Chapter Text
Looking back on it, Shane wonders if he should have seen it coming.
A couple of days before, the two of them were at a small gathering at Cliff’s, sharing dinner around a fireplace and laughing at nothing in particular.
At some point, a little group had formed around Shane and Ilya, where Connors was egging Ilya on for becoming what he liked to call, “a kept man.”
”C’mon, Hollzy’s totally got you around his finger. Can’t believe you used to fuck half of Boston every week.”
Shane rolled his eyes, trying not to let the comment spark a burn under his skin, one he couldn’t get to go away no matter how hard he tried. Ilya barked out a laugh, the movement vibrating through his chest where it was pressed against Shane’s back. He held Shane fast, his arms a steady bracket against the other man's tension—a quiet anchor for when these get-togethers became too much.
“Ah, is true. But I like being tied down,” placing an exaggerated kiss behind Shane’s ear, “no one else I’d rather be with.”
A chorus of “aww’s,” rang across the backyard, leaving Shane flustered at the attention and desperately hoping the group found something else to fixate on. A small part of him wanted to keep the relationship to himself. It allowed him to mentally catalog every shared moment and analyze its meaning on his own terms, without the fear of outside scrutiny.
Not that it mattered anymore, and he was glad for that. Ilya needed more of a support system than just Shane to keep him happy. It was egocentric of him to assume that he was enough in that regard, and he was learning to be okay with that.
”You are coming Saturday, yes?” Cliff broke through with a question, leaving Shane only slightly confused as he tried to decipher whether the comment was directed at just his fiancé or the two of them.
Shane couldn't figure out when he started categorizing themselves as a unit, but he was pleased with the implications of it.
“Da, jackass. How many times are you going to remind me?” Ilya huffed, hiding a grin as he swung back another beer.
Saturday. The 10th?
Oh. Oh.
Shane realized this must be like an inside joke, something between their friends as to hint at his birthday.
Right?
Not that he was expecting anything big, but with how hectic their schedules had been, he was openly looking forward to spending the day with Ilya. It was supposed to kickoff their first day back at the cottage, one of many that month.
Considering this, Shane mulled over his inability to understand social situations. There were certain innuendos written in between the lines of hidden looks and long blinks that flew over his head, but he was determined to remain part of the conversation this time.
Hoping to play along, he stifled a small smile behind his ginger ale, "What's on Saturday?"
Cliff at least had the nerve to look away, probably because he thinks he's going to give away the surprise. He felt warm at the idea of Ilya coordinating something between their friends, he was always good about making Shane feel special amidst their glittering careers.
When the subject was immediately dropped, he bloomed with pride at everyone's innocent expressions. It left him feeling both keen and affectionate at his future husband's over the top antics.
He must be planning to knock it out of the park this year.
If only Shane recognized then what the look really meant.
—
The morning started off slow for Shane.
Typically, he only gave himself one day out of the entire year to take a break from running during the sunrise, and that day was today. Because of this, eight AM meant he was practically sleeping in.
The familiar twist and turn of the covers woke him up, where he found Ilya blearily taking in his screen. Shane took that as an excuse to push himself further into Ilya's bicep—and what a strong bicep it was.
He contented himself with the sound of the other man's steady heartbeat as the rest of his senses trickled in, astounded that his fiancé was awake before him.
He tried not to preen with excitement as to what that could signal for the rest of their day.
When a couple minutes of companionable silence, outside of furious keyboard pawing, ticked by—he grew more curious.
Shane knew one of his biggest issues was being unable to help himself. Especially when it came to being inside Ilya's head.
If the world was kinder to him, he would have his own nook in a corner of Ilya's brain, free to muse over the inner-workings of Boston's most notorious player.
"You're up early," he commented, determined to remain oblivious as to not get in the way of any important (secret) plans.
Ilya simply grunted in response, zeroing his eyes onto a distinct map taking over the majority of his screen. He continuously pinched his finger in an inwards and outwards motion trying to move it around, satisfied when a quiet ping rang reverberated around the bedroom moments later.
Flopping his phone to the side, he threw his arm across his eyes, effectively leaving Shane without his makeshift pillow.
"I think we should stay-in another hour before we deal with breakfast."
Ilya hummed, idly scratching his arm as he watched their curtains automatically rise thanks to Shane's remote on the side table. "You should, the weather is nice today."
Shane tilted his head with a grin, curious as to what that could mean. "Are you planning to make a great escape?" He asked jokingly, huddling closer to feel the warm press of skin-to-skin contact.
"Marleau said he will eat all the donuts if I don't leave in 15 minutes, so I am a bit compromised," he casually mentioned, swinging his legs over the comforter in a lazy fashion.
It was the use of 'I' that served as the first red flag of many for Shane that day. He chose to play it off, hoping to sound casual as he tried to pry for more indirect information.
Maybe if he acted unaffected, the idea of being left so early in the morning wouldn't sting as bad.
"Is he.. okay? I mean, I didn't know he had something planned," The awkward pause after his words sent him into overdrive, horrified that Ilya might think he was being controlling—so he rambled on, "Not that I needed to! Just surprised—that's all. I'm glad Cliff is taking his personal wellness seriously of course."
Smooth, Hollander.
Ilya raised at brow at his franticness, no longer paying attention as he haphazardly ran some gel through his hair to look more put together. "Is team thing, have been planning for a while."
Shane stared ahead, feeling an unintentional amount of bile rise in his throat. Marleau's words from a few days earlier now thrummed in his ears, taking on a completely different meaning.
Rationally, he knew turning twenty-eight was not going to be a show-stopping endeavor. And realistically, he didn't want it to be either.
Getting to experience the joy of being celebrated by someone as loving and passionate as Ilya likely made him self-absorbed, and now even the suggestion of not being able to experience that same rush of endorphins caused an ugly sentiment to settle at the bottom of his spine.
It wasn't the thought of being left alone that bothered him either.
Ever since he was little, he had grown familiar with empty birthday parties excused by claims of "lost invites," when in reality, it was just that nobody wanted to spend an afternoon with someone as peculiar as Shane Hollander.
White, but with just enough Asian to throw off his Canadian classmates that found both him and his silence unsettling.
When he got drafted, his naive eighteen-year old self assumed it would change. He found out the hard way that not even a team of men who depended on your approval as Captain could force themselves to stomach more than an evening with the boring Shane Hollander before they gave up.
Not that he blamed them, but it didn't feel the best when only Hayden showed up with a bag of blade tape before he had to run to meet the rest of the boys at the bar.
He tried not to think about the fact that even his closest friend could only conjure up a training-related gift each year, reverting Shane to his only redeemable quality—hockey.
It's what he was good for.
The blossom of love into his life—with the help of one overly-committed Ilya Rozanov, taught him for the first time that he was worth being celebrated, despite his odd routines.
It was the thought of losing that, something he had just started getting used to, that made him feel sick.
But there was a good chance he was misinterpreting this entire situation, just like Shane normally happened to do. There had to be something that just wasn't clicking for him, but pushing to find an answer that wasn't meant to be understood allowed him to realize he instead had to play the long-game.
Of course he did!
Ilya was nothing if not unpredictable, and he probably wanted to throw Shane off this year.
Sure, it made his heart twist slightly to not be woken up with soft touches and delicate kisses, but he had to be patient. That was something he could do, tried and true.
"Oh, sweet," He turned away before he asked the next question, mortified that the heartbreak would be written all over his face, "Do you know when you'll be back?"
Ilya shrugged, grabbing his wallet from the dresser. "Don't know. Sounds like it will be big thing, and they want Captain there to manage. Don't worry about it."
Shane began cracking his knuckles from under the sheets, forcing his anxiety to pivot towards a more positive direction.
"Well, I was thinking about maybe finishing one of my books today. You know, the one you liked about the European players. Also like, relax in the sun or something.." He trailed off, hoping the desperate tone in his voice wasn't so obvious.
It wasn't like he was trying to coerce Ilya to stay at home, deep down he knew he wasn't exactly the most fun compared to a group of rowdy men that matched Ilya's personality.
Still, he couldn't help the shame that spread through his body when Ilya politely smiled, nodding as an afterthought before placing a light kiss on his forehead and walking out the door.
Somehow, a tiny part of him thought he would.
—
Determined to follow through, Shane spent the rest of his morning trying to be as productive as possible. He sifted through the fridge until he found a less organic version of the milk he usually used for his smoothies—thanks to Ilya's less strict diet, in an attempt to stray from his regiment. To indulge himself, if anything.
If the taste of sugar was less sweet than usual due to the lack of Ilya's over-the-top comments, then that was between Shane and his smoothie only.
After breakfast, he took to the couch, sprawling under a blanket with his book in hand.
For the first fifteen minutes, he left his phone face down on the coffee table. Then, he deliberated.
What if I miss a text? What if someone wants to invite me somewhere, or send me well wishes?
He let the thoughts swirl around before they spiraled into something worse.
What if Ilya wants to make plans for tonight and I don't hear his call? Maybe he's doing something with my parents and they think I'm ignoring them on purpose?
God, that would make me such a bad partner if he thought I was upset for not being acknowledged this morning. I can't do that to him.
He tried to tamper his anxiety by quickly flipping his phone around, somehow already expecting the texts to have rolled in. When a blank screen outside of an ESPN notification greeted him, he pretended it made sense.
Realistically, he knew the reasoning behind some of the silence. His mother made it a point to conceal as much of his personal details as possible since his rookie days, her attempt at giving him a shot at normalcy. All things considered, he appreciated it. It made it a lot easier for him to stay off the grid during offseason, and celebrate his accomplishments in private, like he preferred.
Knowing this, he tried not to let the reality sink in as hard. He always had a small circle, liking the close-knit community that had his back, and of course they tended to be busy until later in the day.
He thought back to the past few years, scanning through hazy memories of old texts and surprise FaceTime calls that greeted him on today. Usually, they were accompanied with the sentiment that Ilya had preplanned their arrangements, going as far as to help them route gifts so they could arrive on time.
Now, it only made him feel queasy.
Had my family and friends only kept in-touch because my boyfriend reminded them to?
And if he chose not to, then who would?
A sudden loud noise pulled him out his thoughts, where his novel had fallen onto the floor, probably at some point in his deep rumination. He picked it back up with shaky hands, feeling the smoothie from earlier coming back up.
The words on the pages blurred together, as if mocking him for his sensitivities.
He practiced his breathing exercises, the exact ones he went through with Ilya.
Two in, hold, and out. Two in, hold, and out.
He continued doing this for several minutes until he could finally hear the sound of the clock ticking every second, grounding him back to the present.
He knew he had to get out of his head and let go of his insecurities that were obviously founded without any basis.
It was still fairly early in the day, he had no right to act as if everyone in his life suddenly decided to stop caring about him on his birthday for God's sake.
Shane spent the next hour and a half reading his book, promising himself that he would only stop and glance at his phone after each chapter. He followed that rule more or less, sometimes shamefully giving in and checking after each chapter, but he was happy with the progress he made nonetheless.
At around one, he began to get a bit antsy.
Typically, every time he finished reading something, Ilya was nearby, if not already with his head settled in Shane's lap. This allowed him a designated amount of time to nerd out over his favorite little details to his heart's content.
He wasn't exactly prepared for Ilya not being around in this situation, forcing him to reconsider their rather unhealthy codependency.
Searching for a solution, he eventually landed on landed on the next best thing. If he couldn't reach Ilya in person, he could just text him!
Shane: Hope everything is going well :)
Shane: Just finished reading Breakaway. You'll never believe the way it ends!
The way it ends? What the fuck am I reading, an action series? He's going to think I'm making it up for attention.
Shane: What I meant is, I really appreciate how the author weaved the first chapter back to the ending. Lol.
Shane let the text sit for a minute before he thought to enact some damage control to atone for his awkward tone, though he knew most of what he was saying was laced in desperate truth and longing.
Shane: Miss you though! Do you have any plans for tonight, I was thinking we could go out. [heart emoji]
Shane: Or stay in, if you're not up for anything. I'm good either way. Just let me know, I'm really not busy today.
Hopefully that's not too much, he contemplated.
Even though the two of them had a very steady and honest relationship, he sometimes wondered if he was too clingy.
It was hard not to be, counting down the days to see the love of your life in increments throughout the year was a mind-fuck he wished on nobody.
The messages sat unanswered until four PM, when Shane was mulling over his new outfit in the mirror.
He had picked it out a few weeks ago, secretly, hoping to impress Ilya and kickstart a night of well-deserved steamy sex. They would be up all night, perfectly sore in all the right ways for the rest of the week.
He stared at his reflection with indecision, now discouraged and broken down over the hours spent alone watching the time pass.
Originally, he had expected to change into it much earlier, expecting a day of various shenanigans. With the change of plans, he had resigned himself to his sleepwear for most of the afternoon until he could no longer put off changing.
It was simple enough, a pair of black slacks and a cashmere sweater layered over a white button up, the visible collar adding a nice finishing touch to his overall look.
Underneath, his new sleek Calvin Klein boxers clung to his freshly washed and moisturized skin, with a hint of cologne peaking through his wrists and neck.
He closed the lid on the new bracelet Ilya bought him a few months ago and instead pulled out one of his watches, not brave enough to shine that bright, considering he already regretted getting these clothes pressed in advance—making him feel too guilty to let his tailor's efforts go to waste.
With a huff of annoyance, he stopped himself from running his fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time and walked out of the bedroom, where his phone had been waiting with a notification.
Taking a deep breath, he strode over and picked it up, opening his conversation with Ilya to find a thumbs-up reaction to the first text he sent three hours.
Squinting, he noticed the reaction had been sent around thirteen minutes ago, meaning that was all Ilya had to offer.
Okay. Maybe he's on the way back and can't text and drive?
Then, something irresponsible crossed his mind.
What if he called Ilya?
He knew it was fucked up of him to do, considering he was just proposing the man was driving, but the isolating day was wearing him down and he couldn't help but want to hear the comforting reminder that he was not forgotten about.
With a surging confidence, he pressed down—
Calling My Lily❤️...
After a few moments, an unfamiliar voicemail rang through the speakers.
It dawned upon Shane then that hearing the message felt so odd because Ilya had never once left his call unanswered.
He sat on the couch in resignation, flipping through the possibilities that tasted unknown on his tongue.
Every time the prospect of being ignored crossed him mind, he shot it down with an angry vengeance.
Shane refused to admit his fiancé, his Ilya, would knowingly, or even unknowingly for that matter, discard him.
He meditated over the last few days they spent together in his Montreal residence, ones that were now being dampened by an unsuspecting cloud of suspicion under Shane's careful inspection.
There had to be something he did or said that would've caused Ilya to react this way.
Maybe he was too eager to begin their stay at the cottage. Perhaps Ilya had actually wanted some days with his friends down in Boston before Shane tied him down to just the two of them and miles of absolutely nothing.
Logically, he knew Ilya loved their little home away from home, but now he suspected the Russian hockey player had simply been putting up a front in order to appease Shane.
Am I that difficult?
Shane recoiled at the realization: he’d been so blinded by his own stubborn excitement that he completely missed how half-hearted Ilya actually was.
Fuck, I have to make this right.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he had the opportunity to do something tonight.
If he invited all of their friends over for the evening, Ilya wouldn't resent Shane for trying to him separate him from what he loved.
And with the excuse of his birthday, he could probably convince enough people to show up.
If anything, it would be out of pity for Shane's hysterical predicament.
There was a strong likelihood Ilya had grown tired of being the one in charge of babying Shane on his birthday, and was looking to nudge Shane in a more mature direction without having to be so direct. If he saw how Shane was capable of getting things planned on his own, maybe he would stick around next year without having to dread Shane's inadequacies.
A small part of him flared at the thought of not getting to do something special for Ilya when his turn came. He was perfectly content with being tasked to celebrate everything Ilya, and did not want today to get in the way of that come the next year.
He pushed down the other part of him that wondered why it wasn't the same for Ilya and kept strategizing.
He would hone every last tactic Ilya had taught him to coerce their friends to come by with the hefty promise of good food, an open area, and booze. Lots of booze.
He scrolled through the DoorDash app, ordering appetizers and fancy wine, clicking every last dessert that would normally make his stomach churn with discomfort.
For today, he would forget all of that. Technically, it wasn't about him. It was about responding to the signs that he was so clearly missing, thanks to his lack of soft skills.
Once in the basement, he pushed a few suitcases to the side before finding what he was looking for.
Carrying the box upstairs, he set it on the counter while pulling out the old decorations from when he was younger. A few were in poor condition, but some were salvageable.
Thankfully, when you have enough missed birthday parties, your parents stop buying new decorations knowing there won't be anyone to see the same ones next year anyway.
He got to work dismantling the tangled string-lights while hitting call to his first victim—
Calling Hayden Pike...
Immediately, his phone speaker blared with obnoxious techno-music, almost crashing the sound barrier.
Shane tentatively spoke up, "Hayd? You there?"
There was nothing but the continuous onslaught of cut-up laughter and steps rushing around before he got a response, "Shane, what's up man?"
Shane attempted to gather his courage before he was abruptly interrupted—
"Wait, is this about Rozanov? I swear I just saw him twenty minutes ago doing shots with that Russian girl he's always papped with, but I got no other justification for why he's not answering your phone. You're gonna have to take that up with corporate my friend."
Shane stood clenching and unclenching his jaw for several before his brain caught up with Hayden's words.
Why is Hayden at a Boston Raider's team meeting? Are they getting drunk in the middle of the day, and is he referring to Svetlana?
He tried to un-grip the side of his pants—all of a sudden feeling like a child—while finding his bearings.
There had to be an explanation, right?
"What-what, uhm, do you mean by that? Are you at the Raiders team meeting too?" His tone was petulant, rightfully childish, asking questions he likely already had the answers for but wasn't brave enough to accept.
"Boston team meeting? What are you talking about? I'm at the unofficial NHL get together, Marleau was hosting this year so Rozanov helped him set something up in Ottawa. Everyone's got plus ones and shit. Gonna hit the club later, you know, the one they've been planning for weeks in that groupchat thing they threw everyone in?"
Oh.
Oh.
That's what Cliff was referencing the other day.
It was idiotic to assume he had anything to do with something like this. Once again, being captain didn't mean he automatically had access to insider information.
Usually, it wouldn't have stung as bad to be purposefully unincluded in such a massive plan.
But learning that Ilya was a part of the process, the process he chose to keep away from Shane's knowledge, brought tears to his traitorous eyes.
So what nobody else could understand his overwhelming emotions, mumbled frustrations, or flat tone? Ilya could.
Or had, at least.
It probably got too much for him to deal with, just like Shane always knew it would.
He was lucky that the man had stuck around as long as he had, throwing away his career for a team with a proximity that made things easier for Shane.
But—a stubborn part of him argued—it was mutual.
Ilya never made any indication he was being held against his well. And he knew Shane struggled seeing things for anything other than what they exactly were, which could only mean that Shane was so far over his head with this whole thing that he couldn't even see the fucking obvious.
"I-I didn't know, no. Are you guys, uhm, is it gonna be like, all day or something?"
Hayden cursed under his breath before his voice spilled in through the line,
"Yeah man, I just remembered Rozanov said it wasn't really your scene so we didn't want to remind you about it. And uh, something about you making him come home early when these types of things happen. Yeah," he awkwardly laughed, "he's not exactly wrong about that but I'm surprised you didn't know at all. I'm sure you understand though, it's not like you would've wanted to come."
Shane urgently wiped his face with the back of his hand, aiming to defend himself with something concrete but failing to get pass the lump in his throat.
He imagined how things could've played out differently, with Ilya wanting him to tag along for the hell of it, and being giddy at the invite for something so out of his depth.
The thought of being considered, above all else. Something he never found himself on the receiving end of, regardless of the circumstances.
It wasn't like they were wrong about Shane's historical reluctance to attend such intense events, but this was something different, in a completely different phase of his life.
One he thought he was living right alongside Ilya.
Of course they weren't out, but Shane lived for the secret glances they gave each other from across the room, and giving in to his own impulses like ordering Ilya a drink from across the bar and acting completely oblivious about it.
That had always been enough for him.
"Right, makes sense. Well, I-I'll leave you to it. Tell Jackie I say hi."
He ended the phone call right away, too embarrassed to hear another reason on why he was too antisocial to be around.
He rested his forehead on the marble counterpart with a practiced ease, not trusting that he was strong enough to stand on his own just yet.
He shook his head with a sad smile—
A team meeting on a Saturday, at 8AM? Have I officially lost it?
He was a team captain himself for crying out loud, how had he not realized sooner that Ilya would never agree to something as unbelievable as that.
Oh right, I trust him.
That was the cherry on top, even now his brain was conjuring up irrelevant explanations for what was right in front of his goddamn eyes.
His heart broke further as he realized he hadn't even come to terms with the involvement of Svetlana yet. He didn't even know she had flown in, let alone planned to attend a party like this with Ilya.
In the past, he had shied away from expressing his insecurities when it came to his fiancé's stunning once fuck-buddy, and the recent conversation they had about Ilya wanting to more or less have an open-relationship made it so much fucking worse.
During their awful ten-year long situationship, he would be lying if he said he hadn't spent countless nights watching photos of the two of them upload onto miscellaneous gossip sites, feeding into his rotten delusions.
It was hard not to, they really did fit so well.
Svetlana Vetrova and Ilya Rozanov.
She understood him in way he would never be able to, physically, verbally, and metaphorically—having memories of an entire childhood spent together on Shane.
But Ilya, sweet Ilya, had quieted every last doubt with a tenfold of devotion that left Shane breathless and completely disarmed.
He was helpless in the face of love, such a fickle thought now.
She was the better pick, more amicable and daring in a way Shane could never be. No wonder he also hid this detail from him, he would've just blown up if he found out Ilya had demands.
Everything was getting far too loud far too quickly, forcing Shane to compartmentalize.
He crossed out the party, and was hesitant to try his luck with Ilya again. He couldn't bare any more verbal degradation, regardless of how fair it was.
Still, Shane was a weak man, through and through. A fighter til the end, his love would tease.
Calling My Lily❤️...
Miraculously, Ilya answered on the third ring.
Similar to the call with Hayden, the unmistakable roar of a pre-game gone rowdy was apparent through the sheer noise level translating through the line.
"Ilya? It's Shane," he began, feeling entirely too lame for the situation at hand.
What am I even supposed to say?
Hey, it's Shane, was just checking if you remembered my birthday and would reconsider ditching your friends for the chance to spend an evening soothing my insecurities. I'll even throw in the special offer of a romantic dinner if you make the mistake of agreeing!
In the end, he settled with something less delirious,
"Wanted to check in with you, I heard the meeting turned into something a little more.. avant-garde?" Oh fuck my pretentious French.
Ilya didn't answer at first, seemingly debating how many chasers were left with a familiar Russian red-head.
"Пожалуйста,"Please, I will die before we even get there. I got the good vodka for a reason!" His laughter carried a boyish lilt that seemed so carefree.
"Да,"Yes, oh Shane, you are still there?"
Shane closed his eyes in defeat, cracking his neck uncomfortable. "Hm? Oh yeah, was just asking about the change of plans."
Ilya made a sound at that, something in between what he could only interpret as blowing raspberries and being too tipsy to bite down on his tongue, "You are nagging me so early into the night, why-y-y-y!" He dragged out the last word, putting an emphasis on the whine.
Shane blinked, not aware that he had such an effect. He felt red all over as he apologized, "Didn't mean to, was uhm—trying to get an estimate on when you'll be home. I didn't know tonight was a big thing, I," he paused for a beat, "I would've came out too, you know."
Ilya sighed loudly, "Малыш,"Baby, we both know that is a fucking lie. Shane Hollander having the guts to show his face at a party with drunk teammates?"
Only after he heard Svetlana giggling did Shane realize that the last part was a rhetorical question aimed at getting a laugh out of his friend.
"Okay. When will you be home? Like, nine or ten?" His voice broke at the end, too heartsick to hide his despondency.
There had to be something comical about the fact that he wouldn't let up, like a kicked puppy determined to prove something to his owner.
"Mmm, yes, yes, whatever you say. Sveta, one more, милый,,darling, please!"
The call dropped then, not far from what Shane's heart was experiencing either.
His phone screen dulled, waiting to see what he would do next. His brain was working over-time, building and breaking down Ilya's words over and over again.
Being called a loser in unofficial terms by your future husband in front of his gorgeous hall-pass was not the birthday gift he was anticipating.
With no other option left, he regressed to a more fragile state, pulling at his collar while going through his contacts.
Yuna and David Hollander were surgically precise when it came to important milestones in their son's life. He had always known this to be true, getting to used to seeing their face first thing in the morning, whether that be over a Skype call or a surprise breakfast meet-up.
Today, it seems they wanted to take the backseat. Which wasn't that weird, they probably thought he was going to be busy with Ilya and wanted to wait until afterward to speak to him.
Lucky for them, he had nothing else better to do than hangout, so maybe he could convince them to let him come down for the night. It would save him the mental haze taking over his mind.
Calling Mom(ager)🫶...
She picked up on the first ring, settling Shane's nerves. Clearly, his day had been giving him anxiety he didn't know what to do wtih, and that was bleeding into his other relationships.
"Hey Mom, how are you guys?" He was proud of himself for stopping the timber in his voice.
"Shane, honey, we're good! Your Father and I are out shopping, did you need something?"
He cleared his throat, "Uh—yeah, uhm, I was thinking of coming down tonight, you know, wanted to see you guys. Maybe we could do something like before. Dad can crack open one of his puzzles, or.."
Yuna was silent on the other line, until she began drumming his fingers against the countertop, "Hm, that could be nice. Isn't today the first day of offseason though?"
Shane confusedly answered, "Yep."
She hummed, "Didn't we agree you would practice your backhand with any extra time you had?"
For the second time that day, Shane repeatedly open and closed him mouth, at a loss for words. "I mean, I guess?"
He awkwardly choked out a laugh, "It's just the first day though. I wanted to spend some time together."
His Mom didn't seem to acknowledge the desperate ledge in his tone, continuing to hammer him for his performance in the last quarter of games he played before she pivoted,
"Oh, and is Ilya around? I wanted to congratulate him on a great first season! He was sending me some pictures earlier about this statue he saw but I haven't been able to get through to him."
At this point in the conversation, Shane had fully disassociated. None of her comments were properly getting through to him, it was like an insistent buzz in his ears wouldn't go away. He couldn't figure out how long it'd been there.
Maybe it had been the entire time.
"Uhm—I'm not sure, he's not home." He was brief, but tried to give one last attempt, "Thought we could do something as a family for my birthd-"
The call had already ended a few seconds prior, leaving him alone once again. A quiet disappointment carved a home in his chest.
Fitting.
—
By eight-thirty, Shane was in the kitchen with a brand new idea cooking on the stove. Literally.
Ilya had told him he would be back in around an hour or two, so Shane could intended to bring the date night to them instead.
It was humiliating, he knew that, but he refused to let a possible misunderstanding ruin a good time.
He had the special Russian cookbook he ordered a few years ago laid out to the side while a few dishes simmered in various pots and plans. He was pulling Ilya's favorites, convinced that it would fix things.
He also transformed their dining table into something more romantic than the way he felt inside.
Two vases held fresh flowers he had sent to their door an hour ago, alongside a few candles and some stray rose petals. It was something he would've loved to be surprised with himself, but Shane was committing himself to being adaptable and that did entail swallowing down his own emotions for the sake of the greater good.
Ilya would likely be very flattered upon seeing the display, and then maybe, just maybe, he would reassure Shane that today didn't change anything. And that it wasn't his fault—though that might be a stretch.
After everything was plated and a fresh bottle of wine and vodka were set, he sat down and pulled out his phone—
Shane: Sorry about earlier, didn't mean to bring you down.
Shane: I think I can make up for it though, see you soon :)
He really did try his best to stay awake, but the day had been wearing him down since he first woke up to be honest, and the steady tightening and untightening of his heart watching the clock go by was too much for him.
Nestling his head into his forearm, he rested his eyes with the hope that he would be reunited with Ilya soon enough.
—
When the front door slammed shut, Shane startled and sat upright immediately, frantically smoothing down the front of his shirt and pushing back his hair. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at the clock—
12:21 AM.
He took in several inhales of air, quieting down his nervous system that was threatening to start a complete body-wide shutdown.
Do not fuck this up for me, he muttered to himself, standing up when he saw a familiar figure trail through the hallway.
Ilya Rozanov stood in his usual 6'3" glory, except he was leaning against the doorframe like he couldn't trust his own weight from toppling him over.
His eyes, the beautiful blues that Shane often found himself lost in, were covered by a pair of flashy sunglasses—a tad odd for a mostly dark home but, Shane digressed.
He smiled nervously, "You're home."
Ilya hovered, pushing the glasses down to the bridge of his nose to intensely stare-down the.. microwave?
Shane pushed through, "I know it's a bit late but, thought this could be nice."
He quickly moved to the other end of the table and pushed the chair out for Ilya to sit,
“Please, join me. You can uhm—tell me about your day, I'd love to hear about it. I made some of your favorites, and I promise, the desserts are real this time!"
He anxiously chuckled, "I bought some cupcakes, it's the only thing they had this late but I think it's practically the same as cake, right?"
Ilya looked to be taking in the information, even almost heading in the direction of the chair, before their door open and closed once more.
Shane visibly panicked, "What the fuck was that?" He whispered.
Ilya didn't seem phased, he actually perked up at the sound as if he was snapping out of a daze. He swiftly moved back towards the hallway again, where a familiar voice rang out—
"Ilyusha! Why is this fucking house so big? I almost got lost."
Svetlana Vetrova.
Svetlana is in their home.
Svetlana Vetrova is in their home after a night out with Shane's fiancé, on the night of his birthday.
Shane thought he was going to throw up.
She scurried down the corridor, the daunting click of her heels inching closer and closer, cornering Shane further and further.
When she reached the kitchen, she automatically swung her arms around Ilya's unsteady frame, making Shane realize the unmistakable scent of alcohol and cigarettes was equally radiating from both Russians.
"Hello Shanya," she teased, cocking her head in amusement, "It is nice to see you."
She turned back to face Ilya, "You said guest bedroom is to left?"
Ilya nodded.
That was all the confirmation she needed before sauntering towards the rooms, swaying perfectly in the stunning minidress that clung to her figure like a second skin—not without taking the vodka bottle with her.
Shane grasped the counter with his left hand as a last-ditch attempt to not lose his own bearings.
What did I think was going to happen?
Of course Ilya wasn't going to choose him. And now, he stood in their kitchen like a stranger, having to pretend to be okay with the fact that Ilya went out and hooked up with Svetlana on a night meant to celebrate hockey's greatest. A party he wasn't even invited to as a captain.
What a fucking joke.
He spent the entire day coming up with meticulous loopholes and justifications for something that was actually quite simple—nobody remembered. Shane was wholeheartedly forgotten and he was too proud, or maybe dense, to figure it out himself.
This is such a mess.
Ilya was still zoned-out until Svetlana graced them with herself once more by calling out,
"Ilya! You promised you would help me with my fucking heels!"
Shane didn't bother looking up to see him leave.
Later, he put the food away slowly, willing his sluggish movements forward on autopilot. On his way to bed, he noticed one of their vacant room doors was left half-open, but when going to close it, he realized what exact door it was.
Svetlana was knocked out horizontally on the bed, with Ilya around the edge of the mattress snoring. Shane stood for a moment, categorizing the moment in his head, before softly shutting the door on his way down.
He laid in their bed at night like a robot, too shameful to stay on his own side and instead seeking comfort on Ilya's side, rubbing his nose in the tangy cologne. The tears that fell onto the pillowcase were inevitable, a result of everything wrong that ever happened to him to lead up to this point in his life.
He had never possessed the talent for salvaging what was left behind. With every passing year, the fear grew heavier: time wasn't going to fix his inability to be loved; it was just going to leave him with less to hold onto.
—