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Montreal beat Boston, 4-3. Shane is floating when he comes out of the showers, still remembering Ilya’s flirty winks whenever they faced off during the game. Grabbing his phone he sees that he already has a missed text from his Lily.
Lily: 8124. Pincode for front door. See you tonight, lyobov.
His smile stretches all the way to his cheeks, as he steps into his regular clothes. Hayden sits next to him on the bench, pulling on his socks, but in the corner of the locker room a few of his other team mates have gathered around J.J and his phone. They’re whistling.
“No wonder he was distracted during the game,” Comeau says. “I’d be distracted too if that was waiting for me at home.”
“Don’t let your wife hear you, dude!”
“Ha!” Comeau scoffs. “She’d be into it as well, I bet. I mean, it’s Piper Goodwell for god’s sake.”
“What’re we talking about?” Hayden asks, making his way over to the others on socked feet and grabbing the phone out of J.J’s hands. “Wow! What the— Fuck, how does he even get girls that hot? Don’t they realise that he’s a total dickwad?”
Shane is getting both curious and annoyed now. He does not like his teammates talking about women like they’re pieces of meat, but he knows that there is only one person Hayden calls a dickwad. Ilya. What did the man do now?
“What’s up?” he asks, pushing his foot into his Reebok sneakers before making his way to his teammates. Hayden practically pushes the phone into Shane’s face.
“Look at that! Rozanov is dating Piper Goodwell.”
Shane wants to roll his eyes. Wants to say that no he is not, he is dating me. But he can’t do either, so he looks down at the picture. Ilya is holding a woman with floating long black hair by her cheek as he kisses her. Her arms are around his waist, a black suitcase on the floor next to him. A suitcase that Shane knows, because he has lifted it out of his car and carried it inside his cottage mere weeks ago.
His stomach churns, because he also recognises the spot. Ottawa airport.
Shane’s eyes scan the article. The publishing date is from two weeks ago, or more precisely two days after Ilya left his cottage. His eyes drift over the words. Rozanov was on his way back to Boston. The couple seemed very in love. Neither Goodwell nor Rozanov’s team were not available for comments. On his way back to Boston? Two weeks ago. That means that… No. No. No. No.
Shane spirals instantly. He barely feels himself hand the phone back to J.J. Barely notices how he makes the walk over to his phone. His vision is blurry as he types message after message out to Ilya.
Jane: How dare you do this to me?
Jane: I thought we had something special.
Jane: I never want to talk to you again.
Two seconds later he receives a reply.
Lily: What are you talking about?
Lily: What’s going on?
Lily: Does this have anything to do with today’s game?
Lily: I’m sorry if I took it too far. I just wanted to tease.
Missed call from Lily.
Lily: Shane. Please? What’s going on?
Missed call from Lily.
Missed call from Lily.
Lily: Shane, I’m scared.
“Fuck, there are even more pictures. Look at this one” J.J says. “Rozanov has a bruise on his eye. I didn’t even notice that today. Can a bruise that dark even disappear in eight days time? Or does he wear make-up or some ridiculous vain bullshit?”
Hayed leans over the phone, squints at the screen and then slaps J.J on his shoulder. “Ah fuck, those are old pictures, dude! Look at the airport clock in the back. It says 2016.”
“Must’ve been from around the time Rozanov got into that fight with the Buffalo captain.”
“Makes sense,” Hayden says. “Piper Goodwell apparently did realise what a dickwad he is and dumped his ass. Makes me like her even more.”
“He could’ve dumped her, you know.”
“Oh please, nobody dumps a girl like that.”
Shane barely hears the bantering as he rushes back over and practically tears the phone from J.J’s hands now. His fingers slide over the picture, zooming in and his heart stops. Hayden was right. 31 July 2016 it says in digital letters on the airport clock in the back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He zooms back out and takes a look at this new photo. It is taken from the other side of the airport and from this angle he can see Ilya sporting a black eye. He can also see that Ilya’s hair is cropped a lot shorter than it was two weeks ago, and his cheeks are a bit puffier. He looks younger… because he is younger in these photos.
Oh no. No. No. No. He made a terrible mistake.
He hands the phone back, trying desperately to keep his hands from shaking. None of his teammates seem to realise how he has just made the worst mistake of his life. They’re all still whining about the fact that Ilya got to kiss one of the world’s best top models. Only Hayden gives him a raised eyebrow when Shane bids them a quick goodbye and practically runs out of the dressing room.
He needs to get to Ilya - and fast.
The drive to Ilya’s house blurs in his mind. He manages to focus on the road, but barely acknowledges the streets he passes as there’s only room in his head for one thought. Ilya. Ilya. Ilya. Shane can not believe he was this stupid. How could he believe that Ilya would cheat on him from just one lousy picture? He didn’t even doubt it. Just jumped to the worst possible conclusion straight away. He’s such an idiot. And now he might’ve ruined the very best thing that ever happened to him.
You don’t deserve Ilya, his mind tells him as he steers the car into Ilya’s driveway.
He parks his car right next to Ilya’s, taking a second just to make sure that it is not visible from the main road. He has already ruined enough for one night. He doesn’t want to make any more stupid mistakes. When he’s certain that his car won’t be spotted, he makes his way up to the front door where he rings the bell. When nobody answers, he rings again. He does not want to enter without Ilya’s permission but when nobody answers on his third ring either, his worry wins from his politeness. He punches the pincode into the pad and the door clicks open for him.
Shane locks the door behind him before stepping through into the kitchen. He had hoped that Ilya would be there to greet him, maybe from hearing the door open and close, but the kitchen is deserted. Except for a half empty bottle of vodka on the counter, the place is spotless and bare.
“Ilya?” Shane calls, but there is no answer. “Ilya? Are you here?”
He steps through into the living, but that room is empty too. Shane swallows around a dry mouth as he takes in the perfectly placed pillows on the sofa and the empty coffee table. No dirty dishes. No empty glasses. No sign of life.
His stomach is churning anxiously, making Shane want to cry.
He barrels up the stairs to the bedroom, looking for any sign of life, any sign of Ilya being here or at least having been here. He knew Ilya well enough to know his destructive tendencies and the emptiness of his house was starting to feel claustrophobic. What if his stupid messages had made Ilya turn him back on him? What if he practically pushed Ilya in the arms of another tonight? He was beautiful, and Shane knew that if Ilya wanted to, he could get anyone in bed with him within ten minutes. All he had to do was give them that special look, the one that - for the last couple of weeks - had been reserved for him alone. What if he had ruined everything? Or worse. What if Ilya was currently doing something really, really stupid.
Shane swallowed a load of bile as he stumbled into the bedroom, his hand reaching into his pocket for his phone. He needed to call Ilya. He needed to apologise. To beg. To plead. He couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not like this.
The sound of running water coming from the bathroom made him stop.
He’s here. He’s safe. Oh thank god.
Shane wonders what to do, wonders if what he wants to do would be appreciated, but there is no time to overthink. He needs to take action now. He needs to apologise and mend what he has broken. Heal what has been hurt.
He quickly rids himself of all his clothes, not even bothering to fold them, but he keeps his black boxers on. Just in case Ilya doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Doesn’t want to see him naked in his shower anymore. When he steps into the bathroom, he is met with a thick cloud of warm steam. It blurs his vision for a second, and he needs to blink several times before he can find Ilya amidst the water. He’s sitting on the cold shower tiles, his knees pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped around his shins, his face down into the gap between his stomach and knees. He looks small and sad and hurt.
Shane’s heart breaks.
You did this, his inner voice screams at him. You hurt him. You’re the real asshole.
“Ilya?” he whispers, as he steps beneath the stream of water. “Ilya? It’s me.”
Ilya’s face tilts up immediately, and when their eyes meet Shane feels his heart crumble into a million little pieces. Ilya’s eyes are red and bloodshot, glossy with tears and fear. “Shane?” Ilya breathes, a hand stretching out to reach him. “Shane? Are you really here?”
Shane drops down to his knees, wincing at the cold shower tiles and lets Ilya claw at him. He scoots himself back until his spine hits the wall and reaches for Ilya’s hips when the man crawls on top of him, straddling him beneath the stream of hot water. It’s an odd sensation, because normally he is the one straddling the broad Russian, but Ilya seems so small in his arms now, so tired, that he lets him press their bodies together. Ilya’s arms wrap around his neck, face pressed into his chest as he sobs and Shane wraps his own arms around Ilya’s waist, pulling him even closer and pressing a million kisses into his wet curls.
“I’m so sorry,” Shane whispers over and over again. “I love you, Ilya. I love you so much.”
Ilya seems to listen to him, because the heaving of his chest turns softer, his sobs start fading and eventually he’s just laying pliantly in Shane’s arms. They’re cuddled up long enough for Shane’s fingertips to start wrinkling but he will not be the one to let go. He’ll sit here for days if that is what Ilya wants of him.
Eventually, Ilya leans back far enough to catch Shane’s eye.
“What happened?” he asks. “What did I do?”
Shane hates himself. “You didn’t do anything.”
“Then what made you so mad? You said you didn’t want to see me again. Why? Why would you say that if I didn’t do anything wrong?”
Shane is shaking, he feels his throat squeeze around the words, he doesn’t want to tell Ilya how stupid he was. How ridiculous. How he jumped to the worst conclusions. How he let him down.
“I–I’m so sorry,” Shane’s voice broke halfway through, and his eyes started to water. “I’m so sorry, Ilya.”
“For what? Shane, tell me what’s wrong?”
Shane takes a deep breath, tells himself that Ilya deserves the truth and starts rambling. “The boys were all huddled together and laughing and whistling and I–I went over and it was a picture of you with some woman,” He turns his face away from Ilya’s as he is reaching the most terrible part of the tale. “You were kissing and it was at Ottawa airport and you had the same suitcase and the story was published two weeks ago and you left my cottage two weeks ago and–”
“You thought I cheated on you?” Ilya gasped. “You thought I cheated on you right at the airport?”
“I–It looked so real. I–I didn’t see your black eye until it was too late. Didn’t pay attention to the length of your hair until after Hayden pointed it all out.”
“Fucking Pike knew, but you didn’t?” Ilya’s voice was still soft and brittle, but there was something else there too, something fierce and stern. “How could you think that I would cheat on you? Right after we spend two weeks together? Right after we told each other that— I fucking met your parents!”
“I know. I know, Ilya!”
“Why would you think that I’d cheat on you?” Ilya groans. “What have I ever done to make you think I’d cheat?”
Shane hesitates for a moment, and he wishes he could take it back because Ilya’s face falls, and the open expression he had been carrying for weeks now turns hard and frigid again. He pulls back from Shane’s grasp, crawling all the way to the other side of the shower, pressing his back against the glass pane to get as far away from Shane as possible.
“You think I’m a slut,” Ilya growls at him. “You think I’d just fuck anyone, don’t you? You think I’d cheat on you. That it wouldn’t matter to me, because I’m a tramp anyway… You don’t trust me.”
“Ilya. That’s not true!”
“You think I’m that kind of person, Hollander?” Hearing Ilya spit out his last name makes Shane want to cry. He’s not making this any better, and now Ilya has demoted him back to Hollander. No more Shane. No more muy lyubov. No more sweetheart. Ilya’s almost yelling now, rising up from the floor tiles to loom over Shane. “I’m not a cheater! I was always clear. Just sex. No feelings. With everyone I fucked. Everyone knew. I’m not bad person. Always consent. Always clear.”
“Ilya,” Shane whimpers, but the man isn’t done yet.
“I never had relationship before, just sex. Was fine. But doesn’t make me bad person. Doesn’t make me cheater. I told you I love you, Hollander. I meant it. I told you I was your boyfriend. I meant it. No others for me. But you think that I’m slut that just–”
“No,” Shane interrupts, leaning forward to try and grab Ilya’s hand but the man stubbornly steps out of his reach. “I don’t think that, Ilya. I’ve never thought that! Stop saying that.”
“Why? Makes you feel bad? How do you think makes me feel, huh? My boyfriend thinks I’m cheater.”
“I don’t!”
“Then why did you think I cheated?” Ilya’s eyes gloom dark. “Why the fuck would you acc– accus— say that to me?”
“Because you are you and I’m just me,” Shane screams and he is as surprised as Ilya appears to be. Oh. Oh. Fuck, he is messed up. He takes a few deep breaths before adding, “You could have anyone you want, Ilya. And I– I’m just me. I’m so new to all of this. I care too much about hockey, I’m scared to death about coming out, I can’t even look you in the eye sometimes. I’m— I’m boring and difficult to be with, and I’m scared that one day you realise that you can find someone much more exciting than me.”
Ilya is still looking down on him, but the anger that was in his eyes just moments before has left. It made way for something softer, something caring.
“Difficult to be with?” Ilya asks. “Hollander. You’re not difficult to be with.”
“Maybe not yet,” Shane sighs, looking at the water that’s still flushing between them. “But you’re used to… I don’t know. Your life is exciting, Ilya. You party and you have lots of friends and you drink. I–I sit at home. I read books. I stare at a fire all night. It was all fine when it was just sex but… I’m afraid to bore you.”
“So, you think I’d cheat because you’re boring?”
“I don’t think you’d cheat,” Shane shakes his head, trying to make sense of all of this in his own head. “Not really. I just… I’m scared of not being good enough and seeing those pictures, I think it triggered me.”
“Triggered? What does that mean?”
“Made me think that I was right. Made me think that I was too boring for you, that I don’t deserve you, that I can’t give you what you need.”
Ilya blinks at him, a moment of silence that feels heavy on Shane’s chest and then Ilya reaches over him to turn the water off.
“Come with me,” he says, reaching out a hand to pull Shane up from the wet floor. They step out of the shower together and Ilya hands him a fluffy white towel before he starts drying himself. “Take off those stupid wet boxers,” Ilya nods at the offending garment and shakes his head. “Why did you even leave those on?”
“I thought you might not want me anymore,” Shane whimpers, peeling the wet fabric off his body. “I didn’t want to force a naked me onto you, not when I ruined everything.”
Ilya tilts his head and looks at him as if he has just started sprouting horns. His eyes dip down Shane’s body as he shakes his head. “You’re stupid man, Hollander. Pretty, but stupid.”
Shane manages a weak smile, still uncertain of where Ilya is going with all of this. He doesn’t understand why Ilya has stopped shouting at him, and he doesn’t know whether he would like him to start again. He hated Ilya’s raised voice but the heavy tension that hangs between them now might be even worse.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, fighting against his tears. He’s not allowed to cry. Not when he’s the one who’s ruined everything. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shane,’ Ilya steps closer, taking the towel from his hands. “Come with me.”
“Where?” Like it matters. Like he wouldn’t follow Ilya everywhere.
“To bed, of course.”
Shane swallows, shock buzzing through his body like he just touched an electrical current. “W–What?”
“You’re shivering,” Ilya says, taking his hand. “You’re cold. And tired. And brain is making up crazy stories. I want to hold you.”
“You– You do?” Shane stutters as Ilya is pulling him through to the bedroom. “After what I did… you still want to hold me?”
Ilya crawls beneath the covers first, holding the sheets open for Shane to crawl in after him. They’re both laying on their sides, facing the other and their bodies tangle together as if it’s the most natural thing for them to do. Shane’s leg over Ilya’s hip, his hand sliding up and down Ilya’s chest.
“Shane,” Ilya whispers, his hand brushing through Shane’s wet hair. “I’m not cheating on you. Ever. I have waited so long to have you like this. Why would I cheat?”
“I know,” Shane sniffs. “I know that, but–”
“Sometimes your brain is loud.”
Shane laughs, nodding feverishly, because yes, sometimes his brain is loud. And mean. And destructive.
“Is ok,” Ilya says, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Is new, this. Us. I know. Your brain needs time. Get used to me not being, what do you call it?”
“Play boy?”
“Yes,” Ilya chuckles. “Stupid name but yes. Play boy. Your stupid brain get used to me not being play boy.”
“It’s just… everyone knows. Everyone knows how many girls you’ve taken back to your hotel room. Everyone knows that you’re good at flirting, and sex. Everyone knows that all the girls in the audience want you.”
“Not just girls.”
“That doesn’t help, Ilya.”
“Sorry.”
“Sometimes I find it hard to imagine that you’ve really chosen me. Over all of them.”
Ilya’s face softens even more and he scoots closer, one hand coming up to grab Shane’s chin to make it impossible for him to look away. “Shane,” Ilya whispers. “I choose you. Long ago, I choose you. Before your cottage, before I told you I love you. I think I would’ve chosen you first time we met, if I could. But we couldn’t. Not with hockey. Not with my father and Russia. So, I kept seeing girls. Sleeping with girls. But they were not you. I choose you. Always, moya lyubov.”
Shane blinks and feels the first tears slide down his cheeks. He inhales sharply but can’t help the sobs that tear from his throat now. His chest is feeling too constricted, as if the tears are pressing against his ribs, begging to be let out. “Ilya,” he sobs.
“Hush, kotenok,” Ilya whispers back, kissing his jaw, his cheek, the tip of his nose. “I choose you, ok. I love you. I know your brain is loud. Just. Talk to me, yes? Talk to me. Don’t tell me I’m slut. Don’t push me out. Don’t tell me you never want to see me again. It hurts me, kotenok. I love you. We talk and I make it better. Ok?”
“Ok,” Shane whispers, daring to lean in for a kiss. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“And I’m sorry.” He doesn’t think he has apologised enough yet. “You didn’t deserve that. You’re the best boyfriend.”
“Yes? I win boyfriend award?”
“If there was one, yes,” Shane laughs. “You’d win.”
“Better than Rose, huh?”
“Rose wasn’t my boyfriend.”
“You’re mean boyfriend tonight,” Ilya chuckles, pinching Shane’s buttcheek. “You wouldn’t win any boyfriend award.”
“No,” Shane smiles softly. “But if you let me, I’ll make up for it tomorrow.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t wait,” Ilya kisses him, soft and long and tender. A kiss that makes Shane’s toes curl and makes him want to forget about the exhaustion he feels in his body. But Ilya pulls back. “Sleep first, lyobov. Tomorrow you can apologise.”
Shane hums, pressing his own kisses to Ilya’s chest. “Can’t believe you’re really mine.”
“Yours,” Ilya whispers. “Ya obeshchayu.” I promise.