Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane Hollander’s birthday gift to himself was choosing to shoot on the final-minute two-on-one rush instead of passing the puck to Hayden. It was the more selfish play, but he had a gut feeling and he trusted it. Hayden leapt into his arms behind the net as the goal horn sounded, screaming about a “birthday buzzer beater” and saying something like “thank fuck you shot it, he was all over me” and then the rest of the Voyageurs were mobbing them. Shane received facewashes and embraces from the skaters as he led them across the ice to greet their goalie. 

It was a good day. Game one of the Eastern Conference Finals down, one win closer to his fifth career Stanley Cup. He promised the team that he’d indulge with them after the playoffs finished, which he hoped would be in a matter of weeks, not a few days from now. No cake or champagne for Shane tonight. They had a game in a few days. 

He went home alone to his dark, empty apartment and let the smile fall from his face. Today was a good day, he reminded himself. He thought about Hayden dropping everything to hug his family when they met in the hallway after the game. Jackie had embraced Shane first, because Hayden was preoccupied with the twins, but then she had swung her arms around her husband and kissed him. “You are such a good distraction, babe,” she smiled. “They should invent a new type of assist to count all of the times you’ve helped Shane get open so that he can work his magic.” Hayden didn’t argue or feign insult. He had just grinned and ruffled Shane’s hair and told him he was magic. 

Shane didn’t feel magic just now. He stood alone, still in his suit, not bothering to turn on the lights. He would go straight to bed and the so-called magic of his last-second shot would fade away because that had just been one win. They had to beat Toronto three more times if they wanted to reach the finals. It was a tall ask, and Drapeau had looked shaky tonight. Comeau couldn’t win a face-off to save his life and JJ’s wrist was still not right after the Boston series. 

Shane shook his head. His therapist had told him he needed to get his mind away from hockey sometimes. But where could it go, if not hockey? Hockey was his life. He didn’t get to have a wife and kids. He didn’t even get to have a boyfriend, because who in their right mind would want to secretly date a neurotic, boring, paranoid Shane Hollander?

Scott Hunter could pull off being out and proud and a star player, sure, but he was Scott Hunter. He was everyone’s perfect image of a hockey guy: white, confident, well-spoken. Shane didn’t know how to speak for a community. He tended to fumble through questions about his Japanese heritage, always worried about misspeaking. He couldn’t do that for the LGBTQ+ world, too. 

Shane Hollander was confident in one thing: he was really, really good at hockey. Everything else about him was a little bit wrong, and he was happier to keep those things tucked away. 

But God, it was lonely. He had basically solved the physical complications of being gay while also being a high-profile hockey superstar. His hook-ups were discreet and safe and checked the boxes he needed checked. Emotionally, he had long since decided he would just wait until he retired. Maybe then, he could fade out of the spotlight and seek out something real. 

He watched a shooting star glimmer across the night sky and he shut his eyes. It was too much to ask, but he asked for it anyway. He wished for someone. Someone who he could be with, someone who understood how hard it was to navigate all of this. He realized when he opened his eyes that he should have been more specific. “I mean romantically,” he said out loud. A montage of every man he’d ever had a crush on raced through his mind: Pavel Bure, a high school English teacher, Heath Ledger, his linemate in junior before he called an opponent a faggot, one of Rose Landry’s straight co-stars (just his luck), and, yes, okay, Ilya Rozanov. 

He’d been trying to shake that one forever, but it was hard when the league wanted them in each other’s faces so much. He had done his best not to look at Rozanov when they shook hands just a few weeks ago at the end of their hard-fought playoff series (won by Shane and his Voyageurs, of course). It was impossible. He was only ever close to Rozanov on the ice, when Rozanov’s body slammed into him and tried to knock him off the puck. This brief moment of hand-to-hand contact came once a year at most, if Shane was lucky. Shane wasn’t a small man, but his hand felt almost delicate in Rozanov’s, and he couldn’t help but look up and lock eyes when he told the Russian to “have a good summer”. It was bitchy and uncalled for and maybe Shane should have stuck to “good game, good series”, but he liked the little spark of amusement that he caught in Rozanov’s face before he moved along through the handshake line. 

He blinked, realizing he had been thinking about Rozanov for a good thirty seconds when he should be undressing and brushing his teeth and resting up for the very important next few weeks of his real life. He had hockey games to win. 

Ilya Rozanov was dreaming about Shane Hollander. It had happened before. A few times, actually. Maybe more times than he’d care to admit. Usually, the dreams were more… intense than this. Usually, he had Hollander in a compromising position and it was frantic and heated and he’d always wake up before the best part. 

Today, Hollander was sleeping up against him. He was in a dark room in a comfortable bed and in the back of his mind, he thought he might be close to waking up, because he felt a little bit too aware that he was dreaming. 

Ilya told his dream self to wake Hollander up so that have a bit of fun during this subconscious experience, but his dream self thought that Hollander looked too peaceful to wake up just yet. He brushed Hollander’s hair away from his forehead and softly ran his finger along his nose. It was a sort of perfect nose. Ilya’s had been broken twice, and though it wasn’t totally crooked, it wasn’t a straight, sharp line the way Hollander’s was. Ilya had never dreamed about Hollander in such detail. He’d always wanted a close-up look at these freckles. Maybe his subconscious was onto something with this genre of Shane Hollander dream. He’d like the sex dreams, too, but mixing in one of these every now and then could be nice. His fingers moved down to Hollander’s mouth, and he ran a thumb along the bottom lip. Hollander made a happy little noise and Ilya’s vision blurred and faded. The dream changed into some nonsense about forgetting his shoulder pads and having to borrow from the Bears’ back-up goalie. His mind moved on from the details of Shane Hollander’s face. 

*

Ilya Rozanov woke up confused. He blinked around the unfamiliar bedroom for a third time and slapped himself in the face. 

Where was he?

He’d had a bit to drink last night, but not that much. Not enough to forget his night entirely. He had taken home a pretty girl named Shauna or Sheila, and they’d had perfectly good sex and she’d offered to get out of his hair at two in the morning, and he’d told her she could stay over. He didn’t mind. 

But this wasn’t his bed, and Shauna/Sheila was nowhere in sight. He reached for his phone to check the time. He froze when the screen lit up. When had he changed his phone background to a random dog? It was a cute dog, but he didn’t own a dog. Maybe this was Shauna/Sheila’s phone. He shook his head. How had he entirely misremembered whose house they’d gone home to? He was thirty– nearly thirty-one!– and he could handle his liquor. He was no longer some sloppy young thing, stumbling around Boston and waking up in strangers’ beds every other night. 

A door closed somewhere in the house and there was the unmistakable jingle of a dog’s collar. She was home, then. “Go wake him up,” someone told the dog. And it was definitely a man’s voice…

Ilya stood, frowning. Was he in some sort of danger? Had he been kidnapped? How much would the Boston Bears willingly pay if he was being ransomed?

This place didn’t feel dangerous, though. It felt calm. He caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror and did a double take. He looked good. Ilya had never been modest about his looks. He knew the effect he could have on people. He was a tall, broad, strong-jawed hockey player with golden-brown curls and a smile that almost always got him his way. But the man in the mirror looked oddly healthy, like Ilya had been drinking a lot of green juice or moisturizing more. He squinted towards his chiseled, shirtless reflection as he approached it, running a hand through his especially luscious hair.

He looked himself up and down and up and down and then, on his way back up, his bottom lip fell in surprise. There was a ring on his chain. A simple silver band interlocked with his mother’s crucifix. Ilya’s hand went to the ring and he frowned. He slapped himself again and then pinched his forearm. He was definitely awake. 

A fluffy blur of brown and white skidded into the room and came to a sudden halt when it saw him. The dog was cute. It was adorable, actually, and definitely the dog from Shauna/Sheila’s phone background. “Hello,” Ilya said. The dog stared at him, ears back and teeth bared. He crouched down. “Hey, I’m Ilya.” The dog gave one short, frightened bark and sprinted out of the room. Ouch. 

“What the hell?” The strange man’s voice laughed from another room a moment later. “You’re back already? He didn’t drag you in for your daily cuddle?” 

Ilya’s mind ran through the bizarre situation that Shauna/Sheila might have dragged him into. Was she in some sort of open relationship? Was her boyfriend a big Bears fan who was really, really cool about the fact that his girlfriend had fucked Ilya Rozanov last night? Maybe Ilya could escape this with a brief “hello!” and an awkward autograph signing. 

None of that explained the ring. He looked back at the mirror and noticed, for the first time, a new tattoo on his arm. It was a bird– a loon, he thought. Like a duck but spotted and pointier. It must be a temporary tattoo, because there was no sign of healing. What fuck had he taken last night? 

He searched for a shirt, just in case the boyfriend was relaxed but not “half-naked hockey star walking out of my bedroom” relaxed. Damn, this guy kept an organized closet. Everything was perfectly folded. There were at least three Ottawa Centaurs shirts mixed in, which made Ilya slightly nervous about his theory that Shauna/Sheila’s maybe-polyamourous boyfriend would be excited about the Ilya Rozanov of it all. He went with a plain grey shirt and walked out of the room. 

The house was beautiful. It smelled like cedar and springtime and breakfast. That last one was probably a result of the activity in the kitchen. He peeked around the corner to see the back of a dark-haired man’s head as he put some glasses in the cupboard and then bent down to pull more clean dishes from the dishwasher. Whoa. Congrats to Shauna or Sheila or whatever her name was. Her man had one hell of an ass. Ilya tilted his head, admiring the thighs as the man stood up and set a stack of plates on the counter. He turned, then, just enough for Ilya to see his side profile, and Ilya flew backwards, flattening himself against the wall of the hallway. 

Why was Shane Hollander unloading a dishwasher in a nice house in Boston? Didn’t he have a game tomorrow? Oh God, had he fucked Shane Hollander’s girlfriend? And was Hollander cool about it? Did Shane Hollander even own a dog?

Ilya stared dazedly at the busy wall across from him, eyes unfocused. None of this made sense. Hollander couldn’t be in Boston. But Ilya hadn’t left Boston… right? He’d remember getting on a plane to Montreal, surely. 

Had Shane Hollander had him drugged and kidnapped? No, that made no sense. Montreal had already beaten Boston. Hollander was crazy about hockey, but in the weird, superstitious way. He wasn’t the type to Tonya Harding his rival. And if he was, he was doing it in a really, really elaborate way. 

Ilya took a breath and did his best to take stock of what he knew. He had had too much to drink at the bar and had maybe been slipped something that made the rest of his night a blur. He’d got a temporary tattoo of a loon, had slid a ring onto his mother’s necklace, and he had maybe lost his phone. He’d slept with a woman named Shauna or Sheila, and she had a man in her house who loved the Ottawa Centaurs and who looked a lot like Shane Hollander, but he probably wasn’t actually Shane Hollander. There were lots of men out there who had asses like that and jawlines like that. Right? 

A photograph on the wall opposite caught Ilya’s eye and he stepped forward, frowning. It was a photo of himself, there was no doubt about it. He was standing on a dock in a pair of slightly-too-short swim trunks, and he was sticking his tongue out. Beside him, Shane Hollander– yes, that was definitely Shane Hollander– was crossing his arms and looking impatient. The pose made his chest look great. Ilya scanned Hollander’s body twice, almost smiling, before he stepped back and remembered that this photograph couldn’t be real. Neither could that one of him with… Wyatt Hayes and Troy Barrett? When the fuck had he sat around a fire with those two? And there was that dog again, posing in the snow. And again, but now photographed in Ilya’s lap. And there was Shane Hollander with a big, stupid smile, one that Ilya had never once seen, one far more natural than the smile Hollander gave to the media or the brand deals. And beside Hollander’s goofy, smiling face was Ilya, planting a kiss on Hollander’s cheek. Ilya shook his head. 

A small voice in his head asked him if he should panic, but it was overcome almost immediately by a sickening sense of wanting. There was a life in these photographs that was totally impossible, but every detail (except maybe Troy Barrett - what the fuck?) made Ilya’s heart ache. 

The only rational explanation was this: Ilya had hit his head and he was in a coma and he was stuck in this made-up place inside his brain until the doctors could wake him up. 

Ilya nodded, taking it all in. Okay. Nice work by his damaged brain, here. Good interior design. Comfy bed. Shane Hollander. He could hang out here for a few hours, maybe even a few days, and wait for the doctors to fix him. 

“What are you doing?” Ilya turned. Shane Hollander was smiling at him, brows knit. 

“Hollander,” he said. “What a funny place this is.” Hollander cocked his head. 

“Rozanov,” he replied in a comically serious voice. He smiled again. “What do you mean by that?” 

Ilya waved a hand around the hallway, walking past Hollander and out into the living space that was connected to the kitchen. “This house is very nice.” He nodded, still impressed with his imagination. Comas were easier than he’d have guessed. This all felt very real, even if it couldn’t possibly be real.

Hollander followed him, still frowning. “Ilya,” he said. “Why are you being weird?” Ilya hummed. He liked the way Hollander said his name. 

“This is all in my head, I think,” he said. He turned and smiled at the man. Hollander was pretty– Cosmopolitan magazine, women everywhere, and Rozanov’s own fantasies could tell you that– but this particular rendering of him in Ilya’s sedated brain was especially gorgeous. He doubted that Shane Hollander glowed like this in real life. “Hi.” 

Hollander’s face fell further into concern. He scanned Ilya’s eyes. “Ilya,” he said, a hint of panic in his voice. “Did you take something?” 

Ilya shrugged. “I am in a coma, probably.” He motioned to the house. “This is a dream I have created for myself while the doctors fix me. You are here, which makes sense, I guess.” Hollander’s eyes were wide with fear now. It was cute. 

“Ilya?” he said. 

“It is weird, hearing you call me that,” Ilya smiled. “Nice, though. Can I call you Shane?” Oh, that sounded alright. Hollander stepped forward, holding Ilya’s face in his hands. 

“Ilya,” he said very slowly. “I think you might be having some sort of medical crisis. You’re going to be okay. I’m here. I’m not going to leave.” 

“Yes,” Ilya nodded, letting the sweet, hallucinated version of Shane Hollander guide him toward a couch and sit him down. “Coma, I think.” 

“You are not in a coma,” Hollander said clearly. “You are talking to me. You’re awake, Ilya.” Ilya frowned. 

“Shane,” he said. He really liked how it sounded on his tongue. “It is impossible that I would be here, in this nice house, with photos of us everywhere, with nice dog–”

“Anya,” Hollander interrupted. “Your dog, Anya.” 

“Anya! Great name!” Ilya said. The dog, who had been watching Ilya warily from the kitchen, perked up at the name but did not move toward him.

“Yes, Ilya, you chose it,” Hollander said firmly. “Are you playing some sort of prank on me right now? Because it’s not funny and I’m starting to get scared.” 

“Hollander, you are very cute when you’re angry. Has anyone ever told you this?” Ilya felt sort of like he was floating. None of this could possibly be real, so he may as well enjoy it while he was here. 

“Yes,” Hollander said slowly, sounding at once concerned and annoyed. “You do. You tell me that basically every day.” 

“Good,” Ilya said. “This is a nice place.”

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” Hollander said. 

“No, no,” Ilya said. “Shauna or Sheila probably did that. I am most likely at the hospital already.” Hollander’s worry snapped into a sharp anger. 

“Huh?” He asked. “Who the fuck is Shauna?”

“Girl I fucked last night,” Ilya shrugged. “It was okay. But I think I hit my head afterwards, which is why I’m here.” Hollander’s eyes flashed furiously and then softened back into deep, warm concern.

“Ilya,” Hollander whispered. It sounded as though it was taking great effort for him to keep his voice steady. “That didn’t happen. You didn’t leave our bed last night. I would have noticed if you’d left in the middle of the night to cheat on me.” Our bed. Wow. 

“Cheat on you?” Ilya smiled, nodding along. Interesting. “We are exclusive? Wow.” The expression on Hollander’s face looked like someone who was attempting to complete a puzzle while being stabbed repeatedly in the gut. Then, a sudden, frantic sadness as some sort of realization crossed Hollander’s mind. 

“Oh, Ilya.” Hollander reached out and stroked Ilya’s hair. “Hey, baby, I’m here. It’s going to be okay. Whatever this is, we’re in this together. You know my name, right?” Baby!

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said. This dream life was getting uncomfortable and confusing. Hollander wasn’t acting the way he should act in a dream. He was taking everything too seriously. Whatever drugs the doctors were giving Ilya must have been losing efficacy. He wanted to go back and look at the pictures on the wall. Hollander was looking at him expectantly, so Ilya carried on. “You are the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs and second best wrist shot in the league.” To his surprise, Hollander didn’t react to the small dig. His face was set with concern, a bit of fear flashing across it as Ilya mentioned the Voyageurs. 

“Okay,” Hollander said. “And what year is it?” 

“2022,” Ilya said with a shrug. “May… eleventh?” Hollander nodded. 

“Great, yes! That’s today,” he said, but his voice wavered. “And can you tell me who I am to you?” 

“In real life or here?” Ilya asked. “Because here, I think we’re, like… together?” He smiled. “Fun, right?” Hollander blinked at him. 

“And… what are we in ‘real’ life, Ilya?” He spoke like he was addressing a child. Ilya held up his hands.

“I don’t know. Rivals?” 

“Rivals who… sometimes meet-up?” Hollander asked. “I’m just trying to find the timeline of where your memories are at.” 

“Meet-up to do what?” Ilya asked, leaning forward playfully. “In this dream place, I would ‘meet up’ with you to fuck you, I think. We should try it at least once.” Hollander looked across the room, thinking hard. 

“Okay,” he said. “Have you and I ever kissed?” Ilya laughed. 

“No,” he snorted. “I have thought about it. But no, Hollander, we’re… you’re not even gay in real life, are you?” He took a hand to Hollander’s frozen face and touched his cheek. “You are a fantasy. I am imagining being with you right now.” Hollander pulled away and stood up from the couch. He put his hands on the back of his neck and leaned his head down as he started pacing. 

“Ilya,” he said after a minute. “You are not in a coma. This is your real life. I am your husband, this is your house, and I think you might be developing some early signs of memory loss and I’m sure this is scary but I am going to make sure that you are never alone in this, okay?” He knelt down and took Ilya’s hand. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember about our relationship?” Ilya stared at him. 

“Husband?”

“Ilya,” Hollander said firmly. “The last thing you remember about our relationship. Please.”

“Um,” he said. “We shook hands when you beat me a few weeks ago?”

“I beat you?” Hollander frowned. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Montreal versus Boston. Big match-up. You won, you shook my hand and rudely told me to have a nice summer.” Hollander stared at him. 

“And this was in the year…?”

“...2022.” 

“No.” Hollander shook his head. “We don’t play for Montreal or Boston anymore, Ilya. And I’m not asking about hockey right now, okay? I’m asking about us. When was the last time we met up to, you know… fuck?” 

Ilya stared at him. “We have never fucked, Hollander. In this dream, maybe we could. I think we should, if I’m dreaming that you are my husband. But… we do not fuck in real life. I don’t think that you are even interested in–”

“Oh God, Ilya, I’m gay!” Hollander practically yelled. “I am extremely gay. I fuck men. Exclusively one man, actually. Because you are my husband. We are married.” His shoulders dropped. “Sorry. Sorry, you aren’t well and I shouldn’t get upset with you for forgetting.” 

Ilya’s head was spinning. “Hollander, this is weird. Can they just turn my brain off for a bit?”

“You are not in a coma,” Hollander said clearly. “This is real life. We are alive. You are in the real world. I think we need to go to the hospital now.” 

Ilya looked around. All of this did feel realer than a dream should feel. Everything was sharper and clearer than it should be. He put his head in his hands. “Where am I?”

“We’re at home. In Ottawa.”

“Ottawa!?” Ilya jumped up, staring at Hollander wildly. “Why the fuck would I dream about living in fucking Ottawa?” Hollander looked exhausted and terrified. 

“You’re not dreaming, Ilya. This is our house.” He said it with a resigned sort of patience. He stood up and gently rubbed a hand down each of Ilya’s arms, steadying him. Ilya took in Hollander’s beautiful features up close again, just like he had dreamt them last night. Hollander’s hands moved up to Ilya’s neck and he pulled their foreheads together, breathing slowly.

“I know I am dreaming,” Ilya said. “I have to be dreaming.” He proved it by kissing Shane Hollander. And there was no way this wasn’t some wild fantasy, because Shane Hollander was kissing him back, slowly and carefully, but with such feeling that Ilya felt his insides might burst. He had no idea how long he had in this strange, glorious moment, so he deepened the kiss. Whoa. 

And suddenly, it was very clear to Ilya that he was not sedated or unconscious or dreaming; he had never felt more alive and electric. This was happening. Shane Hollander was letting Ilya slip his tongue between his lips. Shane Hollander was whimpering happily into Ilya’s mouth. Shane Hollander was pulling away and looking up at him hopefully with his big, brown eyes. 

“Do you remember now?” Hollander asked quietly. “That we’re together? We’re married. You know that, right?” 

“This is impossible,” Ilya said, pulling back. He shook his head, mind reeling. “We could never actually be together. It would be a terrible idea.” He frowned as he considered how on earth he could be dating– no, married to– Shane Hollander. His head hurt. “It would be way too complicated.” 

And that was what got Hollander to stop looking into Ilya’s eyes with desperation and concern. His face was all shock now, frozen in fear. “What?”

“You are very attractive,” Ilya said. “I have always thought so. But us,” he waved his hand between their chests, “together? It would be too hard. Too complicated.”  

Hollander had both hands over his face. “Oh, God.” Ilya watched him flop onto the couch groaning loudly. “What the fuck did I do? Ohhh my God, Ilya, what did I do?” 

“What is happening?” Ilya asked. “Can I kiss you again?” Hollander pulled his hands from his face and studied Ilya. 

“Is that the first time you’ve kissed me? Like, ever?” His eyes were frantically searching Ilya’s face for something. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “I have dreamt about it before, but I don’t think that counts.”

“No, that doesn’t count,” Hollander nodded. He was staring at Ilya in disbelief. “Did you– last night, where did you fall asleep?”

“At my house in Boston,” Ilya shrugged. “With a girl named Shauna or Sheila.” Hollander looked away, clearly annoyed. He was cute like that, jealous. 

“Because you’re single.”

“I… thought so?” Ilya frowned. “But you seem to think maybe I’m not?”

Hollander was looking at him like he had two heads. “What the fuck?” He spoke quietly and shook his head. 

“Your dog doesn’t like me.” Ilya said. The dog, Anya, sat on a bed in the corner of the kitchen, still staring at Ilya. 

“What?” Hollander snapped his head up and looked over to the dog. “Anya, come.” He whistled and the dog trotted over, eyes on Ilya. She slowed when she reached the couch and settled at Hollander’s feet, looking up at him pleadingly. Hollander blinked at the dog, then looked at Ilya, and then addressed the dog in a high-pitched voice. “Where’s Papa? Go say hi. Give him a kiss!” Anya the dog gave one low whine, looked at Ilya sideways, and then nuzzled into Hollander’s leg. 

“She’s cute,” Ilya said. “Maybe she is shy?” Hollander had frozen again and started staring into space, clearly thinking very hard. 

“Ilya,” he said after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. “You’re not in a coma, okay?” 

“I think you’re right,” Ilya agreed. None of this made sense, but the kiss had convinced him that he was very much awake. “This does not feel like the inside of my head.” 

“Yeah, no, you’re conscious right now. You’re just not… you.” Hollander winced and shook his head. “Fuck, I am so sorry.” 

“Why are you sorry?” Ilya asked. He thought about reaching out to pat Hollander’s knee, but that would be weird. “It is not your fault I am confused.” 

“No, it is,” Hollander said. He sunk his head into his hands and groaned again. “Last night, you asked me what I wished for when I blew out my candles and you– no, my husband Ilya asked me to make a wish and I couldn’t think of anything I wanted but then I started thinking too much and I felt bad that your life with me had been so complicated so I wished that it …hadn’t been?” Hollander looked at Ilya with wild, frightened eyes. “And now you don’t seem to remember any of the complicated bits. Or any of it at all, actually.” 

Ilya stared at him. To be certain he was awake, he slapped himself across the cheek one more time. Hollander yelled and jumped to grab his hand, tugging it down. 

“What the fuck, Ilya. Don't hit yourself!” Hollander held his wrist down and touched his cheek. 

“It does not hurt,” Ilya said, shrugging him away then immediately regretting the loss of Hollander’s hands on him. 

“I don’t care. Don’t do that.” Hollander shook his head. “Ever.” He heaved a sigh. “Fuck, Ilya. I’ve ruined your life. I’ve ruined our life.” 

“My life is not ruined,” Ilya frowned. “I am millionaire hockey superstar and most popular guy in Boston. Now, I am spending a very confusing morning with you, and maybe after some more kissing, we could send me home?” Hollander almost smiled and then he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“You are home, Ilya. This is where you live. You left Boston years ago. You are the captain of the Ottawa Centaurs and you live here in this house, and I am your husband, and this is your dog, but she can clearly tell that you are not quite… you.” Ilya looked at the dog, who still appeared uneasy. He looked at Hollander. 

“You are my husband.” Ilya said it tentatively.

“Yes.”

“And people… know?”

“Yeah,” Hollander smiled. “Yeah, everyone knows. The whole world knows.” It was the most at ease and confident Hollander had sounded all morning. The whole world knew about them and it was fine. Ilya swallowed and Hollander put a hand on his shaking knee without hesitating. “It’s good. We’re good. We’re sort of the best, actually.” 

“At hockey? Or in …life?”

“Both,” Hollander smiled. “We’re pretty fucking happy, Ilya.” 

Ilya looked at Shane Hollander, who was gay and his husband and his teammate and a really good kisser and was massaging Ilya’s knee. He considered the lonely house in Boston and the way the bad part of his mind had grown louder over the last couple of seasons. He wracked his brain for some argument in favour of yesterday’s life and came up woefully short. The Bears would be fine without him. He surged forward and took Shane in his arms, hugging him and holding him and now crying into his shoulder. “Shane,” he said. “This is impossible.” 

Shane nodded against him, hugging him back and patting his shoulder. Ilya pulled back to smile tearfully at Shane, who was blinking back his own tears. “I don’t know how we’re going to fix this,” he said, and Ilya shook his head. 

“There is nothing to fix,” he said. “I will stay with you. I am confused, but this sounds like a very nice life. I would love to be your husband, Shane Hollander.” 

“Okay, but–” Shane started. “We do need to get your memories back somehow.” 

“You can teach me everything,” Ilya said. He smiled at Shane. “I will learn how to be your husband.” A pained expression crossed Shane’s face, but he let Ilya pull him back into a hug. 

*

“This is great,” Ilya beamed. He felt like a child. He sat cross-legged on the carpet feeding Anya treats out of the palm of his hand. She had relaxed her head against his knee. “She is so cute!”

Shane nodded. His arms were crossed and he looked exhausted, but he managed a small smile.

*

“Do you always spoil me like this?” Ilya asked over his eggs, which had been prepared by a husband who knew exactly how he liked them. “Or is this special occasion because I have amnesia?”

“I don’t think it’s amnesia,” Shane frowned. “You had a whole life and then you just… moved into a new one, I guess. But no, Ilya cooks more. He’s more adventurous with recipes and stuff, but he always makes a Shane-friendly version.”

“What is Shane-friendly?” Ilya asked, cutting into his toast. Shane shrugged.

“Um, sort of healthier? I like to eat in a way that helps my body perform at its best. Ilya’s helping me be less obsessive about it, I guess.” Ilya smiled, surprised. 

“Wow. I am not a bad husband!” He chewed his toast happily. He liked this version of Ilya Rozanov a lot. Shane was looking at him all sad now. 

“You’re a great husband, Ilya.” There was an edge of frustration in his voice. 

Ilya turned away. He tore off a bit of bacon and tossed it to Anya, who was sitting politely beside his chair. He looked back at his plate and tried to remember the last time he’d had a meal cooked for him by anyone other than the arena catering staff. 

*

Shane walked Ilya through the photographs that decorated the hallway. “That’s my mom and dad,” Shane pointed out. “They love you.” 

“I bet,” Ilya snorted. Shane turned to him, frowning. 

“No, I mean it. They love you, Ilya.” He put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “You’re like a son to them.” Ilya scanned Shane’s face for some indication of humour. 

“What?” Ilya asked. “Why? That can’t have wanted us to–” He shut up as Shane’s eyes went hard. 

“They love you because you’re my husband. Because I love you.” 

“My father would not like you, if he was still alive,” Ilya shrugged. Then, a horrible thought occurred to him. “He is dead here, right?” Shane stared at him and nodded. 

“Yes, he died in 2017.” Shane squeezed Ilya’s shoulder and brought him into a closer embrace. “And your mother,” he started, but Ilya shook his head and touched his necklace. 

“I know she is also gone,” Ilya said. “Don’t worry.” He shrugged himself out of Shane’s arms and inspected a photo. 

“Troy Barrett is my friend?” He asked, hoping to change the subject. Shane cleared his throat and then leaned in to look at the photo of Ilya with Barrett and Hayes. 

“Yeah, he’s our teammate,” Shane said. “He’s also out. He came out a few months before we… did.” 

“Troy Barrett?” Ilya turned to look at Shane in disbelief. “But he’s… he called Summers a– huh. Wow, everyone is gay here.” 

“There are, like, five of us,” Shane countered. “But three of us are Centaurs, so we tend to get that a lot.” Ilya pointed at Hayes. 

“And I guess Wyatt Hayes does not mind?” 

“No one minds,” Shane said. “Not in our room. Well, maybe some of them do. It’s hockey. But we make sure it’s not a safe space for them to say anything if it does bug them.” He offered a playful little smile. Ilya looked away, an uncomfortable wave of emotion rising up in him. He blinked rapidly, searching for something else to focus on in the photographs. 

He had it easier than some, he knew that. He could hook up with women and appear straight to his teammates– it’s what he’d done for years. Ilya had long accepted that he would keep that side of him tucked away until long after he retired. It was dizzying to be here, in this strange reality where a whole locker room just… accepted it. Not only accepted it, but allowed him to captain them. With his husband beside him.

“When did we come out?” Ilya asked. Shane winced and made a face of discomfort. 

“Um,” he said. “We sort of…” He scratched his head, frowning. “Well, my parents found out basically as soon as we officially got together. And I talked to Hayden but I didn’t tell him about you right away.” Shane looked at Ilya like this was a difficult conversation. He sighed. “Svetlana guessed about you, I think?” 

“Sveta?” Ilya asked. “No, no, she does not know. You know Sveta?” 

“Of course,” Shane laughed. “Look.” He pointed at a photo Ilya hadn’t noticed. Svetlana was wearing an oversized Ottawa Centaurs t-shirt and Shane wore a tiny version of the same shirt, his arms busting out of the sleeves, the bottom hem barely covering his belly button. They were sitting beside a campfire and both had faux-serious looks on their faces. “We both wore the same Rozanov shirt that day by accident and we thought it would be funny to swap them.” Ilya stared at Svetlana’s face. The idea of her and Shane Hollander being friends made his head spin. 

“She is in Chicago now for me,” he said quietly. “We don’t… I don’t see her very much.” He had distanced himself from Svetlana when she’d started dating her now husband. It had felt respectful at the time, but now it felt childish. They were old friends. Why shouldn’t he still be in her life? 

“Oh, that’s sad,” Shane said. He swallowed. “But you have friends on the Bears, right? Is Cliff Marleau still there?” 

“Yeah, Marly’s there. Busy with his kids these days, but he is a good teammate.” Ilya said. He met Shane’s eyes and rolled his own at the worry he saw. “I am fine, Hollander. I am millionaire with many friends.” 

“Who?” Shane pressed. 

“Why’d you leave Montreal?” Ilya pivoted. He pointed to a photo of Shane with Hayden Pike and a hoard of children. The Voyageurs were not well represented in the photographs. Pike made a few appearances. He and JJ Boiziau were the only ones who showed up in any of the wedding photos. Shane sighed. 

“I meant it when I said our life was good, but some things still sort of blew up.” He shrugged and Ilya almost reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Was that the sort of thing Shane’s husband would do? Ilya kept his hands by his sides. 

“They didn’t like that you were with me?” Ilya asked. Shane paused and looked at him carefully. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t think the gay thing was ideal for them, but the Ilya Rozanov thing really didn’t go over well.” 

“And how did they find out?” Ilya asked. “About the gay thing and the Ilya Rozanov thing?”

“Uh, I came out to them as gay,” Shane said. “A few years ago. I thought it was okay, at least for most of them. I thought I was a good enough player that–” Ilya let out an unrestrained cackle.

“Oh, Shane Hollander? Yes, I think you are a good enough player.” He shook his head. “Fuck.” 

“It is what it is,” Shane shrugged. “I’m happier here anyway.” 

“I’m sorry they didn’t like me,” Ilya said. He meant for it to be a joke but Shane was shaking his head rapidly and had his hands on Ilya’s shoulders again. 

“It never mattered,” he said. “It felt like it mattered at the time, but I was always going to choose you over them. Over anything.” Ilya swallowed, the warmth in Shane’s voice hitting him like a punch to the gut. He forced a laugh and raised an eyebrow. 

“I made you move to Ottawa for me,” Ilya joked. “Wow. You are a very good husband.” Shane was grinning and shaking his head. 

“Ilya, you moved to Ottawa for me,” he said. “You left Boston in 2018 and signed with Ottawa to be closer to me in Montreal.” 

“I left Boston in 2018?” Ilya frowned. He met Shane’s gaze. “So, when did we start …this?” Shane hesitated. 

“Um,” he said. He took Ilya by the arm and led them away from the photographs. “Do you remember after the draft, when we shot that CCM commercial?” Ilya let Shane guide him to the couch. 

He remembered that shoot. He had felt like an idiot the whole day, barely understanding the English directions being barked at him and finding himself constantly distracted by Shane Hollander’s rosy, freckled cheeks and wide eyes. He had tried to break the ice by teasing Hollander, but the other boy had shown no interest in engaging with his clumsy attempts. 

“Oh,” Ilya laughed, his face warm. “Is that when you started liking me?” Shane opened his mouth, considering this for a moment. Ilya carried on. “I was half flirting with you that day. I didn’t realize it worked.” 

“Yes,” Shane nodded. “It worked, Ilya.” 

“Wow,” Ilya laughed. “When did we actually hook-up then?” Shane exhaled. 

“Ilya, we hooked up at the CCM shoot.” He was blushing now. “You… I was still in the showers when you came in and then we were both… in the shower, I guess.” He was bright red but smiling. 

“We were both in the shower?” Ilya asked, mind racing. “...What did we do in the shower?” 

“Nothing!” Shane insisted. “Well, you kind of–” He made a little jerking off motion with his hand and then started laughing at the surprise on Ilya’s face.

“And that worked?” Ilya asked, breathless with shock. Shane’s blush spread down his neck. 

“Obviously,” he said, holding up his hand and flashing his wedding band. “We didn’t fuck in the showers or anything. You came up to my hotel room and… yeah. And then we sort of just did that back and forth for years until we realized we had accidentally fallen in love at some point.” Shane shrugged. “That’s the gist.” 

“How long?” Ilya asked. “How long until we had feelings?” 

“You tell me,” Shane laughed. “Every time I try to pinpoint it, I get upset or turned on.” Ilya made a face of confusion and Shane shrugged again. “Like I said, Ilya. We’re complicated. I’ve sort of just started saying I loved you from the moment I saw you.” 

Ilya thought back upon the version of himself Shane had first hooked up with, and then he thought about the nervous eyes and baby-faced Shane Hollander he’d spent that day staring at. “Was I nice to you?” Ilya asked. His voice was shakier than he meant for it to be. Shane’s face fell, as if Ilya had just twisted a knife in his heart. 

“Ilya, you were a kid,” he said. “Don’t worry. You were perfect. I loved it.” 

Ilya didn’t believe him. He had been a mess then. A mess for most of his teenage years and his twenties, and… he had matured a bit, he liked to think. He went out with the team less, and wasn’t sleeping around in the same way he had as a young man. He didn’t get drunk too often. Still smoked, but not so much. He hadn’t craved a cigarette at all today, which felt like a positive. 

The boy Shane Hollander had let into his hotel room was a horrible mixture of cocky and insecure and, frankly, a bit of a slut. Ilya had been self-destructive in every direction. That unpleasant combination of arrogant and self-loathing with a desperation to be good enough for someone– for his team, for his father, for anyone. Ilya had always done his best to keep the damage pointed inwards. He could drink or snort whatever he was offered, so long as he wasn’t making a scene and embarrassing the organization that drafted him. He could feel empty and cold after fucking someone, so long as they felt satisfied. Ilya knew that he was good in bed. He was generous and engaged and had the endurance of a high-performing professional athlete. He doubted that any of his many conquests, of any gender, would have complaints about Ilya Rozanov’s performance. But you could be good without being tender and loving. He wasn’t that sort of man, and Shane Hollander struck him as someone who wanted– or who at very least deserved– tenderness and love. 

“It was okay for you?” Ilya asked. Shane made a sad, sorry face and then forced a laugh. 

“Ilya,” he said. “I married you. We went like, seven years without defining our relationship and we still kept coming back to each other because it was that good. And because we liked each other as people, but… just trust me. It was better than okay for me.” 

Ilya didn’t understand how he could be the sort of man Shane would want. It didn’t make sense to him. Surely there were hundreds of nice, warm, decent men who would kill to be with Shane Hollander. Men he could be with who wouldn’t upset the entire Montreal Voyageurs dressing room. Why on earth had Shane chosen the most messed up, miserable, complicated option? 

Because he loves you. And that was it. It was that simple. It was clear in the devastated, loving way Shane was looking at Ilya like he was his eighteen-year-old self. Shane reached out and ran a hand through Ilya’s hair the way his mother used to, tucking a curl gently behind Ilya’s ear. “I love you,” Shane said, as if he could read Ilya’s mind. Maybe he could. 

It occurred to Ilya that he had woken up in a life that offered him things he had always wanted but had never had the courage to even think of. Whether he felt that he deserved it or not, he’d fallen into a perfect, safe, stable life with the man he’d developed a stupid sort-of crush on as a teenage idiot. Why not enjoy it?

*

Shane let him watch his own highlights on Youtube all afternoon. Ilya felt like a child, exclaiming aloud anytime he noticed something particularly impressive. It was odd that in this reality, he had never scored that insane backhand goal against Denver in 2019, but he had scored a different, perhaps even more insane goal from an impossible angle in Columbus. The highlights from last season were his favourites. 

“We’re so good,” he laughed, scrolling back to replay a powerplay goal Shane had set up for Ilya. “The whole league must have gone crazy when you signed with Ottawa.” 

“Yeah,” Shane shrugged, settling into the couch beside Ilya. “A bunch of Voyageurs fans got a petition going about how me signing on the same team as my husband was some form of tampering. Honestly, it kind of was, but fuck them.” He looked happy with himself. Ilya smiled. 

“Wow. Bad boy,” he said. “Did not know Shane Hollander liked to break the rules.” Shane looked at him, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s sort of our whole thing, Ilya.” 

Ilya’s stomach fluttered at the little smile on Shane’s face. He looked down. 

It was new for him, whatever this was he had with Shane. Ilya had rarely had a problem getting who or what he wanted in life. Generally, if he wanted to sleep with a woman, she wanted to sleep with him back. His hook-ups with men were less frequent and more risky, but any nerves had always been about ensuring privacy and discretion; Ilya was never worried that he wasn’t exactly what someone wanted for the night. 

It was rare, then, for Ilya Rozanov to have a crush. There had been a girl in primary school who told him he talked too much– he spent a whole year trying to get her attention. He’d had a soft spot for the kind, middle-aged Bears physiotherapist who had worked for the team during Ilya’s first few seasons. The leads in The Mummy had certainly made an impression on him as a young man. 

But really, Ilya was never around anyone long enough to develop feelings for them. He met someone, he flirted with them, he showed them a good time, and they left. The girls he called up consistently in various cities on the road were nice, but it wasn’t as if he turned up at their doors with butterflies in his stomach. 

And the whole thing with Shane Hollander had always been too layered and confusing to call a crush. It was jealousy and obsession and magnetism and non-stop comparisons and head-to-head competition and an unspoken mutual respect. Shane Hollander being cute was an annoying complication in all of it. It meant that Ilya had lost more than one face-off in his career because he’d been distracted by Shane’s freckles. It meant that Ilya had accidentally caught bits and pieces of the documentary Shane had filmed, one that featured yoga poses by the lake and many bashful, stilted soundbites. It meant that many drinks into an All-Star weekend, he’d patted Shane’s leg and reminded him that their rooms were beside each other, and had woken up wondering what he had even expected from that. It meant that Ilya had the occasional dream about Shane Hollander, which he always told himself was totally normal. Anyone was susceptible to sex dreams about a hot guy they saw at work, especially if the hot guy told you to “go fuck yourself, Rozanov” as much as Hollander did. 

But this, sitting beside Shane– his husband, suddenly– on their big couch in their shared living room? This was new. It felt delicate and too good to be true, something he hadn’t earned at all. The other Ilya had done all of the work: the Ilya who had been brave enough to make a move, brave enough to pursue Shane, brave enough to leave Boston and be out and marry a boy. And not just any boy, but Shane Hollander. Stanley Cup champion, league MVP, gold-medal winner. Wonderboy. Hollywood. Best player in the league currently and maybe so-far this century. 

It felt like Ilya had pulled off a heist he didn’t know he had planned. His shoulders rubbing up against Shane Hollander’s, his knee knocking against Shane Hollander’s, his eyes looking into Shane Hollander’s. He had struck gold he hadn’t realized he was allowed to search for. 

“What are the rules for us?” Ilya studied Shane’s face, doing his best to not give in to the part of him that felt nervous about this.

“What do you mean?” Shane asked. 

Ilya reminded himself who he was. He was not a shy person. He was hot and confident and a grown man. He did not get flustered. He did the flustering! 

“Would your husband be mad if I kissed you again?” Ilya brought a hand to Shane’s face and spent an extra second looking at his lips before making eye contact again. Shane’s cheeks grew rosy and he smiled. 

“I was thinking about this,” he mused. “I think that until we can figure out exactly how to get you back–”

“Or how to make sure I stay.”

“–until we figure out what’s going on,” Shane pressed on, “I think, I mean… I guess we’re husbands, right?” 

“And it is normal for husbands to kiss each other,” Ilya concluded. He brought his face closer to Shane’s. “Yes?”

“And it’s not cheating,” Shane said, almost to himself. “Because you’re you. And I don’t know if you’d be more upset at me for cheating on you with you, even though it’s not really cheating, or more upset that I denied you physical contact when you’re such a physical person, especially when you’re obviously in the midst of this total mental upheaval, so, like–”

“Okay,” Ilya said. “I am making executive decision. Your husband Ilya can come track me down in other reality and beat me up if he is angry.” His nose was half an inch from Shane’s. “Okay?” Shane nodded. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to–” Shane started, but Ilya cut him off with an exasperated groan and pressed their lips together. 

It was better than he remembered, probably because Ilya had been convinced he was mid-dream when they had kissed earlier. It was obvious, in the way Shane reacted, that he had spent a lot of time kissing Ilya Rozanov and knew exactly what Ilya liked. One hand went automatically to the base of Ilya’s neck and the other was tangled in his curls. Shane’s mouth moved against Ilya’s with such warmth and desperation that Ilya’s throat let out a low, involuntary sound that he may have been embarrassed by if his brain had the capacity to think of anything other than Shane Hollander. He shifted and grabbed Shane by the waist, pulling him across his lap so that he was straddling Ilya. When Ilya’s lips left Shane’s so that he could kiss along Shane’s jaw and downward toward his neck, Shane pushed away, eyes shut. “I mean it, Ilya,” he breathed. “Just because you’re in my husband’s body, doesn’t mean you have to–”

“Oh my God, Hollander,” Ilya sighed against Shane’s neck. “What are you talking about?” 

Shane pulled Ilya’s face up to look at him. “I just want to be clear that you don’t owe me some sort of physical relationship just because we’re sort-of married,” Shane said as he rested his forehead against Ilya’s. Ilya shut his eyes in confusion and huffed out a laugh. 

“I asked you if I could kiss you, no?” He opened his eyes and met Shane’s. “I pulled you into my lap. I want to do this. I want to make most of my marriage to Shane Hollander.” 

“Okay,” Shane smiled, moving to kiss him again, but Ilya pulled away this time. 

“Do you want to?” Ilya frowned. He searched Shane’s face for some sign of doubt. “Is not too weird for you?”

“It’s pretty weird,” Shane admitted, but his gaze was still flipping hungrily between Ilya’s mouth and his eyes. “But I haven’t really ever been able to resist you, so I’m not sure if I can suddenly learn how.” Ilya nodded, dizzy at the heat in Shane’s voice. 

“Do you think,” Ilya said, “if I am in your husband’s life… he is in mine?” Shane winced. 

“Maybe,” Shane said. Ilya’s heart sank as Shane climbed off of him. That was not where he had wanted this to go. “Fuck. He’s probably so confused.” 

“Yes,” Ilya said. “No bird tattoo, no nice dog, bad lungs, no Shane Hollander. What do you think will be the first thing he does?” 

“Um,” Shane frowned. “Smoke?” Ilya rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, probably, okay,” he snapped. “But then he will be on a flight to Montreal to approach Shane Hollander in the showers, right?”

“God, I hope he has a better idea than that,” Shane said, concerned. Then, upon consideration, he shrugged. “Actually, that might still work.” 

“Maybe, yes,” Ilya laughed. “The Shane I know… well, the Shane I play against, I guess, he might not even be interested in–”

“I’m definitely still gay.” Shane cut in firmly, as Ilya finished his sentence: “me.” 

“Oh,” Shane blinked, and then he snorted. “Come on, Ilya. You’re you.” 

“So, it is no problem, then,” Ilya smiled. “He is going behind your back to get into Shane Hollander’s pants right now, I bet. And I am here to make you feel better about having a scoundrel husband. Okay?” Shane narrowed his eyes at Ilya. 

“Ilya’s not going behind my back–” 

“He is, I think,” Ilya teased. “What else would he do? Go to a Red Sox game? He is hunting down Shane Hollander as we speak. Seducing sweet, well-behaved, rule-following, closeted Shane Hollander.” He didn’t miss the way Shane’s cheeks flushed. “Wait. Hollander. Does this turn you on?”

“What?” Shane’s eyes refocused and met Ilya’s. “I– No. I miss my husband.” 

“Yes, but… you are all hot at the collar thinking about him romancing the Shane Hollander who never got to be with him.” 

“No,” Shane said, but he was growing redder still. “I mean, I’d be happy for myself, I guess. If I’d been in the closet that long and totally buttoned up.” He swallowed slowly. “I think Ilya could be really good for him.” 

“Mm,” Ilya hummed. “So, while your Ilya is being good for that Shane, I would like to be good for you. If you would like that.” 

Shane thought about this very hard, his nose scrunching together as he seemed to consider their bizarre situation from every possible angle. Ilya sighed.

“Look,” Ilya said. “We do not have to do anything. But speaking as an Ilya Rozanov, I think he would be very disappointed in me if I could not get my own husband into bed.” 

Shane eyed him suspiciously. “You’re just like him, you know.”

“Duh,” Ilya said. “I am just saying. Those two should not have all the fun.” He leaned forward and put his chin on Shane’s shoulder, looking up pleadingly. “I would like to treat you like my husband while I am married to you. What if I wake up tomorrow back in that horrible place and I never got the chance to get to know you properly?” He placed a hand on Shane’s thigh. 

Shane let out a shaky exhale. “You’ll tell me if it’s weird, right? If I’m too familiar or too forward or too–”

Ilya nodded and shut Shane up with a kiss, sensing that this was something that was needed every now and then, to stop Shane from overthinking himself into a state of panic. “And you will tell me if you are uncomfortable?” Ilya asked as he broke away briefly. Shane breathed a very rushed yeah, yes, of course and flattened Ilya backwards onto the couch.

*

The thing was, Shane Hollander was good. Ilya had always known that this was true on the ice, and he’d always suspected that Hollander was a decent man. Rivalry aside, there were some real assholes in the MLH, and Hollander had never struck him as anything worse than an uptight, PR-friendly bore. In his various steamy dreams, Shane Hollander had been good, but that was because Ilya’s imagination was good. 

But no, Shane Hollander really was that good. His hands were good at knowing exactly where Ilya wanted them. The weight of his muscular body felt just right on top of Ilya’s. Shane’s warm eyes were so full of feeling that Ilya felt winded every time they met his. The noises Shane made were intoxicating. He knew exactly how hard Ilya wanted his fingers to tug at his curls. And, wow, Shane’s mouth was good at everything a mouth could be good at. 

Ilya had never been in love, and no one had ever been in love with him, at least not in a real way. Strangers at clubs and drunk Bears fans at Stanley Cup parades didn’t count. He’d never considered how different it would be to gasp out an incoherent string of Russian and English curse words while being coaxed along by a man who loved him, a man who was looking up at him in a blissful, knowing daze and murmuring against his skin lovingly in the aftermath. It wasn’t usually like this. 

Ilya stared at the ceiling afterwards, nodding immediately when Shane asked if it had been okay. Better than okay. And that made sense, Ilya supposed. After years of being with his own Ilya, Shane would know exactly what his body wanted, exactly what to say and do to drive Ilya insane. 

“Was okay for you?” Ilya asked, still staring at the ceiling, too scared to look at Shane and see any flicker of hesitation. Shane laughed. 

“Yeah, Ilya,” he patted Ilya’s chest. “You’re still Ilya Rozanov, don’t worry.” He sat up then, frowning at the mess. “Let’s get cleaned up.” 

“What do you mean I’m still Ilya Rozanov?” Ilya asked, padding after Shane towards the– their?– bedroom. Shane snorted. 

“You know what I mean. Girl-in-every-area-code, Russia’s greatest love machine, and all that,” Shane teased. Then, he froze, turning on one heel to look at Ilya. “This must be weird for you, I’m sorry, I didn’t even consider this. You woke up single and now you’re trapped in this long-term monogamous arrangement that you did not ask for.”

“Long-term monogamous…,” Ilya repeated. “Just say ‘married’. And I am not trapped.” 

“Yes! You’re not trapped!” Shane insisted. “If you need to, like… go and, you know…” He wrung his hands together. “Just– we can arrange something, if you’re not ready to settle down without any warning, I mean. I get it.” He looked sick and heartbroken at his own words. Ilya blinked at him, trying to figure out how they had gone from what had just taken place on the couch to this. 

“I… do not want to go fuck some random people in Ottawa, Shane,” Ilya went with. “But thank you for the thought?” Shane breathed, relief evident in his entire stance. 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” he said. “You’re allowed to change your mind, just let me know.” He moved to open the door to the ensuite bathroom but Ilya stopped him, putting a hand on the doorframe. 

“Does your husband not tell you how good you are at getting him off?” He asked, half teasing and half-serious. “Because you are very good. What you just did with your mouth, Shane– if I am trapped in this marriage, I am a very happy hostage. Okay?” Shane’s cheeks burned red, but he nodded. 

“Okay,” he said. “And he does, by the way. Ilya, I mean.” 

“Tell you you’re good?” Ilya asked, leaning in. “Because you are very good.” 

“Yes,” Shane said. “You too, obviously.” He ducked awkwardly under Ilya’s arm then and led him into the bathroom, showing him how the shower worked and setting out a towel. Ilya was half tempted to tell Shane to forget about the guest shower and to join him, but he knew he could use a few minutes alone, so he thanked Shane and let him go. 

In the mirror, he inspected himself again. He did just frankly look better in this body. The skin beneath his eyes was not dark from exhaustion. His eyes were brighter. The loon tattoo, he decided, was tasteful. He touched the ring on his chest and traced the marks left on his neck by Shane. Shane, who had quietly called him darling in Russian as he finished Ilya off. Shane had learned Russian for him! If all Ilya had to give up for this was a big lonely house and free drinks in every sports bar in Boston, he would make that deal every day. 

*

Showered and dressed in Other Ilya’s clothes, he found Shane in the kitchen sucking on a pen, frowning at a pad of paper, and wearing a pair of reading glasses. Ilya froze, unable to look away even as Anya came to greet him.

He had woken up in the opposite of a Saw trap. Every new piece of information he received about this life was better than the last. He moved to stand across the kitchen counter from Shane to get a clearer view. Wow. 

“So, I’ve been thinking about what our plan should be–,”

“You wear glasses.” Ilya stated. Shane looked up, confused, and then laughed. He tugged the glasses off. “Nooo, leave them on. Please.”

“I’ll put them back on if you listen to me, okay?” Shane said. Ilya liked how politely bossy Shane’s tone was, and he knew he would like it more with the glasses still involved. He folded his hands and nodded. 

“I am listening.” 

Shane brought the paper over so that Ilya could read it. It was an annotated list of dates. “So, I’ve rescheduled dinner with my parents so that you have a few more days to get used to things. Worst case, we can cancel on them and pretend you’re sick. Next week, we have to be in Montreal for the hockey camp we run. We can also keep you out of that if you think it would be too confusing to keep up with. But then after the camps, I was thinking we could go up to the cottage and sort of hide out there, like that first summer. Sorry, fuck, you weren’t there.” Shane shook his head, frowning at his mistake. “This gets confusing.” Ilya nodded slowly. 

“No kidding,” he said. “Cottage? The one you do your yoga at?” 

“Yeah! I had it built– you watched that?” Shane stared at him. “But we weren’t… Why would you have seen that?” Ilya cursed himself, his cheeks warm. 

“What is the saying… Keep your enemies close?” Ilya shrugged. “Was boring. Something to fall asleep to.” Shane’s smile was widening, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“Sure,” he said, smug as he returned to his list. “Anyway, aside from the camps, I picked a pretty good time to wish you into another universe, I think. We can go straight from the camps to the cottage.” 

“Like first summer,” Ilya said. “What happened at the cottage?” He expected Shane to roll his eyes or deflect, but Shane put his hand over Ilya’s on the counter and leaned their shoulders together. 

“We figured it out,” he said. “Talked, I mean. It was the first time we had more than a few hours to ourselves and we were able to actually, like… relax.” 

“Oh, you relaxed,” Ilya teased. Shane elbowed him.

“We did a lot of things. We swam, I beat you at pool, I set up a ten-year plan to get you Canadian citizenship, my dad caught us making out against a window.” 

“Oh,” Ilya said. “He did not know about me?” Shane let out a low chuckle.

“He didn’t even know about me.” He grimaced. “It was a big day, but a good one. In hindsight. At the time I wanted to vomit.” Automatically, as though half a day as Shane Hollander’s husband had rewired his brain entirely, Ilya’s hand came up to Shane’s hair, smoothing it gently. 

“I am glad it was okay,” he said stiffly. He was not sure exactly how to express what he was feeling, which was an uncomfortable mix of happiness and jealousy and curiosity. He wanted to know everything about their life. He wanted to have lived in this place forever. “The cottage sounds nice.” 

“It is,” Shane nodded. “I think it’s the best place to figure out how to fix this.”

“Fix what?” Ilya asked, his stomach dropping slightly. Shane looked up at him, eyes wary. 

“Your birthday is in June, right?” He swallowed. “I think we’ll have to try to wish you back to your real life.” Ilya looked back down at the list. The fifteenth of June was the last date on the list, noted alongside Shane’s scrawled ‘Ilya’s birthday – wish?’ 

“Okay,” he said, trying to sound neutral. “If you think that will work.” Shane squeezed his hand. 

“I don’t know if it’ll work. But we have to try, right?” He kissed Ilya’s shoulder. “I know you’re you, but he’s–”

“Your husband, yes,” Ilya nodded. 

“And there’s a Shane he is probably pestering right now who needs to meet his Ilya.” That made Ilya laugh out loud. 

“Yeah! Hello, Shane. Your time with perfect, dream-husband Ilya Rozanov is over, but do not worry, we have depressed, confused smoker for you.”

Shane did not laugh. He looked carefully at Ilya, as if unsure how to respond. 

“Sorry,” Ilya said, trying to smile. “Was joking.” 

“No,” Shane shook his head, very serious now. “My husband still sneaks a drunk cigarette sometimes, Ilya. It’s fine. I pretend to care and then I make him brush his teeth before kissing me. And he sees a therapist to help with the depression. She helps, I think, but obviously there are still bad days.”

Ilya winced and looked away from Shane. “What the fuck does he have to be depressed about?” he laughed. “This life is not good enough for him?” 

“That’s not how it works,” Shane said gently. He tucked himself into Ilya’s back and hugged him from behind. “If I could love every bit of sad out of your life, I would. Just like you’d love to take away all of the things that are wrong with me, if you could. But that’s not how it works. We just love each other, okay?” 

“There is nothing wrong with you,” Ilya said, offended on Shane’s behalf. “What, you are awkward in interviews? It’s funny to watch. Who would want to take that away?” 

“Ilya,” Shane said. He pulled away and flipped Ilya around so that he could look at him. “I’m serious. Your depression has never stopped me from loving you. And being with me won’t magically make it go away. You’re just never alone in it now. I promise.” 

Ilya knew Shane was watching him carefully, but he couldn’t look at Shane. “I was joking,” he said again, his voice hollow. “Is fine.” 

“Ilya–”

“Please, Shane” he said. “Tell me more about this schedule you have made.” Shane did, but not before planting a lingering kiss on Ilya’s cheek and placing his glasses back on his nose. He walked Ilya through his blueprint for the next month of their lives. 

“Can I ask one thing?” Ilya asked afterwards, still trying to process all of the information he had just received. “Why do you think we have to wait until my birthday? Couldn’t you go throw a penny in a fountain or wait outside at night for shooting star?”

Shane blinked. His face went blank. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just figured that since the first swap happened with a birthday wish, we’d just have to wait for your birthday to switch back. I didn’t even consider…” he trailed off and knit his eyebrows together. “I guess we could try–”

“No!” Ilya said. “No, this plan is smart, I think. What if your Ilya is halfway through introducing himself to Shane and we switch back too quickly and scare him off.” 

“I mean, it hasn’t even been a day. He’s probably still in Boston.” Ilya’s heart sank as Shane frowned at the schedule he had worked so hard on. “Well,” Shane said, “I guess we should try one wish at 11:11 tonight, and see how it goes. No harm in trying, right?”

“No harm in trying,” Ilya nodded. He was an idiot for saying anything. He had been offered a month of this life, and he might lose it in a matter of hours because he just had to ask Shane to explain his thought process. Shane cocked his head. 

“Ilya, when you go back, you are going to go find Shane, right?” He sounded uncertain. 

Ilya scratched the back of his neck. “Uh,” he said. “I will eventually try, yes.” 

“Eventually? No, Ilya, it’s the off-season. You have to go and–”

“Shane is still in the playoffs for me,” Ilya cut in. “Montreal is still very good where I am from.” 

Shane rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, Ilya. Shane’s going to have spent a month with my husband, remember? He’ll be looking for you, too.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya shrugged. “Maybe he will only want your Ilya, though. I am not–”

“Oh, my God, Ilya,” Shane said. He pulled the schedule over and started writing something beside each day’s plan. Shane Lessons, each note said. “I’m not sending you home until you realize how much he’s going to want you. Need you, actually.” 

“Shane–” Ilya started, but Shane had placed his hands roughly on each of Ilya’s cheeks, dragging him downward so that their noses were almost touching. 

“No, listen to me,” Shane said. “I am not letting you go back there believing you are anything other than perfect for him, okay? I have no idea if my husband is helping you out right now or completely fucking everything up, but it won’t matter because you’re going to show up and sweep me– Shane, I mean, off of his feet. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Ilya said quietly. Shane gave Ilya a quick, hard kiss on the mouth and patted him on the arm as he moved past him. “You are sure I am captain of the team? You miss giving speeches?” He saw a small smile on Shane’s lips as he opened the fridge and started selecting ingredients for dinner. 

*

Ilya had hoped ‘Shane Lessons’ would mean learning exactly where and how Shane liked Ilya’s mouth, but the first lesson was mostly about making the bed. 

“Okay,” Ilya said, recapping. “Always have a topsheet. Change sheets after sex. And Anya is allowed on the bed some days but never if she is wet from rain or mud.”

“Yes,” Shane said. “That last rule won’t matter to your Shane, but it still stands.” He got into bed, then, and Ilya followed suit. 

“And what does Shane like now?” Ilya asked, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Shane likes to read,” Shane said. “And you fuck around on your phone until you get bored and start telling me how much you like my glasses.” He smiled at Ilya and then reached for his glasses and his book about an old, dead Montreal Voyageur. Ilya huffed and picked the phone up from the night stand. 

“Why is the dog my background?” Ilya asked, holding the screen up. “I like her more than I like you?” Shane looked up. 

“You change it constantly,” Shane said. “You changed it in the middle of last night’s party from a photo of us at the cottage to Anya on the kitchen countertop. Last week, it was a nice picture of us celebrating a goal. I liked that one.” He returned to his book as Ilya swiped the phone open with the face-ID. “Your passcode is 2481 in case you need it,” Shane said, not looking up. 

“Our numbers?” Ilya laughed. “Very easy to hack, no?” 

“You try telling him that,” Shane nodded, flipping a page. 

Ilya opened up the messages app and scrolled. A week ago, Svetlana had sent him a selfie with the actress Rose Landry. Other Ilya had replied with a bunch of hearts and then a request to Facetime. In Ilya’s world, Shane had briefly dated Rose Landry. He wondered if that was true here, too. He glanced over, but decided he’d leave that conversation for the morning. 

There was a message from a woman named Jackie Pike– married to Hayden, he assumed– asking him, on behalf of her children, if he thought Shane would prefer drawings of cats or of dinosaurs for his birthday. Ilya had written back “both please :)))) give them birthday hats and balloons” 

The most recent message exchange between Ilya and Shane was simple: 

[10-May-2022 8:09 AM] Ilya Rozanov: happy birthday where are you

[10-May-2022 8:11 AM] Ilya Rozanov: shaneee

[10-May-2022 8:11 AM] Shane Hollander: I was getting the paper, I’ll be back up in 30 seconds

[10-May-2022 8:11 AM] Ilya Rozanov : hurry up I want to start celebrating!

[10-May-2022 12:40 PM] Shane Hollander: do you think we have enough napkins for tonight

[10-May-2022 12:47 PM] Ilya Rozanov: stop asking this

There was one unopened thread from someone called Harris Drover. “Who is Harris?” Ilya asked, wary of this stranger who had sent him two image attachments. “Why is he sending me photographs?”

“That’s Troy’s boyfriend,” Shane said. He set his book aside and shifted over so that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Ilya. It was a little pathetic how quickly Ilya’s heart rate increased at the closeness. “He runs the social media for the Cens. You love him.” Ilya looked at Shane. 

“I love Troy Barrett’s social media boyfriend?” 

“Yeah,” Shane shrugged. “Let’s see, come on.” Ilya clicked into his chat with Harris and two photos of Ilya and Shane appeared. He sucked in a breath. 

In one, Ilya and Shane were kissing. It looked casual, a quick birthday kiss in a crowded kitchen. Ilya recognized Shane’s parents off to the side– neither of them looked remotely fazed by the kiss. A few people in the background were smiling, but no one was really paying attention to it. They were just sharing a kiss in their home in front of everyone they knew. 

The other photo was somehow worse. Ilya was gesturing at a cake over-loaded with candles, all of which had been blown out. But it was Shane that stole the shot. He was looking at Ilya with such fondness that it felt wrong that anyone else had been there to witness it. His eyes were soft and he was barely smiling, but happiness radiated off of him in a way that made Ilya feel dizzy.

[11-May-2022 9:12 AM] Harris Drover: These were too cute not to pass along. Great party as always! Happy birthday Shane!!

“You were insisting that I make a wish,” Shane said, zooming in on the second photo. “I tried to think about what I wanted, but I couldn’t think of anything.” Ilya swallowed, looking at the Shane in the photo, so incandescentally happy with his life. “And then I guess I accidentally wished for you,” Shane said. 

Ilya turned to face him and was immediately caught in a soft kiss. Shane’s glasses knocked against him and Ilya shut his eyes as he pulled away. “You look very happy.”

“I am,” Shane nodded, his hand coming to Ilya’s jaw as he pressed their lips together again. 

“Will you teach me how?” Ilya asked a few breathless minutes later, his nose against Shane’s cheek. “How to make you happy?”

*

Ilya had never had more fun in his life. 

Every morning, he would wake up and run with Shane and Anya. They ran on the streets together, waving to their neighbours, who did not find it shocking or strange that they were together. They’d turn into the trail and occasionally, a dog-walker would shout out “Go Cens!” as they passed. They lifted weights in their home gym and Shane made protein-rich smoothies while Ilya cooked breakfast. They checked the mailbox that they shared, and opened the bills they both paid. Ilya used Other Ilya’s fancy conditioner and borrowed Shane’s moisturizer. He scrolled through his phone and found some new photograph to zoom in on– Shane sleeping on a plane; a screenshot of a tweet that was trying to map out how long #hollanov had been together; Ilya’s own fingernails painted pink and purple.

Ilya spent most evenings with Anya in his lap, asking Shane questions about their life. His jaw dropped when Shane gently revealed that they hadn’t actually ever come out, and instead they had been accidentally outed by Hayden in a video for a fan. He felt giddy at every new detail about their clandestine years spent hooking up in hotel rooms and at Shane’s second apartment. He nearly died when Shane revealed that Ryan Price had walked in on them kissing when they were supposed to be organizing charity work.

“What about Rose Landry?” Ilya asked. “You date her in every universe.” Shane raised his eyebrows, surprised at this. 

“Your Shane dated Rose too?” He frowned. “Weird.”

“Why weird?” Ilya said. “You were closeted, she is hot.” 

“Yeah, but, I only really dated her because of you,” Shane said. He looked uncomfortable. 

“What, did I introduce you to her?” Ilya laughed. “Am I friends with Rose Landry in this life?”

“No,” Shane laughed, but his face fell quickly. “No, it was… I don’t know. I sort of freaked out because things were too intense between you and I and then I met Rose and I thought that maybe I could like a girl.” He snorted to himself. 

“I was very jealous,” Ilya said, thinking back. “I wanted to find hotter, more famous woman to date, but instead I spent two months angrily looking at articles about you two.” 

“It wasn’t the best time for me and my Ilya either,” Shane nodded. “But Rose basically forced me out of the closet. In a good way!” He amended, seeing Ilya’s shoulders tense. “She helped me feel, uh, ready I guess. To talk to you about us.” He scratched the back of his neck. 

“Was I ready?” Ilya asked quietly. Shane shrugged. 

“Kinda. Mostly,” he said. “We’re complicated, right? Communication hasn’t always been our strong suit. But somewhere between the All-Star game in Tampa and my concussion and Scott Hunter– Oh wait, is Scott Hunter gay where you’re from?” Shane asked. Ilya nodded. 

“Yes, he kissed his man after winning that year,” Ilya said with a shrug. “It was very brave, even though it made me… sad. Sad is maybe not the best word. Lonely?” Shane was looking at Ilya like he was breaking his heart. He reached over to take Ilya’s hand in his. 

“You called me right after,” Shane said. His face crumpled, then, and he brought his hand back to pinch his nose. “God, Ilya, he’s going to be such a fucking headcase.”

“Who? Scott Hunter?”

“Shane!” Shane cried. “Me. I’m just imagining how fucking scared he is about everything. I don’t know how he functions without you in his life.” 

“Shane Hollander is good,” Ilya insisted. “He is very talented and successful. Nice family, yes? Shane is okay.” But Shane shook his head. 

“I don’t even know if I’d have had the courage to be with a man if you hadn’t, like, shown me it was an option.” His face contorted in discomfort. “No, he probably has. He must have. God, there’s no way he’s happy, Ilya.” Ilya didn’t like to see Shane so sad about his other life. 

“This is why you are teaching me,” Ilya said, doing his best to mean it. “I will go back there and make sure he is always happy forever.” 

*

Ilya felt sick with nerves when they pulled up in front of Shane’s childhood home. Shane had postponed dinner with his parents twice, but he explained to Ilya that his mother had started to sound worried on the phone. “I can’t tell if she thinks you’re seriously ill or if we’re breaking up, but she’s getting all antsy,” Shane said. “We sort of have to see them.” 

Ilya had dressed nicely and Shane had sent him back into the bedroom, laughing. “Wear a t-shirt and shorts, weirdo,” he’d laughed. “They’d be so confused if you showed up in a button down, fuck.” Ilya had flushed and mumbled something about trying to be respectful, but he’d followed Shane’s advice. 

They had practiced the important details for days and practiced them again on the way over. “The most convincing thing you can do is be relaxed,” Shane told him as they approached the front door. “They love you.” 

They did love him, which was a jarring experience for Ilya. He had never met Yuna or David Hollander. He hadn’t earned the warm smiles and the casual affection of their greetings, and yet he received them all the same. 

It was awkward, laughing along with references he only sort of understood, and doing his best not to jump when Yuna’s hand squeezed his shoulder lightly as she set his plate in front of him. “You’re feeling better, honey?” She asked. Ilya nodded, wondering when in this timeline he had become ‘honey’ to Shane Hollander’s serious, sharp momager. 

Ilya did his best to focus on eating and on Shane. He noticed that Shane didn’t sprinkle any extra parmesan cheese over his pasta, but he did eat a second piece of garlic bread. Ilya had never thought of the Shane Hollander he was used to facing off against as gaunt or even skinny, but this Shane looked younger and more full of life, somehow. The wrinkle between his eyebrows, one that Ilya had faced off against hundreds of times, was less prominent. Ilya tried to make note of everything he could, not wanting to miss any detail of what made Shane like this, what made Shane happy. He chewed his pasta as he admired Shane’s profile, which was nodding along to his mother’s talk of upcoming sponsorship commitments. 

“By the way,” Yuna said as she set her wine glass down. “I mentioned to Lou in Outreach that we’re thinking of taking the Irina Foundation on the road next summer and doing some camps out west. He seemed pretty optimistic–”

Ilya didn’t hear the rest of her sentence. His ears were ringing and his vision blurred. 

He knew Shane held charity hockey camps in the off-seasons. In Ilya’s reality, the charity was just called something like the Hollander Fund. And every time Shane had mentioned the camps this week, it was clear to Ilya that it was something they did together here. It had made him feel warm inside, hearing about this joint project of theirs. 

Irina. One word had brought it all into focus for him, how different he was from Shane Hollander’s husband Ilya Rozanov. 

He wondered if Shane had intended to keep the name from him, but no, he wouldn’t do that. It was far more likely that Shane hadn’t even thought to mention it, that Irina wasn’t a word to skirt around, nor one to make a big deal out of. It was just Irina, a beautiful name for a beautiful thing. In this life, they said her name warmly, kindly, casually across the dinner table when discussing their plans for the future. She was probably on their Wikipedia pages, and on their tax documents, and printed onto camp t-shirts and hats, tied forever to the meticulously crafted Shane Hollander Brand. 

Ilya couldn’t remember the last time he’d said her name out loud. 

He was out of his seat, half-apologizing as he scraped his chair back and walked swiftly out of the dining room, down the hallway, and into what he hoped was a bathroom. This body’s muscle memory was useless, it turned out. Instead of a bathroom, he had shut him into the tidy bedroom of an adolescent boy. There was a poster of Panthers-era Pavel Bure above a twin-sized bed, and the desk was stacked with boxes upon boxes of branded promotional material. 

Ilya leaned back against the door, breathing deeply and trying to stop his eyes from watering. 

“Ilya,” Shane was already at the door, knocking lightly. Ilya exhaled. 

“A minute,” he said, his voice shakier than he’d hoped it would be. Who was he, in this life? How had he grown into a man who could hold his husband’s hand in public and talk about his mother? 

“Okay,” Shane said eventually. “It’s only been forty-two seconds, but I’m coming in.” He pushed against the door and Ilya let him open it, hanging his head in shame. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. You can tell them I am still feeling sick?” He looked up and met Shane’s worried eyes. Shane shook his head.  

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked. It was an uncomfortable sensation, the stabbing pain in his chest alongside the warmth that spread through his body at the realization that Shane hadn’t noticed that hearing his mother’s name had sent Ilya into this spiral. Did they say it so often? Did Ilya casually and loudly welcome hordes of children to the Irina Foundation summer camps every year? Did he talk about her in press conferences? “What can I do?” Shane had a hand on either side of Ilya’s neck, smoothing each thumb over a collarbone. Ilya just shook his head. 

“I did not know we named it for her,” he said. “My mother.” Shane’s face paled. 

“Oh,” he said. He pulled Ilya into a hug so tight it was almost uncomfortable. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think… I should have mentioned that. I didn’t mention that?” Shane pulled back, eyes wide with apology. “Ilya, I–”

“No,” Ilya said. “No, it is good. It’s… I don’t know a word.” He let out another shaky breath. “I have talked about her?” 

“All about her,” Shane nodded. His fingers came to the chain at the back of Ilya’s neck and Ilya met his gaze. “I hope it’s okay. I’m sure this is a lot.” 

“Yes,” Ilya said. He moved to wipe a stray tear from his cheek, but Shane beat him to it. “Good, though. I did not know… I haven’t spoken about her in many years.” He looked at Shane. “Irina. The Irina Foundation.” Ilya attempted a smile and received a sweet, sad one in return. “Thank you for letting me honour her like this.” Shane’s lips quirked up slightly. 

“I don’t know if pointing this out is insensitive or not, but, uh, it was actually my idea. The name.” Shane looked down, wincing slightly. “Sorry, that’s not important.” Ilya stared at Shane, this beautiful, brave man in his quiet, darkened childhood bedroom. 

“He is so lucky,” Ilya said when he hugged Shane. “He’s so lucky.” Shane tried to say something, but Ilya shook his head and kissed him. “Please,” he said, shaking his head again. “I am lucky, too, today.” 

Ilya had wondered how they would explain away his rushed departure, but David and Yuna Hollander asked for no explanation. They had cleared the dinner plates and were making tea. David was scooping vanilla ice cream into bowls. Yuna didn’t bring up the foundation or any business endeavors, instead talking about her sister’s new grandson and the MLH off-season rumours that surprised her the most. When Ilya offered to start on the dishes, Shane tutted, but Yuna stood and invited Ilya to come help her. 

“First and only time I’m letting you help,” Yuna said. “Don’t get used to it.” She started loading bowls into the dishwasher as Ilya ran the hot water. 

“Thank you for dinner,” he said. He did his best to sound casual, like this was a normal weekly thing for him the way it was for her. Like they were friends– no, family. “Delicious as always.” 

“I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” Yuna said. “Shane said you had a bit of a fever.” She stood from the dishwasher and held the back of her hand to his forehead. “Glad that’s gone, hey?” Ilya’s eyes shut at the touch of a mother’s hand against his head. He couldn’t cry again today. 

“Yes,” he managed. “Thank you. Just a summer flu or something.” Yuna was looking at him carefully. 

“You okay, kiddo?” She asked quietly. She reached over to shut off the tap. “I lose track, sometimes, of how much you two are carrying. I got so used to managing Shane the hockey player like a business that sometimes I forget you’re newlyweds trying to, you know… have a life together. While also trying to win a Stanley Cup for a franchise that could barely imagine making the playoffs five years ago.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I don’t mean to overwhelm you guys.” 

Her read on what had upset Ilya was wrong, but the warmth in her voice was genuine. “Thank you,” he said. “I am okay.” It was a lie. He was both happier and more miserable than ever. 

“Okay,” she said, looking wary as she returned to the dishes. “Now go sit down. I’m not letting you clean up when you’re a guest in this house.” 

“What?” Ilya protested. “You said I could help!” Yuna raised her eyebrows at him.

“Go sit with your husband and relax,” she said. 

*

When Ilya took Shane to bed that night, he tried to do every single thing that Shane liked, whether it was something Shane had shown him directly or something he had picked up in the midst of Shane’s whimpers and gasps. He was slow and deliberate and nearly drove himself (and Shane, if the pleas were any indication) crazy with want, but Ilya was not yet sure how else to show Shane how much he felt for him. 

When he collapsed into Shane’s arms, sweaty and sticky and spent, Shane combed a gentle hand through his hair. “Was good for you?” Ilya asked. Shane scoffed, the breath landing on Ilya’s forehead. 

“Yeah, Ilya, you’re still good in bed,” he said. “I don’t think that changes universe-to-universe.” Ilya smiled and pulled himself up so that he could see Shane. 

“Yes, but I want to be perfect for you,” Ilya said. “If– when I go back and find Shane Hollander, I want to do everything he likes right away. Make sure he knows I am the best fit for him.” Shane’s eyes softened and his brows knit together. 

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Shane said dismissively. “He’s going to be a repressed little freak who’ll drop to his knees for you as soon as you tell him to.” Ilya’s eyebrows shot upwards and his eyes went wide. 

“Hm?”

“I mean, you should probably start by asking him to get on his knees and work your way up to telling him, but… if he and I are at all the same person, you can be a little bossy with him. He likes that.” 

“Bossy,” Ilya repeated, his throat dry. 

“Yeah,” Shane shrugged. “I mean, you do it already a bit, right?” Ilya nodded. He talked when he fucked, he knew that. He knew that in between his is that okay?-ing and do you like that?s, he slipped in a few good boys and a firm request that Shane not hide his face in the pillow because Ilya wanted to see and hear him. Ilya had noticed the grin he’d received when his hand had clutched briefly at Shane’s throat, and the muffled, eager moans when he’d tucked two fingers into Shane’s mouth. 

“Would you like me to be… more bossy?” Ilya frowned. “Would that be better for you?” Shane smiled at Ilya’s concern. 

“You can do whatever you want and I’ll like it,” he said. “But I’ve been hooking up with my husband since the first Obama administration, so we’re pretty comfortable doing… well, anything.” Shane flushed as he shrugged this off. “So don’t feel like you need to dive right into handcuffing Shane to the bed or start filming anything–”

“Filming?” That surprised Ilya, with everything he knew about Shane. 

“Once. I have the only copy because I don’t trust you.” He smiled as Ilya’s shocked face morphed into one of mock offense. “But anyway, yeah, you can like… tell him what to do a little bit. He’s really into following directions and he, uh, likes to be told he’s doing a good job at it.” Not for the first time in this new, strange, wonderful reality, Ilya wondered how he ever got anything done. He could happily spend a whole life in Shane Hollander’s bed.  

*

Shane spent most of the drive to Montreal reminding Ilya how to interact with the other coaches. “You and Scott are friends, but he’ll think it’s weird if you’re too nice to him.”

“I won’t be too nice to him.” Ilya said firmly. “He’s still playing in this world, too? Wow.” 

“Ilya, he’s only thirty-three.” Shane tutted, checking his mirror and changing lanes. “It’s funny what carried over. You managed to avoid your soulmate for over a decade but apparently in every universe, you make time to laugh at Scott Hunter for being old.” Ilya smiled, mostly at the use of the word soulmate. 

*

The first day was mostly smooth. Ilya’s hesitancy to be best pals with Hayden Pike and JJ Boiziau didn’t seem to surprise either of them, though Hayden pushed past this and started showing Ilya photos of his children. It was Hayden’s kids who had painted Ilya’s nails in the photos on his phone and, Shane had revealed to him casually over breakfast two days prior, it had been Hayden’s kids who had officiated their first wedding. They still kept the plastic heart-shaped rings on a shelf in their trophy room. 

Ilya was certain that he was slightly more subdued than normal around the other coaches– Wyatt Hayes and Zane Boodram greeted him with hugs and Troy Barrett smiled warmly, which was something Ilya didn’t know Troy Barrett did. 

It was different with the kids he was coaching. Their preconceived notion of Ilya Rozanov was that he was a cool, skilled hockey player. He could be himself with the kids. He was in the midst of a very close game of scrimmage when the whistle blew and Shane called everyone in for the wrap-up chat. Everyone looked to Ilya, but Shane didn’t miss a beat, thanking the attendees for their great attitudes and hard work and telling them how excited he was to see them tomorrow. 

“I usually do the speech?” Ilya asked quietly, smiling as Shane’s stoic captain’s face relaxed when the kids dispersed. 

“Yes,” he said. “You’re better at all of that.” Then, so casually you’d think it was an every day occurrence, Shane leaned over and kissed Ilya on the cheek. There were still camp attendees and coaches on the ice. Wyatt Hayes was looking right at them, skating in their direction. No one reacted to the kiss. No one flinched or gasped or pointed. Hayes came to a stop, holding a stack of cones. 

“You guys coming out tonight?” He asked, herding them towards the dressing room. “Hunter’s trying to get everyone together at some bar in the Village.” He glanced at Shane. “No worries if you’re not up for it, obviously.” Shane looked at Ilya and Ilya looked at Shane. 

“Would you be okay to…” Shane started, and Ilya nodded quickly. 

“It is okay for you?” Ilya asked. “In Montreal? They aren’t still bitter about losing you?” 

“Yeah, no, the gay bars here still love me,” Shane smiled, proud. “Most of them keep my jersey hanging up and one has a drink named after me.” Hayes looked between them, apparently amused that this married couple had never discussed this. 

“Well,” Hayes said, “I think it’s awesome that you still hold a camp in Montreal even though the Voyageurs...” He looked around as they entered the dressing room. “You know.”

“It wouldn’t be right to punish the kids for that,” Shane shrugged. His eyes fell to the floor and Ilya got the sense that he no longer wanted to discuss how things ended in Montreal. 

“How’s Lisa?” Ilya asked, settling into a stall beside Shane, who was straight-faced as he started to untie his skates. 

“She’s in Toronto for the week,” Hayes said. Ilya was proud of himself for remembering Hayes’ wife’s name, and Shane had told Ilya that Hayes was chatty. Shane could remove his equipment quietly and not discuss the end of his time in Montreal any further. “Seeing her family and stuff. She took the train, actually, which she said was super easy and smooth. Lisa’s always been a bit of a nervous flyer and obviously that got worse after the Cens' little incident last year…” Hayes made a wobbling motion with his hand and winced. He then used the hand to slap Ilya’s leg. “I told her the odds of both of us being on planes where the engines catch fire were pretty low, but she gets upset when I remind her of the details.” Ilya noticed Shane going still at his side and could have sworn he heard a quiet shit uttered. 

“The details,” Ilya nodded, “of the plane we were on. With the engines on fire.” 

“Yeah,” Hayes laughed. “Guess it’s pretty fair that it upsets her… Hollzy gets it, I’m sure. Probably scarier getting the notification than actually being on the plane, eh?” Ilya nodded and then looked down at Shane. 

“Shane.”

“Yes,” Shane said, voice very small. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, both sound bad to me. It was pretty scary.” Ilya watched Shane rush through the rest of his undressing, almost amused at the panic on display. He turned to Wyatt. 

“We’ll be there tonight.” 

*

“Plane crash?” Ilya asked as soon as they entered their hotel room. “I was in a plane that crashed?”

“It made an emergency landing,” Shane mumbled. “Sorry, I– it’s not that I forgot because, I mean, I have nightmares about it every couple months, but I just didn’t think to mention it.” He scratched the back of his head as Ilya watched him. “It was awful.” Ilya pulled Shane into a tight hug. 

“Everyone was okay, though, yes?” Ilya was more interested than frightened. What a life he had lived! Shane nodded against Ilya’s chest. 

“It was especially awful because we were fighting,” Shane said, and Ilya paused the gentle rocking he had started. 

“About what?” Ilya asked lightly. “Who has stronger backhand?” 

“It’s complicated,” Shane said. He pulled back from Ilya so that he could meet his eyes. “I don’t know if it’s the same sort of fight you and your Shane will ever have to have, because the timeline of your relationship is just… different, I guess. I was scared of coming out.” 

“And I wasn’t!?” Ilya blurted out, stunned and almost laughing at the absurdity of Shane’s statement. Shane hesitated. 

“You were ready in a different way than I was,” Shane said carefully. “I was so scared of my team finding out and losing everything.” 

“But you did,” Ilya said, horrified. “You did lose everything. You had to leave Montreal and–”

“Ilya, you had already left Boston, and you’d left Russia, and you were alone and you just wanted your boyfriend to be with you.” Shane looked very upset, but his voice was steady. Ilya shook his head. 

“I should never have asked for you to give up–”

“It’s not giving anything up, Ilya,” Shane said firmly. “It was choosing each other. We spent ten years trying to fit our relationship into the tiny gaps hockey left for it and at some point we had to address that if we were going to make this work longterm.” He spoke with such conviction that Ilya found himself nodding automatically. 

“You said boyfriends,” Ilya noted, trying to do some math. “Not fiancés? When did I–”

“You?” Shane cut in sharply. “Who says you asked? Fuck off, I asked you. Right after you got back to Ottawa after the whole plane thing.” 

“Oh,” Ilya said, his whole body feeling warm and unmoored. Shane Hollander had proposed to him! He smiled against Shane before kissing him. “Wow. Well, I will beat you to it when I get the chance.” 

“Proposing doesn’t have to be a competition,” Shane said, rolling his eyes. 

“Everything is competition for us,” Ilya reminded him. “You win this time.” 

*

Ilya had never been to a gay bar. 

He asked Shane for advice on what to wear, a request that was met with a brief, heartbroken look and then an excited grin. Shane had eagerly dug through his case and tossed him a tight black t-shirt. It was hardly anything scandalous, but it hugged his body tightly enough that his nipples were visible and his arms threatened to rip the hems of the sleeves. “I like this shirt,” Shane had said, stepping back to admire his decision-making. “And then the Levi’s, I think. They make your butt look good.” He paused. “Better, I mean. Your butt is always good.” 

Ilya blushed despite himself, suddenly very aware that he was out and married to a man and they were going to a gay bar in Montreal with Scott Hunter and Troy Barrett and half a dozen other hockey players. He took a deep breath as he fixed his hair in the mirror. Shane came to stand beside him. 

Shane, of course, was wearing a boring grey t-shirt and boring black jeans. He adjusted a black Team Canada baseball cap in the mirror. “Neutral,” Ilya nodded. “Very smart. In case we meet a pack of rabid Voyageurs fans.” Shane smiled. 

“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” Shane asked him as they pulled their shoes on. “We can bail. It was a long day and–”

“It will be good for me,” Ilya said, giving Shane’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I would like to know what it’s like.” 

It turned out, being out and at a gay bar with Shane Hollander on his arm was… normal. Hunter had reserved a big table at the back, and they sat and talked loudly about hockey over the increasing volume of the dance floor. A group sent a round of shots over, specifying that they were for Shane Hollander. Hayden and JJ both loudly protested that they should be sent drinks, too, since they still played in the city, but everyone waved them down. 

It was weird, how mundane it all was. Weird to have Shane’s hand on his leg, weird to have his arm draped over Shane’s shoulder. Weird to not be scared that someone was about to look at him and point and see into his mind and say, I know. But they did know. They all knew who he was and who he loved, and none of them cared. 

He walked back to the hotel with an arm around Shane, a little buzzed and extremely happy. He wanted to cry and he wanted to kiss Shane right there in front of Boodram and Hunter and Hayes as they waited for the walk signal. So he did, and Shane let him, and no cars came screeching to a halt, and none of their co-coaches gave them a second glance. 

*

They didn’t go out every night, because Shane Hollander was too responsible for that. But every day, Ilya felt like he’d made a new friend. In each case, it was someone who he was supposed to already know, someone Other Ilya had befriended, but it still felt nice walking away from ‘Pricey’ with a new inside joke. It felt good teaming up with ‘Bood’ to beat Shane and Scott Hunter’s boring team at scrimmage. 

After the last day of camp, they went out again. This place was darker and louder, and much harder to have a conversation in. Wyatt yelled in Ilya’s ear about some movie he was going to catch the next weekend, and Scott Hunter stood at the bar yawning. 

“It’s really loud,” Shane said. 

“You want to go?” Ilya replied. He had to lean down close to make sure Shane heard it. Shane shook his head. 

“I think you and I should dance,” he said. “Just for one song.” Ilya frowned. He hadn’t expected that. Shane didn’t seem like the type to dance in a club like this. Ilya let himself be guided over, his body pressed against Shane’s as they moved through the crush of people. Ilya was only a few drinks in, but he felt dizzy. He was dancing with a boy in a crowded room. If anyone was recording him, it couldn’t be used as blackmail or as a means of embarrassment, only as some bland local paparazzi fodder. BREAKING: Married Couple Dances Together at Montreal Club. He was here with his husband, who was touching his chest and smiling up at him. Ilya kissed Shane Hollander on the dancefloor, in full view of friends and strangers, and the world didn’t end. 

*

The walk back to the hotel was more of a stumble that night. Hunter and Price had gone home early, but the rest of the guys had stuck it out. Boodram was up ahead and on the phone to his wife, blabbering on about how much he missed her. Wyatt, Barrett, and JJ brought up the rear, heads together in deep conversation. Hayden Pike stood between Shane and Ilya, an arm around their shoulders. “I love you guys so much,” he slurred. “Even you, Rozanov.” 

“Thank you, Hayden,” llya said. “You are okay, too.” 

“Shane’s the best,” Hayden carried on. “He’s the best. Fuck, I miss Shane.” 

“Alright,” Shane said. “Maybe you can get a cab home now. I can text Jackie and let her know you’re–” 

“I love Jackie,” Hayden beamed. “And I love being a dad. When are you going to be a dad, Shane?” He whipped around to Ilya. “You want kids, right?” 

“We’ve had this conversation at least a dozen times,” Shane said flatly. 

“Uh, yeah,” Ilya said, glancing at Shane briefly. His face was soft. Hayden hummed suspiciously. 

“Then make it happen, man!” 

“I don’t think it is that easy for us,” Ilya frowned. “We will maybe wait until we retire?” He looked to Shane again for guidance. Shane only shrugged. Hayden had stumbled to a stop, staring into a brightly lit shop window. A 24-hour tattoo parlour. 

“I should get a tattoo,” Hayden said. “For my Jackie.” 

*

“He can always take it out,” Ilya grinned into the bathroom mirror, admiring the little gold hoop that now hung from his ear. He set his toothbrush down and Shane shook his head, still in disbelief. He spat his mouthwash out and cocked his head at Ilya’s reflection before allowing himself to smile. 

“I think it’s kind of sexy,” Shane admitted. “I’ll try to sell him on it.” 

“Better than Hayden’s jam jar tattoo,” Ilya said. “What does it mean again?”

“It’s an anagram. Acronym?” Shane shook his head and then started counting out the names. “Jackie, Amber… Jade, Arthur, Ruby.” 

“Where’s the M?” Ilya asked. 

“I don’t know,” Shane laughed. “M for Montreal Voyageur’s leading scorer Hayden Pike.” Ilya snorted and Shane gave him a stern look, like Ilya had been the one poking fun at the state of the Voyageurs’ roster. 

“He should have just got Jackie’s name in a heart, like I wanted to do for you,” Ilya said, reaching around Shane’s midsection and kissing his neck. “But you wouldn’t let me. So strict.” 

Shane melted against him. “I like the earring,” he said, gasping slightly as Ilya’s teeth grazed his throat. “I can’t believe you somehow got hotter.” 

*

The whole journey to Shane’s cottage made Ilya feel like a dog that was about to be put down. He was being treated to one last bit of fun, he’d be fed a juicy t-bone steak, and then they’d gently take his life. 

He tried to smile when Shane took his hand in the car and vowed to do his best to memorize everything about the place, just in case he never found his way back to it. 

*

The cottage was huge and private, despite the wall of windows that faced the lake. “I guess you need another tour,” Shane said, amused. He smiled at Ilya like he was looking at the sun, squinting slightly. “This is weird.” 

“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya nodded. “All of this is weird. I am trapped in another universe with a husband I did not know was gay three weeks ago.” Shane snorted and showed him to their room. 

*

There were photographs all over this house, too. Some were duplicates from their home in Ottawa– wedding photos, a kiss shared at an All-Star game– but some were new to Ilya. He drank them in, in awe of the life they’d built. 

“It’s sad,” Shane said. “We have basically no photos together from the first decade of our relationship.” He scanned the wall with his arms crossed. “We had to delete everything in case one of our phones got lost or hacked or something. And we weren’t in the same place for long, anyway, so we didn’t spend our time documenting anything.” 

Ilya felt a pang of pity for Shane and Other Ilya. It was hard to not feel wholly envious of them and their perfect life, but here was another bit of proof that it had been a hard road, filled with a different sort of loneliness than Ilya was familiar with. 

“You have done a nice job making up for it,” Ilya said, doing his best to sound cheerful as he scanned the wall and met his own eyes, smiling out at him from a Christmas photo on the Hollander’s couch. He wondered how many Christmases he would have to get through until he got that. Maybe, if he was lucky or if he played his cards right, he and Shane could be there in a couple of years. 

*

“I’m a lot more chill than him, I bet,” Shane said as he inspected a sparkling glass he’d pulled from the clean dishwasher. Ilya raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “Your Shane won’t be as relaxed about, like, gay stuff. About most stuff, honestly. You help me dial that part of my brain down, so you’ll have to be patient with him at first. Let him freak out if he needs to, sometimes.” 

“Okay,” Ilya nodded. “And how do I help him to not freak out?” Shane set the glass down and thought. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “You just sort of… knew. You touch my back sometimes. Start with that and then just follow your instincts, I guess?” He went back to emptying the dishwasher and Ilya slumped onto the countertop. So much for ‘Shane Lessons’. Apparently he was supposed to just instinctually know how to be Shane Hollander’s dream guy. Shane looked over at him, a stack of plates in hand. “Ilya.” He set the plates down and walked over to rub a soothing hand down Ilya’s back. 

“I don’t have these instincts like your Ilya,” he said, looking away from Shane. Shane’s hand caught his chin and pulled him back to face him. 

“The first day you were here,” Shane said. “When you woke up and thought you were dreaming.” Ilya blushed. 

“Yes,” he said. “Very confusing day.” 

“Well, before you realized you were awake, you took my face in your hands and touched my cheek, and it was like you knew exactly how to tell me that you felt safe with me.” He brought his lips to Ilya’s. “Trust me, okay?” 

*

They sat in front of Shane’s fire pit and Ilya allowed Shane to wrap him up in a blanket and pull his head into his lap. 

“I hope that, if we’re right about this being a one-to-one Ilya swap, he’s managed to get an invite to the cottage,” Shane mused as he ran a hand through Ilya’s hair. “It’s sort of the only place your Shane and I would have in common, aside from my parents house.” 

“No privacy there,” Ilya said. “I would like some private time with you this week.” 

“If you wake up back in Boston, you’ll come find him, right?” Shane asked, not for the first time. 

“Yes,” Ilya said. He would. He knew he would. It may take a few days of steeling himself. Or maybe a couple of weeks. It might even make sense to wait until the season started, where he and Shane could meet up after a game and there wouldn’t be any pressure for Ilya to be the perfect boyfriend right away. But he would reach out to Shane. He could do that. 

“I think he’ll be really scared,” Shane said. “He’ll think you won’t want to be with him. Even if Ilya does everything right, there’s no way I’d get over all of my weird, anxious shit in a month. I’ll be thinking it was some fluke and that asking the league’s most notorious playboy to settle down and date me was insane.” He laughed to himself, but Ilya didn’t find it very funny. He rolled himself so that he was looking up at Shane. His face was framed by stars. 

“I am scared, too,” Ilya said. “It does not make sense to me that he would want to be with me. Smoking and bad moods aside, I am a coward. I don’t know this Ilya Rozanov you married, but he seems very brave. I don’t know how to be like him.” He looked away from Shane’s face and focused on the night sky. 

“Yeah, you do,” Shane said. He didn’t sound upset or worried. He was so certain and calm. 

“You don’t know–”

“Yeah, I do, Ilya,” Shane cut in. “I know you and I know him, and I love every version of you, and I know you’ll love every version of me. Even if I’m still, like, avoiding carbs in the playoffs or something.”

Ilya shut his eyes and let Shane gently stroke his hair. “Carbs?” he asked after a while. “Carbs are energy, though. You need carbs.” 

“Ilya, I’m one of the highest paid players in the league and I spent the first decade of my career stuck in the closest with my biggest rival and a lot of anxiety and who knows what else going on in my brain.” Shane laughed. “I developed some unhealthy coping mechanisms.” 

“If you want to be unhealthy, you should just smoke,” Ilya said. “You’d make a very sexy smoker.” 

Shane rolled his eyes and looked down at Ilya seriously, his thumb now stroking Ilya’s cheek. “I hope you know how much I mean it when I say he’ll need you. He can’t be himself without you. He won’t ever be happy if he doesn’t know you.” Ilya swallowed. He tried to nod but couldn’t manage it. 

“What if your husband has done too good of a job?” He asked quietly. “What if I am a disappointing version of a better man?” Shane shook his head. 

“The only way that could ever disappoint me is if you didn’t want me,” he said. “Anything else can be worked through.” 

“Okay,” Ilya said. He attempted a smile. “What if he comes back but I just stay here? You could have two Ilya Rozanovs.” This suggestion left Shane silent for a few seconds. “Would be fun…” Ilya carried on.

“That’s not fair to your Shane and you know it,” Shane said after clearing his throat. “The inter-universal distribution of Ilya Rozanovs has to be even.” 

“Fine,” Ilya said. “I will go back and be disappointing boyfriend to sad little Shane.” 

“See, the fact that you’re already leading with ‘boyfriend’ will be enough to make his day,” Shane shrugged. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Ilya. I’d bet a year’s salary that he’s been lusting over you his whole career. He’s going to be like putty in your hands.” 

“What is putty?” 

*

Ilya could think of worse ways to have his heart broken than drying off on Shane Hollander’s private dock, admiring the perfectly sculpted body of his rival/teammate/husband/soulmate as the lake water dripped off of it and the sun lit his skin up golden. 

“I am thinking about something you said a couple nights ago,” Ilya said, allowing his eyes to roam down Shane’s chest and toward his swimsuit. 

“Yeah?” Shane asked.

“I have been lusting after you during my whole career,” Ilya said. “I think I have told you this, but it is a good word, lusting.” 

“Something you two can bond over,” Shane smiled. “Ask him what he thinks about your smile.” 

“What about my smile?” Ilya demanded. Shane shook his head. 

“Nope,” he said. “You can hear it from him. Oh, and ask him what he thinks of your hands. He likes those.” 

“Hands like hockey hands? Dangles?” Ilya asked. “Or like…” He trailed off at Shane’s raised eyebrow. “Both?”

“Both,” Shane nodded. “Obviously both.” 

*

After a workout in Shane’s gym devolved into a sweaty, adrenaline-fueled fuck, Ilya confronted Shane about a contradiction he had noticed. 

“That day I arrived,” he breathed. “Thought I was dreaming.” 

“Uh huh,” Shane nodded, laying back onto the yoga mat they had just ruined. 

“Tried to wake myself up with a little slap and you got very angry with me,” Ilya recalled. He looked at Shane, who frowned at the memory and nodded. “But you do not seem to mind slapping me just now.” 

“Okay, that’s… it’s different. Right?” Shane looked over at Ilya, concerned. “You liked it when I did it, right?” 

“Yes,” Ilya laughed. “I liked it, Shane. You heard me. It was hot.” 

“Okay, so,” Shane shrugged his shoulders. “You’re not allowed to slap yourself, but I’m allowed to give you a little love tap sometimes. When you want it.” 

Ilya hummed, accepting this. “You are strict, Shane.” 

*

The day before his thirty-first birthday, Ilya kissed Shane good morning and then he cried in the shower. How on earth could he rebuild a life so good? He was going to go back to his regular body and screw this up somehow. He’d let Shane down and break his own heart, and he’d end up even more miserable than before. Having a taste of this life had been heavenly and he wished he’d never known what he was missing out on. 

Shane tried to hide the fact that he was excited, but Ilya could see it in his face. He wanted his Ilya back. His perfect, brave, emotionally intelligent, out-and-proud Ilya. The little glint that had appeared in Shane’s eye was the only thing that allowed Ilya some peace today. He wasn’t happy about leaving, but he’d do it for Shane. Shane deserved the best Ilya Rozanov, and he knew that was not him. 

*

Ilya helped Shane bake his birthday cake despite the sourness that was pooling in his stomach. 

Shane iced it and stuck the candles in and looked down at his creation with a flat, conflicted face. 

“It is okay,” Ilya said with as much confidence as he could muster. “I will send him back to you, I promise.” Shane nodded. He took Ilya’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly. Ilya tried to memorize every detail of it.

“I love you,” Shane said firmly when he pulled away. “You are the man I fall in love with in every single lifetime, okay?” 

“I hope so,” Ilya said. 

“I’m so happy for him,” Shane smiled. His eyes were glassy with tears. “He gets to fall in love with you.” 

“Maybe,” Ilya said. 

“Ilya,” Shane said. Ilya shook his head, looking down at the counter. 

“Shane,” he said. “I love you.” He said it because he was a coward, and he hoped that it would make it easier to get out when he had to tell his Shane. If he ever got the chance to tell his Shane. If his Shane could love him, too. “I love you.” 

Shane nodded, smiling as he embraced Ilya. He said it back in Russian, and Ilya’s breath caught. “Can I tell you a secret?” Shane asked quietly into Ilya’s neck. “I miss my husband, but I’m glad I accidentally brought you here.” Ilya swallowed, not knowing what to say. “You deserve to know that you can have whatever life you want.” Ilya nodded and reached for the matches. 

He wished, as he blew out his candles, to go back to his real life. He wished for Shane’s husband to return to this perfect life that Ilya had briefly stolen. He wished that things would work out for him and the Shane that he had hardly touched beyond a bodycheck and a handshake line. 

*

“I’m nervous,” Ilya admitted as he and Shane lay in bed and waited for sleep to find them. “What if it does not work?” 

“Then we’ll try something else,” Shane said, though he looked discouraged at the mere thought. Shane tucked himself into Ilya and ran a thumb over his mother’s cross and the wedding ring that hung beside it on the chain around his neck. “You don’t have to be nervous.” 

He kissed Ilya’s chest, right above his heart. 

“I hope your husband has told Shane not to expect much,” Ilya joked. Shane sighed, looking up at him with wet eyes. 

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” he said quietly. “You are going to be the best thing in his life.” 

“I will try,” Ilya promised. “Every day, I will try.” He wouldn’t wait until the off-season ended. If he woke up in Boston, he’d catch the first flight to Montreal or Ottawa and make the drive and show up on the doorstep of the cottage begging Shane to love him. “Love you,” he said quietly as he shut his eyes. 

*

Ilya woke before the sun was up. Shane was asleep and facing away from him. 

He reached for his ear and found it unpierced, and he glanced at his arm to see that the loon was gone. It had worked. He was back in his body. 

Sitting up carefully, Ilya hung his head. He wasn’t ready to face Shane. He looked at the bedside table, no longer decorated with a wedding photo. Instead, there was an envelope with his name written in cyrillic Russian. One cigarette was set beside it. He glanced once more at the back of Shane’s head before picking up the cigarette and the envelope and heading outside. 

*

Ilya,

If you’re reading this, I am very happy because it means I am back with my husband and you are back in your life! Sorry that you could not stay with him, but you must understand that being apart from him for any longer would kill me. And if none of this makes sense and you were just unconscious for two weeks, or maybe stuck in some other bad universe.. find Shane Hollander. Talk to Shane. He will try to help you. 

Happy birthday! Maybe we woke up in the same bed this morning. I hope so. This is my favourite bed in the world. This is my favourite place in the world. 

I am going to write a lot of things down, and I hope that you will trust me. I am not any older than you, but I think that I am wiser. Being with Shane has worn off on me, and now I want to plan ahead for everything. I wish I could give you full, detailed instructions to make your life exactly the same as mine, because I am so happy, but I know that cannot work. Our lives will always be different! You won’t get every bit of happiness I had, and I won’t get every bit of happiness you have ahead of you, right?

Before I get to Shane, I will tell you to do a few less important things. Call Sveta. You miss her, I know it. Reach out to Scott Hunter. He is a good guy and will be on your side. Invite him to coach at camp next summer. Do you know Ryan Price? Invite him, too. I don’t know where Troy Barrett is going to sign this summer, but you should be his friend if you can. Be nice to Hayden Pike. He is annoying some days but he loves Shane, and his wife Jackie will be your friend. I don’t know how much more I should tell you to do. Maybe this is already too much. It is your life, not mine! 

I don’t know how to tell you about him. Impossible to know where to start. I want to write down everything, but it would take too long and I don’t want to tell you all about him because I want you to experience it for yourself. Falling in love with him has been the best thing in my life, and I have sort of got to do it twice. He is the strangest, kindest, best man. You deserve him. You will look away at this and roll your eyes and tell yourself that you don’t deserve a man like Shane, but you do. And more importantly, he wants you. He needs you. Go fall in love with him. Make him eat his toast in the morning and make him feel safe when the world is too loud for him.

Statistically, you are a slightly better hockey player than I am, and you probably still have more sports cars, but I know you are not happy. You can be happy. Choose Shane. Choose him every day! I don’t know the details of how that will work for you two, but it will work if you choose each other. If you will not let yourself be happy for you, do it for him. 

I love you and I love him, and he loves you and you love him. 

Ilya

“Shane.” Ilya spoke from the doorway. He looked nervous and he was holding an envelope and multiple pieces of paper. His eyes were red and puffy, like he’d been crying. 

“Ilya,” Shane said, and they stepped toward each other. 

Shane hesitated, unsure what Ilya had written to Ilya, unsure what Ilya needed. A hug, he thought, might be the best start. 

But Ilya didn’t hesitate. He had a hand on Shane’s waist and another on his neck and he was kissing Shane like Shane was the only thing in the world. Their mouths moved together like they knew each other inside out, which they sort of did. Shane had thought he’d grown used to the way Ilya Rozanov’s kisses made him melt, but this was something entirely new. “Shane,” Ilya said again, pulling away and holding Shane’s face in both hands now. He searched Shane’s eyes for an answer to an unspoken question and Shane nodded into him again, kissing Ilya tugging him onto the bed. 

*

They lay together for a long time, trying to untangle the bizarre events of the last month. 

“You knew the first day?” Shane asked. “Well, yeah, I guess you’d have to ‘cause you woke up in his bed.” 

“Yes,” Ilya laughed. “I thought I was dreaming. Woke up married to Shane Hollander. What a life.” 

“I thought I was dreaming too, at one point,” Shane said, cheeks warming. “Ilya Rozanov telling me he likes boys has been, like, a pretty big fantasy of mine for as long as I’ve been aware of you.” Ilya smirked. 

“I think your freckles are more beautiful here,” he said, inspecting Shane’s face. “Or maybe it is just because they are mine properly now.” He leaned down to kiss them and Shane let his eyes flutter shut. 

“All yours,” he said. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu.” Ilya’s voice was barely audible, his lips moving over Shane’s cheek and down toward his lips. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” Shane said back to him automatically. He had been practicing it for days. Ilya froze and Shane opened his eyes to see Ilya’s wide with surprise. “It’s the only thing I know how to say.” 

“Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya breathed. “I love you.” He kissed Shane properly, then, and it was a full minute before Shane could say it back. 

“I love you,” he said breathlessly. He laughed. “We weren’t even friends a month ago.” Ilya hummed against his neck. 

“You’re right, Hollander. We should take this slow.” He pulled away. “Do you want to spend the next ten years meeting up in hotel rooms once every few months?” Shane grinned. He would, if that was the only way for it to work. He’d do it in a heartbeat. 

*

Shane hadn’t let himself plan ahead because he hadn’t allowed himself any hope that Ilya would be there and be his so immediately. A half hour into his day, he had a few options in mind. He was surprised that Ilya did, too. 

He would submit a trade request to Ottawa. He’d cite personal commitments when asked why, and he’d leave Boston gracefully, even if they fans would resent him for it. Shane would be close in Montreal. They would make it work. Shane listened to Ilya’s plan with his heart bursting out of his chest. 

“And I think we should come out this year,” Shane said. “Separately or together, I don’t mind. But I’d like to be out if you don’t think it could mess things up.” Ilya shook his head. 

“I would love that,” he said. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, smiling the way Shane had never known Ilya to smile: loose and blissful and giddy. Shane lay his head against Ilya’s arm and ran a hand up his chest to touch the necklace he now knew had once belonged to Ilya’s mother. He thought of the lonely wish he had made all of those weeks ago, and how it had, admittedly with unexpected complications, come true beyond his wildest dreams. 

“Oh!” Shane said, sitting up and looking down at Ilya. “Happy birthday!” He tugged Ilya up– they couldn’t waste his whole birthday in bed! And besides, there was cake left over from the night before.