Hayden finished up with a satisfied sigh, laughing to himself as he zipped his jeans and ambled over to the sinks.

“What about you and your little ménage à trois, Hollander?” he said, catching Shane’s eye in the mirror and throwing him an exaggerated wink.

Shane’s stomach dropped.

His heart, which had only just begun to settle, kicked back into a frantic rhythm. He couldn’t tell from Hayden’s tone how much of it was a joke and how much was observation. Whether he thought Shane was just being drunk and wild or whether he’d suspected something.

Shane kept his expression as loose and unbothered as he could.

“Nah, man,” He said with a short laugh, waving a hand like the suggestion was ridiculous. “We were just dancing, messing around. I’m not like that.”

He shook his head, eyes dropping to the counter for a second before lifting again.

He didn’t clarify what that meant.

Not like that.

Not into threesomes?

Not into men?

Not into flirting with his coach in a club bathroom?

The ambiguity hung there, deliberate.

Hopefully Hayden heard what he wanted to hear.

Hopefully it covered all bases.

Hayden snorted, running water over his hands. “Yeah, sure. Looked pretty cozy from the outside.”

Shane forced a grin, even as heat crept up his neck. “You are so drunk.”

“So are you,” Hayden shot back, grinning at him through the mirror.

Shane huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back against the counter as if his pulse wasn’t still racing from five minutes ago.

As if he hadn’t almost detonated his entire season in the span of a kiss.

“Relax,” Hayden said, flicking water off his fingers. “Let yourself have fun, captain. It’s nice to see you loosen up.” Shane watched him in the mirror, trying to gauge whether there was suspicion behind the amusement.

He couldn’t tell.

When Hayden finally tossed the paper towel and headed for the door, he paused. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, pushing off the counter.

The door swung open again, music swallowing the room in another wave of noise.

As Shane stepped back into the club, his eyes scanned the crowd automatically. He spotted Ilya almost immediately.

He always did.

Ilya was standing near the bar now, Amara close at his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm as he spoke into her ear over the music.

Shane’s jaw tightened.

Ilya didn’t look toward him.

Not once.

Shane drew in a slow breath that burned all the way down and forced his feet to move, falling into step behind Hayden as they pushed back through the crowd. The music hit him full force again, bass vibrating through his ribs, lights strobing over bodies that swayed and laughed and shouted like nothing fragile had just shattered in a bathroom down the hall.

He tried to anchor himself to it. To the noise. To the team clustered around the high table near the dance floor. To anything that wasn’t the image of Ilya at the bar with Amara’s hand curled possessively around his arm.

This was what it was going to be.

They would pretend.

Tomorrow—no, not even tomorrow. Tonight—they would fold this up neatly and tuck it somewhere unreachable. Ilya would go home with her, with her easy smile and uncomplicated desire. He would kiss her without hesitation. Touch her without calculating the fallout. Wake up beside her without wondering who might find out.

And Shane would go home alone.

He wouldn’t see Ilya for months once the season split them apart. No early morning practices. No lingering looks across the rink. No tension simmering beneath corrections and critiques. Just distance. Silence. Space wide enough for memory to start smoothing the edges off what had almost happened.

He would have to forget.

Or at least learn how to carry it quietly.

He slid into his spot beside the rest of the group, accepted a drink someone pressed into his hand, nodded at a joke he didn’t quite hear. From across the room, laughter rose near the bar, bright, feminine, unmistakable. Shane didn’t look.

He told himself that was strength. 

It felt more like surrender.

“Capitaine!” Alex shouted over the music, appearing out of nowhere and throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulders hard enough to jostle the drink in his hand. He was clearly drunk beyond rescuing– his glassy eyes, his loose grin, the way he leaned like gravity was optional. 

“I just wanted to say,” Alex continued, words blurring together at the edges, “you are the best captain I've ever had.”

Shane let out a soft huff of a laugh, steadying both of them out of instinct. “Thanks, Alex.”

“Non, non,” Alex insisted, pulling back just enough to wag a finger in Shane’s face. “Je suis sérieux.” He turned abruptly, nearly losing his balance, and clapped loudly to get the others’ attention. “Hey! Hey, hey!”

A few of the guys groaned. Someone muttered, “Oh no,” under their breath. Even Shane rolled his eyes in preparation. 

“Guys,” Alex announced with grand seriousness, “I think we need to have a toast for our capitaine.”

There were chuckles, half fond, half embarrassed on his behalf, but no one stopped him. A couple of them raised their glasses preemptively, humoring him.

Alex placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “He has been the most supportive and kind,” he paused, squinting as if searching for the word, “and rule-abiding—”

“That’s not a compliment,” someone called.  

“It is!” Alex shot back indignantly. “He makes us better. He stays late. He checks in. He pretends he is boring and cold, but actually…” He leaned back into Shane again, nearly knocking their foreheads together. “Actually he is soft.”

The table erupted in laughter. Shane felt heat climb up his neck, but this time it wasn’t sharp or jealous. It was something warmer. Embarrassed. Fond. Exposed in a different way.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he muttered, trying to pry Alex off him.

“No!” Alex protested, clinging tighter. “You care about everyone. Even when you are stressed. Even when you are injured. Even when we are being idiots.”

A few of the guys quieted at that, the loud dance music a juxtaposing soundtrack to Alex’s earnest speech.

Shane swallowed.

Alex lifted his drink with a wobbling flourish. “To our captain. Who carries the team on his shoulders and never lets us down.”

There was less laughter now. More sincerity.

Glasses rose.

“To Cap.”

“To Shane.”

He forced a smile, lifting his own glass again, the earlier ache in his chest shifting into something complicated. Because this mattered. This was real. The team. The responsibility. The way they looked at him like he was steady.

He clinked his glass against Alex’s. “You’re all drunk,” he said lightly.

“Oui,” Alex agreed happily. “But we are correct.”

They drank.

And Shane let himself stand in the center of it. In the noise and affection and ridiculous loyalty. He let it drown out the image at the bar, the unanswered look in Ilya’s eyes, the version of himself that had nearly chosen something reckless.

He was their captain.

Yes, he was Ilya’s captain too, and that was the source of this whole, impossible knot in his chest. The imbalance. The risk. The reason every glance felt loaded and every almost-touch felt like stepping onto thin ice.

But he was also theirs.

Alex, swaying and earnest and so young. The rookies who watched him like he held the blueprint to surviving this league. The veterans who trusted him to steady the room when it tilted. The boys who had just raised their glasses and meant every word, even through slurred French and too-expensive vodka.

Shane let himself sink in it, the warmth of it, the certainty. Alex had already moved on, draped halfway across someone else now, loudly arguing about music. The rookies were clustered together, animated and flushed, glancing over at Shane every so often like orbiting satellites checking their center of gravity.

He smiled at something one of them said, only half listening, and reached for his drink again when his phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration was small, but it pulled at him anyway, an instinctive curiosity more than anything else. Shane reached for it without thinking, thumb sliding the phone free. 

He expected nothing in particular. A message from his mom. Maybe an email from management. Maybe a Google news notification he would swipe away without reading.

The screen lit up.

Coach

Come to the first floor. VIP bathrooms.

Shane’s hand went completely still.

The drink in his other hand felt suddenly heavier, the glass freezing against his palm. His pulse thudded once, hard and sharp, like something knocking against the inside of his chest trying to get out.

He read it again, because his mind refused to accept it the first time.

Come to the first floor. VIP bathrooms.

Shane swallowed.

Slowly, his thumb brushed over the screen as if the contact itself might change the meaning of the words.

His gaze drifted once, briefly, almost involuntarily, toward the bar.

Empty.

The space where Ilya and Amara had stood was empty.

Shane’s stomach tightened in a way he didn’t want to name.

He stood there for another heartbeat, drink forgotten in his hand, the noise of the club continuing around him like he was standing outside of it.

Where had she gone?

Had Ilya sent her away, some smooth excuse murmured close to her ear? Told her to wait for him downstairs, or outside, or back at the hotel? Had he smiled that careful, disarming smile and said he just needed a minute?

A minute for what?

For this?

Shane’s mind raced ahead of him, cruel and efficient.

Maybe Ilya had decided to finish it properly. To pull Shane upstairs, away from the noise, and deliver the final version of the speech he’d been circling all night. Responsibility. Optics. Power. The line they couldn’t cross. Maybe this was going to be the clean break. The firm, measured reminder that whatever had sparked between them was inappropriate. Dangerous. Impossible.

Maybe Ilya just wanted to make sure Shane understood that it could never happen.

And then what?

Shane’s jaw tightened.

Would Ilya go back downstairs after that? Find Amara waiting with patient, uncomplicated affection? Slip a hand into hers and leave like nothing had shifted? Like he hadn’t just asked his captain to meet him in a private bathroom?

The thought lodged sharp under Shane’s ribs.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t feel like anything more than common sense. Ilya was single. Free. Allowed.

Shane had no claim.

But the idea of Ilya touching someone else tonight, after the way he’d touched Shane, after the way his voice had gone low and rough and almost—

Shane dragged in a breath that didn’t quite fill his lungs.

If this was just a reprimand, he would take it. If this was Ilya drawing the final boundary, he would stand there and respect it and nod and swallow it down like he had every other hard thing this season.

He was the captain.

He could survive this. There was no point fighting for something that clearly upset Ilya so much. 

His phone was still warm in his hand.

Upstairs, Ilya was waiting.

Shane stared at the message for one more second.

Then he locked his phone.

“I’m grabbing another drink,” he muttered, lying to no one in particular, already stepping back from the table. No one questioned it. Alex was mid-story again, gesturing wildly. Someone cheered at nothing. The moment had shifted; he was no longer its center.

Good.

Shane lifted the glass still in his hand and, before he could reconsider, tipped it back. The alcohol burned all the way down, sharp and punishing. He welcomed it. Let it steady the tremor threatening to start in his fingers. Then he set the empty glass down and walked.

He didn’t rush. He couldn’t afford to look like he was rushing. He moved through the crowd with practised ease, slipping between bodies, nodding at a couple of familiar faces, expression composed.

At the base of the staircase, he hesitated only half a heartbeat before he started up.

The bass dulled with each step, replaced by a quieter thrum that felt almost surreal after the chaos below. The VIP lounge opened out at the top: low lighting, plush seating, a sleek bar glowing amber against dark wood.

A few staff members stood behind the counter, polishing glasses, talking quietly among themselves. They glanced up as Shane approached.

He gave them an easy, polite smile. Their responding bright smiles told him they recognised him, which meant they likely recognised Ilya too. Surely, they wouldn’t suspect anything. Surely, it looked normal from the outside, even if it felt anything but, inside Shane’s head. 

The hallway toward the bathrooms was carpeted, the noise from downstairs reduced to a distant pulse beneath his feet. His heart seemed louder than the music now.

He pushed open the door.

The first thing he noticed was how different it was from the bathroom downstairs.

No flickering fluorescent glare. No sticky floors. No overly fragrant air freshener trying to hide the smell of piss. This one was dimly lit in warm gold, mirrors framed in dark metal, marble countertops spotless and gleaming. It smelled faintly of something clean and expensive instead of sweat and spilled beer.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click that felt far too final.

And for a split second, before he even saw him, Shane was acutely aware that whatever happened in this room would not be interrupted by a drunken teammate.

This time, it would just be them.

He saw Ilya in the mirror before he saw him directly.

Standing near the far counter. Shirt sleeves pushed up slightly, his hands were braced against the marble, head lowered for a moment as if he’d been collecting himself.

The door clicking shut made him look up.

Their eyes met in the reflection, and the quiet in the room shifted.

Ilya held his gaze this time, didn’t look away, didn’t soften it into something professional or distant. Whatever composure he had reconstructed downstairs seemed thinner here, stretched taut over something far less controlled.

His jaw tightened. His breath changed.

And then he moved. Fast. 

He pushed off the counter and crossed the space between them in three quick strides, urgency radiating off him like heat. Shane barely had time to register the movement before Ilya was in front of him, one hand coming up to cup his jaw, the other fisting briefly in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. 

Shane inhaled sharply, and before he knew it, Ilya was kissing him. 

Not the almost from before. Not the hovering, restrained thing that had been interrupted downstairs.

This was Ilya kissing him. Hard.

It was desperate and immediate, like Ilya had been holding himself back all night and finally snapped. Shane stumbled back a step from the force of it, as Ilya followed, crowding into his space. The hand on his face tightened, thumb pressing into his cheek as Ilya angled his mouth more firmly against his.

Shane made a small, involuntary sound against his mouth, fingers gripping at Ilya’s shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. His heart was racing so hard it felt like it might bruise his ribs.

Ilya didn’t slow down.

The kiss deepened, turned urgent, almost reckless. His hand slid from Shane’s jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and with a sharp step forward he pushed him fully against the wall.

Shane’s shoulders hit first, then the back of his head and Ilya’s hand there, breath punching out of him in a startled exhale that Ilya swallowed immediately.

The marble was cool through his shirt. Ilya was not.

Their bodies lined up with a heat that felt deliberate now, no more hovering inches of restraint. Ilya pressed in, one thigh nudging between Shane’s, pinning him there decisively. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.

Shane’s hands slid up from Ilya’s shirt to his shoulders, gripping hard. He could feel the tension there, the coiled strength that usually stayed locked behind calm corrections and measured authority. It was different like this, close enough to feel the tremor in Ilya’s breath.

The kiss turned rougher, mouths parting, teeth catching briefly, breaths tangling. Ilya made a low sound against him, something frustrated, something that had been held back too long.

Shane tilted his head, taking as much as he gave now, pulling Ilya closer by the back of his neck. His pulse was racing, skin hypersensitive, every place they touched sparking.

What was happening? 

One minute he had been downstairs, clinging to the idea of duty and captaincy like it was the only solid thing in the room. The next, he was pinned against a marble wall in a private bathroom, kissing his coach like the world outside didn’t exist.

Like none of it existed.

Ilya’s hand tightened slightly at the back of his neck, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor him there. There was something almost frustrated in the way he kissed him now, like this wasn’t impulse anymore but something that had been building for weeks.

Shane’s thoughts scrambled to keep up, and between it all, he couldn’t help but wonder what Ilya was thinking.

Shane pulled back just enough to breathe, their mouths still brushing, foreheads nearly touching. His chest rose and fell quickly, breath unsteady.

“You sent her away,” he said, the realization landing all at once.

Ilya’s eyes were darker up close. Not distant. Not conflicted in the way they had been downstairs.

“I did,” he answered, voice low and certain.

Shane’s heart kicked hard against his ribs.

“You’re not going back to her?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Ilya didn’t hesitate this time.

“No.”

Shane felt the shift inside himself, something loosening, something dangerous. His hands slid from Ilya’s shoulders to his waist, fingers gripping the fabric there as if testing whether this was real.

“What made you change your mind?” 

Ilya didn’t pull away. His forehead stayed close to Shane’s, their noses almost brushing. 

“I did not change my mind,” Ilya said quietly.

Shane frowned slightly, trying to catch his breath. “You were ready to walk away.”

“I was ready to be responsible,” Ilya corrected. His thumb traced absently along Shane’s jaw, not soft, but deliberate. “That is not the same thing.”

The distinction only confused Shane. 

“Then why this?” Shane pressed, hands tightening slightly at Ilya’s waist. “Why call me up here?”

A muscle in Ilya’s jaw shifted. He glanced down briefly, then back up, as if choosing the words carefully.

“Because downstairs,” he said, voice low and even, “I saw you decide that I was going to choose someone else.”

Shane’s breath caught.

“And I did not like that you believed that,” Ilya continued. “I did not like that you thought it was easy for me.”

“It looked easy,” Shane admitted, softer now.

Ilya’s mouth curved faintly, but there was no humour in it. “It was not.”

Silence settled between them again, charged but no longer frantic. The heat was still there, but now it was threaded with something steadier, something more intentional.

“I will not be going home with her, Shane. But I am also not going home with you.” 

“What?” Shane frowned. 

“I called you up here,” Ilya said, steady but not untouched, “because I did not like how we left things downstairs. I did not like you walking away thinking I did not care.” 

Shane’s throat tightened.

“But we are too drunk,” Ilya continued. “And too emotional right now. That is not the state in which we make decisions like this.” Coach Rozanov was making a brief appearance, it seemed but Shane’s gaze didn’t waver. “As much as I want to continue what we were just doing,” Ilya admitted, voice lowering slightly, “I also want to remain responsible. Even now. Especially now.”

Shane could feel the restraint threaded through the confession.

“We have crossed a line we can never go back from,” Ilya said quietly. “There is no pretending we have not. But I am not about to cross another one just because it is easier in the moment.”

Understanding dawned slowly. 

“Not tonight,” Ilya added. The words should have disappointed him but instead, hope flared, sharp and fragile, because this didn’t feel like rejection at all. It felt like exactly what Shane had wanted, just a wiser, more thought-through version of it. The Coach Rozanov version of it. 

“If you still want this tomorrow,” Ilya went on, measured and deliberate, “when you are sober—”

“I will,” Shane cut in immediately.

“—and clear-headed,” Ilya insisted, not letting him rush past it, “then you can come to me. Or I will come to you. Whichever you prefer.”

Shane’s pulse skipped because he understood, suddenly and very clearly, what Ilya was doing. He was placing the decision in Shane’s hands in a way that felt almost startlingly careful. Ilya was giving him the space to choose, without obligation, without momentum pushing him forward, without alcohol or heat or the momentum of the night deciding for him.

Shane felt the weight of that more sharply than the kiss itself.

“And we will talk about it,” Ilya finished.

“Talk about it?” Shane echoed, disbelief threading through his voice. He could feel the heat of Ilya’s cock, the unmistakable proof of how much he wanted this, pressed firm against him and somehow Ilya was still speaking like this was a contract negotiation.

“Yes,” Ilya said evenly. “Talk about it. About what this means. About what it costs.” His eyes softened just slightly. “And about whether we are willing to pay it. When we are not just horny and drunk.” 

“That’s not what this is,” Shane shot back. “I won’t change my mind, Ilya. I will come to your room and want the same things as I do right now.” 

Ilya studied him for a long moment, searching, weighing. 

“Okay,” he said finally, and nodded once. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Shane’s cheek. It was a small gesture, almost tender, and somehow felt far more intimate than what they’d just been doing. Shane’s heart lurched, warmth blooming painfully in his chest.

“I just need to hear it from you sober,” Ilya murmured.

“And then?” Shane pressed, unwilling to let him retreat into abstraction again.

Ilya’s mouth curved faintly. He leaned in, brushing his lips slowly against Shane’s, not urgent now. 

“And then,” he said quietly against his mouth, “depending on how that conversation goes…”

Another brief, almost chaste kiss.

“…maybe,” he continued, voice dropping just enough to send heat racing down Shane’s spine, “I’ll fuck you.” 

The restraint in it, the maybe, the conditions–the idea that Ilya wanted him enough to stop, enough to make sure tomorrow existed–burned hotter than if he’d simply dragged him back to a hotel room without thinking.

Shane’s head spun and it wasn’t just the alcohol anymore. It was Ilya, the confidence in his voice, his familiar musk, the way he was holding Shane like he was something precious. Shane’s pulse thundered so hard it felt like it was behind his eyes. His body was still humming from the earlier urgency, every nerve ending hypersensitive, and now that heat had nowhere to go. Now it just coiled inside him, tight and aching.

For a second he actually thought his knees might give out.

He let out a shaky breath and dropped his forehead against Ilya’s shoulder, the contact grounding and devastating all at once.

“How am I supposed to just go back to my room now?” he muttered, voice rough against the fabric of Ilya’s shirt. His hands curled loosely at Ilya’s sides. “You can’t say stuff like that,” he added, quieter, almost accusing. “And then expect me to just… walk away.”

Ilya exhaled slowly against Shane’s hair.

He stayed still for a moment, and then his hands came up, steadily and slowly; one settling at Shane’s waist, the one at the back of his head just stroking there. 

“You’ll survive.” Ilya said teasingly. “I promise.”

Shane let out a humourless huff against his shoulder. “That’s not helpful.”

Ilya chuckled and shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head so his mouth brushed near Shane’s temple, not quite a kiss, not quite not one either. “Go back to your room,” he said, softer now. “Take a shower. Drink water. Try to sleep.”

“You’re so cruel,” Shane muttered, huffing. 

Ilya hand slid from the back of Shane’s head to his jaw again, holding him there just enough to tilt his face up.

Shane’s breath caught without him meaning to. 

“You can change your mind at any time, okay?” Ilya’s eyes sharpened with something urgent and protective. 

Shane rolled his eyes automatically, mouth already opening with a flippant retort.

Ilya tightened his grip on his jaw, not painful, but firm enough to stop him.

“No,” he said. “Listen to me.”

The shift in his tone made Shane go still.

“If at any point you decide this is a mistake,” Ilya continued, gaze unwavering, “you say the word, and it ends. Immediately.” His thumb pressed slightly into Shane’s cheek, anchoring him there. “I will not question it. I will not argue. I will not make you justify yourself.”

The intensity in his eyes deepened.

“I will not be angry,” he added. “And I will not bring it up again. Ever. You understand?”

For once, Shane didn’t have a clever reply ready.

“I understand,” he simply said, nodding once.

“Good.”

Ilya kissed him again, firm and deliberate, like sealing something into place.

Shane responded immediately.

His hands came up to Ilya’s waist again, pulling him closer without thinking. The kiss deepened on instinct alone, less frantic than before, but heavier. Slower and intentional. He parted his lips, breathing Ilya in like he was trying to memorize the taste of him, the feel of him, the exact pressure of his mouth.

If this was what restraint felt like, it was almost unbearable.

For a moment, Ilya let it happen. Let Shane press closer. Let the kiss slide from controlled into something warmer, fuller.

Then, gently, Ilya’s hands shifted. He eased them apart, just enough to put space back between their bodies before the line blurred again. Shane’s lips chased for half a second before he caught himself.

Ilya rested his forehead briefly against Shane’s, breathing steady despite everything.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered. 

Shane nodded in understanding, jaw tightening as he forced himself not to pull him back in. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, the word coming out rougher than he intended.

Ilya stepped back first this time, putting real distance between them. He gave Shane a small, almost private smile, then smoothed his shirt down, fingers precise and practised, as if he were resetting himself. Composure sliding back into place. He turned toward the mirror, adjusting his hair with a quick pass of his hand. The fluorescent lights caught in his hazel eyes, making them glint gold for a second in the reflection.

Shane’s breath stalled.

It was ridiculous, the timing of it, but watching him fix his collar, straighten his posture, become Coach again right in front of him felt almost devastating.

The line between what had just happened and the man in the mirror was razor-thin.

And still, somehow, he looked unfairly beautiful.

The controlled set of his shoulders. The sharp line of his jaw. The way those pants fit when he turned slightly to check himself. Shane swallowed hard, hands flexing at his sides to keep from doing something reckless. Falling to his knees felt like a real possibility for half a second, not out of submission, not even out of lust. Just awe.

Ilya caught his gaze in the mirror.

Held it.

Something unreadable flickered there, heat banked carefully under discipline.

Then he turned fully, already halfway back to distance.

“Get home safe,” he said, eyeing Shane with an intensity that made his pulse spike all over again.

“You too,” Shane replied, trying to sound steady and only half succeeding.

Ilya gave one last look, like he couldn’t believe Shane was still standing right there, then headed for the door.

The handle clicked.

The door shut.

And just like that, Shane was alone with his reflection and the echo of tomorrow ringing in his ears.

The room felt bigger now, but no less warm. 

He stared at himself in the mirror, half-expecting to see some visible mark, proof that something irreversible had just happened. But there was nothing obvious. Just flushed skin. Slightly swollen lips. Eyes that looked a little too bright.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to settle it the way Ilya had settled his own. It didn’t work. He still looked undone. His gaze dropped briefly, to his collar, to the space where Ilya’s hand had been, to the faint crease in his shirt from where they’d been pressed together.

Tomorrow.

His world had shifted. He could feel it, the quiet, undeniable tilt of it. The clean line that had existed between them was gone now, replaced with something charged and deliberate and impossible to unknow.

He should have felt fear.

The risk was real. The consequences were real. Everything they had spent the night carefully circling was still waiting somewhere ahead of him.

He should have felt the weight of it pressing down on him. Instead, all he felt was the spark of it. The bright, electric thrill humming under his skin. The certainty that whatever came next would not be an accident.

Shane held his own stare for one last second, then gave himself a small, almost disbelieving smile.

The axis of his world had shifted and he wasn’t even slightly afraid of where it was turning.