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Sweat pooled on Ilya’s brow as his legs pumped on the exercise bike of the hotel he was staying in. It had been months since he last heard from Shane, and he was going a little crazy. He needed something to take his mind away from the notion that he hadn’t seen Shane, hadn’t touched his skin and drifted into those deep amber eyes in months. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other options, but ever since hooking up with Shane, no other partner–man or woman–had felt quite right.
To say he was jealous of Rose was an understatement. It wasn’t fair that she was able to love Hollander without restraint, without the guilt that always crept up Ilya’s throat like bile, threatening to spill over and swallow him whole. It wasn’t fair that she got all of Shane’s love, for he could always see the practiced restraint in his eyes whenever they were together. Despite this, he couldn’t bring himself to be angry at Shane, no matter how hard he tried. He could never be mad at him.
He checked his phone once more, sliding his finger across the rough glass as he wished for a message that would never appear. Ever since the announcement of his relationship with Rose Laundry, he hadn’t heard from Shane. Instead, a screen full of once-sided messages greeted him, filling him with shame stronger than he had felt in years. Ilya could only hope that Shane and Rose’s relationship would end soon, and things would go back to normal. At the present, he wasn’t holding up well. He knew logically that whatever he had with Hollander wouldn’t last forever–in fact, it was a miracle they had made it this far–he just hadn’t known that the end of forever would come so soon.
It's fine, he thought to himself, Hollander can fuck whoever he wants. He means nothing to me. A small part of him knew it wasn’t true. A smaller part knew why.
“You okay Rozy?” One of his teammates asked. With a start, he realized that he had been pedaling so hard that the bike had begun to wobble. He unclenched his ironclad grip from the handlebars, rolling his shoulders back and relaxing his jaw.
“I’m fine,” he grunted, stepping off of the bike. He grabbed his water bottle and made for the door, but was stopped by the voice of one of his teammates resounding through the gym.
“Holy shit, have you guys seen this? Shane Hollander proposed to Rose Landry.”
Ilya’s stomach dropped. Almost immediately, he bolted towards the voice, desperately hoping that this was just some elaborate prank. Any minute now he would receive a text from Jane. Surely Shane would have told him something, anything.
“I mean, good for him, man. I certainly wouldn’t let a woman like Rose Landry get away.” The voices were like a stake through Ilya’s heart, each word plunging the knife deeper, solidifying the hellish reality he found himself in. Sadness coiled deep in his gut, flooding his senses with a feeling so consuming it was as if he couldn’t breathe. He clutched at his mother’s necklace, gasping for shallow breaths that would not come.
“Rozanov? What’s wrong?” a voice asked, the sound barely reaching his ears. A rough hand landed on his shoulder. The touch burned.
“Need–I need to,” he made a vague gesture with his hand, nearly tripping over his shoes as he stumbled for the door. As soon as the cool air of the hotel lobby hit him, he was running, stumbling desperately to his hotel room. The tears came freely now, hot and wet and heavy. He was drowning. He would never breathe again.
He glanced at his phone, desperately hoping for a message from Shane. He would have even been content with a parting, ‘fuck you’, anything but the all-consuming silence he had been shouldering for months. As per usual, there was nothing. Not a missed call, not a text, nothing to save him from the storm he created. It was as if he meant nothing.
He hated himself for crying. It wasn’t fair. He hadn't even cried at his father’s funeral. How had he allowed Hollander to get this close? How had he allowed him to get so close, burrowing his way into Ilya’s heart the way no one else could? He sighed, throwing his phone to the ground and wiping the last few stray tears from his eyes.
“I need to get out.”
🏒₊˚⊹♡
The club was packed, bodies thrumming together under the dark UV lights. The air inside was humid and stale, but strangely comforting. He sauntered up to the bar, doing his best to project his well known, Ilya Rozanov confidence that he most certainly was not feeling.
“I need vodka,” his voice was raw and sore, his words short and brittle. The bartender obliged, pushing a glass towards him. Ilya raised the glass to his lips, relishing in the familiar burn of the alcohol. Soon, Shane would be the furthest thing from his mind.
As he perused the club, Ilya found himself subconsciously searching for freckles, for amber eyes and dark skin and soft lips. Eventually, he found a short woman, her eyes brown and deep, her cheeks dusted with freckles. If he squinted, he might be able to pretend it were–.
Ilya shook his head, clearing the thought from his brain. He was with a gorgeous woman who was clearly interested in him, and all he could think about was Hollander. He came to the club to get away from the man, not to spend the night mooring over him like a lover. Fuck. He was going to need more vodka.
As the woman moved her hands up his chest, moving against him in time to the music, Ilya couldn’t tear his mind from Shane. Had he done this with Rose? Held her against the darkness of the club, touched her soft breasts when he thought no one was looking? The thought angered him. Secrecy was something of a closeness for them, the only intimacy they allowed themselves to have. He pressed his mouth to the woman harshly, as if to prove something. He was met with only softness. Shane would have met him in stride, knocking their teeth together, his lips both rough and soft in the way only he could be. He pressed his eyelids shut, squeezing them until he saw spots. He could do this. He could live without Hollander. He had to.
As the music of the club grew louder, and the woman he was holding bolder, he began to experience the all-too-familiar feeling of losing himself. Eventually, he stumbled to a hotel room with the burnette, following the tender guide of her hands. As she undressed him, all he could think about was the last time he and Hollander had sex. He was so scared, cautiously removing each piece of Ilya’s clothing, his hands shaking with every passing minute. When they were both naked, Shane had held him, had pressed his burning face into Ilya’s shoulder, had murmured a quiet admission not dared uttered in the daylight.
“I’m scared, Ilya. Scared of how much I feel for you.”
He was so quiet, Ilya had barely heard him. It wasn’t as if he could respond, it would only make things more painful. Instead, he caught his lips in a kiss, sliding his tongue into his mouth in lieu of a response. He would do anything to say something now. To grab his chin and force him to meet his gaze. To kiss him softly, shortly. To whisper, “I’m scared too.”
Suddenly, Ilya snapped back to the present. The woman had her hand above his zipper, gazing up at him expectedly. As her hand grazed the zipper, it was as if a bucket of water had been thrown on him, everything hitting him all at once. He seized back immediately.
“I–I’m sorry, I can’t–”
The girl fell back, seemingly shocked by the outburst. He brushed past her, moving sluggishly to the hotel room door. As he stumbled into the lobby, Ilya pawed desperately at his phone, searching for a number he knew by heart. He found the contact, only hesitating for a moment before hitting “call”. His heart thundered in his chest, each moment laced with anticipation. The air around him felt so thick that he could cut it.
The phone rang incessantly, his heart plummeting with each passing vibration. He was nearly about to cut his losses, tears already brewing in his eyes when–
“Hollander?” Ilya pressed his phone desperately to his face, listening for any sign of the man. He was met only with silence, the barest sight of his silent breath against the cool night air. If he concentrated, he could hear the slightest traces of Shane breathing on the other line.
“Hol–” Ilya began, but was cut off by the end of the call. Shane had hung up on him. As the rain fell harder around him, Ilya shoved his hands into his pocket, his mind made up and his resolve set. Not once while he made his way to his car did he think twice on his decision. He didn’t dare think of the consequences.
🏒₊˚⊹♡
Rain pounded on the dashboard of Ilya’s sports car as he sped through the night. He knew this was a bad idea, a terrible one really, but he could no sooner stop himself from seeing Hollander than he could from breathing, from skating and drinking and everything else that made him whole. Shane made him whole.
As he pulled into the cul-de-sac, his resolve grew stronger. He would talk to Shane, and they would fix whatever issue they had, and they could go back to the way they were. Except, Ilya wasn’t sure he wanted to go back to the way they were. He would take whatever parts Hollander was willing to give, sure, but there was always the incessant need in the back of his mind, the constant nagging for something greater than either of them could give. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
He had only been to Shane’s house a few times in the 10 years they’d known each other. It always seemed like something grand, some unspoken boundary briefly crossed. Going to Shane’s house had always felt too domestic, and more often than not it left Ilya with a bitter taste in his mouth, their time spent together too similar to a life they would never have.
But in the rare moments when Shane let his guard down, when the sunlight hit his face the morning after one of their many hookups, Ilya could almost let himself imagine that this was the life they led–that what they had was real. He could pretend that he didn’t have to leave, that they could spend their mornings together like real people did. It was like nothing else existed between them; not hockey, not their fans, not words spoken casually in locker rooms without consequence. No, it was clear that in the world of hockey, there was no room for people like Shane and Ilya, but when he was alone with Shane, none of that mattered. He would give up everything to spend forever doing nothing, if it only meant being with Shane.
His heart rate quickened as he pulled into the driveway, his headlights painting the house in a blue light. He drummed his fingers against the wheel anxiously as he weighed his options once more. He had never been this nervous before, not even before some of the most important games of his career. It was a foreign feeling–everything with Shane was.
Thunder cracked in the distance as he made his way up the driveway. He wondered briefly if Rose Laundry was home, if her presence would change anything. Were Shane’s feelings for her real, could they be? He stopped at the door. Once he knocked, things would never go back to the way they were, for better or for worse. He knew that much, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He knocked twice, hesitantly, his fist barely grazing the door. It felt like an eternity before the door finally opened. For a moment he thought Shane wouldn’t come, but he did. He always did.
“Rozanov? What the fuck are you doing here?” And oh, if nothing else, the drive was worth it just to hear his voice again.
“You’re engaged,” Ilya’s voice was flat, void of all the emotions they both knew he was feeling.
“Yeah, to Rose Laundry. Did you seriously drive all the way over here just to tell me that?” Shane’s brow furrowed.
Ilya was silent for a moment, before he released a frustrated huff, “Why?”
“Why? What do you mean why? I mean, fuck, I can’t get a congratulations?” Shane’s voice was cold, but Ilya knew it was an act. There was no way he didn’t feel the same. There was no way he wasn’t suffocating.
Ilya moved quickly, on impulse. He was hardly thinking when he stepped closer to Shane, pressing him against the wall of his house, clashing their lips together roughly. The action was so achingly, painfully familiar. It felt like returning to Russia, the only home he had ever known–and yet, he wasn’t welcome. Shane shoved him away.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice wavered slightly, his gaze unsteady. Ilya stepped closer again, only for Shane to back away further.
“What do you mean, ‘what are you doing’? I mean, fuck, Hollander. I haven’t heard from you in months and suddenly you’re engaged? What am I supposed to think?”
At this, Shane faltered. Ilya tried to speak more, but the words got caught in his throat, each one thicker than the last.
“What was I supposed to do? Spend my entire life waiting for someone I can only see once every couple of months?” His voice was quieter now.
“I would have,” Ilya exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. He scrubbed a hand across his face, wiping away the tears that had begun to flow. He couldn't let Shane see him like this. He wouldn’t.
“Well I’m not you,” Shane said with an air of finality. He turned away, moving to leave, “Go home, Rozanov.”
Ilya caught him by the shoulder, tugging him back. He looked him in the eyes, searching for answers he could not find. “You can’t seriously love this woman. Not the way you–”
“I do,” he said, though his expression betrayed his words, “I have to. Listen, whatever we had, whatever you thought we were–it’s over.”
Ilya paused, steading his voice against the tears that threatened to spill. “What am I supposed to do, Shane?” he breathed weakly, his voice not above a whisper.
If the use of his first name shocked Shane, he didn’t show it. Finally, finally, Shane stepped closer, brushing trembling fingers against his cheek, “Move on.”
His lips came then, slowly, gently. Ilya pressed closer, breathing in his scent, memorizing the feeling of his lips. When he next touched Rose, would Shane think of him?
It pained Ilya to know that this is how they would end. They wouldn’t go out in some grand fashion–no, their love would end quietly, silently, secretly. They would be the only ones in the world to know of the times they had shared. Shane would be the only one to know of Ilya’s most treasured memories.
What pained him more was all the things they had never gotten to do. He had never gotten to tell Shane just how much he loved him. He had never gotten to wake up with him, hold him under the glow of the morning sun. He would never again smile into the freckle that lay on the peak of his left shoulder, kiss the spot behind his ear that always made him shiver. He would never play hockey again, not without thinking of Shane.
When Shane pulled away, Ilya chased his lips, desperate for just a moment more. Shane stayed put, a fraction of his carefully constructed mask cracking. For a second, he looked as pained as Ilya felt. It wasn’t fair, but that was something their relationship had never been. When Ilya finally closed the gap between them, something snapped. Tears fell freely from Shane’s eyes now. Ilya wiped them off with care.
“It’s not too late,” Ilya murmured, faintly and desperately against his lips, “It’s never too late. You could–”
“Oh, Ilya,” Shane whispered, tracing the outline of his lips with such a finality that Ilya was certain his heart would shatter, “can’t you recognize a parting gift?”
Ilya recoiled, his heart dropping. He took one step back, and then another, his breaths quickening. Shane stayed firmly where he was, his eyes wet and his jaw clenched. Ilya made it to the door, but try as he might he could not leave.
The sound of footsteps broke him from his trance. To Ilya’s horror, Rose Laundry appeared from the threshold of the stairs. A glint of gold on her ring finger caught his attention–her ring. Her wedding ring.
“Shane? Is everything okay? I heard voices,” her voice was so delicate and light, everything Ilya would never be. Shane’s expression fell neutral, any traces of emotion wiped.
“Yeah, Rozanov just had to return something to me. He’ll be leaving soon now,” Shane said, wrapping a hand around her waist.
“Shane,” Ilya tried, hopelessly.
“Rozanov,” Shane’s response came harshly, “I think it’s best if you leave.”
Ilya held his gaze, and time blurred. In Shane’s gaze, it was their rookie season, behind the rink in Saskatchewan. It was the first time they faced off against each other on the ice. It was the club where he first saw Shane and Rose together. It was 9 years of secret love, come down to a pinprick moment, something so small in the grand scheme of things. 9 years, and what did it get them? What were they to do?
“Goodbye, Hollander,” Ilya said finally, breaking away from his tantalizing gaze. He always did get lost in Shane’s eyes.
“Goodbye, Rozanov,” Hollander said, watching him leave, “see you next season.”