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OTTAWA – JANUARY 2026
Ilya was exhausted.
“Hm.”
There was no running from it. Ilya was completely fucking exhausted. Two weeks away from home. Plane, game, practice, plane, game, bus, game, practice, bus, game. Sleep. Sleep had come late and sporadically, leaving his brain worn out. He had dreamt of healing nights in the bed he had abandoned but instead had stolen minutes of sleep in uncomfortable hotel rooms, in cramped hard seats. He had longed for his own comfortable bed during the long dark nights away from home.
He had brought Home with him, though, and Home had been equally exhausting, draining his remaining energy on most nights. Home is wherever the heart is, or something like that, and Ilya had always felt that this was the dumbest English idiom and perhaps the most accurate one. Home had made itself around his heart and he had made his home in another. The opposite had not always been true and Ilya felt that now was probably not a good time to think about it. He frowned and glanced at the living monument to hockey that held his heart. He snorted and shook his head.
Shane Hollander, his husband, his teammate, his Home, was entertaining two of the Centaurs rookies with tales of unimportant games and even more boring ancient players. The rookies were glancing around looking for an exit. Ilya sniffed and bristled, a slow-coming anger building in his mind.
They had been home for two days and Zane Boodram, amazing left wing and exceptional barbecue expert, had invited the team to his garden. To his house, really. The weather outside was freezing. Ilya turned towards the bay window and inhaled. He nodded as he noticed the few scattered snowflakes falling in the darkness of the evening. Ilya closed his eyes and leaned against the back of Bood's expensive armchair. He wondered if Shane would carry him to his car and to their bed if he fell asleep on the soft comfortable cushion. He rubbed a hand on his cheek and sat even more comfortably, head hitting the headrest. Ilya was exhausted and could feel his cruel ruthless brain overcome the last barriers reason had laid in its path. The long-forgotten fears, the abject terror at losing himself, the dull pain of getting older creeped up his spine.
He blinked his eyes open and straightened his back, sitting closer to the edge of the chair's cushion. Ilya lifted an eyebrow in annoyance. He looked at his teammates mingling around in Bood's warm familiar living room. They had felt his exhaustion and probably his irritability and Shane had gently asked for a moment, brushing his fingertips against Ilya's forearm. He had had his moment and yet didn't feel refreshed or less annoyed. He scowled and shook his head, inhaling deeply.
Ilya stood up slowly and joined Evan Dykstra and Wyatt Hayes, his teammates, around the table that held the snacks. Salads, chips, carrot sticks and an abandoned half-eaten steak kebab, still on its skewer. He looked at the salad Shane had brought with them and scanned the room suspiciously. The bowl was almost empty. Quinoa, carrots and nuts almost gone, an obvious success. Ilya wondered if his teammates had tried too hard to make Shane comfortable by eating his dumb disgusting salad.
“Ah no,” said Ilya, grimacing.
“What d'you say, Roz?” Ilya glanced at Dykstra and realized he had said the words out loud.
“Is good salad. Shane took time to make it.”
“Yeah! The kids actually liked it, too,” said Hayes with a smile. “You got yourself a private chef, Cap.”
“Oh, we meant to look into that with Caitlin! Getting a cook, you know... Would make things easier!" Dykstra interjected.
“I thought you guys liked cooking?” Hayes said, an eyebrow quirked up.
“Yeah... But Cait is getting too competitive about it. It's like we have to one up the other at every fucking meal. I feel like I'm on masterchef,” Dykstra answered and then sighed like having a wife who challenged him was something to sigh about. And perhaps it was. Ilya shook his head discreetly, disapprovingly.
“Feeling better, Rozy?” Hayes asked.
“Hm...”
Ilya thought his 'hm' was acknowledgement enough and instead of saying more, jammed a handful of crushed chips into his mouth. The chips had been loose in a bowl but Ilya had imagined the bag had a 'Hell on earth" spelled on it. The powder covering every millimeter of the crumbs burnt his tongue and he made an angry irritated face, just as Shane turned towards him. Ilya looked at him and smiled a slow tired smile.
This was the monument to hockey, the Home that had built itself around Ilya's heart. This was the love of his life, the love of every one of his lives. The frozen rink under his skates, the icy wind in his hair, the exquisite rush of a goal. Shane was the reason Ilya kept waking up every morning. He was the reason and the result of the last twenty years of forbidden pleasures and stubborn feelings. He was quiet mornings and fierce skating. He was the anchor, and the ship Ilya loved to relax on. He was the captain, too. He was everything Ilya had been meant to love in this world. The softness, the beauty, the body, the freckles, the talent, the confidence.
Ilya felt that this interminable enumeration of Shane's attributes was keeping him from the enticing vision of the man he called 'husband' and 'pomidor', and who was walking towards him now with a beautiful, happy smile. Ilya blushed and willed himself to stop. In vain. Shane smiled more.
Ilya narrowed his eyes at him, his cheeks turning a darker pink. Shane chuckled softly and laid his warm hand on Ilya's lower back. Ilya bumped his shoulder against his husband's and stayed close to him. Shane leaned forward and tilted the salad bowl he had brought, looking inside and huffed a proud laugh.
Ilya was in love with every last sound Shane made and this one was a favorite. It was a rare occurrence. It usually escaped Shane's mouth when someone, a long-dead traitor or a loving mother-in-law, was reminding Ilya of Shane's indisputable superiority on the ice. Ilya shook his head, annoyed at the obvious truth.
“No?” Shane was frowning as he said, “then let's go home, Ilya.”
“No. Why?”
“Because I just asked you if you were okay and you said no.”
Ilya didn't remember hearing or answering the question and knew that the sleepless nights were taking their toll, fogging up his mind. “I didn't say anything.”
“No... You shook your head? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I am better now.” Ilya touched Shane's hand, unable to express the relief he felt standing next to him and hoping that the simple touch would suffice.
“You're not.”
“I am,” Ilya said, knowing that he wasn't, nor would he ever be.
“Ilya.”
“Shane,” Ilya responded with an ill-tempered voice.
Ilya hated the tone Shane used to make his worry and annoyance known. If he were that annoyed, perhaps he should just leave Ilya alone to stuff his stupid face with potato flakes and hell dust. Ilya stepped backwards, away from Shane and looked at the hard maple floor between them.
“I'm taking you home, Ilya.”
“Hm... Da. You could try. Maybe Hazy cou-” Ilya turned towards Wyatt and realised they were now alone standing next to the table, their teammates on the other side of the room. Where had Ilya's mind gone? He was too tired to keep a firm grasp on reality. He huffed a laugh and shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He scoffed.
“No. I am not too tired. I'm okay, lyubimyy.”
“Yeah sure. You look so fucking well-rested, too.” Shane pressed his palm onto Ilya's left cheek and Ilya leaned instinctively to rest his forehead against his husband's with a sigh. He smiled. Shane was never too publicly expressive in his love, preferring lingering gazes to lingering kisses, quick touches over a languid embrace. Ilya wondered if Shane was still too worried and too ashamed to share their love in front of everybody. He made a sad face, his eyes dropping onto Shane's lips, a few centimeters away and Shane frowned.
“Hey...” Shane brushed his thumb over Ilya's lip and Ilya nuzzled his way into the crook of Shane's neck. “What's going on, Ilya?”
“Nothing,” Ilya lied.
It wasn't nothing. Ilya was feeling the weight of a decade of deeply rooted secrets and exceedingly hidden encounters. His mind was deftly torturing him, bringing up old fears and painful memories. Lack of sleep and melancholia contributing their fair share. Ilya whimpered against Shane's skin and Shane wrapped his arm around Ilya's shoulder.
“Let me get you home, ,” Shane whispered.
Ilya hummed his pleasure at hearing the words but shook his head.
“Then at least come sit with me. And if you fall asleep, it's okay. I'll- I'll take you home later.” Shane's voice in Ilya's ear was too sweet and too distant, as if they were separated by the Atlantic Ocean again and not intertwined like they really were. Ilya closed his eyes, tightly and sighed.
“I already am.” Ilya breached the gap that remained between the two of them and pressed himself against Shane's stiff tense body, his anguish forgotten. Ilya shook his head again and inhaled deeply.
Shane huffed a laugh and laced his fingers through Ilya's hair. “Me too.”
“No... Is not-” Ilya stopped himself.
“Is not what?”
“Take me home please. I would like to go home.” Ilya said, his voice shaky. He was suddenly too anxious to stay a minute longer in Bood's house.
“Ok. Did you take your pill this morning?”
Shane could sometimes ask the stupidest of questions. If Ilya had an ounce of courage, of energy left, he would have bitten back that, yes, the pill had been taken, that Shane had been the one to take it out of the pill box as usual, that he had lain it on the kitchen island next to a glass of tepid depressing water. Instead, he nodded once.
Ilya shuddered and stepped back from Shane's warmth, avoiding the warm fiery amber of his eyes. He glanced up at Shane's tense frowning face and opened his mouth trying to say something. Something equally stupid and reckless. Ilya closed his eyes and bit his lip. He looked at Shane with a cold tired expression on his face.
“I would like to go home, please.”
“Yeah.” Shane was frowning at him like he was seeing him for the first time: a lazy asshole, a weak lazy asshole. Shane ran away and Ilya felt his heart beat faster in his chest. He headed towards the massive wooden front door, alone. He needed air, but couldn't get his hand to open the door. He brought it to his face, pressing it into one eye while closing the other. He breathed out a sigh of relief, appreciating the dark emptiness behind his eyelids.
A soft 'hey' burst through the void and Ilya opened his eyes. Shane's eager face in front of his, his hand on the one Ilya kept on his cheek... And Bood looking at him with a concerned frown.
“I have a headache,” Ilya lied through clenched teeth.
“Right. Anything I can do?” Bood was looking at Shane, instead of at Ilya and Ilya bristled at being babied by his teammate and his husband. He scrunched his nose and touched his ear, like it could save him, somehow.
“No. Hollander is... He is...” Ilya couldn't finish his thought, much less his sentence.
“I'm taking him home and into bed.”
“You'd better, Hollzy.” Bood opened the door and led them out into the glorious fresh air. “You take care of yourself, Cap, eh?”
“Just headache,” Ilya shrugged. “I will take Hollander's stupid pill and then sleep. I will be fine.”
Bood glanced at Shane, a knowing look on his face, and smiled tenderly at Ilya. He nodded slowly, clearly seeing through Ilya's lie. Ilya felt like he could take him. One on one. Sure, he was bigger but Ilya would gladly suffer through the pain of a purposefully placed fist if it meant that Zane Boodram had stopped looking at him like that.
He closed his eyes and disappeared into the dark void while Shane offered their goodbyes and his 'of course, we'll come back next time' and 'just give me the salad bowl tomorrow'. When Ilya opened his eyes, Shane was looking at him with a sad worried face, their fingers woven together.
“I know. Let's go home.” Shane squeezed his hand and stepped towards the driveway and his car at the end of it. Ilya refused to budge, stuck like a stupid spooked horse terrified of the dumb little mouse on its path. Shane looked back with a frown.
“You ran away,” Ilya said with a weak small voice.
“What? No... When? It was a long time ago, Ilya. I'm here.”
“Ah, no...” Ah, yes.... Shane had run away, preferring the easy way out that Rose Landry had provided. Maybe he should have kept going. He would have been better off without Ilya. Not hiding away in secret, not keeping Ilya's name out of his mouth unless it was used for scathing remarks and unnecessary chirps, not wasting his life away. “Inside... I was alone,” Ilya explained, pointing back to the door.
Shane frowned. “Ilya, you left. I was just saying goodbye to the guys, and you were gone.”
Ilya shook his head, knowing fully well that Shane could leave him at a moment's notice if he so much as uttered his first name. Had done so already.
“Ilya.” Shane brought his hands to either side of Ilya's face and gazed into Ilya's hazel eyes, a distressed look on his face. What a good job Ilya was doing again, turning the dial up on the weird behavior and freaking his husband out. His husband for however long Shane wanted to be. He blinked himself back away from the shitty reality his mind had conjured. Tried to.
“Listen,” Shane nodded when Ilya finally focused his eyes on his. “I'm right here. I'm not running away. Ever again.”
“You should.”
Ilya had blurted out his response. It felt inevitable and heavy. Too thick like an impossibly leathery bite of steak you can't wait to spit out. Shane had his eyes fixed on him, burning a hole through his face. Ilya swallowed around the guilt in his throat and started to shiver in the cold air. No, he wasn't. He was trembling pathetically at the utter, utter stupidity that had escaped his lips.
“Shane,” Ilya whispered, painfully.
Shane smiled softly, his curving lips hiding his pain away. “Let's get you home, .”
Shane wrapped his arm around Ilya's waist and walked him to the car without another word. As he sat in front of the wheel, Shane struggled through a tense 'I love you' and Ilya nodded, frowning. He shook his head and grabbed onto Shane's wrist abruptly.
“You love me, yes?”
Shane was about to press the starter button of the car and instead turned towards Ilya completely, folding his hands around Ilya's.
“Yes. I love you. I don't know what's happening in your head right now, Ilya, but I fucking love you and I always will.”
This was too clear and too honest to manipulate in any way, shape, or form. Ilya felt Shane's love fight the terrifying unfounded fear in his heart. The tenacious anguish relented. Ilya breathed in deeply and nodded, laying his hand on Shane's thigh.
“I love you, too.”
“I know, Ilya. I've never been more sure of anything else. Ever.” Shane smiled.
Ilya's eyes filled with tears and he brushed his fingers under his eyes, expecting wet sad tears, finding only the cold harsh truth that he was a weak emasculated man. A man who had fallen for another in spite of the years of propaganda and shame that had been instilled in him by Russia, by his father. He bit his lip and felt twin tears fall down his cheeks. Ilya turned his head towards the window and looked outside, hiding his deficiencies from the man who knew all of them.
Shane started the car and looked towards Ilya again, his hand caressing Ilya's shoulder. “Please sleep. I'll wake you when we're home.”
Ilya nodded but didn't, despite the bone-crushing fatigue that had turned his own mind against him. The depressing anguish inside of him kept him awake the whole way, whispering awful truths and dangerous lies. His forehead against the cold glass of the window, he had tried keeping it all at bay and had succeeded for a while, using Shane's presence like a guiding light in the dark. But his simple weary brain was too weak and too tired to fight the hard harrowing feelings.
At home, Shane disappeared into the kitchen 'for a second, Ilya' and Ilya considered locking himself up in the ensuite bathroom. Not that that would make a difference. A pointless cheap trick against the voice in his head. Instead Ilya faced himself, alone and miserable, in the mirror and kept the door open. Hoping for what? Some kind of help?
In the safest, warmest place he knew, Ilya felt himself barrel through life, his life, their lives. In reverse. Shane joining the Centaurs, the salacious comments online. Their wedding, the chirps over the stupid chairs. Shane slipping on the ice, the lies in and outside of locker rooms. The video that had outed them, the relief before the awful tweets. Living between Montreal and Ottawa and barely living between Montreal and Boston. The habits they had learned to break at the cottage only to reinstate a couple months later. Hiding. Constantly.
The hiding hadn't been the worst thing. The pretending had been much more excruciating. The professional cold handshakes, the repressed feelings. Knowing for years that he had loved Shane and not being able to actually act on it. Keeping it from himself, even. Lying. Constantly.
The rivalry hadn't helped. The never ending pitting against each other when the only thing he had wanted to do was kiss and touch Shane forever. Why the fuck hadn't he? Why had he been so fucking scared all the time? What a fucking pussy! They had played their dumb little parts. Chirping on TV and in articles. Checking ruthlessly on the ice. Competing for dumb trophies. Best rookie, first draft, MLH Cup. The knowledge that Shane would always be better than him. The jealousy. The envy. The HATRED.
Ilya opened his mouth and frowned. He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned some more.
“No. That is not true. Is not true.”
It was. It fucking was! Shane Hollander was undoubtedly better. Ilya Rozanov was, according to multiple sources and the MLH statistics experts, the second best player in the league. And he knew it! He fucking knew it, having looked at the latest assists and goals stats in the past two days. What a fucking moron! Losing your memories, already, Ilyusha?
Ilya felt his heart beat faster and he began breathing erratically, shaking his head, like he could silence the voice in his head.
“No. Is not true. I don't hate him. I don't... I love him. I've never hated him. Never.”
Ilya remembered a cold November in 2016 and dropped his head against the cold sink of the bathroom. You should bash your head on it. He remembered an early December and its tabloid pictures and the gossip online. Just do it. He remembered a sad January and the lights of a Montreal club. Come on, Ilyusha.
Ilya breathed in and nodded against the sink. He felt the tears run down his cheeks and onto the floor, his stomach churning a horrible mix of pain and anger. Deep down, Ilya knew he still harboured the same hatred he had felt then, the same ang-
“Net! Shut up...”
Ilya straightened and scowled at his own reflection, shaking his head. With a murderous look, he tried to gather the weak listless remnants of his once contemptuous, boastful bravery. What a brave little boy, Ilyushka. 'My brave little boy.' Ilya bit his lip as he remembered his mother's wor-
“Hey, hey! Ilya!” Shane burst into the bathroom and looked at Ilya with worried eyes. “What the fuck are you saying?”
“I don't hate you!” Ilya wiped his tears and touched Shane's arm, inviting him closer.
“No, I know. Ilya...” Shane wrapped his arms around Ilya and hugged him tight. “Who were you talking too?”
“Hm... Myself... Probably.” Ilya buried his face in Shane's neck.
“You were insulting yourself? Ilya?” Shane moved his hand softly over Ilya's back and Ilya leaned into it, like a baby who needs his mother's touch. Too bad, Ilyushka. Too late.
Ilya whimpered, but then bit back, “he keeps saying bullshit!”
“Who?” Shane asked, stepping back. Away, far away from his worthless boyfriend.
“He says the stupidest shit, Shane! He called you a living monument to hockey. And me, lazy and weak... What is that?”
The truth! The fucking truth, Ilya!
“Who are you talking about?” Shane's bright brown eyes dropped to Ilya's shaking hands, clearly looking for Ilya's phone and his usual stupid tendency to shame the living shit out of a Montreal fan online, on a day to day basis. Ilya knew, of course he knew, that Shane despised his constant need to vilify innocent bystanders.
“They fucking deserve it!” He glowered to no one and raised his hands in the air. “Also too many fucking adjectives, Shane!”
“What's going on?” Shane said in a worried voice, taking Ilya's hands in his.
Did you take your pill this morning, Ilyushka?
“Yes!! I fuckin-” Ilya looked at Shane's beautiful terrified face and stopped himself from spewing more mad idiotic words. He wondered if Shane would still love him if he was crazy.
Probably not!
“Would you?” He asked.
“Would I what? Ilya, you're scaring me.”
You're doing this to him, Ilya. You're the one doing this. Did Rose Landry ever do that?
Ilya shook his head, and then pointed at his own head. “In my head... I don't know... I... He said that if I was crazy you wouldn't love me.”
Shane frowned. And touched Ilya's chest, gently. So fucking gently. Ilya didn't deserve so much love, so much affection. He didn't.
“Ilya. What did I say in the car?”
Ilya nodded slowly, like a lazy asshole.
“Say it, Ilya.”
Ilya grasped Shane's hand on his chest and held on. He nodded weakly. The valiant effort of a simple infatuated heart beating in a loving comfortable home.
“Always. You said always.” He sniffed and dried his tears with his other hand.
Ah, fuck.
“That's fucking right. So don't fucking listen to what's in your head, please. I'm right here. And you're not going crazy.”
“No?” Ilya asked stupidly. He wasn't crazy, just incredibly dumb and weak and lazy and rude and angry and incompetent and-
Shane removed his hand only to wrap it around Ilya's instead. “Maybe a bit,” Shane smiled sweetly and pressed his lips to Ilya's cheek. “But who isn't?”
“You're not,” Ilya shook his head pathetically.
Shane smiled more and huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Please, Ilya. I ran away from you once. I'd say that was crazy. And the diet and the secret relationship? We've been crazy together for a long time, moya lyubov.”
Ilya nodded slowly, lazily. “We can be crazy together forever.”
“Yeah, for sure. But first, I think you need to sleep. Like right now. You haven't been sleeping right for weeks.”
“What if I can't?”
Shane huffed a laugh. “Oh, you will.”
“What if he won't let me?”
“If it doesn't let you, I'll tell it to fuck off. Or I'll blow you or something. It's great medicine, I've been told.”
Ilya huffed a pitiful laugh. “I'm sorry.”
Shane kissed Ilya's shoulder and turned his lips to Ilya's ear. “Fuck off...” Shane whispered and leaned back with a smile, staring at Ilya's face. “I love you.”
Ilya nodded.
“Do you need help?”
“No, lyubov moya. I will manage. I will call Galina in the morning.”
“Please do. But first, sleep.
Yes.
You ready? Brushed your teeth?
No.
I'll help you.
OK.
OK.
I love you too, Ilya. So much.
I know.