Archive of Our Own

“Shane, sweetie, I think you might be overthinking things a little.”

Over the phone, Yuna Hollander could practically hear her son pacing up and down the living room of his Montreal apartment. She had worried about this the previous night, when she’d arrived at the Canadian Tire Centre for another one of the Centaurs’ home games. She’d managed to put those worries aside as the Centaurs took to the ice; and again, later as they barely squeezed out an overtime win against Buffalo. By that morning, she’d almost forgotten to be worried, until she’d got a ping from Farah, and, five minutes later, a phone call from Shane.

The offending post was a non-issue, really. Just a casual, non-verified account, making an equally as casual, verifiable claim. Yuna Hollander spotted at the Ottawa Centaurs home game for the second time in a row. Attached was a screengrab from the broadcast. Yuna hadn’t known at the time that the cameras had panned to where she and David were sitting in the audience. Perhaps they’d become a little too used to them over the years – “And there’s number 24 Shane Hollander’s parents in the audience tonight. Mom and Dad must be proud.”

Yuna and David were proud of Shane; of Ilya.

It was hard sometimes, the Hollanders had learned a long time ago, to only be proud from a distance.

So, when the opportunity presented itself to attend the Centaurs’ home game a few weeks back, it had – almost – been a no-brainer.

“People are going to ask questions,” Shane had worried fretfully over the phone the day before. He’d been pacing then, too, up and down his hotel room in Tampa. Hayden had already tried to get him to just sit, just breathe for a moment, but it hadn’t done much good. He was there, though, at least and Yuna was grateful for that.

“And if they do, I can tell them the truth,” she had told him plainly. “That we’re there to support our local team. We got bored of just watching on the couch at home.

“And our son started a charity with their captain.”

Shane went quiet. Yuna was right, sort of – probably. He and Ilya were friends now. Close enough friends that they had, in fact, started a charity together. A charity that supported mental health. It wasn’t exactly a casual cause to focus on. Maybe it really wasn’t a big deal.

Except that maybe it totally was.

And maybe, people would totally start asking questions. And maybe – maybe – they would start putting the pieces together and then their plan – and the charity – and their careers – would be totally ruined and –

“Shane.”

Yuna’s voice was sharp, no longer totally masking that mild feeling of irritation – not at Shane, perse, rather at the rehashing of the same conversation from last month. Irritation for the situation they had become wrapped up in, the one that necessitated it be brought up again. And again and again and again.

“Until retirement.”

“No, that’s sad,” she had said automatically. It didn’t matter how she’d felt about Ilya Rozanov before he’d been standing in the entryway not an hour earlier. Silently, behind Shane, like a shadow. What had mattered was the way Ilya Rozanov looked at her son, like he was the only person in the world that mattered. Shane looked at him exactly the same way.

She’d felt something inside her break a little that day. Not because her son was gay, or even because he was dating Ilya Rozanov, of all people. Yuna Hollander realized very suddenly that the one thing her son had always had, and had given his whole life to, would always stand in the way of this one, seemingly inconsequential thing. The two things that made him the happiest in the world, and he could only – openly – have one.

It wasn’t fair and they all knew it, but that was how the world worked, at least for now. And in the meantime, Yuna could love and support her son, and she could love and support Ilya.

On the other side of the phone, Yuna hears Shane sigh. “No, you’re right. I am overthinking things.”

“I know honey. I know it can’t be easy for you. For either of you.” She hears him curse under his breath. Then, for a moment, they’re both silent.

“I’m glad you can be there for him. When I…when I can’t be.”

His voice sounded so small and far away. It reminded her of his first roadie with the Metros, when he’d finally called her from his hotel in Raleigh. He had sounded so nervous. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you after the game last night. Or the one before.” Yuna couldn’t help but laugh. “You don’t need to apologize for not calling your parents after every hockey game. You’re an adult. You should be having fun! Go, be with your team. I can’t wait to watch you kick Carolina’s ass tomorrow… I love you.”

“I love you, Mom,” Shane repeated. “Just, maybe try and cool it with the Ottawa games? Just to be safe.”

Yuna didn’t even roll her eyes. “Of course, honey.”

~*~

As it turned out, Yuna didn’t have to ‘cool it’ at all when it came to the Ottawa home games. When the Centaurs’ management found out that Yuna and David Hollander were apparently such huge home team supporters, they personally reached out and invited them to future games.

Of course, it helped a whole lot that the next home game was between Ottawa and Montreal, so Shane could stave off his worry, this time.

The Centaurs playing the Metros was a very welcomed game, Yuna also realized. Ottawa wasn’t exactly the sort of team that played excitedly or impressively. Sure, Ilya was a phenomenal player – one she had come to respect far more in the last year. He was aggressive and confrontational on the ice. During home games, Ottawa fans seemed entranced by him. He, in turn, fed off that energy. But it wasn’t enough. Ottawa was nothing like his team in Boston. Whereas the energy they needed to win a game was relatively equally distributed among the Boston players, in Ottawa, it became solely and completely Ilya’s burden.

It wasn’t much different, really, when they finally played Montreal. The Tire Centre was unusually packed, at least compared to the last couple home games. Out-of-town Montreal fans had been anticipating the return of the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry since Ilya’s trade had been announced. They loaded the stands, adorning aggressive blue and red jerseys that washed out the Ottawan colors. For a moment – and only a brief moment – Yuna thought about buying an Ottawa jersey herself. Just for home games.

The moment the boys took the ice, it was madness. Yuna and David had watched every single one of Shane’s games. Even before they knew, there was always something indescribable about the energy between him and Ilya when they faced off. With Ilya as a Centaur, that energy felt significantly more tapered – but it was still sharp and fresh.

Ilya won the face-off. Yuna had to consciously hold back an enthusiastic cheer while all around her and David, the Montreal fans let out frustrated sighs.

It felt sort of like old times, watching Shane and Ilya chase each other on the ice. Ilya just wore a different colored jersey now. Yuna still felt the angry pang of her maternal instinct when she saw Ilya slam Shane against the boards. (She knew that was just part of the game, and that Ilya would never hurt Shane intentionally, otherwise; it was really, mostly an instinctual reaction.)

Soon, Yuna found herself having to divide her attention: Ilya slams into Shane – the crowd boos and Yuna resolves to chastise him for it later. Then, Ilya is knocked over on the ice. He lands awkwardly on his shoulder and the Montreal fans erupt into cheers while Ilya takes a moment to recover and stand. Meanwhile, Yuna could feel her heart pounding a little too hard in her chest, while David silently squeezed her hand. (He turns out to be fine and goes on to play for the rest of the game.)

It was one of the singularly most stressful games Yuna had ever watched – and that maybe included both times Shane and the Metros played for the Stanley Cup. By the end of the game, Yuna was beginning to feel more exhausted than she probably looked.

Despite not playing very well, the Centaurs had put up a valiant fight against the Metros. They’d seemingly fed off their captain’s energy, which was of a tangibly different variety than what they were probably used to.

It wasn’t enough. The Metros wiped them out, 4-1.

Yuna and David met Shane in the parking lot, sometime after most fans had gone home or to their respective hotels. They had plans that night – Montreal had a few days until their next game, which meant Shane could stay in Ottawa an extra night. He and Ilya would spend the evening with Yuna and David, and then the boys would have the next day together.

Yuna watched in the rearview mirror as Shane crawled into the back seat of David’s car. He let out an exhausted and contented sigh, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. The three of them were silent as they waited, Yuna and David knowing that Shane would need a moment to fully check out of the hockey world and check back in to theirs. The soft hum of the radio filled the silence of the mostly empty parking lot. David had parked them as inconspicuously as possible in one of the darker corners. After another ten minutes, Ilya finally emerged from the arena, his duffel bag slung over his good shoulder. David popped the trunk and unlocked the doors. Once he’d deposited his bag, Ilya quietly and smoothly slid into the passenger seat beside Shane, shutting the door quickly behind him, before anyone could have seen. Yuna watched Shane again as he opened his eyes and hummed in greeting at Ilya. In one seamless motion, she saw Ilya click his seatbelt and grab Shane’s hand tightly in his own.

She and David exchanged a quick knowing glance as they pulled out of the parking lot.

The ride to Yuna and David’s was done in comfortable silence. Any post-game excitement had been seemingly left behind in Ilya’s and Shane’s teams’ respective locker rooms. What it had been replaced with was a sort of content exhaustion not only from Shane and Ilya, but from Yuna as well. Like Ilya had with Shane, she wordlessly grabbed her husband’s hand as they coasted across the highway. Occasionally she would glance up to check on the two boys in the back seat. Each time, they appeared even physically closer than the last, and finally, as they pulled into the driveway, Shane’s head had wound up resting against Ilya’s good shoulder, his eyes half-lidded as if he was falling asleep.

David grabbed their gear bags from the trunk. Ilya protested, but David, who had not spent the last few hours playing professional hockey, was quicker then.

Inside, everyone seemed to wake up a little. The immediate post-game exhaustion had transitioned into a domestic sort of excitement that only happened when both boys were home with the Hollanders. Yuna didn’t want to keep them too long – it was getting late and Shane and Ilya hadn’t seen each other in nearly a month. In fact, Yuna had almost been surprised when the boys – well, mostly Ilya – had willingly agreed to come by after their game that evening.

She’d prepared everything ahead of time: Shane’s post-game smoothie and Ilya’s favorite pasta dish. Shane diligently set the table and Ilya helped Yuna dish the food. They chatted aimlessly about the game, how the Centaurs sucked but were seemingly getting better (they weren’t), rhetorical questions about whether Montreal fans would ever be normal about Shane and Ilya’s “rivalry” (they wouldn’t).

“How’s your shoulder?” David asked Ilya once they’d all sat down. Ilya’s eyebrows came together, briefly – so, so briefly – and he rolled his left shoulder and clenched his jaw.

“Is fine. A bit sore. Probably will hurt more in the morning.” Yuna pretends not to notice the flicker of concern on her son’s face as Ilya tells them this.

“Well, we have stuff here, if you want to take something before you go,” Yuna offered. Ilya began to shake his head politely as Shane spoke up.

“Ilya has stuff at his house, too, Mom.”

“Right, of course.” She took a sip from her glass of wine.

“Is really alright, Mrs. Hollander, thank you.”

“Yuna,” she corrected gently. The corners of Ilya’s mouth twitched, and he glanced down at his pasta.

“Pasta is very good, too. I think you have made chicken perfect this time.”

Yuna thanked him at the same time Shane said, “This time?”

Ilya looked between Shane and Yuna, frowning only slightly. “Da. Your mother – Yuna – made it for me after last game.” He shrugged his good shoulder as he spoke. Shane just gaped at him.

“You know, I think you’re right, Ilya. Honey, I do think the chicken was a bit overcooked last time.”

“Last time?” Shane looked appalled and even slightly offended.

“You know what, I really wasn’t sure it was until tonight, but I think you’re right,” Yuna admitted, because even sometimes she could admit when she was wrong, as long as she had gotten better since the initial offense.

“Hold on for a moment.” Shane pressed his fingers to his mouth for a moment before looking around at the table. “How often are you having pasta with my parents?” His eyes landed on Ilya first, who didn’t react, before he looked at his mother.

Yuna made eye contact with Ilya across the table. “Since first home game,” Ilya said carefully, pulling at his ear. Shane looked back at him, startled.

“Two months ago?”

Yuna watched as Ilya tugged at his ear a little harder. He seemed suddenly nervous, as if he had said something wrong. “I did not think it was big deal. I already make puzzles with Mr. Hollan – David.” Yuna saw David nodding out of the corner of her eye.

“I know about the puzzles, Ilya.” He spoke flatly, but Yuna noticed Shane’s hand as it moved over towards Ilya’s leg. Ilya frowned again, clearly confused.

“So, what is problem then? I don’t understand.”

Yuna watched Shane’s face carefully, as he searched for the right words. She could tell that Shane wasn’t upset, but…

“I’m just… confused.” Ilya raised his eyebrows at him questioningly. “No, not confused,” he corrected himself quickly. “I think I’m just trying to process it all. I mean, you hanging out with my parents so often, when I’m not around.”

“Well, honey, we invited him,” Yuna clarified. Shane paused for a moment.

“And the Ottawa games,” he added. “I mean, you know how I feel about that. That they make me…” He trailed off for a moment, as if saying it out loud could be taken the wrong way.

“…Nervous?” Ilya finished his sentence for him. Shane let out a defeated sigh of confirmation. Ilya nodded, solemnly. His hand found Shane’s where it still rested on his leg. “Maybe… then they do not need to come to my games?” He looked at Yuna and David expectantly, waiting for their approval. Yuna shifted in her seat and glanced over at David. He seemed as uneasy as she felt.

Luckily, Shane spoke before either of them could try to argue. “No, Ilya, that’s not what I meant.” He took a deep breath. “I am actually really glad that they’re going… to watch you play.” Ilya was watching Shane intently, patiently. “But then people notice and… make comments about it. I just…” He ran a hand over his face for a moment and took another deep, shuddering breath. “I’m worried.”

Ilya pondered this for a moment, his eyes never leaving Shane. “Okay.” He nodded, determined. “Okay. So, what if I tell the press?”

“Tell them what, exactly?”

“You know; that we are friends now,” he smirked. “Such good friends, in fact, that we have this charity. And I come to boring Canadian city; I am all alone here. And Mrs. – Yuna reaches out to me because you and me are friends, and now I am also friends with Yuna and David.” Then smirking again, he added, “And they are now my number one fans.”

Shane’s eyes widened and he pulled his hand away from him quickly. “You are such an asshole.” Yuna could see the laughter in Shane’s eyes when he said it. Ilya shrugged his good shoulder.

“Is so true, they will even have their own Centaurs jerseys.” For a moment, Shane looked like he wanted to hit him – or kiss him; Yuna really wasn’t sure she could tell the difference, nor that she wanted to.

Then, Shane closed his eyes and groaned, running both hands over his face. Ilya didn’t say anything except placed a hand on the back of his shoulder and began stroking him gently.

After a moment, Shane set his hands down on the table in front of him and looked at both of his parents. “It’s such a bad idea.” He had said it almost like a question, like he was trying to find out whether or not Yuna or David agreed or not.

“Is not bad idea. Certainly not worst idea.” Shane shot him a quick glare. Ilya tucked a strand of Shane’s hair behind his ear.

“But you can’t, like, bring it up yourself. It has to be organic.”

“Da. Yes, of course.” Shane and Ilya stared at each other for a moment. Yuna watched as they communicated wordlessly. It felt strangely intimate, and she began to wonder if it was too late to look away.

If either of them had felt awkward with Shane’s parents watching them at that point, neither of them made any indication. Finally, Shane turned back towards the table.

“Okay. Okay, we can try this. But if anyone gets too suspicious…”

“No more Ottawa games.” Ilya looked at Yuna and David again, as if silently encouraging them to go along with it.

“If that’s what you want,” David conceded. He looked between the two boys in front of him. Shane kept his gaze averted. Yuna noticed Ilya’s jaw clench slightly, but he didn’t falter under her husband’s questioning gaze.

“Is what I want.”

~*~

The next Ottawa home game two weeks later was against Detroit.

Yuna had debated going for days. The Centaurs had been consistent regarding their enthusiasm for her and David to attend their home games. It clearly meant a lot that the parents of the number one player in the league would come out and support their local MLH team, even if they were… well, shit. And, after their conversation a couple weeks ago, Yuna was pretty confident that, despite what he said, Ilya did want someone in the stands, cheering for him – it just so happened that that someone would probably be her and David, at least for now.

Of course, Yuna had to consider Shane and his feelings. He was her son, first. Since he’d come out to them, Yuna had realized a lot about the complexity of the matter. Even though Scott Hunter had faced plenty of support publicly from the MLH, Yuna was connected enough as Shane’s manager to know what some higher-ups really had to say about the matter. And while she knew Shane was an adult who could certainly handle himself, a part of her still hoped to be able to protect him for a little bit longer.

With Ilya, it was different. She knew part of the reason for him wanting to be traded to a Canadian team was so he would no longer have a Russian passport (she also knew, of course, the main part of the reason had been for Shane). It was hard to know exactly what would happen if Ilya was outed before his citizenship had been secured. Russian law wasn’t quite clear – after all, most of it was in Russian. She was reasonably confident that he could claim asylum, should the worst happen. What she had managed to discern based on Russia’s Propaganda Laws was that, if Ilya was unreachable, they could target family members. Yuna knew that both his parents were dead. She also knew that he had a brother. They weren’t close – not according to anything both Shane and even Ilya had told her. But he had a niece. She was still young. Ilya even had a trust fund set up for her.

So, Ilya’s situation was complicated. Perhaps more complicated than even Shane had realized.

But Yuna knew a thing or two about public relations, and plausible deniability. The charity had been a great front. Mental health as it pertained to professional athletes was almost as taboo as being queer. It was an open secret shared by many of the major sports leagues. Investors and owners and sponsors expected athletes not to be weak. Anything that diverted from that traditional hypermasculine model was weak.

The narrative was shifting. Yuna paid attention to what people were saying. Sponsors followed trends, money. People were beginning to see themselves in their favorite athletes in ways they hadn’t before. Yuna had a lot of hope for the future – for Shane and Ilya’s future.

In the meantime, she could be careful. She knew Shane tended to overthink things. It was part of what made him so good at what he did.

But Shane sometimes forgot that she’d been doing this for a long time, too. Where he liked to hyper fixate on the minute details, Yuna could step back and see the bigger picture.

She could go to Ottawa’s home games. She could support her local team. She could support her son’s newfound friend and charity partner on the ice. And she could do it without raising any suspicion.

When the camera panned to her and David, she waved politely. Some people cheered. Ilya scored.

He came over after the game, a little later than expected, but very much wanted. He was as disheveled as he had been after any other home game. His curls were still damp from his post-game shower. He walked just a little stiffly into the kitchen. Despite another loss for the Centaurs, there was a wild and excited look in his eyes that was not usually present.

“Good game tonight?” David had asked before Yuna could. She had almost scoffed when he said it because no; it had not been a good game. Detroit hadn’t won by a lot, but they’d been so aggressive and unnecessarily so, Yuna had thought. One of the Centaurs’ rookies had been knocked unconscious in the second quarter. Another Centaur had twisted his knee when someone from Detroit tripped him. Ilya had somehow come out relatively unscathed, though his shoulder was still a bit tender after the Montreal game.

Ilya wasted little time making himself comfortable at the dining room table. Yuna had added vegetables to the pasta this week – Shane’s suggestion (or request, depending on how you looked at it). It seemingly made no difference to Ilya’s degree of enjoyment, and he even helped himself to a third serving towards the end of the night.

It was on his second plate that he finally broke the news. “They asked about you in post-game interview,” he said, his mouth still half-full. Honestly, if someone had told her that he was being starved, she might have believed them at that moment.

“Oh?” She tried to mask the surprise in her voice. Her hand tightened around her fork. “How did it go?”

Ilya shrugged. “It went fine. They asked how I felt knowing Hollanders are cheering for me now. I told them Hollanders have been very welcoming since I moved to Ottawa, now that Shane and I are friends.” Yuna smiled to herself. It was the truth – enough of the truth, anyway. “It felt good, I think,” he continued, his cadence slowing. “Being able to talk about it, even if it’s only a little.”

~*~

After Ilya had left, returning to his Ottawa home on the other side of the city, Yuna pulled up his post-game interview. It started off with the usual questions: How did it feel playing Detroit for the first time as a Centaur? (“A little different. Very much the same.”); Do you feel like your playstyle is any different than when you were in Boston? (“No, not much different. Is sill hockey.”)

His answers were short and to the point. Yuna noticed that they were also nothing like when he was still playing for Boston, when he would quip back at the interviewers and make quick, calculated digs at the other teams. It made her sad. She almost missed the Ilya Rozanov that she had once loved to hate; the one with fire in his eyes, who loved being – or at least thinking he was – the best. Overconfident, bordering on egotistical. Of course, as she had gotten to know him personally, she had become well acquainted with the other side of Ilya Rozanov – the side that caused her son to fall in love. It was a side that Yuna had come to love as well.

But that didn’t mean that something wasn’t missing.

Yuna continued to watch Ilya’s interview. Ilya kept answering mindless questions about the game itself. Finally, a local Ottawa sportscaster asked him the fated question.

“Ilya, your move to Ottawa has seemingly garnered you some new, unlikely fans, including the parents of your former rival, Shane Hollander for the Montreal Metros. How does it feel knowing that even Yuna and David Hollander have been attending your games, here in Ottawa? And has their support for your team brought back any of that resentment between you and Shane Hollander?”

Yuna watched Ilya smirk. His eyes seemed to light up for the first time during the interview. “Shane Hollander’s parents? Yes, I remember hearing about them. They are huge Ottawa fans now, or just my fans? Maybe I will get them their own Centaurs jerseys with my name on them…” The interviewers all laughed off-camera.

“How do you think Shane Hollander would feel about that?” Ilya shrugged and begun tugging at his ear – Yuna was becoming familiar with that particular tick of his.

“Hollander and I, we are friends now, yes, and his parents have been very supportive of our charity. I do not think Shane Hollander is very jealous type, but if he has problem, he can always come to Ottawa.” Ilya winked at the camera. It was playful enough, casual. She could imagine someone paying a little too close attention and coming to their own conclusions, but the gesture had been so very Ilya that it could easily be passed off.

“Does it help at all, having the Hollanders here in Ottawa, knowing most of your family is back in Moscow or Boston?”

The question was too personal for a post-game interview. Yuna saw Ilya flinch. It was microscopic, really; no one who didn’t know him well would have noticed it. She waited for Ilya to dismiss the interviewer, could already picture the phrase, “No comment” in Ilya’s Russian accent.

Instead, Ilya nodded, subtly; then, firmly. “It is nice, I think. Hollanders have been very welcoming, almost as welcoming as Centaurs.” There was another hum of off-camera laughter. “I think it was maybe… unexpected. But I think we understand each other. Understand what happens on ice is not the same as who we are. Is why Shane Hollander and I can do charity together. I am happy to be here; I am happy to find new family in Ottawa.”

The interview ended not long after that. Ilya’s final answer about the Hollanders was quickly overshadowed by a comment about Boston and how they’d fallen in the ranks since Ilya had left (“Is not big surprise. Only a little surprise.”)

Yuna set her phone down on the kitchen counter. She waited for a moment. Then, she got the notification; a message from Shane.

Shane: Did you watch it?

Yuna: Of course I did.

Shane: What did you think?

Yuna thought for a moment. She considered how to express her feelings. She felt calm – the interview had been fine, if not a little personal. She also couldn’t help but feel… proud? Relieved? Certainly, glad that it was out there: that Ilya Rozanov was very welcomed by Ottawa and the Centaurs, and now he was also welcomed by the Hollanders. He wasn’t alone. His family – what was left of it – may have been in Moscow or Boston still, but he had family, now, in Ottawa.

Yuna: I think it went really well.

She watched the dots appear on the screen, indicating that Shane was typing. She was content, at least. If Shane had been worried or stressed out about the interview, he probably wouldn’t be texting. He’d be on the phone with her – or Ilya – spiraling, pacing, panicking.

Shane: Yeah, me too.

~*~

“Hollander, your former rival, Ilya Rozanov, recently said he was grateful to have your parents’ support in your hometown in Ottawa. I know with your charity, you and Rozanov have become close. How does it feel knowing your parents are now apparently becoming Rozanov fans?”

“Well, I don’t know about them being fans of Rozanov, but my parents have always had a soft spot for Ottawa since it’s our hometown.”

“How did your parents feel about you and Rozanov setting aside your differences, after building your entire career around your rivalry?”

“Well, Rozanov and I have always sort of had a mutual respect for each other on the ice. He’s a great competitor. We were drafted together, so a lot of our careers have happened to intersect. I think him and I were both excited to work together on something else we were both really passionate about, and I like to think my parents are happy to support our cause.”

~*~

“Are those… Centaurs jerseys?”

Shane stood frozen in the kitchen, staring at his mother and father incredulously. Yuna shrugged. “The Centaurs won last night,” she said, as if it explained everything away. Shane gaped at her.

“So, you just decided to buy Centaurs jersey after the game.” Yuna didn’t look up from the recipe on her phone. “Right?”

Yuna sighed and set her phone down on the kitchen counter. “Honey…”

“Mom, you know you can’t wear those out, like, in public, right? Like, at all?”

“We know, Shane,” David assured him calmly, diplomatically. It was almost infuriating.

Before he could protest further, he heard Ilya enter the kitchen behind him. “Oh, I see you like your gifts!” Shane turned around to glare at him but froze immediately when he saw.

“What the hell? You have one, too?”

Ilya grinned at him smugly and shrugged. “I thought it would be fun if we matched. In honor of win.” If we matched.

Shane turned and looked back at his parents, who both looked as if they weren’t sure if they should be concerned.

“Shane,” Yuna spoke first. Shane looked past her, just over her shoulder. “It really is just for fun. We want to be able to support both our boys’ teams.” She glanced at Ilya for a moment. “We didn’t think there was any harm in it, as long as we only wore them in the house, on special occasions.”

Shane didn’t say anything, but he nodded slowly after a moment. “Yeah. Fine. Okay. I just.” He felt Ilya put a hand on his shoulder; Shane immediately shrugged it off. “It’s fine. I just need a moment.” He turned abruptly, pushing past Ilya and walked out the front door.

Yuna and David both frowned. They looked almost as confused as Ilya felt. After they had exchanged their fair share of awkward glances, Ilya announced, “I will go talk to him.”

He found Shane on the front porch, staring out into the driveway. His eyes had that far off, glassy look that Ilya recognized as him being somewhere between thoughtful and upset.

Ilya sat down beside him, pulling his knees to his chest and maintaining a comfortable distance between them. Shane looked over at him, acknowledging him wordlessly, before resuming his staring contest with the driveway. Ilya watched him for a moment. Then, he nudged his thigh gently with his foot. He saw Shane’s mouth twitch, but he still didn’t speak.

“You are upset.” Shane tucked his chin for a moment, sighing softly. “Tell me, lyubimyy.” Ilya leaned forward and brushed his fingertips along the edge of his cheekbone. Shane sighed again, more audibly.

“I’m not upset. Not really. Not at you.” He finally looked at Ilya.  

“Tell me,” Ilya repeated, softer. Then, “Was it the jerseys? Were they too much?” He watched as a smile slowly crept onto Shane’s face. Shane pressed his fingers to his lips for a moment, gazing down at the space between his leg and Ilya’s.

“I mean, yeah, the jerseys were kind of a lot. But not really. Not in a bad way.” He folded his arms tightly across his chest. “I just… I miss… it.”

“Miss what? Rooting for bad hockey team?” Shane laughed.

“No. Not that. Just.” He made a large gesture with his hands that did absolutely nothing to clarify what he meant. “This.”

“Ah.” Ilya nodded. “I see.”

Shane scoffed. “No, you don’t.”

Ilya swung his legs around, so they were dangling off the front porch, and he moved closer to Shane, tentatively closing the gap between them. He waited.

Finally, Shane sighed again. “I am really, really glad you’ve been spending so much time with my parents.” He paused.

“…But…?”

Shane shook his head. “There’s no ‘but.’ I really am glad. They adore you.” He looked at Ilya, knowing that he knew what he didn’t have to say out loud, ‘Almost as much as I adore you.’  Ilya clasped Shane’s hand with both of his. “I just… miss… that I’m not there.”

“Hollander, are you jealous?”

“What – no!”

“Worried that I am becoming favorite son?”

“No…!”

“Because last I checked they were wearing Ottawa Centaurs jerseys, not Montreal Metros.” Shane pulled his hand free so he could shove him.

“You are such an asshole.” But they were both laughing together. And Shane moved to close the gap between them.

“So, if not jerseys, then…?”

“I don’t know. I think I’m just being… stupid.”

“No, not stupid.” Ilya threw his arm around his shoulder and kissed the top of his head aggressively.

“Fine. Not stupid. Ridiculous.” Ilya kissed the top of his head again, gently. “I guess I just wish I could be here more. When you’re with my parents. I feel like I’m missing out on something.”

Ilya exhaled sharply. “No, not missing much. Just puzzles, and pasta.”

“And matching jerseys?” Ilya looked at him quizzically and then smiled slowly.

“So, you are jealous, then?”

“Fuck you, I’m not.”

“I think you might be just a little jealous?” Ilya wrapped both arms tightly around Shane, preventing him from getting away. Shane only put up minimal resistance before giving in. “Is okay, I will get you your own jersey, and then you can match with us.”

Shane gazed up at him. “Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so giddy. Ilya grinned and kissed him, softly.

“Really.” He pulled away. “I will get you your own Centaurs jersey,” he promised, lowering his voice, “with my name on it. And next time we are in Montreal, I will let you wear it, while I fuck you.”

~*~

Practice the next day had gone by in a blur. The Centaurs were still riding the high after their win the previous night. Ilya fed off their energy.

He’d had to say goodbye to Shane so early that morning. He had a few days off between Montreal’s games so surprising Ilya in Ottawa after their win had been the ‘cherry on top’, as they said. The fact that the Hollanders had decided to wear their jerseys together – unprompted – went over about as well as Ilya could have expected. A part of him wanted to push a little more; convince Yuna and David to wear them to the home game that night, but he knew better.

The thought persisted and Ilya could hardly keep the smile off his face all throughout practice.

The team was still in good spirits when they stepped off the ice for the afternoon to go about their game day routines. Not unlike Ilya, they were clearly eager for another win, before they had to fly to Tampa immediately after. There was a strange, almost unfamiliar buzz of anxiety-fueled excitement in the locker room. The rest of the team made small talk around his cubby, chirping about their next opponents, the team from Columbus. Ilya sat in his cubby, nodding along appropriately whenever he was seemingly roped into the conversation. His teammates hardly paid any mind to him otherwise. Ilya opened his phone to text Jane.

“Hey, Rozanov!” Ilya shot to his feet when one of the assistant coaches poked his head into the locker room. The room went still. The assistant coach – Jenkins, or Johnson, Ilya couldn’t remember – held a dark, square object up in his hand. “Yuna Hollander dropped by. She wanted me to give this to you.”

Ilya frowned. Some of the Centaurs glanced back and forth between him and the assistant coach. Most just shrugged and resumed whatever they were doing.

The assistant coach handed Ilya what turned out to be a dark gray lunchbox. It was a bit worn. One of the corners was frayed. It had a single handle at the top and a clear pouch beneath it where someone could put their contact information on a slip of paper, should it ever get lost. There was a piece of paper already there. He recognized Yuna’s flowy and elegant handwriting from the grocery list on the fridge at the Hollander’s: Ilya Rozanov.

He felt his heart swell in his chest as he unzipped the lunchbox. The inside was made of a strange, silvery film and in the bottom corner of the lid, he saw the blocky letters that wrote: Shane H. Ilya laughed to himself, imagining an elementary-aged Shane Hollander writing his own name so meticulously, so that there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind as to who once owned this lunchbox. Without thinking, he pressed two fingers against the permanent ink, before pulling away quickly, hoping no one had noticed the intimacy of the moment.

Finally, his eyes drifted down to the contents of the lunchbox. It wasn’t a whole lot – just one of Yuna Hollander’s fancy Tupperware containers, the ones with the red lids, and a freezer pack. There was a note left on the lid and Ilya laughed again. “For the road. Kick Ohio’s ass. Love, Yuna and David.”

Ilya felt tears forming at the corner of his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, hoping he wasn’t being too conspicuous.

“What you got there, Rozanov?” Boodram asked him from his own cubby next to Ilya’s. If he had noticed Ilya getting emotional, he made no indication of this.

Ilya was pretty sure he already knew the answer to Boodram’s container, but he lifted it out of the lunchbox, just to be sure. And it was.

“Pasta!”

The Centaurs won their game that night, 4-1.

~*~

Lily: Text me when you get home.

Lily: I left you something in your bag.

Lily: Я тебя люблю.

~*~

Shane’s Montreal apartment had always felt empty, but ever since the summer at the cottage, it always somehow felt emptier.

They had a home game against Pittsburgh that night. It was the reason he’d had to leave Ottawa – leave Ilya – so early that morning. Shane had (almost) never missed a practice since he’d been captain of the Voyageurs. He’d never had much of a reason to – to want to.

The apartment was dark and cold when he arrived. He closed the front door behind him – it felt heavier than usual – the familiar click echoed off the maple wooden floors in the entryway. He sighed and kicked off his shoes, adjusted the duffle bag on his shoulder, and pulled out his phone, seeing the message notifications from “Lily.”

He smiled, making a mental note to reply, as soon as he’d got a moment to set his stuff down and get situated.

The bedroom was somehow even colder and more unwelcoming than the rest of the apartment. His bed was exactly how he’d left it, two nights earlier: perfectly made, with fresh sheets. A few too many pillows – something Ilya had more than enough opinions on, despite hogging most of them when he slept. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn tightly over the window, making it almost impossible to picture Ilya sprawled across the bed, waiting for Shane.

Almost.

Shane flung his duffel bag onto the bed, erasing the image from his mind as much as he could. He wouldn’t need to unpack much. The Voyageurs had a home game tonight and then they would leave for New York first thing in the morning for an away game against the Admirals. Then, it was two weeks on the road before their next home game, against Ottawa.

Shane felt his heart ache at the thought. Realistically, he knew that the time would really fly by. That somehow made it worse. It meant that the one or two days they would eventually have together would fly by, too.

Shane pressed his fingers to his mouth for a moment. He hated this feeling the most, the one he had every time they’d seen each other. Before, when they were young, and it didn’t mean as much, it had been almost exciting. Anticipation between each Montreal versus Boston game had been built up so that when they did eventually collide, it exploded into something indescribably and sometimes even fleeting.

He thought it would be easier when Ilya moved to Ottawa. He had thought it, but he had been wrong.

Overcome by a sudden wave of frustration, Shane unzipped the duffel bag somewhat aggressively. The zipper came off track. Shane cursed under his breath, fingers fumbling with the plastic to try and salvage it. It was futile in the dark. He stomped across the room and turned on one of the table lights.

When he glanced back at his bed, he saw it sticking out on top of the rest of the contents of the bag. He recognized the Centaurs colors and let out a strangled-sounding groan that had been impeded by a fuzzy, warm feeling that engulfed him completely.

Shane crossed the room, returning to stand before the unzipped, broken duffel bag. He recognized the jersey fabric immediately. He grabbed it, balling his fist around it, as if it would disappear if he were to let go.

“You fucking asshole,” he laughed affectionately to himself.

Shane pulled the jersey out, unfolding it, and held it up to get a proper look. It was definitely a Centaurs jersey, complete with the number 81 and the name Rozanov printed in blocky, sports text. He felt the rumble of involuntary laughter as he stared at it in abject disbelief and admiration. He planned to text Ilya – “Lily” – and ask him when he’d even gotten it, imagining himself pretending to get irritated with whatever non-answer Ilya replied with. They’d go back and forth for way too long, making themselves late for practice…

Shane shook his head and started to set the jersey down. But then he noticed something else and he froze.

The smell.

He brought the fabric of the jersey to his nose and sniffed it, like he was bracing himself for disappointment. Then, he inhaled. The undeniable scent of cologne and the faint smell of cigarettes.

It was his jersey.

Shane sighed and buried his face in the fabric for a moment. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream or cry. He stood there for a minute, thinking he probably looked pretty pathetic right then, clutching an inanimate object so tightly to himself as if the whole world would explode if he let go.

He settled for letting out a weak sort of half-laugh, half-sob before he neatly folded it and set it on the bed. He pulled out his phone and took a picture of it and sent it to “Lily.”

Jane: I think I have something of yours.

Lily: How unfortunate.

Lily: You will have to hold on to for me until we see each other again.

Shane smiled and tried to think of a flirty response (Ilya was always so much better at this than him).

Ilya beat him to it.

Lily: Remember to think of me when you wear it.

~*~

Montreal won against Pittsburgh, 4-1.