Garbageboii



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    A squawk, followed by an incensed, “Jesus! It’s Hayden! Hayden Pike! Shane’s best friend? A guy you’ve played against for years?”

    Oh. This is… not good.

    Ilya very slowly lowers himself down on the bed, spine straight. “Why are you calling?”

    Pike huffs. “Trust me, I don’t want to be.”

    “Okay, then, why? How do you know… Lily?”

    A beat. Then, “You’re Lily.”

    Protectiveness rears its ugly head. Severely, Ilya declares, “This is none of your fucking concern.”

    “He’s asking for you.”

    OR: when Shane gets hurt on the ice, Hayden Pike reaches out to Boston Lily.

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    22 Feb 2026

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    “So,” Ilya starts, drumming his fingers on his knees. “You want tuna melt when we get home?” 

    “What?” Shane says, distracted. “We just had dinner.” 

    “Yes,” Ilya says. “But you had children’s portion.” 

    Shane sends him an incredulous look. “I had two servings.” 

    “Of baby food.” 

    “Ilya.” 

    “Shane.” 

    Shane sighs. “Can we not do this? Please.” 

    Unfortunately for Shane, they must do this.

    Or: Shane's restrictive eating versus Hayden Pike and Ilya Rozanov.

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    22 Feb 2026

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    Rozanov concluded the interview with a nod, hefted his bag higher onto his shoulder, and turned to leave. Hayden’s first reaction was to notice that Rozanov had the same type of bag that Shane had brought to the arena by accident. That was then followed by the thought that it was funny that Rozanov’s bag had a worn out spot on the strap like the bag he’d been carrying earlier. And then some more capable portions of his brain informed him of the truth.

    Shane had accidentally brought Ilya Fucking Rozanov’s bag to the arena.
    ---
    Shane asks Hayden for a favor. Hayden comes to some wildly incorrect conclusions.

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    22 Feb 2026

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    Cliff had to approach this correctly, or Ilya was liable to sock him in the jaw and clam up entirely. Subtlety was his friend here.

    And all of that flew immediately out of his head the moment that Ilya opened his front door, looking sweaty and shirtless and mildly pissed off, which was pretty much his standard look.

    “Are you moving to Canada for some fuckboy?” was how the question came out of his mouth instead.
    ---
    AKA the time that Cliff Marleau figured almost all of it out

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    22 Feb 2026

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    “So,” Ilya says, dragging the word out. He’s swiping at non-existent crumbs on the counter, avoiding his eyes. “You have dinner at parents on Christmas, yes?” 

    “Yeah.” 

    Ilya nods. “I can house-sit while you are away. Make place pretty, if you have decorations. Make it less boring.” 

    Shane’s eyebrows fly up. “What? You don’t want to come with?” 

    Finally, Ilya looks up at him. Hesitantly, he asks, “You want me to come with?” 

    Frowning, Shane says, “I– yeah. Yeah, of course. You think I invited you here just so you could spend Christmas alone?” 

    Looking away, Ilya shrugs. “I am intruder here, Hollander. You have family. I do not. Makes situation… difficult, maybe. You forget the world thinks we are rivals.” 

    “Not difficult,” Shane says immediately. “You want to come, you’re coming.” 

    Or: Ilya's in Montreal alone during the week leading up to the Winter Classic. Shane doesn't let him spend Christmas alone.

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    22 Feb 2026