Work Text:
Ilya knew he messed up the second the door was closed with a loud bang after Shane had left.
He couldn’t help but stare in front of himself, trying and failing to process what had just happened. Yet, even through the buzzing noise of his thoughts running ten miles per second, he still knew that the thunderous sound was not intentional.
It was not the first time that Ilya had the chance to witness how Shane Hollander was picking up his stuff in the room after they were done messing around. Flickering in front of him, like he wasn’t sure of what was happening, like he wasn’t entirely sure of what he was doing.
At first, Shane would quickly put on his boxers, almost shy, and always in a rush, like he was embarrassed, like Ilya wasn’t on his knees in front of him just a few minutes ago. Then comes the socks, left one first, then the right one, and only after comes the pants. More often than not, Shane would lose the battle with the belt like it was an Iron Man suit rather than a simple loop with some holes. Boots and a t-shirt would be the last items he would put on before leaving.
That’s how many times Ilya watched him go.
Enough to memorise the order.
However, it was the first time that Ilya felt that something was wrong. Never before had Shane freaked out so much, not even the first time when they hooked up.
This time, Shane left without saying much, and somehow it felt like a dot in their story. However, Ilya refused to believe so; their story cannot be over, not when he still felt like writing pages.
Ilya Rozanov knew he screwed up; he knew he shouldn’t have opened up to another man. Shane left, and it was his fault, and he would make it up to the Canadian rising star when he saw him the next time.
Yet, somehow, the Russian player got the cold, sticky feeling that he would not see Shane for a long time.
***
Sixteen hours after Shane Hollander had left his place, Ilya found himself at the only place where he could feel at peace - he was at the ice rink.
It was not the game, yet, just a regular practice between his teammates, and this type of competition used to excite Ilya. This was his safe space. He would play around, trying new tactics, using new tricks, observing how the team was taking it. Calculating the chances of winning this friendly rivalry between people he had known for years.
Although even if it was just a practice, Ilya was always coolheaded when it came to hockey. Nothing could put him out of the game. When he was on ice, the division between the game and the real world would disappear. All his attention, thoughts, and strength were fully focused on the game.
But not today.
Skating around, Ilya grabbed the hockey stick more firmly in his hands, moving the puck in the direction of the net. He turned his head just in time to see that one of his teammates was ready to snatch the puck, so he made a quick decision to pass it to Cliff.
The pass was clean, and he observed how Cliff skated with the puck before shooting it directly into the net.
The part of the team that scored the goal erupted into cheering and high-fiving, while the rest were sulking at the side.
However, Ilya could barely see that. No, all he saw was Shane’s scared face. The face of a person on the verge of freaking out. He looked so lost in control. Ilya had no idea what to say or do.
All he could utter was his bellowed ‘Hollander’.
So quietly, so vulnerable… like a plea.
“Rozanow, you with us?” the coach’s voice rang from the benches, and Ilya shook his head, pulling himself back from the memories.
“Yes, coach,” he shouted back, skating to the center of the rink to start the new game.
Now was not the time or place to let his guard down; he had a game to win.
***
It’s been weeks. Months, actually, until Ilya heard about Shane Hollander again.
About… not from.
And it was killing him, each day burdened with the ache of wondering what went wrong.
Stirring his boring high-protein oatmeal, Ilya was checking his phone when he saw the news.
A simple pop-up recommendation from some gossip magazine.
How bad could it be?
At first, he didn’t even want to open it. After all, what could be interesting in the article from some stupid girly website, but what caught his attention was Shane. Shane, who was photographed by paparazzi leaving some restaurant, hand in hand with Rose Landry of all people.
Now this was worth reading.
The content of the article didn’t provide any valuable information, apart from the fact that it was the first time they were spotted together… Just the two of them. He saw a similar article when one of his teammates had shown it to him when the team was in the gym.
Nothing was confirmed yet.
But somehow, Ilya got the feeling that the confirmation was just a matter of time.
Taking a deep breath, the man moved the bowl with his suddenly tasteless breakfast away from himself.
He was hungry, but not for food.
“Konechno ti poidjosh na svidanie s Rose Landry. Kak zhe inache?” Ilya muttered into his phone. “Nu i delaj shto hochesh, Hollander,” wrinkling his nose, the man put away his phone, avoiding the temptation to read some comments under the article. (Of course, you will go out with Rose Landry of all people. Why wouldn’t you? Whatever, I don’t care, Hollander.)
He knew what he would read there. Hundreds of people are losing their minds over how cute the couple is, how great they look together, how right…
Didn’t matter; Shane can do whatever and whoever he wants, and he clearly didn’t want Ilya in this. He made that pretty clear. And the man was determined to do the same.
After all, what's the matter? They weren’t together, they weren’t even friends. They were just blowing some steam, simply hooking up when it was convenient for both of them.
That’s all it was.
They were not anything, he said that himself.
Their mornings at his place didn’t mean anything, breakfast over tuna melt and ginger ale, which was just the right temperature Shane preferred, it was nothing.
The heart that was missing a beat every time Ilya would look Shane in the eyes. Just a coincidence.
There were no deep feelings.
No string attached.
Yet, as soon as Ilya saw the photo of Shane and Rose Landry, a sharp tug at his heart startled him, surprising him with the depth of his reaction.
It’s nothing.
However, to start his morning with vodka instead of coffee never sounded more alluring.
***
Lying on the sofa in the living space of his apartment, Ilya couldn’t tear his eyes away from the large tv screen installed on the wall. The room was dark, and the only source of light was the flickering screen with the sports game playing on it.
A hockey game.
The hockey game Ilya was not a part of. Yet, his attention was fully on the game, and even if a meteor would fall from the sky on his place, the last thing Ilya would see would be the familiar blue and white, with a little red jersey with such a close to heart ‘24’ on it.
At this point, it was simply ridiculous. Ilya remembered how a few years ago, he couldn’t bear to see Shane on the screen, thinking he was some snobby know-it-all player. A rising star, his ass.
However, this was before.
Before Ilya learned the colour of Shane’s eyes, and how they looked brighter under the sunlight. Before he got the chance to wake up with the man in his arms, being so close he could count every freckle on Shane’s face. Before he learned Shane’s favourite drink, before he found out the man’s favourite place to play, or the song he listens to on repeat before each game.
Before Ilya got the chance to figure out Shane Hollander.
After everything they shared, Ilya cannot believe that there wasn’t a single message shared between them over the last four months.
Countless times, Ilya went back into his memory of that dreadful night, replaying their last conversation over and over again in his head. Every move. Every syllable that was uttered that day. Minute over minute, but he knew he was missing something.
Everything was great. Amazing actually. Although if it really was that great, Shane would never freak out. Yet, he did. Ilya wanted him to stay; he was so close to saying it, screw this, he was so close to begging this man to stay, to talk, anything, but not leaving.
‘I can’t do this anymore.’
Ilya would lie if he said this didn’t hurt.
It hurt more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.
What did he do wrong, huh?
It has to be him. It’s always him. He was still wondering why Svetlana hadn’t run away from him, yet. Maybe the distance helped. Yet again, Hollander still got sick of him, even if they were meeting once every few months.
Maybe it was a matter of time until Svetlana would go, too.
The cheering of the crowd from the screen brought him back from the depths of his mind. The game was over.
The Montreal team won.
Ilya watched the close-up shots of Shane, all sweaty and tired, but so happy, with this spark in his eyes, telling Ilya everything he thought at that moment. The team was all hugging together, screaming, crying, but every once in a while, the camera would return to Shane.
Ilya watched this with a beathed breath, a soft smile playing on his lips.
He was so proud of Shane.
Too bad, Shane Hollander would never know about it.
***
The darkness of the room was highlighted by the colourful lights that were changing with the beat of the music, creating just the right vibe for the underground club. The dance floor was full of already drunk people, dancing, jumping, or simply vibing to the remixes the DJ had put on.
It was the weekend, and just after 1AM, of course, the club would be full, so there was no surprise that it had been ten minutes and Ilya just now managed to get Svetlana’s and his drinks.
An Espresso Martini for her, and a Negroni for him.
Moving through the sea of people, Ilya finally spotted his friend on a dancefloor, moving so freely and in sync with the music, like the dancefloor belonged to her and her only.
Just a year or two ago, Ilya wouldn’t have been able to take his eyes away from her. No, he would join her, sneaking his hands around her waist, bringing her back to his front. He would snarl at any guy who would look her way, while peppering her neck with biting kisses. They would leave after an hour or so, and then would have crazy hot sex at his place.
That’s how it was for years.
But not today.
After handing Svetlana her drink, he quickly moved to take a place at one of those round high-standing tables before the girl would be able to drag him into dancing.
He felt like a jerk just standing here when Svetlana specifically took him here so he could take his mind off of whatever was bothering him and just have fun.
Drink.
Dance.
But, unfortunately, to every girl who was eyeing him since the moment he entered the club, he was in the mood to dance with only one person right now.
And he wasn’t here.
To take his mind away from Shane Hollander, Ilya pulled out his phone. And this was a mistake. Because the very first notification he had seen was the reason for his suffering.
‘Shane Hollanger was spotted having dinner with Rose Landry and her friends.’
Just what he needed.
Knowing it was a doomed idea, Ilya took a few large gulps of his drink, feeling the burning sensation of the gin, and opened the article about his… rival.
Skipping over the text, he swiped a few photos of Shane and Rose together. Looking happy and cute, Ilya felt like he wanted to throw up.
The photo of Shane and Rose cuddling, while raising their wine glasses to the camera, really pissed Ilya off. The article was followed by ‘old’ photos from the time the couple was spotted before, but Ilya didn’t bother to look at them.
He had seen them a few times already, so there was no point in it, instead he returned to the very first photo of the article.
It was like Ilya just couldn’t look away from the photo of Shane with Rose’s famous friends, or Shane and Rose in a movie theater for some stupid horror movie. That actually made Ilya snort. Did Rose not know that Shane hated horror movies?
Closing the app, the man finished his drink in one big gulp and tried to look around for a distraction, yet it felt as if wherever he looked, he saw Shane and Rose together.
Growling, he went to the bar, ordering a shot of vodka, just to calm his nerves down. It didn’t help, but at least now he could blame vodka for the fact that a minute later, he opened his messages with Jane and typed a quick text.
Lily: Drinking wine during the game time? So unprofessional.
“Chevo odin tut?” A girl in a neon pink mini dress approached him, running her fingers up and down his arm, and Ilya nearly dropped his phone from how unexpected it was. (Are you all by yourself here?)
She smiled at him when his eyes roamed over her body. Gosh, a year ago, he would immediately order her whatever she wanted, they would drink, then dance, and after some time, he would take her to his place.
Now thought? He felt absolutely nothing as he looked at her.
“Uzhe ne odin,” he replied, forcing a playful smirk, trying to wake up the old Ilya who would never mope because of some boring Canadian player. (Not anymore.)
She smiled slyly, leaning closer to him, and Ilya hated that he didn’t feel a thing.
Ignoring the traitorous ache in his chest, Ilya took the girl’s hand, not bothering to ask for her name, and led her to the center of a dance floor.
Moving together, she was wrapping herself around him, and yet, the man couldn’t find in himself even the spark of interest. Svetlana gave him a thumbs up while some asshole was dancing with her, but Ilya could barely match her excitement.
He wanted to throw up again.
The song changed, and the girl decided to act up. Ilya understood that the moment she grabbed his face and kissed him on the lips.
Ilya wanted to throw up even more.
Because that just wasn’t right. The lips were wrong, the person was wrong. Everything was not right.
Ilya thought that kissing with his eyes closed would be fine, that he could imagine someone else, that he would be okay.
He wasn’t.
Breaking the kiss, he looked at the quite offended girl, and shook his head.
“Mne pora,” was the only thing he said, before literally running out of the club for the sudden need of fresh air. (I need to go.)
Only when the cold wind of Moscow streets hit his face did he feel like he could breathe again.
This was not good. Running a hand through his hair, he grabbed at the roots, feeling his heart beat in his throat. This was just terrible, and he had no idea how to deal with this. How can he stop his brain from thinking about Shane Hollander? How could he stop comparing every other person to this boring asshole?
Reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, he pulled one out, full of the desire to shut his mind up. As he lit up the cigarette, Ilya felt the buzz of his phone. Shaking his head, he quickly unlocked his phone, believing it must be Svetlana who lost him in the club.
It was not.
Jane: Fuck you!
Snorting at how accurate it was, Ilya muttered into the dark of the night, exhaling the smoke.
“Yeah, fuck me.”
***
Weeks were passing by, bringing Ilya closer to the date of the big game.
Hours were spent in the gym, getting in the best shape possible. Treadmills, lifting weights, stretching. Ilya would go to his training room first thing in the morning, then again during the day, take a break, and then spend some more time there.
His teammates were impressed with his discipline, and the coach cited his dedication as an example.
And only he knew that the only reason he was in the gym was that the physical activity was taking his mind off the rest of the world.
His world.
Which was recently shrunk to one particular dark-haired Canadian hockey player with ridiculously cute freckles.
He was at the team’s gym, doing his usual routine, when one of the players switched the channels of a big tv they had in there. Now, instead of a weather guy, there was a large photo of Shane Hollander going hand in hand with Rose.
Apparently, the couple was caught by paparazzi, and it was obvious that neither of them had really expected that, based on the pissed-off look Shane was having. They were on their way to some kind of Mexican restaurant as the rest of the photos were taken from there, and wait…
Shane hated Mexican food; it was way too spicy for him.
Yet, all the comments the person on TV was making were about how cute they are together, what an adorable couple they were, and what a nice date they most likely had.
As if.
Flaring his nostrils, Ilya doubled the speed on the treadmill, willing nothing more but to escape this feeling of something inside grasping his heart.
He didn’t have time for his stupid feelings.
“Bljatj,” he muttered, the moment he knew that he could not escape Shane Hollander even here.
***
Ilya was both excited and dreading the moment he would have to step on ice.
Today was a big game, and he just finished giving his ‘inspirational’ speech as a captain of the Boston team. Yet, the reason for his nerves was not the game. It was who he would see on the ice.
Shane Hollander.
After seven months of silence, he would have to play face-to-face with Shane, and for the first time in his career, Ilya wasn’t sure if he was ready to face him. In a matter of minutes, they would meet at the rink, and Rozanov’s heart had broken all speed limits as if the game was already finished and not just about to begin.
The music started to play, and one by one the players skated into the rink when their names were called. After the introductory part was over, it was time for Ilya to skate to the center of the rink when he felt that his heart skipped a beat.
Because Shane Hollander was doing the same.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Now was definitely not the time to lose his mind over the man. Head in the game. Nothing else mattered.
Stopping at the red line, Ilya took a look at the man in front of him. Slowly, his eyes traveled from skates up to the face he saw only in his dreams and gossip magazines over the last few months.
It was hard to see precisely, the stupid helmet was not allowing Ilya to look closely, but he did see that Shane was studying him too.
Ilya felt the hot wave run through his body, forming a knot somewhere in his lower belly. He couldn’t help but smirk when Shane quickly turned his head away after being caught staring.
Taking another deep breath, Ilya put on his usual smirk, as if he wasn’t bothered that he had to play against his ex… rival? Like he didn’t imagine this particular moment a hundred times in his head just today. Sliding closer to the red line and getting into position, Ilya tilted his head up to look at Shane. The man’s full attention was on ice, waiting for the puck to drop, and a sly smile sneaked on Ilya’s face as he said:
“So, Hollander,” he started, putting on his fake confidence. “You liked the opera?” Ilya asked, referring to the article he read this morning.
It was childish, he knew that pretty well, but he couldn’t help but snort when he read that Rose brought Shane to the opera a few days ago, over his breakfast. Not believing it at first, Ilya had to reread it a few times just to make sure, and even then, he took it with skepticism.
He knew it damn well that Shane Hollander hated opera.
“Shut up, Rozanov,” Shane muttered, still not looking at him.
Well, that just wouldn’t do.
“You looked pretty,” Ilya added, noticing how Shane grabbed his stick more firmly. Finally, some kind of reaction. “In yellow sweater.”
“It was a gift,” Shane gritted through his teeth. “From Rose.”
The sound of a whistle from a referee saved Ilya from doing something stupid. Good for him, and probably for Shane too, since the man most likely would not appreciate his comment.
The second the puck touched the ice, Ilya snatched it right under Shane’s nose, moving in the direction of the defending zone. He could hear the Montreal player sliding behind him, so thinking fast, Ilya passed the puck to Cliff, only to receive it seconds later to try and score the first goal of the game.
Of course, it couldn’t be so easy, and the puck was snatched and passed to the opposite side of the rink, and all that was left was to follow the flow of the game.
Ilya rarely allowed himself to get distracted by his emotions during the game. Always stone-minded, present in the game, nothing else mattered.
But not today.
The moment Shane got a hold of the puck gave Ilya the chance to press the man to the boards, making it look to anyone else that he was trying to get the puck, when in reality he pressed Shane particularly hard, whispering:
“When will she learn, huh?”
The simple phrase distracted the man enough for Ilya to steal the puck. Seeing his chance, Ilya moved to the defence zone, avoiding any of the obstacles on his way. Swing. Silence. Goal.
The crowd blew up with cheering, his team skated to him, clapping him on the shoulder or hugging him, yet all Ilya could see was Shane.
Shane, who was looking him dead in the eyes, as if trying to read his mind. Like he wasn’t understanding what just happened. Ilya could practically see how the wheels were turning inside the man’s head. He knew that look. Shane was lost, he was confused, and he wasn’t sure what to do next.
Not good for the Montreal team.
The game started again. A whistle was blown. The puck was dropped.
Shane was too slow to snatch the puck, but he was quick to follow Ilya when he moved into the defence zone of the rink. Before Shane could steal the puck, Ilya passed it to Cliff, so he could continue with the play.
He did not expect that Shane would still check him into the boards.
“The fuck you’re talking about, Rozanov?” Shane hissed before moving away from him.
Oh, that just got interesting.
Winking at the clearly pissed-off Shane, Ilya skated away, quickly picking up the pace to follow the puck. Adrenalin was pumping in his veins, and despite the fact that it was not for the first time this happened during the game, it was the first time it happened not because of the game.
Hayden had the puck, and the Boston players followed him, while Montreal was intertwining in all ways possible. Shane received a pass, and it was a perfect time for Ilya to show up again.
Skating with all his force, he tried to snatch the puck from his situationship. They were pushing back and front, pressing way too close, and before a pass was made from Shane, Ilya managed to say:
“When will you learn, Hollander?”
He could feel Shane’s eyes on him; his back was burning with the intensity of the gaze, making Ilya roll his shoulders.
The game continued, the crowd was going wilder and wilder with each new goal, yet all that mattered was that Shane could not take his eyes off him. And somehow he got the feeling that the puck that he was now leading to the net was only partially the reason for that.
The puck went near the net, and Ilya hurried to catch up with it, only to be slammed into the boards once again, the second his stick had touched the puck.
Of course, by no one other than Shane Hollander.
He expected a lot of things.
But he was not ready for Shane’s next words.
“1434,” he hissed while trying to snatch the puck, and a cold shiver ran through Ilya’s body. “9 PM, don’t be late.”
Smiling, Ilya chuckled, despite being kicked in the ribs.
“Oh, I will be there,” he promised, before maneuvering the stick, passing the puck away from them.
Smirking, Ilya skated away from Shane.
“But first, get ready to lose, Hollander!” he said, before going for the puck.
He had a game to win, after all.
***
Taking a deep breath, Ilya balled his hands into fists, only to let go a second later. His eyes were glued to the wooden surface of the door that currently separated him from Shane. He was one knock away from seeing the man he desired for so long.
Yet, he couldn’t find it in himself to raise his hand.
Every time he tried, the ice-cold feeling of something sticky squeezing inside his chest made him pause.
It’s been a long time since something, or better say, someone made him feel that way.
The problem was that Ilya had no idea what to expect from this meeting. He had been standing in front of the similar doors, the ones separating him from Shane, dozens of times before over the last several years. However, this one felt different.
Probably because before he knew exactly what was waiting for him behind the closed door.
This time, he had no idea.
And it was petrifying.
Seven months had passed since Ilya sat on the couch at his own place, staring at one dot on the wall for hours, recalling his last interaction with Shane. He hated himself for letting the other man leave. For making him leave. He felt so stupid for sharing so much about himself, that it made Shane uncomfortable. Enough to leave without even a proper goodbye.
‘I can’t do this.’
This simple phrase haunted Ilya during his darkest times, the number of which doubled since the Canadian player had left.
And now he was standing at the door of the room that would lead him to Shane. He would see him, not on ice, not from some stupid photo from some stupid gossip magazine, no, Ilya would see him like he had seen him a hundred times before. In a room. Just the two of them.
So why did it feel like he had never done this before?
Wiping his hand over his jeans, Ilya raised his fist for the seventh time.
However, this time was a success because he actually knocked.
The muffled sounds followed, and Ilya could swear that someone actually fell in there before the door swung open, stealing Ilya’s ability to breathe.
Shane was standing in front of him in all his glory. Wearing a simple grey t-shirt and some sweatpants, he managed to look hotter than any other person Ilya ever laid his eyes on.
The worst and at the same time the best part of it was that Shane didn’t even know that.
Despite being the one who had opened the door, Shane Hollander had the audacity to look like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. He actually looked surprised, which confused Ilya.
Like he would pass an opportunity to see Shane for the first time in who knows how long.
As if.
“Let me in?” Ilya asked, gesturing at the doorframe, while Shane continued to look at him, and not even blinking. “Or are we going to stare at each other in this boring hall?”
That brought Shane back to reality.
“Gosh, come in, asshole,” the man said, stepping back a little to make room for Ilya to enter.
Rolling his eyes, Ilya made his way inside Shane’s hotel room. Nothing special, it looked pretty similar to the one where he was staying. Bright yellow walls (which Shane most likely secretly hates), great view of the city from the single window, some abstract paintings by unknown painters, a table and an armchair right next to it, drawers, a double bed, a TV, and a door that should lead to the bathroom.
As he said, nothing special.
On the floor next to the bed, a fully unpacked suitcase was lying with a few things from it thrown on the floor.
Opening his mouth to make a comment about how unlike him it was to throw his things around, Ilya was interrupted by the hard grip on his shoulder, and a second later, he was pressed against the front door, which had been closed a few seconds before.
Pressed by a quite angry-looking Shane Hollander.
Oops.
“The fuck was that, Rozanov?” Shane hissed into his face, grabbing the front of Ilya’s t-shirt, and pressing him even further into the door.
A pleased smirk curved Ilya’s lips.
“What are you talking about, Hollander?” he asked, throwing his head back a little, maintaining eye contact with the man.
“You know exactly what I mean!” Shane replied, eyes vivid. “What the fuck did you cause on ice? Trying to throw me off to win the game!? Never knew you were such an asshole!” the man threw accusation after accusation, and Ilya felt his blood run cold in his body.
He actually felt at a loss for words. This is what the other man thought that was about? Did Shane really think so little of him that he thought Ilya would intentionally sabotage the game for the Canadian player, just for what?
To win?
“Gospodi, kakoj zhe ti idiot, Hollander,” Ilya groaned in Russian, closing his eyes and hitting his head against the surface of the door. “If you even for a second thought that any of this was about the game today, you are not as smart as you give yourself credit for,” he then added in English, making Shane pause. (God, you are such an idiot, Hollander.)
Furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, Shane looked Ilya in the eyes, as if trying to solve a particularly tricky task.
“Then why?” he asked, still not letting go of the man’s t-shirt.
“Hollander, you are so boring,” Ilya replied instead, trying to move away and slip from answering. He already shared too much.
“Nuh-huh,” Shane shook his head, tightening his grip. “What did you mean during the game? What does Rose have to learn?” he continued with questions, not looking away from Ilya even for a second.
Feeling trapped, Ilya regretted the second he decided to come to this room. This situation, this conversation, having Shane so close, all this was making Ilya feel vulnerable. And he hated that feeling. If you feel vulnerable, you are weak; that was what his father always taught him. That is the idea he was raised with.
“Let me go,” Ilya whispered, moving to get away from Shane.
“No,” the man replied, tightening his grip on Ilya’s t-shirt. “No, I won’t let you go until we talk,” he continued, face full of determination.
This actually made Ilya bark a laugh.
“Like we talked at my place, huh?” Ilya asked sarcastically. “I will share something, and you will leave, not letting me say another stupid word?” he added, and Shane pressed his lips together into a thin line.
He knew it was not the place or time to discuss this, but Ilya really wasn’t in the mood to be stood up by Shane Hollander.
Again.
“I’m sorry about the last time,” Shane said, eyes catching every change in Ilya’s mimicry. “I freaked out, but I swear, really, I swear it was not because of you. I mean, not because of what you said or did. It’s all on me, and I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, right,” Ilya rolled his eyes.
“I am,” Shane assured him, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Then why?” Ilya asked, feeling his heartbeat in his throat.
He wanted to believe, he wanted to believe so hard that it wasn’t him. But he just couldn’t dare to hope that for the first time, he was not the cause of the problem.
“I can’t, not now,” Shane shook his head with regret. “But I need to know what you meant on ice. What does Rose have to learn?” he added, and it sounded almost like a plea.
He sounded desperate. Like on the verge of losing his mind.
Willing to just push Shane away and leave the fucking room, Ilya already raised his hands, only to pause when a flicker of hope flickered in Shane’s eyes.
Somehow, it was enough for Ilya to stop his initial plan and close his eyes for a second.
Another game lost to Hollander. How fucking amazing.
Opening his eyes, Ilya exhaled.
“When will she learn you hate opera?” he started tiredly, feeling as Shane tensed next to him.
“I don’t hate it.” Despite his words, Shane looked quite uncertain, finally letting go of the man.
Snorting, Ilya shook his head.
“Oh, but you do, Hollander,” the man argued, pushing himself away from the door. Making his way deeper into the room, Ilya’s eyes never left Shane. “You hate it,” he continued, slowly walking around the room. “Like you hate yellow colour, or horror movies.”
“How do you know this?” Shane asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“Because I know you,” Ilya replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Like it or don't, Hollander, but I’ve known you forever, I had time to figure you out, ” he added smugly, feeling his heart beat in his throat.
He could see how his words were getting to the man.
“You don’t know me.” The raised tone was not proving his point, but Shane didn’t seem to care.
“Oh, but I do,” Ilya laughed, crossing the distance between them. “And it pisses you off, does it not?” he asked, being less than a foot away from Shane. “It is making you angry that it’s me and not Rose,” it was not a question, and feeling at his limits, Ilya couldn’t suppress a wild smile sneaking on his face. “So when will she learn, Hollander?”
“You know nothing!” Shane shouted at him, pushing him with his hands, but barely moving Ilya an inch.
“Does she know that you don’t drink during the game season? Only this stupid ginger ele, cooled. Or that you hate Mexican food because it’s just too spicy? Does she-” before he could say more, Shane interrupted him.
“Shut up!”
“Make me!” snorting, he shook his head. “You promised not to run! But look at you!” Ilya gestured at the man in front of him. “Even now, you are trying to run away from this. You invited me, and you are still running away, you are too scared to admit it!”
“I’m not scared! You don’t understand, Rozanov!”
“You are scared, you are doing the same thing you did at my place. The second I approach you, you are running. Why are you so scared of me? Why are you freaking out now!?”
“I’m not!”
“You are! You can’t even look at me, Hollander. The fuck you even invited me here?” Ilya continued to press the questions, even though Shane was losing it.
“Shut up! You don’t understand!” Shane shouted, turning away from him.
Knowing it was not right, Ilya couldn’t stop. He spent months in self-hate and doubt, recalling their last interaction again and again on repeat in his head. Countless nights were lost due to his inability to sleep because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Shane’s scared face. Face full of regret.
Fear.
No, Ilya waited for his answers too long to give up now.
Barking a laugh, Ilya came closer to the man and grabbed his arm. With one sharp move, he turned Shane, forcing him to face him.
“What don’t I understand?!” he shouted at his face, eyes locked on the man.
Shane stayed silent, and that just wouldn’t do, so he asked again.
“What!?”
“That I fucking love you!”
That made Ilya shut up.
No, no way. It was simply not possible. He must have slipped during the game, hit his head, and that was the concussion talking. He was in the ambulance, having the most bizarre dream of his life.
That was the only logical explanation. Because there was no way in hell or heaven that Shane Hollander could love him.
Simply impossible.
“What?” Ilya managed to rasp.
Being so close to the man allowed Ilya to witness how the realisation and later panic started to overtake Shane.
“Shit,” Shane muttered, closing his eyes and trying to pull away from the man’s touch.
Not that Ilya would let him. No, grabbing him more firmly by both arms, Ilya pulled Shane closer.
For months, Ilya Rozanov was wondering what pushed Shane away, what he did wrong to make the most amazing person in his life (aside from Svetlana) walk away. And now… This was truly unbelievable.
Shane was in love with him. With him. He loved him despite everything. Ilya could barely grasp his mind over this; it did sound like a fever dream.
Suddenly, he felt as Shane started to tremble, and he looked up at the man just in time to see that he started to freak out again, so he put him out of his misery.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
So simple. So elegant. So honest.
His confession earned an instant reaction. Shane froze and looked at him in disbelief, even if a hint of hope flickered in his eyes.
“You?” he whispered uncertainly.
“Yeah,” Ilya nodded.
A small smile tugged at Shane’s lips, and the Russian player felt the warmth spreading inside his chest. How long has it been since he saw this smile?
They were close, their chests were practically touching, learning a bit forward would lead to them kissing, but Ilya knew he couldn’t do it. Not when he wasn’t sure.
Not when it didn’t feel right just yet.
“But Rose?” he asked, studying Shane’s reaction.
To his surprise, Hollander chuckled, shaking his head.
“We broke up,” he admitted, not looking even remotely upset by that. “Right after the game,” the man added, making Ilya’s breath hitch. “I love her, but,” Shane paused, looking Ilya in the eyes, searching for something. Apparently, he found what he was looking for, because in the next second, he leaned closer to Ilya’s face, their lips almost touching when he confessed. “But not like I love you.”
Snorting, the man shook his head.
“Best fucking answer, Hollander,” Ilya whispered before connecting their lips in a so-awaited kiss.
Now everything felt right.