my leash be drippin

Shane is lonely. He knows this because there have been multiple attempts by different people in his life to make him acknowledge this. It has been an increasing concern for his parents, who previously kept their comments sparse, before his career kicked off in earnest and they could finally iron out some of his social flaws. This manifests in increasingly farfetched and undesirable suggestions - you should join a running club; you should email this influencer - you never know!; you should see if that brand ambassador could be your plus one to this event.

His friends, too, keep poking their noses in his business. They want to set him up with acquaintances, they try to get him out of the house, they make dinner plans, and invite people he doesn’t know. Strange that they think he wants to meet new people in the one night a month he has reserved for socialising. He’s not crossing paths with Jackie’s friends again if he can help it - who pinches a person’s ass five minutes after meeting them for the first time?

Some of his friends are easier to shake off - Hayden goes quiet after a few noncommittal hums from him at the suggestion of a double date. JJ is happy if they get a beer once in a while. Rose however - Rose buys him a dog.

Shane has never been one for pets. He likes to keep his space clean and tidy at all times. To the point where he has to mentally prepare whenever he has people over. His schedule is colour coordinated with carefully timed breaks and meal times.   So he has no idea why she thought a dog would fit well into his life. Regardless, this one comes with a pedigree and a price tag with an eye-watering amount of zeros on it.

She conveys all of this to him in-between bites of a 15$ Chipotle salad. The salad gets sorted like everything else in Rose’s life - the green parts first, so she can zero in on what she likes.

She groans in unrestrained delight between mouthfuls. She’s always had a love for food that Shane can’t help but be jealous of.

“It’ll be fun! It barely needs any amount of care. You just need to feed it and play with it once in a while.” Shane reminds himself to keep looking at her nose. It's kind of gross to see someone eat, especially when he isn’t eating himself, but he likes Rose, and he doesn't want her to feel weird about it.“Your family never owned a dog before?”

“No. My dad had one when he was little, but it was old already when he was born. Didn’t get to play with it a lot.” His mom didn’t like the concept of pets in general, so they took more trips to DCR to compensate the lack of stimuli in Shane’s life.

“My family loves dogs. We had a pair of them, growing up, and it was so cute to watch them play together.” She pauses to take a sip of water and Shane swallows down the urge to tell her that she shouldn’t be drinking while she eats. She’s eating at 11pm, so she probably doesn’t care about digestive dilution. “You’ll love it! It’ll be the perfect companion.”

The salad had been a concession to the late night munchies. Film sets stay on late into the night, and she can’t always get a meal in when she wants it.

Shane ate his own dinner after the game against LA, hunched over his tupperware while he reviewed tape on his phone. Then he drove up to her house at her insistence. Big news, she told him. Rose knew by now that calling it a “surprise” would’ve made Shane apprehensive, and she waited until the door locked behind him before the reveal. She spends an hour trying to convince him of how good of a decision this is before she hands him an expensive-looking binder and sends him on his way.

On the drive back to the hotel, Shane scans the QR code on the front page and starts reading the hundred page long pdf. Most of it is fluff - pieces about the breeders and their positions in competitions. Famous customers they tout as success stories. There will be a page with Shane’s face on it in the next set of documents they print.

The first three pages are what matters - care instructions and inventory, followed by a thick paragraph of attributes. The dog comes with its own set of leashes, clothes and 30 cases of premium wet food. This particular breed requires more physical activity than most, so if Shane decides to keep it, it will be a good idea to fit it into his exercise routine.

Its been trained to guard the house against intruders, or to guard him when they go out. Thankfully Shane is not at a level of fame where this is an issue, but its nice. The list of qualities goes on - tricks and competition results, languages it knows, etc. They even included that it makes for a perfect bed warmer, whatever that means.

It already has a name, which is short and simple enough to memorise despite being foreign. Shane stares at the pictures. A huge, golden haired single lineage purebreed. Its objectively beautiful in the carefully curated gallery they’ve prepared for him.

He texts the number on the back to arrange the drop off for the beginning of the off season.

———————————————————————————————————

The dog itself, well. He's so much more than could be described on a piece of paper. He’s different from the pictures, for one, coat curlier in its current styling. He’s traded in the competition sportswear for fitted black designer shorts with a matching collar and a muzzle that wraps around his head securely.

Ilya takes up the entirety of Shane's door. He’s about the same height as Shane, but his shoulders are incredibly wide. Thickly muscled, with hardly any fat on him. There’s maybe less body fat than Shane would’ve liked, actually, especially for a very active dog. He’s as hairy as his pictures suggest, but in person he can see it's been trimmed into shape. It glows when he moves, the light catching the dusting on his arms. Here and there moles pepper Ilya’s skin delicately. He has pretty, thick blond lashes and a full pink pout surrounded by soft-looking hair. Clearly, a dog bred for tournaments and showcases. He’s bigger than Shane, who thought himself pretty fit before this.

A bead of sweat runs down the dog’s chest, and Shane follows it down until it hits his bellybutton. He can feel Ilya’s body heat radiating out from where he stands several feet away. That incredible canine warmth he’s read about.

Ilya regards him with intelligent eyes, greener than in the photos, but makes no sound from under his muzzle. After a second, Shane remembers that he’s supposed to give Ilya the go-ahead for conversation. God, he can't even manage a dog. No wonder his parents worry about his lack of social skills

"Hi. I'm Shane, your new owner.” He coughs. It sounds strange to say that, but it would’ve been stranger to refer to himself as ‘dad’ the way some people do. “You can walk around, get yourself acquainted." He makes a gesture towards the bedrooms and kitchen.

Ilya nods, but doesn’t respond.

"Oh! And you can speak, if you'd like.”

"Ok." The voice that comes out is low, with a Russian accent that matches with the breed's origins. "What do I call you?" Very straight to the point. Shane was expecting him to cower slightly, as he had seen with some other dogs in his past. They all seem so nervous in the videos, especially at first. Not this towering golden specimen. "Uh, whatever you like. I don’t really have a preference.”

"Hmm, ok.”

And they leave it at that.

Shane spreads himself across the sofa with a book, one leg hooked over the armrest. He turns a page without reading it. Somewhere down the hall, a drawer opens and closes, he turns another page.

It's strange, having someone move through his space like that: the sounds of Ilya going room to room, picking things up probably, putting them down wrong. Shane stares at the same paragraph until the words stop meaning anything.

Then the dog settles on the floor between him and the door, facing away, and Shane realises he doesn't know how long it's been since he heard anything at all.

"Do you...want anything? Food, water?”

"No, thank you.”

Shane tries to remember the documents. Somewhere buried beneath paragraphs of achievements and skills, there had been a section with Ilya's 'likes and dislikes’ as well as general warnings. It had been so short, Shane had all but skipped it on subsequent read-throughs. He memorised the care instructions, at least. Everything else fell away in the way things outside of hockey usually did. Maybe there had been something there about books or toys he could’ve bought in preparation for Ilya’s arrival. He’s too self-conscious to pull up the pdf on his phone now, to check if he has anything at home that might interest the dog.

On his end, Ilya seems comfortable. Slightly sleepy, too, though he’s fighting to keep himself awake. Shane wonders how long his flight from Moscow to Montreal was. If there even is a direct flight.

Ilya probably just needs time to get acclimated. If he wants to sit there and stare at Shane, so be it.

The next few hours are spent in silence. The only sound is Shane idly flipping the pages of his book. The dog changes positions a few times, but keeps himself between Shane and the door. So still Shane could forget about him, if he didn't feel the weight of the dog’s attentive gaze on him.

By the time Shane finishes, the sky outside is dark, it's time for dinner and Ilya has started sagging slightly in a way that betrays his exhaustion.

He heats the tupperware labeled 'Saturday' with a stamped half moon on it. Then grabs some of Ilya's wet food and reheats that too, smiling to himself at how similar they look when he serves them up. He can almost feel Hayden chirping at him because of his ‘bird food’.

The thought of cleaning bits of meaty brown sludge from the carpet makes Shane's skin prickle.

"Get a chair," he says, already moving toward the table. "Sit with me."

The muzzle, when it comes off, is surprisingly heavy in Shane's hands. It’s amazing that Ilya manages to remain ramrod straight with it over his face.

They eat in silence. Shane can’t think of anything to say that’s not ‘how is your premium performance diet mush’. He’s used to eating dinner with his parents at restaurants, and dining with his friends in their homes, but he’s never had anyone sit on his living room table with him. Most days, he doesn’t bother sitting here himself, just eats on the kitchen island.

He doesn’t know if Ilya likes the food. Presumably, this is the same thing he’s eaten his whole life, unless they gave him something different to account for the lifestyle choices Shane put on the adoption form. Ilya’s face is set in a neutral expression that’s impossible to read. At least he doesn’t make eye contact or speak with his mouth full, which Shane appreciates. In fact, the only time Ilya opens his mouth is after the meal is finished, to ask where Shane wants him to put the dishes. He guides Ilya to the dishwasher and takes the opportunity to open all the cabinets and show him where everything is. Shane uses maybe thirty percent of the kitchen gadgets and utensils, but his interior decorator is thorough. Also, his mother keeps purchasing plasticky objects that she swears will ‘change his life’. These are immediately shoved in the back of a drawer and are promptly forgotten.

They load up the dishwasher, then Shane starts his nightly ablutions. It’s awkwardto have someone around for this, but he soldiers on, telling Ilya to strip and follow him into the bathroom. After a day spent in airports and crowded planes, Ilya definitely needs a bath. Shane strips and folds his own clothes with his back to Ilya. The dog’s shorts leave little to the imagination, and it’ll be even more awkward if Ilya catches Shane’s eyes trailing downward. At his insistence, Ilya steps into the shower and turns on the spray. Shane crowds Ilya against the far wall and gets to work untangling his hair. The view from behind isn’t helping either, but at least in this position, Ilya won’t be looking at Shane the whole time. As per the care instructions, Ilya’s coat requires a special shampoo and conditioning routine repeated regularly. It’s thick and soft in Shane’s hands, which he can feel even as it gets wet and clings to his face and neck.

He rubs shampoo methodically into it, seeing the tension leave Ilya’s shoulders. Technically, he could let Ilya work at his own hair, but the dog is so tired at this point that he’s leaning against the wall to stay upright.

A quick rub down and a fresh set of PJs for Shane, and they’re off to bed. Ilya continues to be quiet, but it suits Shane just fine. He stands over the newly purchased dog bed, considering, before he ultimately decides to let Ilya sleep with him for the night.   He’s never been one to cuddle with plushies or pillows. Nor does he enjoy the thought of sleeping next to someone. But he did tell Rose he'd give it an honest try. So Ilya goes on the end of the kingsized mattress, the mass of him curled at Shane's feet and up his legs.

Maybe he should’ve considered Ilya’s size before he offered the dog a place in his bed. The bed is big, but Ilya seems to take up all the available space. Given that Shane himself is a hockey player, there’s not a lot of free space left. He’s moved closer to the centre of the bed to accommodate Ilya’s bulk. If he hadn’t gotten in first, he wouldn’t have been able to find a configuration where they both fit.

Shane’s feet tingle where they’re pressed to Ilya’s warm thighs through the sheet, and he has to force himself not to wiggle them. One wrong move and he’ll make contact with the dog's naked crotch. His legs are immobilised by the blanket caught under Ilya’s body on either side of him. Shane stares at the ceiling. It's not terrible. Sleep comes easy.

He usually sleeps deeply, undisturbed by stray noises or differences in temperature. Probably a result of so many years spent rooming with sweaty bodies that snore almost as bad as they smell.

Its a surprise, then, when he opens his eyes to total darkness. He blinks up at the clock on his bedside table, and it reads 03:, the rest of it lost between bleary vision and a lack of interest about details at this late hour. It is way too early for him to be up.   He’s hot. This time of year, he sleeps naked, and that's usually enough to keep him from overheating under thin bedsheets. Even if he does get a little warm, it's never like he is now - he's soaked. His hair is wet with it.

It’s Ilya, he realises. The dog has crept up in the night and is now plastered to Shane’s back. He’s being slightly crushed by the sheet between them and under Ilya. The muzzle is biting into the back of his neck, where Ilya got as close as he could before he fell back asleep.

Shane inches forward and grabs the remote for the AC. Ilya barely moves, dead to the world in the way of the truly tired. There’s no moving him, not at 3AM with Shane’s sleep-weak muscles. At least Ilya is over the covers.

———————————————————————————————————

In the morning, Ilya remains aloof. He walks into the room after Shane, placing himself in the periphery of Shane’s vision. He’s assessing Shane whenever he thinks he isn’t being watched. In response, Shane moves slowly, keeps his voice low, and doesn't push. He’d known to expect this wariness from Ilya. Shane will have to be patient and consistent while Ilya gets used to an unfamiliar environment. The best way to do that, he reasons, is to show Ilya what to expect. So he goes through his schedule, telling Ilya what their plans are for the day. There’s no response, even though he can feel that the dog is itching to say something.

Afterwards, Shane goes through the motions of preparing his breakfast smoothie. Then he makes another one for Ilya, swapping out almond milk for regular when Ilya smells Shane’s and scrunches his nose at it.

He’s already in his running outfit, and he speaks to Ilya while he ruffles through the leashes and other gear.

“Let’s do a quick lap around the block first.” That finally breaks Ilya’s silence.

“What, worried I will go off chasing squirrels?”

“I can work a leash just fine. I’m more worried about the gossipy neighbours.” Despite living in a gated community, Shane is no stranger to photos of him being taken right outside his door. He’s been thinking of moving for a while now.

“So no squirrels for me, then.”

“You can have as many squirrels as you can catch after I’ve made sure the influencers two doors down aren’t out and about. I don’t want us to be on the news yet.”

This manages to wrangle a smirk out of Ilya though, which he will mark down as a win.

Shane has seen people walking dogs barefoot before, but he’s not so sure that will be the best option given that they will be running on concrete. Thankfully they’re about the same shoe size. He thrusts some old, non Rebook branded tennis shoes and a pair of socks at Ilya, and starts applying the dog’s harness while he ties them.

The run is smooth. Ilya is clearly used to running in a pack formation. Ilya runs like he was built for it, matching Shane's pace without being asked, never pulling, the leash hanging loose between them. Shane doesn't decide to speed up so much as his legs just do it, some competitive thing firing without a target. Ilya hits the new pace in about a second. When he speeds up, laughing, Ilya is there before Shane finishes the stride.

After the first fifteen minutes, they start picking up speed. Running next to Ilya makes him want to push himself harder, just to see if Ilya can match up. He can. Every time Shane gains a burst of speed, its only a second before Ilya is right next to him again.

In a move that surprises even himself, Shane nudges Ilya with his arm mid-step, to try and trip him up. Ilya responds by laughing and tugging at the leash to keep himself upright, and they both fall into the bushes.

By the time they get back to the house, they’re both sweaty and weak at the knees, but Ilya’s grin stays on for the rest of the day.

The more days pass, the more Shane gets used to Ilya’s presence. Ilya, now that he’s gotten comfortable, is snarky. He always has a retort ready for when Shane asks him to perform tasks.

He does everything they said he’d be able to do - plus a whole plethora of behaviours that are not on the list. He spends an inordinate amount of time herding Shane around the house, for one, which Shane chalks up to latent livestock guardian genes.

And the peeing. There’s a whole lot of peeing. He knew, going in, that male dogs have a tendency to mark their territory. Even intelligent dogs like Ilya fall prey to these instincts, it seems, because he pees on everything Shane owns. He even pees in his sleep. Its happens so often that Shane started insisting Ilya sleep on the floor. Which works until Ilya figures out he can just creep up onto the bed while Shane is unconscious.

The fact of the matter is - Rose was right. His life is less lonely with Ilya in it. He likes coming home to him after a day of meetings. Likes shopping with him, the way Ilya stays close to the cart and noses at things on the lower shelves. Likes their runs.

Its good. Ilya’s good. Dependable, well-behaved, easy to be around despite his idiosyncrasies. Shane doesn’t think about the warm feeling blooming in his chest beyond that.

After a week, Shane starts letting him out without a leash (only in areas where this is allowed, obviously). He buys a console with a handful of games Ilya seems interested in. He reaches out to his nutritionist so she can make up a meal plan for Ilya. He gets a pup phone so Ilya can contact Shane when he’s out of the house. By the end of the first month, the muzzle comes off too.

Ilya seems happy. More than that— he looks different. Filled out, the sharp edges of him gone soft. The gym doesn't suffer for it. If anything, Ilya goes harder now, like he has something to prove, and Shane has stopped being able to take it easy on the days they train together. But then Shane will catch Ilya in the kitchen at midnight with his head in the fridge, and the math starts adding up. The ham and cheese disappear rapidly. Now, when they buy groceries, Ilya finds a way to sneak treats into the cart. Shane pretends to be mad to keep up appearances, but he avoids the self-checkout just so he can see Ilya covertly plant snacks between other items on the conveyor belt. He always grins to himself afterwards, thinking he’s gotten away with it.

The only hiccup is the separation anxiety. The calls start around week three.

Where are you, at 8am on a Tuesday.

Where are you, during a fitting, Shane's arms out to the sides while someone adjusts his collar.

Where are you, as Shane stares at his phone in the middle of a photoshoot, backdrop white behind him, some assistant hovering with a lint roller.

Meeting, he types back. Why.

You didn't say you were leaving, I don't like it when I don't know where you are. Shane swallows a smile, sighs, and pockets his phone. On the way home he searches tracking apps he can install on Ilya’s pup phone. Maybe if he can see where Shane is, he will stop texting.

Other than that, Ilya seems settled. In the pet cams Shane has set up, he often sees Ilya pacing back and forth. He circulates, checking windows and doors every two hours or so. He no longer pees on the furniture when Shane’s not home, mostly because every time Shane catches him doing it, he remotely locks the Xbox so Ilya can’t play.

They’re fitting in well together. He’s gotten comfortable with Ilya. Even bedtime is a cozy affair. The air-conditioning means he can sleep through the night even with Ilya at his back. He can admit, too, that having someone in bed with him is more comforting than he thought it could be. He’s good. They’re good. He’s given Ilya some boundaries and patience and things seem to be on the right track.

Then he wakes up one morning completely soaked. At first he thinks he might’ve just toppled over the glass he has on his nightstand, but no. He’s covered in a warm liquid. He registers the smell. Musky and hot and - god what the fuck - its a stream of it. He barely has time to think before it moves from his neck to his chin and then he has to close his mouth to keep it from going in. Shane struggles and gets nowhere, overwhelmed and sleepy, pinned under a heavy body that can only be Ilya. There are thighs on either side of his head, and he manages to see Ilya’s face haloed by sunlight right before the pee hits his eyes and he has to close those too.

Shane’s thoughts are a jumbled mess of conflicting instincts. He’s caught in place. His body wants to move, but his mind is screaming at him to stay still until it passes. There’s so much of it it threatens to go up his nose. He’s afraid to breathe or scream because he’s sure it’ll go down his throat.

Ilya presses his massive hand over Shane’s cheeks and growls.

“Fucking open. Ебать. Open your mouth!” Shane trembles, wet and confused, and resists for a second more until Ilya’s thumb shoves in and pulls down his jaw. Then he chokes on it.

He gags, his body fighting a losing battle to dislodge Ilya from his chest. On top of him, Ilya lets out a groan of relief. Shane swallows, he can’t help it. Then Ilya’s hand covers his mouth and nose, and he doesn’t have enough air left in him to stay awake for long.

———————————————————————————————————

When Shane wakes up again, he’s on his side facing the wall away from his door. The midday sun carves shadows into it but doesn’t flood the room. Ilya must’ve pulled the curtains down.

At first he thinks the shadows are moving, then he realises its him that’s shaking back and forth. Shane’s head lols before a hand comes up over his throat, wraps itself between his neck and jaw, and pulls it down. There’s now an arm over his waist, winding tight on his chest. The shadows stand still. His mouth hurts and tastes bitter. He drags his tongue over his lips and they’re numb and pumped full with blood.   Shane understands why his face has been pulled down when he feels teeth on the thin skin at the back of his neck. It’s burning, he realises, a throbbing warmth that spreads outwards. Bites overlapping until they can't be separated visually from one another. A tongue comes out to soothe them, the skin there so abused that it doesn't register a temperature difference from the molten insides of his dog's mouth.   Ilya noses at his sweat-slick hair, a satisfied growl rumbling from his chest and into Shane's back where they're skin on skin.

"You did not read the instructions, sweetheart?" Shane is so buzzed it takes a moment to register that the sweetheart in this conversation is him. “'Do not leave without muzzle unattended’. глупенькая сучка.” 

He did read that. Right next to the warnings about Ilya's combative nature and need for discipline. He'd seen the way the dog acted - quiet and attentive and sweet - and thought it was nonsensical to worry. Ilya didn't seem to be in need of a heavy hand. And Shane didn't have the heart for it, besides.

That decision feels very foolish now.

“It’s ok. I’ll be good to you. You can stop crying.” Shane didn’t know he was crying. He can feel it now that Ilya says it, damp on his cheeks, the hitching in his chest that keeps interrupting his breathing— but it’s like being told about something happening to someone else. The bed is solid under him, and Shane keeps having to remind himself of that. His ears are ringing a little, or maybe that's just how quiet it is. He can still smell the urine from before, sticky on his skin.