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There’s nothing like the quiet of the ice hours after a hockey game. After a loss, the crowd and the team alike are always quick to vacate and leave their disappointment behind, and after a win, like tonight’s, everyone is eager to celebrate.

You’re always invited to bars and afterparties with your teammates, but you always turn them down for this - the silent stands and the freedom of the open ice. There’s no expectation once everyone else leaves, no coaches calling line changes, no pressure to sneak the puck around an opposing team’s goalie, no heavy padding weighing you down.

You’re free to push yourself however you want - to fly around the rink as fast as your skates can carry you, to spend hours practicing trick shots, to work through tight turns and shifts and moves so many times you know they’ll come second nature during a game.

Even now, after more than twenty minutes taking shots on an empty goal, this feels more rewarding than any party.

“Game is over,” the voice comes from behind you and you turn away from your water bottle to find Ilya Rozanov, your team’s new transfer, watching you from the visiting team’s bench. “You are not celebrating?”

Belatedly, you realize this is his first game with the Centaurs so he wouldn’t have known about your post-game habits yet.

You grin, setting your water back on the boards and skate toward Ilya. “This is me celebrating, Rozy.”

He pulls a face at the nickname but doesn’t argue, crossing his arms over his chest instead as he studies you. “This is celebration? Looks like more work to me.”

“Some of the guys prefer bars - I prefer an empty rink.” You shrug, skating backward and pulling yourself through a few more turns to keep your muscles warm and loose. “Why are you still here anyway? Figured you’d be out on the town.”

“Forgot my phone,” Ilya says simply. He watches you for a second, then huffs out a quiet laugh. “You are very strange. You know this?”

“Yeah, I’ve been told.” You tap your stick against the ice idly, going through the motions of a faceoff. “You heading out?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans forward a little on the boards, eyes following the way you move. “No,” he says finally. “I think I will stay.”

You raise an eyebrow - you’ve heard plenty of stories about Ilya’s time as the prince of Boston’s club scene. You would’ve thought he’d have been all over the invitation to the afterparty with the rest of the team. “Not up for celebrating?”

“Maybe I want to celebrate another way.” He shrugs, waving a hand dismissively toward the tunnel toward the dressing room like he hadn’t even considered leaving.

You make a swift loop around the edge of the rink, then slow again as you get near the bench. “You can go, you know. I’m not that interesting to watch.”

“I didn’t say I watch because you are interesting,” Ilya points out, lips quirking up in a little half-smile. You’ve seen that look before on the ice when he says something he thinks is particularly funny.

You snort, but it doesn’t really bother you. It hadn’t taken you long to pick up on his affection manifesting as gentle bullying. “Wow. Brutal.”

He huffs out a little laugh and you’re almost more surprised by the sound than by Ilya disappearing back into the locker room only long enough to have grabbed his skates. He’s back almost as quickly as he’d gone, sitting down on the bench and lacing himself up. “Show me,” he demands. At your blank look, he gestures back at the ice, “Whatever it is you see here. Show me.”

You grin, unable to resist teasing him back, “You’ve been playing hockey your whole life and you need me to demonstrate?”

He makes a sound like he’s offended, but he swings himself over the boards anyway, skating up to you with a grin. “I want to see what you see. Why would you rather be here than in club with pretty girls all over you.” 

You try to hide your cringe at the thought by starting to move. You start easy with a few tight turns and quick stops, and then building up speed. You can feel him behind you, matching your pace, mirroring your moves. You push a little harder and he keeps up easily.

You pick up a puck from the pile near the blue line, drag it across your body, cut toward the net. He comes in closer this time, close enough that you can hear his skates, his breathing. You fake left and duck right instead and he still gets a stick on it.

“Hey,” you laugh, trying to pull it back. He nudges your shoulder, just hard enough to try to throw you off. You recover fast, twisting your stick back under his and knocking the puck free again. “Gonna have to do better than that,” you say as you chase after it.

“I am going easy on you,” he shoots back.

“Yeah? That what this is?” You push harder, cutting across the ice, keeping the puck just out of his reach. He stays right on you, closer now, matching every turn.

You can feel him trying to read you. You fake wide, then pull in tight instead, trying to slip past him along the boards. For a second, it works just as you’d hoped.

Then his skate hooks against yours when he pivots to follow and you both hit the ice in a mess of skates and sticks, the breath knocked from your lungs by the abrupt impact. It hurts more without all the padding, and your shoulder takes most of it, but you can tell it’s not seriously hurt, just going to bruise. 

There’s a beat of quiet, silence stretching over the rink without the sound of your skates slicing over the ice, and then you can’t help the laugh that escapes you, “Nice moves, superstar,” you taunt playfully, twisting to look back at Ilya, who landed face down on the ice.

“That was not my fault!” he protests, but he relents with a grin when he meets your eyes. You’re pleased to see that he didn’t seem to hit his face on the way down - it’d be a shame if he messed up that pretty face. “Okay, it was maybe a little my fault. But only a little!”

“Whatever you say,” you grin at him, trying to push yourself up and then realizing your position. The two of you are still half tangled together from the fall, one of his legs caught around yours, your arm pinned awkwardly under you, his hand braced against the ice just by your shoulder. When you push up onto your side, the two of you are almost nose to nose. 

Close, your brain supplies unhelpfully, very close. Part of you wants to close the gap, to press closer still, until you’re close enough to kiss him, to press him back until his spine hits the ice and see what it’s like to give him bruises that aren’t from a contact sport. But the rest of you knows that this is Ilya. Your teammate. Your probably very straight teammate.

That doesn’t seem to stop Ilya. In the second before you can mumble about untangling your skates, Ilya’s hooked his fingers into the front of your shirt and dragged you into him, pressing his lips to yours with the same sort of ferocity he plays with. Your brain skids to a stop, but you cast logic aside and kiss him back - the ice freezing against your palm where you’re holding yourself up, the other hand coming up to twist into Ilya’s hair, using your grip to pull him even tighter against you.

He makes a sound into your mouth as you press him back against the ice, something between surprised and pleased, and it sends a warm shudder through you. He bites at your lower lip and that sting of sensation is enough to bring you back to the moment. 

As little as you want to, you force yourself to pull back, releasing your hold on Ilya’s curls and less-than-gracefully untangling your legs from his. You scoot back a bit to give him room to sit up and regain his bearings after you all but mauled him.

“Well,” you say intelligently. “That was…”

Ilya nods, a bright flush spreading across his face. Cute, that uncooperative part of your brain chimes in. “Fun?”

“I was going to say unprofessional, but yeah, that too,” you agree, shooting him a shy grin. It had been fun - the kissing obviously, but also the skating, teasing each other on the ice and playing off of each other so naturally it was almost like breathing.

“It was probably a bad idea, yes?” Ilya says, looking out at the stands. “Bad for careers if people find out.”

You cringe, thinking of the sort of hate the Admirals’ Scott Hunter had gotten when he came out. “Yeah, there’s a lot of people who would really not like it.”

Ilya hums, tipping his head back to look at you. “Buuuuut could be worth trying again.” He continues when you look at him, shocked, “The kissing, I mean. See if it was adrenaline or, y’know, more than that.”

You sigh, pushing yourself up to your feet. Once you’re upright, you make a slow turn, examining the empty seats. The rows and rows of patrons whose support allows you to do what you love. You know the weight they put on you. That not meeting the team’s expectations could get you cut. It’s why you’re always the first to practice and the last to leave - it’s why you’re always looking for any chance to be on the ice, even after you’ve already won. But you’ve given everything for the team, and shouldn’t you be able to have something that’s yours?

“You know this is a bad idea, right?” You ask as you turn to hold out a hand to Ilya, hauling him back to his feet when he takes it.

He smiles, that same mischievous grin as when he’s about to do something particularly impressive on the ice. “Yes, but I think this could be worth it.” His fingers wrap tighter around yours and he slowly starts skating backwards, tugging you along with him toward the bench. “You know, I have this problem.”

“Yeah?” you ask, allowing yourself to be led.

“Yes, very serious,” Ilya says, nudging you toward your hockey bag once you’re both back on the concrete, “In this new city, new apartment, I had to get new bed.” His lips have started to curl back into that troublemaker’s smile that you’re quickly growing fond of, “New bed is not broken in at all. I sleep terribly.” He tips his head to the side, watching you with bright hazel eyes as he tugs at the drawstring of his hoodie, “Maybe you can help?”

“And you better not be watching the Raiders game, big man. That’s a write-up.”

“Oh, I’m shaking,” Jimmy grins, but tugs up the band of caution tape and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Go on in.”

You jerk your head forward.

“Why don’t you get in there, buddy?” You say, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves and flexing your fingers. “Really feel the blood and guts. Sorta looks like spaghetti, doesn’t it?”

To Klaus’s credit, the crime scene is a bit nauseating. The body’s splayed face down on the concrete, cropped black hair matted down with blood from where the killer beat a hole into the victim’s head. Klaus looks nauseous. 

“Do not throw up in my crime scene,” Maria warns from where she’s crouched next to the body, ruffling through the pockets of his suit jacket. The victim’s dressed nicely, if a bit shabbily; he’s in a suit that’s too short in the arms and too tight in the legs. “Klaus, get out of here. Y/n, stop being such a fucking asshole.”

“It is my default setting,” You say, bending down next to her and accepting the wallet Maria hands you. She presses a light finger into the victim’s skull, testing. Klaus makes a retching sound at the back of his throat and comes to stand at your side, eyes pointedly glued to the wall. 

“Oh, we know it, buddy,” Klaus says, clapping you on the back. You laugh at the shake in his voice.

“Yeah, yeah.” You fold open the leather wallet — cheap, scuffed — and pull the driver’s license. “Uh, holy shit.”

“What?” Maria asks, sharp. You hand her the ID card. She takes it and presses to her feet, examining it.

“That’s Shane fucking Hollander,” she breathes, shocked. 

Klaus throws up.

“Shit,” Maria mutters. “Scene hasn’t been documented yet; technicians got stuck in traffic. I don’t want to flip him until we have everything documented.”

“Does it look like him?” You ask, tilting your head and glancing at the tight fade haircut. “I don’t think it looks like him.”

“Don’t pretend like you watch hockey, Y/n,” Klaus says, still facing the wall, hands on his knees. He wipes his mouth and stands. “I’ll check.”

“Like hell you will, barf boy. Keep the cannon pointed away from the body,” Maria chides. “My girlfriend watches. I know what Hollander looks like.”

“He had his ID,” You muse, crossing your arms and rocking back and forth on your heels while Maria stares pointedly at the body. “A couple of credit cards with Hollander’s name. And he looks tall enough.”

Klaus mutters something under his breath. His fingers are wrapped around the cross strung on a chunky gold chain on his neck. 

“You alright, man?” You ask, concerned. “I was just dicking around earlier. If you need to leave, you absolutely can.”

“I’m alright,” Klaus grounds out. “Just really fucking hoping that isn’t actually Hollander.”

“Why? You know him?”

Klaus laughs, glancing over his shoulder at you, and pales when he catches the body in his periphery. He spins back to face the wall. “Do I know the best hockey player in the MLH, Y/n? As a first year detective on Boston homicide? Yeah, I have his personal phone number.”

“Just checking,” You say, hands up. “I have Michael Jordan’s phone number, you know. So it’s not that far out of bounds.”

“The fuck you do!” Klaus erupts. “Call him. Right now.”

“At a crime scene?” You respond, grinning. “Have a little respect for the departed.”

“I—” Klaus starts, but Maria cuts him off. 

“If you both don’t shut up in the next five fucking seconds, I swear to God that there will be three bodies to process instead of just one,” She snaps. You stick your tongue out at Klaus and mime shooting a basket, and Maria groans. 

“Jesus.”

“And the crowd goes wild!” You cheer, in a breathy, purposefully low voice. “Y/n, Y/n, Y/n… hey, wait a minute.”

You crouch down next to the body. “Klaus, can I borrow a pen?”

“Uh, sure,” he says, handing you a shiny Mont Blanc from his front pocket. You roll your eyes.

“Right here,” You say, pointing with the tip of the pen to the small patch of skin behind the victim’s ear. “The blood’s dried over it, so it’s a bit hard to see, but…”

Maria leans down and squints.  “Oh, no, yeah. Nice catch. That’s a tattoo.”

“Hollander doesn’t have any ink,” Klaus says, still turned away. “That’s not him, then.”

“You sure?” Maria asks. “He could have just not made it public.”

“Positive,” Klaus responds. “No shot.”

You clap your hands together. “Then who the hell is this?”

“You found, uh, what?” Shane Hollander asks, voice slightly distorted over the phone. “Is this a prank?”

You’re crammed into an interrogating room with Klaus to escape the chaos of the bullpen. Uniforms had hauled in a good third of a sorority house from BU into the station for underage drinking and possession of illicit substances that morning, and the entire precinct was flooded with slightly drunk women and furious cops.

“I can assure you this a very real situation, Mr. Hollander,” Klaus responds, keeping his voice level. There’s a scuffle on the other end of the phone, a quiet, hissed, exchange, and then a woman’s voice filters over the line. You kick your feet up on the desk and shoot him a thumbs up. 

Klaus flips you off. He’s pissy; you’d both had to jump through quite a few hoops with the Metros’ front office to get this number, and being a Boston cop meant shit across the border. It’d been hard enough to wrangle the contact information out of an intern; the absolute last thing either one of you wanted to do was actually have to fly up to Canada.

“We will not be speaking further on this topic without a lawyer present.” The woman says, voice clipped and professional. 

“Straight away, huh?” You muse, slightly disbelieving. 

“We just wanted to ask Mr. Hollander some questions about an open investigation,” Klaus starts. “It—”

“Which he will answer,” the woman interrupts. “In the presence of his lawyer. Will you repeat your first and last name, officer? As well as a badge number? I’d prefer to handle this through one individual. No need to get the whole department involved.”

You pull a face and hold up a hand to stop Klaus from handing out his badge number. No need to get him into shit with HR so early on in his career. “I’ll determine the amount of detectives who need to get involved, ma’am. My name is Y/n L/n, Badge Number 23569. And who am I speaking with, now?”

“This is Yuna Hollander,” the woman responds, curt. “Badge 2356… nine?”

“That is correct, ma’am. And are you Mr. Hollander’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“We have some rather pressing questions for Mr. Hollander. As we are Boston detectives, I’m sure you’re aware that we have no authority to compel Mr. Hollander to give an interview. My partner and I are going to go ahead and coordinate with the SPVM and ask for a liaison.”

Klaus shoots you a look. You nod at him, sitting up slightly to re-lace your boot as you talk. 

“I look forward to pursuing this through the proper legal channels, Detective L/n.” Yuna replies, cold.

“As do I, Mrs. Hollander. As do I,” You say, then hang up the phone and bang your head on the steel interrogation table. “Oh, fuck me.”

“We’re going to Canada?” Klaus asks.

“Like fuck we are,” You respond, indignant. “The SPVM will wrangle him. They’ll conduct the interview. I have a buddy up there.”

“The SPVM?”

“The, uh, service de police… de la Ville de Montreal,” You force out, effectively butchering the pronunciation of every other word. “SPVM.”

“Service de police de la Ville de Montréal,” Klaus repeats in a perfect accent. Of course.  “What are we going to be doing, then?” he gripes, pushing your feet off the desk. You laugh.

“We’ll run down the Hollander angle in Boston. How the hell did our Vic get Hollander’s ID and cards? Why was Hollander in Boston in the first place?”

“He is a professional hockey player, Sherlock,” Klaus snorts, and you roll your eyes before standing. “He plays games in this city.”

“Then why didn’t he file a police report? If he lost his wallet while he was here for something innocuous, it wouldn’t have mattered. What was he trying to hide?”

“Maybe he didn’t realize he lost it,” Klaus murmurs, hooking his hands behind his head. 

Being the only other human on the Hail Mary had its perks, and setbacks. Ryland was amazing, funny, kind, (attractive). But it could also be.. well a lot. Both of you need your own personal space at times and that was difficult to get.

Especially with the addition of Rocky. You both loved him, he was your alien buddy; But he also had no idea what personal space was.

“Grace tells me to leave” You hear, sitting down in the lab, Ryland in the bunks. Rocky looked, sad.

“I’m sorry buddy, sometimes he can get overwhelmed” You respond softly, putting down whatever you were working on to give Rocky your full attention.

“No understand word” Rocky’s robotic voice follows.

“It means that there is too much going on and he feels a lot of stress because of it” You explain softly, putting the word into the computer for him.

“Rocky wanted to help” Rocky spoke

“I know bud, and he appreciates it, he just needs time alone sometimes” You comfort the alien.

“How about i go talk to him?” you suggest

“Yes! yln speak to Grace!” Rocky spoke happily. You smiled at the alien, he was like a little brother, always energetic and wanting to be near you and Ry.

You get up and walk to the bunks, softly knocking on the door before walking in. you see Ryland laying on his back, his arms behind his head. looking clearly stressed, his glasses thrown somewhere.

“Hey Ry, you ok?” You ask softly.

Ryland sighs before speaking “I just” he started, clearly struggling to put his feelings into words.

“It’s a lot, you know? Being up here, only having you and Rocky. It’s lonely but also suffocating. Not that you are suffocating or anything, you’re great!”

Ryland spoke, rambling nervously when he said it could be suffocating.

You chuckled softly “It’s ok Ry, i know what you mean”

You say with a smile, sitting by his legs on the bunk.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at Rocky” Ryland stated, regret heavy in his voice. He felt bad and it showed on his face.

“You shouldn’t have” You hummed in agreement.

“But you’re also human, it happens. Rocky isn’t mad. He came and got me thinking he did something bad, but he knows now that you didn’t mean it” You reassured softly.

“Still” Ryland added, looking like a licked puppy.

“Stop, you can apologize when you’ve calmed down” You spoke softly, moving to stroke his hair, something you found always calmed him down.

Ryland hummed and leaned into the touch. His eyes closing, letting out a deep breath.

“Thank you” Ry spoke suddenly. you looked at him with confusion.

“For what?” you asked, still running your hands through his hair.

“For being here, being my anchor. I don’t know what i would do if you weren’t here” Ryland spoke softly, genuinely meaning what he said. Your heart warmed at that, butterflies forming in your stomach.

“I can say the same for you, space boy”

You smiled back softly, you gave him that nickname after he went out to grab the object rocky threw at the ship before you knew who rocky was.

Ryland smiled back at you, pulling you onto his chest.

“I love you” Ryland whispered, so soft you almost missed it. Your heart skipped a beat when he said that.

“What’s two plus two?” 

You groaned. The second thing you identified was the desert that was your throat. You shifted in place, only to be restrained by both fatigue and what felt to be a myriad of plastic wires and tubes. 

“What’s two plus two?” repeated the persistent voice. A machine’s, you deducted. 

Though your tongue felt like a dry stone in your mouth, you felt your lips move. The action resulted in a hoarse voice that you later registered to be yours. 

“F… Four.” 

“Correct.” 

You heard a shuffling beside you, like someone was trying to scurry away. 

You groaned again. Your face was scrunched up into a pained frown. It took a worrying amount of effort to pry your eyes open. And when you did, it wasn’t much help. White blurriness blinded you and elicited a hiss. 

“Eye movement detected. What’s the cube root of eight?” the machine asked. 

As your vision and hearing properly adjusted, you caught sight of one robotic arm. It spun and whirred as it attempted to touch and pry at your body. You regained control of your head and neck, which was achieved by your evasion of its metal claw. 

“What’s the cube root of eight?” 

“Fuck. Off.” 

“Incorrect. What’s the cube root of eight?” 

After a few harsher blinks, your eyes seemed to return to their functional state. You breathed through your dry mouth as you observed the space around you. LED lights, cameras, more robot arms. A monitor next to your bunk began to beep as your heart rate elevated. You couldn’t recognize anything. And when you searched your mind for some semblance of a name, none made itself known. 

The voice kept at it, desperate to know the cube root of eight. You were about to raise your hand to smack it away when another voice said, 

“Just try to answer it. It’s not gonna stop until you do.” 

Your breath hitched. That voice was no machine. It was entirely human, shy and hesitant and far away. You furrowed your brows. ‘What?’ you wanted to ask. Instead what came out was a confused, 

“Huh?” 

“What’s the cube root of eight?” The machine again. 

You groaned. Though you felt like you’d just been run over by a semi-truck, the answer came easy to you. 

“Two.” 

The robotic hand backed off. The answer seemed to satisfy both the machine and your disorientation. For all the agonies your body housed, you felt the strength to sit up. It was exhausting to do so, but you managed. You raised your hand to touch your forehead. Tubes followed uncomfortably. You lifted your eyes and took the rest of the room in. It was as foreign as it was familiar. 

In the corner, a man was on his knees, hiding behind a desk. You frowned as you made the mess of his sandy blond hair and bespectacled blue eyes. He looked ridiculous, cowering like you might get up and punch him. 

“Are… Are you awake?” he asked.

You looked at yourself, at your half-dressed body, the machines and monitors you were hooked up to, then back at him. 

“What’d’ythink?” Responding with more than one syllable was apparently difficult. Your words, though clearly sarcastic, came out slurred. 

The stranger sighed in relief. 

The rest of the process was odd and obtrusive, but you had managed to retain some of your dignity; which was a fragile thing in that cold and sterile room. The robotic arm continued its methodical work, its movements precise and impersonal as it detached the last of the monitoring straps from your chest. 

The blond stranger — no longer hiding behind the desk — anxiously waited for the procedures to finish. 

“What is your mission designation?” the synthetic voice asked. 

You hesitated. The words felt slippery, buried under layers of drug-induced fog. Remembering proved troublesome, but an answer came regardless.

“Hail Mary… Pilot-Commander.” 

The blond man gasped. You frowned at him, but returned your attention to the machine. 

“Correct. What is the destination star system?”

“Tau… Ceti.” The name came slower that time. You could picture the star charts from training, the long elliptical transfer orbit, the Astrophage-fueled spin drive pushing you to a fraction of lightspeed. But the details felt distant, like someone else’s memory.

The arm retracted with a soft whir, leaving you floating in the gel residue. You gripped the edge of the bunk to steady yourself, muscles, which were impressively intact, protesting the sudden demand for coordination. 

The stranger bit his fist. “Careful, careful!”

You scowled. “Who the hell are you?” It felt slightly easier to talk then. Your words were cohesive, but the corners of your mouth were still relatively numb. 

His name was Ryland Grace, and he had little to no idea who he was, or why he was there. 

“I woke up two weeks ago,” he said. “Same coma situation, only Armando wasn't as nice to me. And I didn't wake up as well as you did. God, I thought you were dead.” His voice cracked near the end, like he was on the verge of tears. You looked up at him to realize that he actually was. “I-I was just waiting for you to wake up. Your monitors were looking after your vitals and keeping you in the coma because your body wasn’t ready.” He sniffled. “At least that’s what it told me.”

Ryland Grace wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, clearly embarrassed by the display. His shoulders trembled once before he forced them still. In the dim med-bay lighting, the tears made his sharp features look younger, more vulnerable than the brilliant scientist you were slowly starting to remember from pre-launch briefings. You didn’t intend to look as indifferent as you did, but you felt too exhausted to sympathize, still slightly drowsy from your years of sleep. 

Your eyes drifted past him to the floor beside your bunk, where a haphazard pile of spare blankets and a single pillow made for a makeshift bed. A small tablet lay nearby, its screen still glowing faintly with medical readouts. Next to it sat a half-empty water bottle and a crumpled wrapper from one of the emergency ration bars.

He noticed where your gaze had landed. He shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “Oh, that. Yeah… I wanted to make sure I’d be here the second something went wrong with your vitals. I’m not entirely sure what half of the charts mean, but I figured it was smarter to stay close in case the robot glitched or your readings spiked.” 

Your brow twitched. “Are you the only one here?”

Grace nodded slowly. 

That wasn’t right, you thought. He shouldn’t be the only one. Wasn’t there supposed to be more of you? Four? No, three? You looked at his tired eyes and saw the restless nights he’d spent staring at you, listening to the constant drone of your machines, uncertain if you would ever wake up. He was alone, and lightyears away from home. He must have been so afraid. You knew you would have been. Finally, an emotion other than tired confusion surfaced from your chest; guilt. 

“Olesya.” The name left your lips before you could think of it. 

Ryland caught his breath. He knew the name, too. Except he didn’t know it because he knew the woman it belonged to— he knew it because it was the name of the corpse he hadn’t yet moved from the airlock. 

Sensations flooded you without warning, the sharp sound of her laugh burning the brightest. Olesya Ilyukhina was the chief engineer of the Hail Mary. She’d snuck three bottles of vodka into the ship. You had spent a summer in Russia. She’d attempted to sneak into the Kremlin. You kept her from getting arrested. The sudden wave of grief told you that you knew her well, but you hadn’t the memory to support it. You knew her, and now, she was gone. 

You stayed seated on the edge of your bunk for a long time, head bowed, fingers pressed against your temples while the med-bay’s low lights hummed overhead.

“It’ll come back,” Grace told you. “It just takes a while.” 

For all his worries, it was clear that he was relieved. He might have been stranded on a ship in space with no clear recollection beyond his name, but at least he was no longer alone. 

And what a wonderful thing it was, not to be alone. 

Olesya’s body had remained in the airlock since Ryland’s own awakening. The state of her face, the deep circles under her eyes, and the hollowness of her cheeks, told you that she’d been dead for quite some time. Her body could not survive. The experimental hibernation had always been a gamble, even for the rare individuals who carried the gene that made it possible in theory. For years, the ship’s medical system had kept her stable, suppressing her metabolism to a fraction of normal as the Hail Mary burned toward its destination. But somewhere along the way, her body began to fail in ways the automated systems could not correct. There was only fate to blame. 

Your recovery lasted for a few days. A good percentage of your strength was impressively intact, and it was mostly just a matter of relearning how to have it. You walked (or climbed) the expanse of the ship, familiarizing yourself with the areas, a good exercise for both your mind and body. And when you knew you could move without the numbness in your joints, you set out to give Olesya a proper burial. 

You cycled through the inner door without thought. The airlock was cramped, utilitarian in the way its walls lined with emergency EVA suits and tether lines. Olesya lay secured against the far bulkhead. You had dressed her in her uniform. You took her calloused hands, held them together, and pressed photos of her family into her palm. You kept one to remember her by: a polaroid picture of her 28th birthday. Cake had been smeared across her grinning face, her eyes bright with laughter. You tucked the photo into your breast pocket.

Ryland stood just a little ways beyond the archway, silent, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He feared to intrude, but then you invited him in. “She was your crewmate too,” you said, wiping a tear with your fist.

He took his place beside you, rueful.  

You spoke no grand words, for there wasn’t any need to, and Olesya would have mocked you to death for ‘being such a cornball’. The memories of her that returned were enough: her laugh cutting through tension in the ready room, the way she’d sneak alcohol and call you “flyboy” with that sharp Russian edge. She had kept her promise to keep the ship singing if you kept it pointed true. Now it was your turn to send her on.

Together, you positioned her near the outer door. Ryland keyed in the sequence on the control panel. The inner door sealed with a heavy thunk. The airlock’s atmosphere vented in a controlled hiss, the sound fading to nothing as vacuum took hold. Through the small viewport, the stars waited, indifferent and eternal.

You gave the final command. The outer hatch slid open. Olesya drifted out slowly, pushed by the last puff of residual air, her shrouded form turning gently in the void. You watched until she became another point of light against the black.

Not even the worst medical-induced coma could take your intelligence from you, it seemed. While some memories were blurred, your skills came naturally. Instinctual, second-nature. 

“This is the Control Room,” said Grace, who’d been trying not to appear obvious in his concerned hovering. He remembered how he felt the first few days since he’d woken up. He couldn’t fathom how you were moving so much.

You glanced at him with a quirked brow. “I know.” 

You sat in the chair that was quite obviously yours. The ship lit up in response. ‘Pilot detected,’ it chirped. You leaned back and sighed. Even the arm rests seemed tailored to your size. It felt good to be there. Cohesive, in a way. Like sliding two puzzle pieces together. Finally, something unequivocally, and undeniably right. 

And your memories did come back to you; better than Grace’s. It wasn’t perfect or entirely whole, but by the third day of your resurrection, you were showing him around. You walked Ryland through the control room, the lab module, and the narrow corridors, explaining redundancies and emergency procedures mostly just to hear them out loud— as though to check if it sounded right. The relief on Grace’s face was unmistakable. The tension in his shoulders eased with every system you named and every checklist you ran from memory. At least one of you knew what you were doing. 

As Olesya was the engineer, you were the pilot; which left the role of scientist to Grace. You would have come to the conclusion regardless. He had an obvious knack for the field. And whenever he stood in the Lab, it felt as right as when you sat in the Control Room. Some things just happened to fit. But it took you a while to understand what to make of him. It felt odd that it appeared easier to regain memories of Olesya than it was of Grace. If the three of you were the designated crew for the Hail Mary, wouldn’t you have spent an ample amount of time pre-launch? The gap felt unsettlingly deliberate, and the thought of it often kept you awake. 

There’d been other things you had to explain to him. He didn’t know how to access the ship’s confidential logs. Of course he had a passcode that would get him through, but he’d be damned if he could manage to remember it. The amnesia was normal, you assured him. Though it was slightly troublesome that it was taking him longer to recover. You gave him access to the specifics of the mission, the details of the Petrova Line, the trip to Tau Ceti, the need to understand what makes one star different from the rest. Ryland knew most of what you were telling him, but hearing it from another voice made it seem as though he was digesting it all over again. 

“It just doesn’t feel right,” he said. “I’m not– I’m not that kind of scientist.” 

You’d eat with him in the mess hall trying to resurrect his life on a small whiteboard. You wanted to remember him as much as he wanted to remember himself. 

He told you the helpful details: he knew he was a school teacher, and that he had a PhD in molecular biology. He had bits and pieces of a woman named Eva Stratt. He knew the specifics of Astrophage. He knew the sun was dying, he knew the world was ending. And then there was the less helpful stuff: like his favorite icecream flavor, and why the Marvel Cinematic Universe should have stopped at Endgame, and how he ‘felt like a big Beatles guy’, which he’d topped off with a handful of fun scientific facts. 

“Do you remember picking your shirts?” you asked him one simulated morning, ducked beneath one of the consoles and ensuring everything was operational. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around it. It’s the night before liftoff: you’re packing your things. You’re going to spend the next decade saving the universe and you think, hell yeah,these shirts will do.”

Ryland was drinking a cup of warm tea. He was sitting on the threshold that separated the Control Room from the corridor. “I don’t remember packing them,” he said. He looked down at the lame scientific pun printed across his chest. “But sadly, yes, these are very much my shirts.” 

He liked having you around. He lingered in your space, finding excuses to sit on that same threshold or lean against the console while you ran diagnostics. His shoulders would loosen whenever you entered a room, like the simple sound of another human voice or another set of footsteps eased something tight in his chest. When a small alarm chirped (for something as minor as fluctuation in the thermal regulator,) he would whip his head toward you like a deer that heard a twig snap. It didn't matter if it was a weird noise, a loose panel, or a faint creak of the hull under deceleration thrust. His eyes would find yours every time. And in them, he'd search for the calm confirmation that it was nothing. 

“Do we panic? Is that something we should be panicking over?” 

“Even if a hole is blown through our fuel tanks, Dr. Grace, the last thing we should do is panic.” 

You found it amusing. You were fairly certain that he was at least a little bit smarter than you. Yet there he was, the man who named and bred the star-eaters, looking to the pilot for reassurance over a rattling bolt.

You had a week before your arrival to Tau Ceti. There was time to kill. 

You'd explored and catalogued every nook and cranny of the ship. Which, ideally, you would have recognized from the start. But with the amnesia you were still actively recovering from, you couldn't risk not relearning the Hail Mary like a forgotten mother tongue. 

In your efforts, you discovered a couple of things. One: that Eva Stratt had somehow managed to supply the ship with an impossible amount of media. (from music, to films, to games, to electronic novels.) Two: that you had some involvement in the engineering of the ship itself. (Your name was credited on the lower-right portion of the main blueprint.) And three, that you had a polaroid of Ryland Grace wedged between one of your notebooks. The latter, you told him over dinner.

Ryland choked on his ramen, which he’d been having for the third night in a row. “You what?” 

“Yeah, right here.” With no elevated emotion, you placed the photo on the metal table. “That’s you, isn’t it?” 

Slightly creased in one corner, the polaroid was of a charmingly disheveled Ryland Grace, dressed in a lab coat over a faded university shirt, goggles pushed haphazardly against his hair. His glasses hung in a uniquely awkward way, clinging to his ear and jaw. He wasn’t looking at the camera and was instead beaming at the person behind it. It was candid and blurred in a way that made its edges soft; like it was taken without thought nor warning. He seemed to have been distracted from peering at a microscope. The photo caught him mid-smile. 

Ryland’s cheeks turned pink. He had never seen a picture of him like that in his entire life. “W-Where did you say you found it?”

You showed him your notebook, that battered old thing. You raised it up like you were presenting your license to a patrolling officer. It was a navy-blue moleskine with the NASA logo embossed on the cover. It was decorated with a few tattered stickers of your favorite band. There was no one reason you kept it. Some pages had aerodynamic computations while others had your grocery lists. It seemed you had it for anything.

Ryland put his ramen cup down. “And what page was it on?” 

You shrugged. You flipped it open, pages fluttering until your thumb pressed to a stop. You turned the notebook towards him to show a spread of what looked like an engine. It was covered in your handwriting, words and numbers scribbled about. It was an early concept of the ship’s cable separation system— which was the mechanism that allowed the upper section to detach from the fuel module and spin on Zylon tethers for centrifugal gravity. But it might as well have been written in Chinese for Ryland. And to his surprise there actually was some Chinese text in there. 

“Huh.” Grace sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “So you've got a polaroid of me bookmarked on some sort of astrodynamic floor plan… why?” 

You shrugged again, snapping the notebook shut. “Beats me, Doc.” 

Grace cleared his throat. “You… don't remember taking the picture?” 

“No.” 

“Maybe we're closer than we remember.” 

“Maybe.” You sat across from him. You tilted your head at his nervous expression. “Maybe you asked me to hold onto it.” 

“Hold onto what?” 

“The picture.”

“Oh.” He nodded. “Why would I do that?” 

You shrugged a third time. “It's a good picture.” 

A second whiteboard was born that day. It accompanied Grace's, housing its own questions, bulleted by fragmented facts. It was clear that there were plenty of things you were yet to remember yourself. You knew the flesh of things, the shape of them, but you couldn't see the bones. You'd spend hours staring at the board, chewing on the cap of your marker as though you could will those missing memories to return. 

“Any luck over there?” You peered over to Grace's side of the room. His was messier than yours. 

He whipped his head around so fast that his chair spun a little. “Huh? Oh. No, just the usual.” 

You leaned over to catch a glimpse of his whiteboard. You'd unintentionally grown familiar of his handwriting. He had written questions about who you might be to him. He'd listed the possibilities in red ink: 

Then, at the very bottom, faint and hidden beneath a thin layer of erased ink, you could make out the ghostly outline of the word: 

Friend? 

Neighbor? 

Labmates?

Hung out with on Taskforce? 

Always known as crewmate? 

Boyfriend? 

You turned back to your own board and smiled. 

“Uh, let's try this.” Grace clapped his hands once. “How ‘bout we just throw rapid-fire questions at each other and see how well we can answer them? Theoretically that should jog our memories.” 

You nodded your head. It beat staring at a wall. “Alright.” 

Grace grinned. He didn't expect you to agree. “Okay, uh– I'll go first: where'd you grow up?” 

You took a slow breath in. Your eyes narrowed like you were trying to see something far away. “Too long ago, can't remember.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Grace nodded. “Okay, what about where you lived? Before launch, I mean.”

“I moved around a lot.” The faint image of bags and suitcases fluttered in your mind. Five different house keys, seven different addresses. “I went where the work took me.” 

Grace raised his brows. “Okay. Good. That's something.” 

You made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Alright, MacGyver. Your turn. Where'd you teach?” 

He tapped the top of his whiteboard with his pen. “Grover Cleveland Middle School. Remembered that a little while back.” 

You whistled. “Not bad.” 

“Hold your applause. Where'd you graduate?” 

You leaned back, arms crossed over your chest. “You're giving me the hard ones.” 

Grace laughed at the accusation. “Am not!” 

“I wanna say… MIT.” 

“Is that a guess?” 

“I'm saying what feels right. Do you play any sports?” 

“No, and I don't need to be recovering from amnesia to know that.” 

Your questions went on, quick exchanges tossed back and forth while you worked, ate, or sat in the dimmed mess hall. Some were easier to answer than others, some made your head hurt if you thought about it too long. But for what it was worth, it did help. Being prompted to think about things acted as a sort of trigger. It didn't matter how mundane. Were you a morning person or a night person? What was your favorite food? Favorite color? What shows did you like? What books did you read? Were you allergic to anything? Did you like coffee or tea? It went on for days. 

“What do you miss most about Earth?” Grace's voice was soft and tired, muffled by the arm he leaned his cheek against. He was slumped over a table. You had accompanied him in the lab. He said he wanted to familiarize himself with the equipment. 

You hadn't caught his question right away. You were leaning on the doorway, staring at one of the viewports. It was the night before your arrival to Tau Ceti and you were running calculations in your mind. “What?” 

“Miss most about Earth,” he repeated. His eyes were closed. 

You smiled. You thought long and hard for an answer, rummaging through memories as though you were searching for a wrench in a tool drawer. None came up. 

“I think you should clock out, Grace.” 

He hummed and mumbled what might have been a protest, but got up and dragged his feet back to your dormitory anyway. 

You didn't have the luxury of getting your own rooms. The shared sleeping area was made to be efficient with space. With Ilyukhina's quarters vacant, you and Grace had three bunks between you. There was some privacy to spare, but it wasn’t often that you were present in your dorm together. The two of you slept in shifts, knowing it would be better if one of you was awake and could easily act on an issue. 

“Good night, Captain.” 

“Good night, Doctor.” 

You spent the rest of the evening in the Immersion Node. It was a room of average size, wrapped in large LED screens that showed you virtually anything you could come up with. Grace had taken upon calling it the Don't Go Crazy Room, which was technically what it was. He spent more time in there than you did. He seemed particularly fond of the beach scene. 

But you, you missed the fields. 

The screens, in all their artificial brightness, projected a warm rural afternoon. A soft breeze passed over a long expanse of wheat. It didn't look like it would take long before they were ready to harvest. Clouds speckled the bright blue sky, moving in a gentle crawl, obedient to the direction of the wind. Your chest felt heavy. There was a lump in your throat. You took a deep breath. You sat on the ground with one knee propped up, your wrist resting against it. 

When you woke, the field was gone. You opened your eyes leaning against one of the screen-walls. There was a sign blinking at you. Warning: Engine Cutoff. Action Needed. 

“Cap!” It was Grace's voice. He was shaking you awake. His hair was a tousled mess and it looked like he'd just gotten up, too. “She's counting down!” 

You shook your head. “What?” 

“Mary! She's counting down! There's something about the engine shutting off? What do we do?!” 

His frantic questions did not go well with Mary's cold and mechanical counting. You got up, wiping your eyes with your thumb and forefinger. Grace followed you with clumsy speed. You climbed up to the Control Room, where you sat in your seat, checking the screens. 

“Ten, nine, eight… Pilot detected… seven, six…” 

Your brows furrowed in focus. Grace anxiously took the seat next to yours, watching your face, waiting for you to give him permission to panic. “What's gonna happen at zero?” 

“Calm down, this is supposed to happen. We're approaching Tau Ceti's orbit and the engine is about to stop.” 

“W-What do I do?” 

“You give me a minute to think is what you do.” You frowned at one of the gauges. “I'm making sure everything's in optimal condition. Sit tight, Grace.” 

He did not sit tight. In fact, he had been freaking out so much that he didn't notice you buckle your seatbelt in. “I just feel like we should be–” Mary stopped talking. The counter had finished. There was a noticeable absence in the ship, like a fan had been turned off. The silence only scared him more. “Okay, what's–” 

“You are now orbiting Tau Ceti.” 

Grace started floating. He squealed an impressively high-pitched scream and started floating. He grabbed the closest thing he could, which had been the backrest of his seat, but his grip loosened and he was wriggling on the ceiling. The Control Room was thankfully small, and there were not many places he could float off to, but there were plenty of buttons for him to accidentally press. 

“Grace. Alright– Grace, calm down.” 

“What the heck! What the fudging heck!” 

“Give– stop that. Look, breathe. Give me your hand–” 

He managed to get himself spinning somehow. He'd kicked a stray pack of peanuts off somewhere and he was hovering further away from you. You clicked your seatbelt off, shaking your head. Grace helplessly called for your name. You pushed off your chair. You caught him, miraculously. But gravity was a tricky thing and the force sent you both spinning for a while. Like a pair of dancers on a music box. Grace clung onto you. He buried his face in your neck as you used your arm to brace yourself against one of the control panels. 

“We trained for this,” you grumbled, straining to keep yourselves steady. 

“I don't remember that!” His legs were floating up behind him, dragging you both. One of his knees bumped your thigh, then his elbow caught you in the ribs. He immediately tried to apologize and only made it worse by pushing off you too hard, sending both of you drifting sideways in a slow, lazy spin.

“God–” You were getting frustrated. “Grace!”

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry!” He yelped when his back bumped gently against the ceiling. “Mary, turn gravity back on!”

“Request unclear.” 

“What? I want down!” 

You managed to hook one foot under a handrail and pulled both of you closer to the console. You had bunched up a fistful of his shirt and grabbed him towards you. The motion swung Grace around and he ended up facing you, chest to chest, his nose only inches from yours. His blue eyes went wide.

“You’re doing great,” you said dryly, one arm looped around his waist to keep him from drifting away again. 

“I don't appreciate the sarcasm,” he muttered, but his grip on your jumpsuit tightened anyway. 

Grace swallowed thickly. There was barely any distance between you by then. He could feel the rising and falling of your chest. Were his ears getting hot? When was the last time he had gotten this close to anyone? It was a jarring feeling and an explosion of sensations. Grace didn't dare name them. 

You braced your other arm against the panel and gently pushed off, guiding both of you back toward the pilot’s seat in a slow, drifting arc. Ryland’s legs kept trying to find purchase and only succeeded in tangling with yours. At one point his knee bumped your hip and he apologized so sincerely you almost laughed again. 

“I'm gonna sit you down now,” you whispered, for he was so close that there was no need to raise your voice. You were unaware of the chill it sent down his spine. 

You turned so that he was beneath you as you floated down. You sat him on his chair, one hand holding his shoulder as the other strapped his seatbelt in. Your eyes were focused on locking the buckles, but Grace was looking directly at your face. Your knee bumped his thigh as you anchored your foot against the deck to keep from drifting away. And when your hands snaked to the back of his waist to secure the strap, his breath hitched. 

“Uh.” Grace blinked. He was safe in his seat then, no longer floating. To his horror, he was still holding your shoulders. “Thank you, Captain.” 

You laughed. His heart stuttered. “Hopefully that pre-launch training kicks in sometime soon.” 

Grace laughed too, but it was soft and nervous. He moved his hands from your shoulders to the armrests of his seat. “Yeah, I hope so.” He cleared his throat. He watched you move to buckle yourself into your chair with ease. “Can we turn the gravity back on?” 

Your eyes were on the monitor. Your hands glided across the haptic interface, checking the parameters, one eye on readouts. The ship was still settling into its new path around Tau Ceti, the big main screen showing the slow, graceful curve of the planet below.

“Gravity's not something you turn on,” you said. Your tone was calm again and it soothed him. “We’re in microgravity now because the main drive cut out for orbital insertion. The ship has a centrifuge mechanism, but we only use that when we need stable conditions for lab work. And we need to conserve energy.” 

You glanced over at Grace, then threw him a smile.  “Besides,” you added, returning your attention to the panel as another status light blinked green, “we’re still adjusting to the new orbit. Spinning the whole section right now would throw off the stabilization thrusters. Give it a few hours. You’ll get used to floating.”

Grace let out a shaky breath and tried to nod, but the motion only made him drift a little in the harness. He caught himself on the armrest, ears flushing darker. “Right. Centrifuge. Cables. Lab work. Got it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think I do remember something about a centrifuge, actually. Did you know they used it to make butter in the Civil War?” 

He loves starting out with shy kitten licks to the head of your cock, eyes shyly searching for yours, watching every small twitch of your muscles. And before you know it, Ryland groans around you, the sound muffled but filthy, his throat squeezing against your cock. His hands dig into your thighs, blunt nails pressing crescents into your skin as he forces himself to take you deeper, his nose brushing your pelvis.

He pulls off with a wet, obscene pop, saliva glistening on his swollen lips. "Fuck—" His voice is wrecked, eyes half-lidded and hazy with lust. "You taste—"

Grace doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, he licks a slow, teasing stripe from base to tip before swallowing you down again with a desperate, hungry noise, like he’s been starving for this. His fingers tighten on your hips urging you to move, to use him.

When you give in and thrust into his waiting mouth, Ryland’s answering moan is muffled around you, vibrating against your cock as you thrust deeper into his throat. He chokes around you, tears spilling freely down his flushed cheeks, but Grace doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he relaxes his throat, letting you fuck into it with shallow, desperate thrusts, his nose pressed flush against your stomach. His eyes roll back, his entire body shaking with the effort to take you, to please you, to make up for every second he spent lost in nerd biology stuff when he should’ve been here, like this.

When you finally curse above him, his lashes flutter, his gaze locking onto yours with hazy, drunken devotion.

And then, because he’s Ryland Grace and he’s never been able to resist pushing his limits, he swallows around you, hard, his throat fluttering and spasming around your hardness.

It’s overkill.

At some point, memory stops being memory and starts being imagination with a little more credibility to it. It is, however, inevitable, because once Ryland has remembered enough real things about (y/n), enough actual kisses, actual mornings, his brain starts doing what brains do best: Unauthorized sequel content.

That is exactly how the scientist found himself half-asleep in his bed on the ship, eyes closed but nowhere near sleeping. Instead, he’s thinking about what it would feel like if (y/n) were here now. Not in some tragic, impossible, cinematic way. Just nice, familiar and soft. Him climbing into bed behind Ryland, the mattress shifting under his weight, the quiet rustle of blankets, and finally, one long arm sliding around his waist.

Grace breathes out and licks his lips as he lets his mind wander forth: (y/n) pressing in close, his mouth against the back of his neck.

“You’re awake,” he’d say.

And Ryland would probably mutter something defensive and stupid like:

“No, I’m not.”

He’d laugh softly into the scientist’s skin. Then he’d kiss the place just below his ear: once, twice, slowly enough to make Ryland feel it all the way down his spine.

At this point, Grace shift under the blanket and exhales through his nose, feeling his developing hard-on pressing against the thick and somewhat stiff mattress. This is not helping, but he continues anyway. Because the thing about fantasy is that it doesn’t have the same grief-load as memory. Memory ends, fantasy doesn’t have to.

So he indulges himself and lets himself imagine (y/n)’s hand instead of his going down his chest with a tickling sensation, reaching beneath the elastic of his briefs and ghosting over his overeager tip. He has to bite down his lip to not make too loud of a sound, and his boyfriend in his fantasy responds with:

“What, that sensitive?”

Yes, (y/n), that sensitive. For you, all the time: ghosts on the edge of his tongue but Ryland doesn’t say it. Ironically enough, he couldn’t make a commitment to his boyfriend even in his own fantasy.

Grace moans as his hand takes a slow pace, his hips rutting against the mattress shyly. He shuts his eyes tighter and imagines (y/n) chuckling in his ear at his eagerness. He would probably get hard by this point as well, and his hardness would probably also press behind him, and maybe (y/n) would even rut his own hips against Ryland’s.

Ryland feels his fingers sliding over the slit a few times, already shamefully dripping with pre. He can’t help but imagine his boyfriend teasing him about it, warm breath ghosting over his sensitive ear:

“Wow, even after all this time you still fall apart like a virgin whenever we do this.”

Grace rolls over onto his stomach completely, letting his cock get some more friction. He opens his mouth to a silent moan and a small drop of saliva slides onto the pillow as he imagines (y/n) settling on top of him and gently pressing in.

In his fantasy, Ryland can afford to be always prepped and ready, even if he would definitely need more coaxing after so long.

He imagines (y/n) settling over him and almost pinning him down in that gentle, maddening way he used to that always made Grace feel both absurdly safe and doomed. He imagines his lover going slow at first, a stretch inside him that threatens to become painful, but not quite yet. Ryland moans as he further imagines how (y/n)’s hands would place themselves on either side of his head as he thrust himself further inside.

Unfortunately, there is no replacement Ryland could use right now to replicate the weight on his back and the low groans of his lover in his ear, but with his face buried deep into the pillow, the plush fabric swallowing his moans and groans, he almost doesn’t need it, the thought alone is enough.

Grace imagines (y/n) hitting his g-spot again and again, his cock twitching at every contact. He thinks that maybe (y/n) would be a little gentler in real life, but after so many years of loneliness, he needs anything but gentleness. So he lets his stomach pool with a warm feeling while he imagines (y/n) leaning in close and moaning into Ryland’s ear:

“Love you. You’re so good for me, babe.”

And the worst, or best, part is that it’s easy. Because he knows him well enough to build the rest. What he’d say. How he’d move.

Eventually, after he spills over the sheets and his stomach feels his release: a hot stickiness on the skin, Ryland drags a hand (the other one) over his face.

“This is pathetic,” he tells the ceiling. The ceiling, wisely, stays out of it.

When you were thirteen, you realized something about you was different. It was something not visible to others, only to you. At least you hoped that was the case.

The initial realization was over the summer when you spent time with Shane and his family at the beach. The first day was spent at the ocean, eating sandwiches and building various sand structures. Shane suggested that you two go swim to rinse off the sand, and you obliged. His mother Yuna was busy sunbathing, and his father David was nose deep in a book, so when Shane peeled his shirt off, no one saw your reaction. Sure, you’d seen Shane shirtless in the locker room- whatever. But it had been a few months post-hockey season, and Shane had bulked up since then. You gulp, your eyes raking his body before he could notice. Tearing your eyes away before Shane can catch you ogling, you pull your shirt over your head. Shane does a once-over of you before averting his gaze.

“Spending some time in the weight room?” he says, that rigid look on his face he gets when he’s trying to hide an emotion.

“Yeah,” you glance down at your body.

You’d been prioritizing protein in your diet and taking advantage of the weight room being empty because of school being out for the summer. So you’ve gained some muscle here and there. You figured it wasn’t noticeable, but perhaps you were wrong based on Shane’s wandering eyes.

Shane looks everywhere but at you, a small smirk teasing the corners of his mouth, “Whoever gets to the water first gets to shower first when we get back.”

“Deal,” you grin.

That night, you lay awake in the twin-size bed in the room you were sharing with Shane. You replayed the whole conversation over in your head, trying to decode it piece by piece. There was an odd warmth in your belly that spread to your face and your toes whenever you thought about Shane without a shirt on. What’s that about? You never felt this way when you saw girls in their swimwear, or girls in general. Does this mean you’re gay? Or are you just having a weird crush on Shane? You quickly decide it’s the latter before rolling over on your side and forcing yourself to sleep. You try to keep your curious eyes at bay for the rest of the trip.

Small moments of gradual acceptance would continue over the years until you were eighteen. You got accepted to a university you’d hoped to get into, and lived on campus. It was nice being away from your childhood home and town, and you could now focus on the rest of your life. That included exploring your sexuality. You dated here and there, with girls and guys. Oddly enough, you never clicked with anyone. Sure, you ended up leaning towards men more, but you found yourself looking for Shane in all of them. And you could never find him. 

Now, it’s 5 years later, at the same beach house as when you were younger teens, and you’re both lounging on the porch in silence. You’re too busy enjoying the sound of the ocean and the balmy wind to say much. It’s a rare occurrence where Shane is sipping a beer, but it’s also a rare occurrence where he gets to relax. Every now and then, Shane’s knee will bump into yours as you softly move back and forth on the porch swing. Suddenly, Shane inhales sharply as if he’s about to say something, but then exhales and shakes his head dismissively.

“What?” You furrow your eyebrows at him, taking a swig of your own drink.

“Just thinking.”

“Shocker. I didn’t know you were able to do that.”

Shane nudges your shoulder with his, in playful annoyance. Silence grows in the air once more. 

“Do you wanna go take a walk?” you ask out of the blue, motioning toward the beach.

“Sure,” Shane nods.

The moonlight reflects off the smooth, wet sand as the two of you leave bare footprints behind in it. Your and Shane’s hands occasionally brush together while you walk. You try to keep your cheeks from burning. 

“How has school been?” Shane asks.

You shrug a shoulder, “Alright. The first year being out of the way is nice. Excited for the draft?”

Shane peers over at you with a look you know very well. He’s nervous about it but plays it off with a smirk.

“Excited but worried. What if I don’t get chosen by a decent team?”

“You will, Shane. You’re amazing at hockey, so I expect nothing less than a great team choosing you for their number one pick.”

Suddenly, Shane pauses and stops walking, facing towards you once you freeze in place. Before you can ask why he’d stopped walking, he grabs your face with his calloused hands and plants a kiss right on your lips. Your hands fly up to grip his wrists as you kiss back. But it doesn’t last long before Shane pulls away, startled at his own actions.

“Sorry,” he stutters, not looking at you, “I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay,” you say softly.

“It’s not. I don’t know. I just got overwhelmed. Let’s head back, okay?”

You nod, face twisted in a mixture of confusion and worry. Shane is dead silent the rest of the way to the beach house. And he doesn’t dare let his knuckles brush against yours as the two of you walk, with the waves the only audible sound in the night. Adrenaline rushes through your veins, and both excitement and sadness mix with it. Shane kissed you. What does that mean? Does he like you, or was it just the heat of the moment? The way Shane dismissed the whole situation makes you feel odd, but you’d ask him about it later, perhaps. If he’d allow you to ask him about the situation, that is. Shane is quick to shut down when something upsets him. And tonight is obviously no different.

Your stiff hand cups around the end of the cigarette as you light it, avoiding the sharp, cold wind the best you can. Inhaling the smoke, you hear the side door open and slam shut. You’re at the ice rink watching your best friend, Shane, practice. Said practice had long since ended, and Shane had been busy cleaning up, so you decided to step outside for a bit. 

“You know those are bad for you, right?”

You blow the smoke out of your mouth and nose in a steady stream, not looking at your friend as you lean your head back against the concrete wall.

“Sure do, Shane. Only because you tell me that every time I light one up.”

Shane stands next to you, stripped of his gear and back in his regular clothes. He chuckles and shakes his head at you. A smile breaks through your stubborn features as you finish the cigarette. You and Shane have been close friends since middle school, when you both played hockey for your school team. When high school rolled around, you realized hockey wasn’t what you wanted to spend your life doing. But you and Shane remained friends. Now you’ve both finished high school, and Shane is in minor league hockey, while you’re sending off college applications. Life seems to be coming together. For now, anyway.

You’ve always felt something toward your best friend that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. Something deep, intense, and almost shameful. Sometimes you look at Shane and see a glimpse of it within him, too. But you can never know for certain. It’s something you’re good at hiding for the most part. However, there are times when those feelings bleed out. You hope it doesn’t end up killing you.

Little do you know, it’ll eventually eat away at your heart, bit by bit. And things will end up more chaotic in life than you could’ve ever imagined. But it’ll all be worth it in the end, right? 

His hips were mildly sore from the time they'd spent together, but his shoulders and thighs ached from some hits he'd taken during the game. He shifted, rolling over onto his back and humming softly when he bumped against a warm, slumbering body.

(Y/N) lied beside him on his back, his head tilted into the pillows, leaving half his face smushed against the pillow beneath him as he slept. Shane could hear the soft breathing from his parted lips, and he smiled to himself, turning to face him fully.

(Y/N) looked peaceful, serene, his face relaxed and devoid of any tightness.

The faint sunlight that peeked through the edges of the curtain danced across his skin. Shane followed the light, and with a gentle touch, his fingers ran over his chest, feeling the hairs there. His skin was soft, warm, and Shane couldn't help but press his lips to it, peppering kisses over every place he touched until (Y/N) took a deep breath and began stirring. 

"Hey." Shane greeted quietly when he noticed (Y/N) beginning to crack his eyes open, watching his brows twitch, and his lips form a confused frown at the sight of him. He dragged himself upward and kissed the corner of his mouth a little hesitantly, holding his breath in his chest in anticipation. "Sleep well?"

"Mm, yeah." (Y/N) dragged his knuckles over his eyes, his face scrunching up tiredly. 

Something warm stirred in Shane's gut, his palms pressing over (Y/N)'s happy trail to feel the hairs tickle him. Warmth crept up his neck, his brain offering snippets of their night.

The feeling of something heavy, something real and pulsing, dragging along his sensitive walls, repeatedly hitting the sweet spot that made his toes curl was unlike anything he'd experienced before. Using his dildo would surely leave him unsatisfied now.

But there were also the memories of them showering together, cleaning up the messes across their bodies. It'd been quiet, intimate, soapy hands washing away the fluids, touching without expecting something sexual to occur again. 

Shane's palms dragged further south, the neatly kept brush of hairs there slipping between his fingers. (Y/N)'s chest rose and fell with quicker breaths, his eyes closing when Shane cupped him, eager to feel him slowly react and harden with his touch.

Shane kissed his cheek and down to his shoulder, dipping his hand to carefully rub his fingers over (Y/N)'s balls, his head a little lightheaded from the knowledge that (Y/N) found him desirable.

"Fuck," Shane whispered, his hips pressed against (Y/N)'s. "I want you." He told him softly, breathlessly.

The sheets rustled with Shane's movements as he pushed them back with his arms and thighs, settling between (Y/N)'s legs. (Y/N)'s palm set itself over the top of Shane's head, his thumb moving back and forth in a sweet manner that made Shane want to devour him.

He made an attempt, a flimsy, overly eager one, taking him as far as his gag reflex allowed him and relishing the groan it knocked from (Y/N)'s chest. 

He was still learning, but he'd received good results the previous night, so he focused on suckling on (Y/N)'s cock like it was an ice-cold popsicle on a hot summer day. He breathed through his nose as best as possible while simultaneously trying not to put all his attention on his breathing, while he flicked his tongue around in search of discovering what made (Y/N) tick most.

While it was a bit embarrassing to acknowledge, Shane liked it. He liked being between another man's legs with their dick in his mouth and his eyes locked on their face, watching intently while they lost themselves. It made him feel good, powerful, capable. Or, maybe he simply liked it with (Y/N) because hearing his soft moans and heavy grunts drove him crazy.

There wasn't anything otherworldly about it, but the slight throb and twitch, the salty taste of pre that smear along his tongue, the ridges and wrinkles, the lack of air... Shane could forget about everything else and simply focus on the task at hand, on the idea of pleasuring his biggest inspiration. 

Reluctantly, Shane pulled away for air, taking deep breaths and wiping away his salvia-coated lips with the back of his hand. "Did you like that?" He asked, ducking his head briefly to drag his tongue over one of his balls, mesmerized by the full-body twitch. "Do you want me to keep going?" 

(Y/N) shook his head and tugged at the back of Shane's arms, his chuckle airy. "I-I-I'm... you know.." Shane kissed his cheek again, thrilled to feel the heat of his blush. "I won't be able to last as long as I used to. It's- It's been a while, like I said."

Shane almost groaned, but he was sure his half-lidded gaze got the message across because (Y/N)'s eyes darted away meekly. "I don't mind." He assured him. "I don't care. I just-" Shane swallowed, reconsidering his next choice of words, but he uttered them regardless. "I just want you to fuck me again."

He knew the moment they got out of bed, they'd have to discuss how they'd proceed, and the outcome was uncertain. They weren't teammates who could fool around whenever they felt like it, who could get away with occasionally being seen hanging out.

(Y/N) was an assistant coach, and staff members rarely hung out with players one-on-one outside of the rink unless they knew them or their families personally.

Shane wanted to forget about that momentarily. "Do you want to?" 

"Y-Yeah." 

Shane's smile was brief, elated and bashful all the same, before he swooped down to lock their mouths together, groaning softly into his mouth when he began rocking his hips against (Y/N)'s stomach. He barely paid attention to the kiss in all its messy, clumsy glory, their tongues swiping over teeth and saliva trickling from the corner of their mouths. His senses were simply too overwhelmed by (Y/N).

(Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N). (Y/N).

The heat and softness of his skin and flesh pressing against him, the tingle of his fingers digging into the fat of Shane's hips, the smell of his bedsheets and his cologne and his subtle sweat. Shane groaned again, pushing their mouths together harder, wanting to mold together until his mind was only full of one thing.

(Y/N) broke the kiss by tilting his head to the side, leaving Shane to mouth at his jawline and chin, streaks of glistening spit following. He continued rocking against him, grinding and shamelessly humping, his body alight with the eager anticipation of feeling (Y/N) inside him again. He could get drunk on the feeling. 

He almost choked on a gasp when he felt a cold, slick finger press against his still sensitive entrance, his body seizing up. He let out a breath and made himself relax, his breathing growing shallow and coming out in quick bursts. His head dropped, his face burying itself in the crook of (Y/N)'s neck, attempting to ground himself but failing when the welcomed intrusion came.

"Fuck."

He panted against (Y/N)'s throat, strands of his hair beginning to stick to his forehead from the sweat building there. His mouth pressed to (Y/N)'s heat, savoring the warmth from his blush again. His nostrils flared.

"Need you." He whispered, rocking back to push his finger to the knuckle. 

"You must be sensitive, Shane." (Y/N) crooned, and while his words were spoken with a genuine, slightly lecturing tone, it made Shane's head spin more.

Shane had the overwhelming want to be pampered, to be rewarded for his efforts against the Raiders. They'd been hard to beat, which made going against them all the more fun, but Rozanov had a talent for getting beneath Shane's skin with his taunting remarks and blood-boiling laughter. 

Somewhat delirious from his ridiculous desire for a man basically a decade older than him, Shane wrapped his arms around (Y/N)'s shoulders. "Did I make you proud yesterday?" He asked breathlessly.

(Y/N) added a second finger, and Shane shivered from pleasure, his knees digging into the mattress and hips moving to effectively fuck himself on (Y/N)'s fingers. (Y/N)'s lips brushed over his forehead, puckering to kiss it before he nodded. Shane hummed, adjusting himself to properly kiss (Y/N) again.

"Will you- will you give me a reward-" He groaned softly. "-every time we win this season?" 

(Y/N)'s eyes, still visibly heavy with some sleepiness, traced the freckles over his face. "I..." He swallowed, his gaze flickering away for a second, still meek in a way that had Shane considering keeping him in bed for a couple hours. "You want to make me proud?"

Shane nodded, sitting up with one hand planting itself on (Y/N)'s chest. "Yes. Always." He told him honestly, reaching behind him to fist (Y/N0's cock in his hand, his flushed chest heaving. 

His teeth caught his bottom lip when (Y/N) slipped his fingers out and fumbled for a condom, a small chuckle vibrating in his throat. He attempted to help, but his own hands trembled, and the two couldn't help but laugh. (Y/N) gave a playful huff and brought the wrapper to his mouth, clamping down with his teeth and tearing it open. 

Shane plucked the wrapper piece from his mouth and tossed it aside, leaning on his knees to move backward. He gripped the base of (Y/N)'s cock with one hand and leaned down, wrapping his lips around him again one last time. He shuddered when (Y/N) growled out his name, pulling away with a full-body blush and sliding the condom over him. 

Hovering over his lap, Shane slowly sank down, his mouth permanently open with the quiet gasp and guttural moans he released at the stinging soreness and electrifying pleasure. Gravity worked wonderfully in his favor, helping him take (Y/N) better to the point his toes curled and his lungs felt empty. 

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Leaning back, Shane set his hands over (Y/N)'s strong thighs and planted his feet on the mattress, his head lolling back once he began lowering himself up and down. Each stretch burned through him, his hair sticking to his skin that felt like lava and his thighs quivered, flexing with his movements.

(Y/N)'s hands roamed over his body, exploring and squeezing, sending jolts through him. Shane quickened his pace as much as his arms and thighs would allow him without the threat of toppling over, his own flushed, leaking cock bobbing and slapping against him. He cursed sharply when (Y/N)'s fingers wrapped around him, only giving him a few pumps. 

Shane cried out, covering his lower belly and (Y/N)'s hand with his fluids. His movements staggered, his legs failing him under the waves of pleasure, and before he knew it, (Y/N) had him on his back again, his weight pressing Shane into the mattress. (Y/N) fucked him through his high, hitting that sensitive, overstilumated bundle of nerves until tears prickled the corner of Shane's eyes. 

"F-Fuck," He whined out, his arms weakly wrapping around (Y/N)'s midsection. "P-Please," Shane gasped, even though he hardly knew what more he was begging for. "Sir, shit," He slurred next, and heard (Y/N) groan in his ear. Through his sluggish brain, a lightbulb managed to flicker.

(Y/N) liked that.

Shane's mouth curled upward, and he pressed his lips to (Y/N)'s earlobe, his voice airy while he chanted, "J-Just like that, sir. More. More."

If he'd had any energy left, he would've laughed victoriously when a low, deep moan ripped from (Y/N)'s chest, his hips snapping one last time, burying himself to the hilt. Shane silently cursed the layer of latex keeping them separated. He wondered how it'd feel to have come seeping out of him. Likely weird. Probably uncomfortably so. 

A whine unconsciously slipped out when (Y/N) pulled out, leaving him empty and clenching around nothing. (Y/N) gave an amused huff of air and rid himself of the soiled condom, remaining on his knees for a moment as they waited for the energy to slowly return to them. (Y/N) recovered a little quicker, and so he got out of bed.

Shane remained in bed, his legs fallen open and body feeling both wrecked and weightless. The feeling was good, the type he'd get after a long, intensive workout that made his muscles and lungs burn, only this time, there was the added layer of pleasure. His jelly-like arm rubbed away the sweat on his forehead, a little, barely audible laugh passing through his lips.

Having sex with (Y/N) (L/N) was a dream he hoped he'd never wake up from.

The sound of the tub filling with water reached him, and he propped himself up on his elbows, gathering what strength he'd managed to recover to fling his legs over the edge of the bed. His shoulders slumped, heavy with exhaustion. Better to wait for (Y/N) to help him than risk eating the floor by attempting to stand up.

(Y/N) returned to his side a mintue later, cupping his elbow and helping him onto unsteady feet. Stubbornly, Shane tried to walk with only minimal help, but when his legs bucked, (Y/N) clicked his tongue and lifted Shane into his arms by his thighs. Shane sighed pleasently, his head dropping to (Y/N)'s shoulder. The thoughts in his head finally began making sense.

Mindfully, (Y/N) helped him into the warm water, and Shane let out a louder sigh at the feeling of the heat digging into his muscles, working away the soreness. (Y/N) got in with him, and Shane almost keened once (Y/N) lathered up a loofah and began gently scrubbing his skin. Shane watched him through hazy eyes, wanting to kiss him and curl up against him simultaneously.

"I'll change the sheets after this," (Y/N) muttered, smiling affectionately when Shane took the loofah and tiredly scrubbed him, too. 

"I can make breakfast." Shane offered. "Least I can do."

(Y/N) chuckled. "Deal."

After rinsing off the soap and washing his hair, Shane was glad to find his legs in better working order. He patted himself dry while (Y/N) finished bathing, and took the liberty of burrowing some of (Y/N)'s clothes after (Y/N) mentioned he could. He slid on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, buzzing at the realization they smelled like (Y/N).

His chest felt both heavy and light as he headed down the stairs on semi-wobbly legs and made his way through the house, his head on a swivel as he took note of both the architecture and interior design.

He'd begun getting into both things a little after his draft at his mother's encouragement to find something outside of hockey that could generate money, and after doing extensive research into design and architecture, Shane was certain he wanted to have a little home for himself built at some point.

Maybe a cottage on a nice piece of land in Ottawa, where he could spend his summers basking in the beauty of the lake country. He'd have it designed just the way he wanted, and it'd become his own haven from the fame that came with being Shane Hollander.

Stepping into the kitchen, Shane opened the fridge and studied the contents inside, a little smile twitching on his lips. Fresh vegetables, fruits, herbs, jams that looked homemade, eggs that seemed like they'd come from a local farm rather than a grocery store.

Shane sorted through the contents and began taking out the ingredients needed for a breakfast quesadilla. He searched around the kitchen for bowls, setting them on the counter, alongside the needed utensils.

Once he had everything, he cracked two eggs into a bowl and started cooking. Usually, during the season, he preferred quick but filling breakfast options so he'd be able to hit the ice as soon as possible and do some light training before the game.

But they'd be in Montreal for a little longer while they waited for the Tampa Bay Stingrays to play against the Toronto Guardians and fly up to Montreal, and Shane wanted to make the most of his time with (Y/N) before reality settled in. Part of him wanted to spend the rest of the day with him, to lounge around rewatching and dissecting old games, or stay in bed learning more about each other.

Shane glanced up at (Y/N) when he walked into the kitchen. "I, uh, heard you liked quesadillas." He mentioned with a shrug, dicing the bell peppers and onions before adding them to a buttered pan to cook.

"I do," (Y/N) confirmed, nodding as he took a seat at the small square island and rested his arms over the cool counter. Shane's gaze briefly fell to the wedding ring when it dangled and caught the light. "My mom makes them all the time." He said, his smile nostalgic. "If she's not making breakfast quesadillas, she's making chocolate chip or blueberry pancakes."

"Sounds delicious."

Blueberry pancakes... he made a mental note to search for a healthy enough recipe. He wouldn't add the syrup, far too much sugar, but he was sure there was a good enough replacement. Shane swiped his tongue over his lips, keeping an eye on the frying pan.

"Did you usually cook when.. you were married?" Was that too odd a question to ask?

(Y/N) propped his arm up on his elbow, his fingers tracing the necklace holding his ring. "No, Aimee... Aimee liked cooking. Once I got her into buying from farmers' markets, she became obsessed with cooking and became a total foodie. You'd have to pry her veggie egg muffins from her cold, dead hands." (Y/N) laughed gently.

"Mm." Another food added to Shane's mental list of things to try.

His fingers drummed over the counter, his head tilting slightly to the side. He wanted to ask, to learn more about the life (Y/N) (L/N) had kept from the public eye, the life he spoke little of when asked. Shane wondered if it'd be too much, especially after sex. He doubted anyone wanted to talk about the ups and downs of their past marriage after a hookup.

(Y/N)'s gaze dropped onto the counter, moving over the bowls and ingredients, his features smoothing out into that calm, blank expression of his. He nipped lightly at his bottom lip, shifting slightly in the barstool.

"Aimee always wanted to be a mom." He said suddenly, quietly, his eyes remaining downcast. He took in a deep breath. "I wanted to be a dad, too, but not as intensely as her. We... We didn't try for kids until later, until our late twenties. We wanted to be young and stress-free. Then, when we did start to try... it didn't work out."

Shane poured the veggie mixture and the egg-milk mixture into the skillet, nodding along to assure (Y/N) he was still listening. His eyes remained locked on the skillet while he worked on getting that perfect omelette shape, half his brain focused on the task while the other focused on what (Y/N) was sharing with him.

"Aimee thought she was the problem, but she got the all-clear."

Shane's brows furrowed at first, working through it in his head, and then crinkled his nose in a wince. (Y/N) shot him a little sad smile, resigned and tired. It made Shane's heart squeeze with sympathy.

"I'm infertile. Not- Not sterile, but... they made it clear that the chances of us naturally conceiving would be a shot in the dark because of low sperm count."

"I'm sorry." Shane wasn't sure what else there was to say to that.

"We tried a few things like, uh, hormone therapy and IVF and all the usual treatments they suggest... we weren't very lucky, and- and Aimee.. it didn't feel right to her to use a donor. She wanted a baby that came from us, and she wanted to experience pregnancy and..."

(Y/N) trailed off, his lips pressing together, his eyes sliding away, distant. His fingers slid down until he could thumb the ring, his face still neutral but his eyes told a million stories.

He'd heard of resentment building up in marriages, how the little problems and big problems merged into one massive clusterfuck during times of hardship. He imagined it hadn't been an easy problem to get past for the both of them.

"It was my fault we divorced, I guess is what I'm trying to say. I- I couldn't do my one job as a man." He gave a dry, bitter laugh.

Shane's mouth curled into a frown immediately, and he quickened the pace of his cooking, folding the omelet onto a tortilla and leaving it to cook.

"Hey." He said scoldingly, his voice soft and legs carrying him around the island to stand at (Y/N)'s side. "It's not your fault. You can't control how fertile you are, (Y/N)."

(Y/N) continued staring forward in silence, his eyes a tad misty, before he blinked a few times and took a breath. Shane watched him reel himself in, steel himself into the (L/N) everyone knew.

"You should get tested, Shane. It'll be better to know now than in the future when you're hoping for different results." He advised him somberly, finally turning his head to look at him. 

Shane leaned down, pecking his lips. "It's not your fault, (Y/N)." He repeated, raising a tentative hand to his cheek and cupping it, his thumb dragging back and forth sweetly. "You're more than- than just a test result, (Y/N). You've had a successful hockey career and- and..." Shane licked his lips, racking his mind for more.

"You're young, Shane." (Y/N) kissed the vein along Shane's wrist. "You'll understand when you're older, if you ever get that urge to start a family of your own." 

Standing up from the barstool, (Y/N) moved around the island and flipped the tortilla over. Shane watched him, feeling a little helpless. For once, Shane had no solutions to offer another person. He was used to being able to rattle off idea after idea, or used to whipping out his phone to search for the answers, but this was out of his control.

A biological problem that even science couldn't fix.

Shane hated the feeling of being powerless to help someone he cared about.

He could show a teammate how to take better shots at the goal, how to skate faster, or what to expect from each team they went up against. He could help his parents with new technology or apps that they knew nothing about. He could offer logical, unbiased advice when a friend needed it or show support by showing up at events they invited him to. 

There was nothing he could do to mend a divorce or magically turn a low sperm count into a high one. 

A selfish, quiet thought slithered in, one that made him grimace, disgruntled with himself. If they hadn't hit the roadblock of fertility, if they hadn't divorced, Shane would've been wallowing in his self-pity in his apartment in Montreal, thinking about how perfect a life Aimee had. He pushed the thought away as quickly as it formed, a sting of guilt pricking his gut.

Shane fiddled with his fingers, rubbing the pad of his index finger over the wrinkles of one of his knuckles. He approached (Y/N) from behind, curling his arms around his waist and kissing his shoulder. (Y/N) swiped his tongue over his mouth and slid the tortilla onto a plate.

"Thank you for telling me." A sign of trust, Shane thought. It was a good sign. "It really wasn't your fault, (Y/N). I need you to know that."

Ilya’s still watching the grainy video footage, a series of clips slapped together, jaw slightly agape as the man lands deftly on the hood of an armored truck going at least 70 miles an hour. 

“What did you say name was? Spiderman?”

“Uh, yeah. He’s kind of a big deal in Boston. Local, though.” Cliff replies. “Saved me, once.”

Ilya glances up, bemused. “Yeah? From what? Waterspout?”

Cliff grins. “Ha-ha, asshole. Nah, I was walking back from a girl’s house, cut through an alley, and got jumped. Guy pulled a knife, and I thought I was a goner, and then Spiderman appeared and rocked his shit.” 

He leaps up to continue his story, making broad, sweeping movements with his arms and legs in what Ilya’s sure is a patently inaccurate physical recreation of Spiderman’s movements. 

“And then he was like, psh —” Cliff shoots his arm out, palm-up, middle and ring finger tucked in, “and stuck that bastard to the wall for the cops. Then he walked me home.”

“Did he kiss you goodnight, too?” Ilya drawls, and Cliff leverages himself off the bench and plucks his phone from Ilya’s hands, then tucks it into the top cubby of his locker. 

“You should ask the other guys,” Cliff replies. “Everyone has a Spiderman story. Surprised you haven’t met him yet.”

“Maybe because I do not walk through dark alleys at night,” Ilya grouches, but stands with Cliff, urging him out into and onto the ice. “Is called common sense. You do not need superheroes when you have common sense.”

He does, however, when he’s sure Cliff is gone, pull aside the new rookie and demand to hear his Spiderman story.

//

“This is fucking delicious,” You say, tugging your mask up over your nose so you can take a bite of the burrito you’d snagged from the place down the street from your apartment. 

Nobody responds. God, you should hope nobody responds — you’re dangling off the top of a building, feet swinging in the frigid open air of a winter Boston night; it’d be terrifying if someone answered you. 

You can still remember distinctly when you’d been in a similar situation a couple of months ago and Deadpool had popped out of fucking nowhere, and scared you so bad you’d fallen off the roof.

Hopefully Deadpool wasn’t back in town. That’d be a fucking nightmare. He always disrupted your routine, and you had a pretty good thing going for you right now. 

Your schedule was comparatively lighter senior year; just a couple of seminars, labs, and a junior-level engineering class you were TA-ing. As a result, you had the extra time on your hands to break up the inevitable increase in drunken brawls as hockey season started to get going. You kept meaning to catch a game, but Raiders tickets ran for about 300 bucks a pop, and you needed the cash for rent and textbooks. 

Below you, there’s a loud crash as a group of guys clamber out of a bar, flooding onto the sidewalk, shoving at each other. The trashcan they knocked over clatters against the pavement, spilling empty fountain drinks and fast food wrappers. 

“Walk slow,” you yell around a mouthful of burrito. One of the guys squints up at you, face brightening when he recognizes the classic blue and red of the suit, and waves. 

“Yeah, sure, Spiderman! Have a good night!” He shouts, words slightly slurred, and you watch as he comes close to colliding with a lamppost. You give him a thumbs-up, keeping an eye on the group to make sure none of them try to get into a car, and relax when the guy stumbles into the street to flag down an Uber. 

It takes another fifteen uneventful minutes to fully polish off the burrito and look around for something to wipe your greasy fingers off on, then clamber back to your feet and pull the mask down over your mouth. 

Your brain is keeping track of several things at once, buzzing with what you refuse to call your “tingle” — the wailing sirens three blocks down, which the paramedics seemed to have under control; a screaming fight at the apartment over on Fifth, which you’d tried to break up exactly once before realizing it was some twisted form of foreplay; and… 

Someone’s yelling. You leap to the opposite edge of the roof, peer down over the lip of the building, and, yeah — someone is beating the shit out of a couple of guys.

You take a second to watch it before realizing you should probably break it up. There are two beer-bros sprawled on the ground, toques pulled low over their eyes, while a blond man slams his fist into a lanky guy’s face. 

“Woah, woah,” You call, dropping down into the alley and snagging the lanky man with a web to pull him back until you can let him down gently onto the pavement next to his friends. He’s out cold. “Are we practicing kindness?”

The blond man looks up, eyes squinted tight with rage, and you do a double-take. “Holy — Ilya Rozanov?”

“Get out of my way,” Rozanov spits, Russian accent low and angry. “This is not your business.”

“Think it might be, buddy. ‘Neighborhood’ in ‘Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman’ refers to this one. Also, I think if I leave you might kill someone.” You respond, still slightly startled. This is Ilya Rozanov, right? 

A guy in your Comparitive American History class, who sits right below you, always has the Raiders games playing on his laptop during lecture. Whenever you were feeling particularly bored, you’d prop your head on your hand and watch over his shoulder as Rozanov darted around on the ice. The man in front of you looks pretty much identical. 

“Spiderman?” Rozanov asks, suddenly looking more interested. “Good. You can arrest them, yes?”

“Don’t have jurisdiction. Police kicked up a big fuss about it, even when I said I’d pay for my very own shiny little badge,” You say, eyes still tracing Rozanov’s face. “What’d they do, anyway?”

“Spiked a girl’s drink,” Rozanov responds, and your face sours. 

“Alright, call the cops. Ask for Jimmy Kowalski,” You say, turning around and digging your foot into the lanky man’s ribs to flip him over, applying more pressure than strictly necessary. He rolls over to clump in with his other friends, who Rozanov also presumably knocked out. Jesus Christ. 

You web them up, a thick layer that traps them against the wall of the alley, as Rozanov gets off the phone with the police.

“They will get punished, yes?” Rozanov asks, and you nod. 

“Yeah, Jimmy was raised by his mom and has three daughters. He’ll slap ‘em with as much as he can. I’ll also keep an eye on them if I see them around.”

“Should cut off their dicks,” Rozanov grounds out, and you laugh. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” You deliberately turn your back, already slinging a web onto the fire escape above your head. “Well, duty calls. Sure would be a shame if someone happened to rough ‘em up a little more while I was gone.” 

Rozanov grins.

//

“Mozhno mne nemnogo?” You ground out, cognizant of how stupid you probably sound. Can I have some of that?

“Mm, no. Is terrible. Try again.” Rozanov snipes, peeling back the layers of foil on the burrito.

“Duolingo says I’m real good,” You mumble back, pointedly avoiding eye contact.

“Duolingo is wrong,” Rozanov chides. “Is stupid app for stupid people.”

You obligingly repeat the halting sentence to him in Russian, focusing on drawing out the correct vowel sounds. Rozanov makes snappy corrections on your pronunciation immediately.

Losing patience, you groan and snatch the burrito out of his hands, pushing up your mask and taking an obnoxiously large bite. You weren’t sure why Rozanov had asked to hang out if he was going to be an asshole the entire time.

Well, maybe “asked” had been a strong word. More like ambushed you — he’d been waiting on the roof for you when you’d arrived, leaning up against the raised edge.

“Well, hey there, creeper,” You’d drawled, trying to hide a small frisson of panic — your “tingle” hadn’t even let you know someone else was up here. 

Rozanov had pushed up, messy curls peeking out from under his toque, and nodded at you. He’d been holding a cigarette in between the fingers of his right hand, and had brought it up to take a deep, intentional drag, blowing the smoke into your face.

“Hello.” 

You’d crossed over to him in two easy strides, leaned over, and pinched the cigarette out of his grip before putting it out against the concrete railing and throwing it over the side of the building.

Rozanov had blinked. “Litterbug.”

“Someone should tell Spiderman about this,” You’d grinned. Rozanov had not been amused.

“I came to ask how the girl was. Figured you might be back here. Saw you drop down from here last night.” He’d said. 

“Oh!” You hadn’t expected that. “She’s good. I looped back and took her home, after. Little shaken up, but said that she’ll be okay. She wanted me to thank you.”

Rozanov had smiled. It lit up his whole face, tugging at the corners of his mouth and brightening his eyes. You’d swayed unconsciously into his space before you’d realized what was happening, and he’d plucked your dinner out of your hands before you’d withdrawn.

“Mm. Is this from TSK? Let’s split it. I haven’t eaten, yet.”

And then the bastard had started unwrapping your dinner. You’d made the mistake of letting him know you were “learning” Russian (answering Duolingo prompts between classes), and so he wouldn’t let you have a bite, either, until you could ask him for some in Russian.

Now, tucking into the soft beans and rice and tender pork wrapped in the tortilla, you’re grateful you opted to just steal it back. 

Rozanov looks slightly startled. “I can see your mouth.”

“That’s what tends to happen when I eat,” You respond, smacking your lips obnoxiously. “Occupational hazard, one could say.”

“Da, thank you, asshole. I meant… you have a secret identity, no? You do not seem to be protecting it very well.” 

“Eh. We’re in Boston. Doubt you’re going to stop every stranger on the street who even sort of looks like the bottom half of my face,” You respond. 

“I might,” Ilya scowls. “Go Spiderhunting.”

“Why don’t you do me a huge favor and let the Green Goblin know you’re at it? He’d love that.”

There’s a beat of silence. You offer the burrito to Ilya. 

“You want some? Dinner and a view. Man, I am killing it today, huh?”

He laughs — a low, deep sound that makes your heartbeat jump — and takes the burrito from you, sinking his teeth into the filling.

“Give me your number,” he says suddenly, holding out his phone to you. You raise an eyebrow, but obediently punch in the digits. 

You highly doubt that Ilya has the technological know-how to do a backtrace on the number, but still give him one from an old-phone you’d rigged up that doesn’t connect to your real identity. 

He nods, satisfied, and continues to eat the burrito. 

“I would not, go, uh, Spiderhunting,” Ilya announces between bites. 

You open your mouth to offer a bland thank you, and then he follows up: “Would probably put waterspouts out of work. Not in this economy, no-no.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, laugh it up, chucklehead. Also, what the hell do you know about the economy? You make like three million bucks a year.”

He sobers for a minute, looking serious, and visibly shakes it off.

“Flatscreens are expensive these days,” He simpers back instead, sarcastic, and you laugh. 

“Yeah, fuck you, dude.”

“All by myself? I thought you were supposed to be a helper, Spiderman.”

“And put your right hand out of work?” You grin, then drop your voice and affect his Russian accent. “Not in this economy, no-no.”

His eyes go to your exposed lips, heavy and hot, and you realize how close you’ve inadvertently gotten. Your gaze drifts down his body and traces back up, action almost involuntary. 

Rozanov grins, feral, and spreads his legs slightly. Your eyes drop unconsciously to the bulge in his cargos, straining subtly against the fabric.

“Already? I haven’t even touched you,” You say, quirking an eyebrow.

Rozanov juts out his hips slightly. “Then fix that.”

You take a second to wonder What the fuck am I doing before you’re reaching out and yanking him into you, catching his lower lip harshly between your teeth.

//

“You did not.” Cliff grounds out, tape in his hand, still halfway caught on his stick, forgotten. “You got bad enough FOMO from our Spiderman stories that you whored yourself out on a rooftop?”

“Do not be jealous,” Ilya grins smugly. He’s not sure what FOMO means, but can infer based on how unbelievably bewildered Cliff is.

“I’m not jealous!” Cliff explodes. “I — Ilya, how the fuck did you even —“

“A gentleman does not kiss and tell.” Ilya responds primly. “Unless you want to hear that nothing about Spiderman was ‘itsy bitsy’ —“

The arena roars as Ilya slams the puck into the back of the Scouts’ net, so hard that his stick snaps in two. The entire team rushes towards him, screaming and cheering loudly in celebration – a 4-3 overtime win to seal the deal. The Boston Raiders had won the Stanley Cup. Hats, flowers and jerseys are thrown onto the ice by eager fans, black helmets, gloves and worn sticks littering the rink. Y/N smiles happily, discarding his gloves and skating over, soon being swarmed by the team. Every single player had worked exceptionally hard over the last two months, bouncing back from every loss like a ricochetting bullet. Ilya grabs the goaltender by the shoulders, shouting something in Russian, the fire of winning in his eyes. He laughs as he’s spun around happily.

Y/N felt like an actual champion. Last year, he’d been on the winning team, but it had been bittersweet. He hadn’t felt like he’d truly won it, but now, as he takes his turn to skate a lap around the rink, holding the cup over his head, the cheers and applause of the people felt real. He was a champion.

There’s a strange feeling of guilt in his chest when his E/C eyes fall upon the defeated Scouts. His former team looked devastated, forcing smiles as they congratulate the Raiders. Each handshake feels wrong, like he’d betrayed the family that raised him. Smithson gives him a respectful nod, but the sadness in his eyes is unmissable. Y/N reminds himself that this was the game – you win or you lose.

Y/N isn't particularly happy to be showered in sticky champagne in the locker rooms, but Ilya subtly directed Marleau’s alcoholic weapon towards the others, shielding the goalie from the worst of it. The two exchange glances, knowing that it was just a few weeks until they can properly reunite with Shane. They were going to his cottage, away from the prying eyes of the public. It took a fair amount of convincing on Ilya’s end, but he’d finally agreed.

Everything’s a blur as the days rush past. There’s countless events to attend, signings, congratulatory speeches, and interviews that Y/N does his best to avoid. They push through every day, knowing by nightfall, they could go home and spend time together. It was no secret that Ilya and Y/N were living together now, but they cited every excuse under the sun. They were just teammates, their schedules were so similar, and Ilya’s old apartment was being renovated. No one seemed to suspect anything, or at least, not what was truly happening.

Each night, they would call Shane, eating dinner together and feeling like a real throuple. Things weren't awkward, there was no jealousy, occasionally there was miscommunication, but it was always quickly solved. They enjoyed these moments the most, being able to just talk.

An awards ceremony brought the three together one night, held in Boston. They dress in sharp tuxedos, Y/N’s hair freshly cut and styled messily, which kept his boyfriends’ eyes on him the entire night. It was hard keeping their hands off of each other, knees bumping under the table, small exchanges of smiles across the room.

Ilya was awarded MVP of the season, an incredible achievement. Y/N was so proud, knowing exactly what he’d been through to get here. He hadn't missed a single session of therapy, and had only taken drinks in small quantities, such as at this event where he nursed a single glass of champagne.

Y/N was congratulated for having the most shutouts of the season, and the highest save percentage, whilst Shane was awarded with the most faceoff wins, as well as the most points earned by a Metro in their history of Montreal centre players. The three are labelled as an unformidable trio, and speculation of what a team could achieve if they all joined began to circulate. But one thing was for certain – until a contract ended, neither the Metros or Raiders would be letting their respective players go. Hopes of a Hollander-Morgan-Rozanov core were quickly put to rest, but the idea had Shane’s mind whirling, the cogs turning like a machine.

Towards the end of the night, Hayden Pike approaches Y/N, who’s quietly standing on the balcony of the event hall, staring at a fountain below. He’d tried to escape the crowds of people, but had still been found.

“Hey, big guy,” the man says, handing him a glass of beer. “Did pretty well for yourself tonight.” He leans against the balcony, bowtie slightly skewed.

“I suppose,” Y/N responds, glancing towards the brunet.

“Don’t sell yourself short. You did great, man,” he replies, nudging him with his arm. “Two-time Stanley Cup winner at what, twenty-six?”

“Twenty-four,” the goaltender murmurs, making the man grin wider.

“There you go. You’re a hotshot. On the ice and off it,” he muses.

Y/N can’t help but eye the man curiously. He was leaning close, a lot closer than even any of his teammates would stand. His drink in his hand was untouched.

“We never got that drink, did we?” Hayden comments. “Too busy with our games… got pretty tiring… you sneaking off to Shane’s apartment right after the game…”

Y/N turns to him, E/C eyes wide. “What?”

Hayden grins. “Relax, I won't tell anyone. But you gotta be more sneaky. I saw you talking outside the lockers… he’s pretty into you, eh?” His eyes are full of mischief, and curiosity.

Y/N is about to lose his mind when Ilya walks out, watching Hayden with disdain. “Pike,” he drawls, standing beside the goalie. “You are bothering everyone. Go sit and be good like the other Metros.”

Hayden takes one look between the two men before grinning. “No fucking way. Rozanov too?! You dirty dog!”

“Oh, God,” Y/N groans, taking a long drink from his glass.

Ilya catches on pretty quick, his face like thunder. He looks ready to beat the shit out of Hayden, who’s wheezing, looking incredibly happy with the turn of events.

“Ilya,” Y/N croaks, chest tight.

With that, the Russian grabs Hayden and drags him away, protesting. Shane quickly walks over, concerned. “Is he… fuck.”

The next ten minutes are tense. Y/N finishes his beer, pacing around nervously, whilst Shane stares at the ground, realising this could end their careers if they’re exposed. They can do nothing to comfort each other, minds troubled with the uncertain future.

Finally, Ilya and Hayden reappear, and thankfully, their expressions seem neutral. Ilya gestures to the man, scoffing, “He has thing for Y/N.”

There's a long silence, confusion and hesitance. “What?” Shane asks.

“Thinks he’s hot,” Ilya sighs.

“Uh… thanks?” Y/N responds, not sure what to think. He definitely did not have a thing for Hayden. Sure, he was fairly good looking, but he hardly knew the guy.

“Just curious,” Hayden comments. “I’m not looking for anything. Jackie and my girls are my priority.”

“Right…” Shane mutters, very surprised to find out his best friend had a thing for his boyfriend, although he knew that Y/N would not go for a man like Hayden. He was far too… loud.

The awkwardness intensifies, no one knows what to say. Ilya still looks slightly annoyed, but he’s not worried about being exposed anymore. Hayden had his own things to lose.

“So… uh… are you just exploring?” Shane eventually asks, keeping his voice low as a server comes onto the balcony to refill their drinks. Once the man leaves, he adds, “Like, have you ever been with a guy?”

“Not yet,” Hayden shrugs, leaning back on the stone railing. “Hard to find people without just exposing yourself.”

The three nod in agreement, Y/N putting down his now-full glass, the bitter beer leaving a foul taste in his mouth. He didn't like drinking, mostly because it just didn't taste nice.

“Are we the only queer people you know?” The H/C-haired man asks, choosing his words carefully.

Hayden nods.

“Go to gay bar,” Ilya grumbles.

“And get recognised? No fucking way,” the man retorts. “Besides, I'm not looking for a hook-up or anything. Not my kind of thing. I’m just seeing what I'm into. What kind of guys I’m into.” His eyes flicker to Y/N.

“Our guy,” Shane replies, almost coldly.

Hayden shrugs but doesn't deny it.

Y/N rubs his forehead. “This is a lot.” His voice his quiet, overwhelmed.

Shane nods. “Yeah. We should go.”

The brunet hesitates. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm not asking anything of you. I just… get confused.”

“So be confused elsewhere.” Ilya heads towards the door.

“I can help you,” the goalie eventually mutters.

“The fuck you can not,” the Russian retorts, looking at him like he’s gone mad. Even Shane looks surprised, and a little upset. He did not want to share Y/N with another man!

“Not like… do anything with you. But… find out ways you can find other people like you, safely.” he looks away. “My best friend, Dotty, says there's lots of underground places all over North America. People who don't want to be exposed at all.”

“You’d do that?” Hayden asks.

Y/N nods. “I can find you a list. And send you some articles on how to do… things safely, if you decide to go that route.” He feels his cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

“Thanks, dude. You’re… a good guy.” Hayden smiles to himself, and finally the trio leaves.

“You need to learn how to tell someone to fuck off,” Ilya grumbles, fighting the urge to wrap his arm around the goalie’s waist.

“Fuck off, Rozy,” Y/N retorts snarkily, making Shane snicker.

The two Raiders take a cab to their apartment, whilst Shane waits a while, saying goodbye to his teammates, most of which were planning on staying out drinking. Then, he makes his way to the apartment, making sure to seem as unsuspicious as possible.

He finds the two on the couch, Ilya laying on top of the goaltender, lazily kissing whilst watching the late-night news. He watches them for a while, smile widening as he hears the blond teaching Y/N how to curse in Russian.

He walks over, kissing both their foreheads, before ordering some food. Everything felt so perfect in this moment. He watches as Ilya bites Y/N’s ear, making him yelp and shove him off, gasping, “You’re such a пизда!” In his heavily Americanised attempt at Russian.

Ilya snorts, teasing him, only to cry out in shock when Y/N lifts him over his shoulder like a small child. “Be quiet,” the H/C-haired man smirks. “You are too noisy.”

Ilya struggles, grouching and sneering half-hearted insults. Shane just grins, refusing to help. Eventually, he’s thrown back on the couch, lightheaded.

In a week, they’d all be up in Montreal, at the cottage. They could tell that the Russian was nervous, maybe scared they’d get caught, or that things were real. This was real. They were in love, and they were going to spend the entire offseason with each other.

Not going back to Russia was a hard habit to get by. He hated how he missed his father, and his brother, even though he knew he shouldn't. He still occasionally checked flights, forgetting that he vowed never to go back, that he was happier in America with Shane and Y/N. It was difficult, something he thought could be so easy yet here he was, thinking about Russia whilst eating pizza with his boyfriends. They'd all be attacked if they lived in Russia, why did he miss it so much?

“Are you okay?” Y/N asks, finishing his slice and wiping his hands on a tissue.

Before, Ilya would've nodded and flashed a smile, but one thing his therapist taught him was that keeping things bottled up never helped.

“My first summer out of Russia,” he sighs, sipping from his glass of orange juice. “I… miss it.”

“I’m not surprised,” Shane replies. “You grew up there. Even if it wasn't the best, it was still your home.”

Y/N nods in agreement. “It's okay to feel homesick. It's normal.” He takes the blond’s hand, squeezing it softly. “And… it's okay to miss your family, even if they don't deserve it.”

Ilya slowly nods, feeling his eyes watering. He hated how easily he cried nowadays. He used to be a stone wall, but now, his lovers could draw his emotions out with such little difficulty.

Y/N pulls him in for a tight hug. Shane moves to the other side of him, sandwiching him in. “You got us, always. Я тебя люблю,” the Canadian slowly says, his pronunciation not perfect, but it gets the message across perfectly.

Giving him a gentle kiss, Y/N whispers, “No matter what you decide to do, we’ll support you.”

The Russian clings to them tighter, afraid of letting go. Excitement builds up in his chest as his mind wanders to the cottage.

He tried maintaining eye contact, he complimented him, and he let their elbows and hands bump when they were sitting or standing beside each other. He hadn't yet mastered the suave smile he'd seen Rozanov flash on television; each time he tried it in the mirror, he only made himself cringe.

Shane liked (L/N). He made him feel comfortable, more comfortable than the guys. He understood Shane on a level Hayden, J.J., or even his parents would never get.

(L/N) knew what it was like to coast through life having to keep a part of him hidden, a part of him tucked away from public view. Shane trusted him with his secret, the desires he'd told himself to forget about because they were unfathomable.

He wanted to explore those desires with him, with the one person he knew wouldn't hurt him or treat him harshly.

But (Y/N) (L/N) barely batted an eye at his attempts at flirtation. He looked at him the same way he always did, with a faint smile and thoughtful eyes, as if he had no clue what Shane was getting at.

With a heavier sigh, Shane took his phone in his hand and stood up, making his way through the penthouse until he reached his bedroom. He set his phone down on the nightstand and plugged it in before he sat on the edge of the bed and stared forward.

He remembered, vaguely, the feeling of (L/N) helping him out of his clothes. His fingers curled at the hem of his hoodie and the shirt underneath, tugging both articles up and over his head. He peeled the shirt away from the hoodie and tossed both items into the laundry basket, leaning back until his back was flat against the bed.

He imagined what it'd be like for (L/N) to be with him, wanting him.

Shane's palms roved over his skin, from his collarbones over his pecs, down to his firm stomach, his fingers dancing over the ridges and grooves of the body he worked hard to obtain and maintain. His eyes closed, and he pretended it was (L/N)'s hands instead, his breathing quickening as the goosebumps spread long his body. 

Shane trailed them down to the waistband of his sweatpants, and he raised his hips off the bed, tugging the sweats and briefs down enough to free himself. His face flooded with heat, unable to shake the faint shame of actively thinking about someone else while he touched himself... but it made the process so much hotter for him.

He thought about how it'd be to kiss (L/N), maybe after a week or two of not shaving, where he'd feel (L/N)'s stubble rub against his skin pleasingly, feel it along his jawline and neck, or scratching gently against his thighs.

His breath hitched in his throat, his fingers wrapping around himself, thumbing at the wet slit. The hairs along his body stood erect, a shiver shooting up his spine.

He wondered what (L/N) was like in bed. He assumed he was gentle and attentive, murmuring soft words and cooing praises. Shane wanted to feel his breath at his ear, feel his voice rumble through him while his words lit every nerve aflame, feel his body against his, in him, warm and human.

He'd used his dildo many times since he'd bought it, but he knew it'd hardly compare to the real thing.

Shane pushed himself up and slid the rest of his clothes completely off, similarly tossing the sweats and briefs in the laundry basket. He leaned down, opening the bottom drawer of his nightstand, shuffling around the handtowels he'd stuck in there to hide the fleshly pink toy and the tiny bottle of lube he'd bought.

Always discreet, always mindful. He'd die if someone ever found them.

Due to the towels, the lube was thankfully lukewarm, and Shane squirted a little on the palm of his hand before he began working himself again, his eyes fluttering with each shock of pleasure that went through him.

It was satisfying, but it always felt like something was missing. He wanted the feeling of hands and lips on him, but not dainty, manicured ones or lips that'd leave his skin slathered with glittery gloss. 

He wanted heaviness on him, the faint smell of sweat and cologne blended, the slight roughness of fingers used to gripping things without remorse. He breathed in, wishing it were that rosemary cologne, the Armani one meant to smell like the Mediterranean sea that suited him beautifully, instead of air. 

"Fuck, (L/N)." Shane hissed, both whiny and frustrated, his brows tightening into a furrow.

Stop it. Think about someone else.

Numerous names and faces flashed through his mind, but each time his brain attempted to linger on the beautiful face of an actress or model he'd seen on the television or a magazine cover, the pleasure building in his gut stuttered.

With his free and clean hand, Shane yanked on the charger and grabbed his phone, fumbling with it until he'd effectively googled (Y/N) (L/N) and tapped on the images. His eyes locked on one that made his head reel.

(L/N) from potentially three or four years back, standing behind two Admirals taking a photo at the NYC arena during what seemed to be a practice day.

His body was slightly tilted toward the camera, his head angled to look elsewhere, with the hem of his shirt raised to his mouth to presumably wipe away sweat from the top of his lip. It left his abdomen completely exposed, showing off the v-line and the hairs leading south. 

Shane bit down on his bottom lip, pumping his fist harder around his reddened, needy cock. Aimee Edwards had been one lucky woman, he thought bitterly, his shoulders slumping and his body toppling back onto the bed.

He released his aching length and propped his feet on the edge of the bed, reaching further down to prop lightly at his entrance. His body flinched, and he took another breath, closing his eyes to focus.

His lips parted in a quiet, trembling sigh, rubbing his finger over himself before tentatively pushing. His shoulders jerked, and his body grew hotter, a hint of embarrassment and shame building in his chest.

He should've been thinking about women, about soft breasts or pillowy lips or sugary perfumes. But he knew if he tried, it'd only make him go soft.

Shoving away the aching heaviness in his chest, Shane focused on slowly pumping his finger in and out, his breathing coming out in short puffs. He wished it were someone else stretching him out, opening him up. Someone kissing him or talking quietly to him, their body over his, their heartbeat fast enough he could feel it and know they wanted him just as much. 

His other hand came to curl around himself again, pumping at the same time he pushed in, his hips twitching with the combination and quiet noises flowing from his mouth. It took him a bit to finally reach his peak, and while it helped with the itch of getting (L/N) off his mind, he couldn't shake that feeling of missing something. 

Shane stared up at the ceiling for a moment, his panting filling the quiet of his bedroom. He usually never minded the quiet or the emptiness, but it only added to the weight now. 

He sat up and got onto his feet, heading to the bathroom once the discomfort of being hot, sweaty, and covered in his own fluids made his skin crawl. He climbed into the shower and stood beneath the warm spray, rubbing at his body with the sponge until the faint smells were replaced with the natural white musk scent of his soap. 

(L/N) would probably never speak to him again if he ever found out he was the person Shane thought about when he needed to relieve himself. He probably thought about Aimee when he needed the pleasure, or perhaps even an Admiral he'd been close with. 

Shane's head tipped forward, his forehead pressing against the cold bathroom tile, water dancing down his back and legs. Maybe it'd been a good thing that all his flirting was bad enough to be brushed aside as Shane Hollander trying to befriend his idol.

Hayden had defintely noticed his new behavior, but he laughed and cooed about Shane looking like a baby bird trying to imitate its mother. Shane flushed when he first heard that.

Was... he truly that horrible at flirting?

Some of the guys made it look as easy as breathing. They'd slide up to whichever girl caught their eye, and within the hour, they'd be grinning all smug while leaving the bar or club or event with the pretty girl hanging off their arm.

Some of the pick-up lines he heard dropped during flirtation barely made sense, but somehow, with their raspy laughter and smirks, it got them exactly what they wanted.

Shane wasn't made for dancing around the bush or playing a game of tug-a-war when he wanted something. He preferred knowing the other person's intentions, what they wanted from him. It was easier to be pursued than be the one doing all the work.

(Y/N) (L/N) was an open book to him, but one with blank or half-written pages that Shane couldn't decipher.

But if trying to flirt with (Y/N) (L/N) was hard, he knew trying to find a guy to mess around with would be hell. He'd already built trust with (L/N), knew he was into men, and above all, he enjoyed his company.

He never found himself rolling his eyes or sighing with disappointment, or trying to figure out if there was an underlying message beneath his words. (L/N) spoke honestly and bluntly, just what Shane needed.

The shower handle squeaked softly when Shane turned it, and he stepped out of the shower, drying himself off and finding underwear to slide on. He put on a fresh pair of pajamas and crawled into bed, tucking the lube back in the drawer before he grabbed his phone. The picture greeted him when he turned it on, and his nostrils flared with a heavy exhale.

If Shane wanted (L/N) to know how he felt, he'd have to say it outright. He doubted he could do it, though. Being rejected by a stranger he'd never see again was one thing; being rejected by one of his coaches, whom he saw more than he saw his parents, was a completely other, more mortifying ordeal.

It'd be the kind of rejection Shane would never forget.

Shane stared at the picture and then swiped to the next one. A snapshot of an interview where his eyes were soft and focused, his mouth slightly pulled into a smile for the reporter.

He remembered the reporter had been a bit clumsy, something about it being his first interview, and (L/N) had been incredibly patient. Shane always thought about that interview when reporters or journalists grated on his nerves.

He supposed, somewhat, if there were anyone in the world he'd prefer to let him down with plenty of kindness, it'd be (Y/N) (L/N). It'd hurt to have his heart broken and ego bruised by swift rejection, but (L/N) would likely do it in a way that wouldn't feel like rejection. Shane rolled over onto his back and clutched his phone tight to his chest.

He'd have to build the confidence to do it without immediately backtracking... but he was going to do it.

2012, Detroit, Michigan, One Month Later

God, (Y/N) needed better-tailored suits before the urge to rip his clothes off won at one of their games. He could feel the fabric gliding against his skin, curling and straining around his arms and thighs whenever he moved.

He knew the fabric of his undershirt was soft, meant to be smooth and nonrestrictive, but it still managed to make his skin prickle with discomfort. 

That, combined with the booming noises around him that clashed rather than blended, made his chest tight. The arena was cold, but sweat still built along the back of his neck.

He couldn't wait to get back to his quiet hotel room, where he could shower and climb into bed away from the sea of screaming and hollering people around him. Maybe he'd get a good night's rest now that he'd been sleeping in a hotel room by himself.

An arm brushed against his, and he almost flinched, tearing his eyes off the fast-paced game to look at Nyla questioningly.

"Olsson's hurt." She told him, her vibrant blue eyes following said player as he moved across the ice. (Y/N) turned his attention back onto the rink, searching for the Swede amongst the blurs darting around. "Left ankle. He might've sprained it on a turn, I think."

Knowing to look for it, it was easier to spot and observe. Olsson kept shifting his weight onto his right leg, his shoulders jerking whenever he seemed to put too much pressure on the hurt ankle. His face occasionally tightened, lines forming at the corner of his lips and along the bridge of his nose from cringing.

(Y/N) stood up from his seat to approach Cedric, leaning in to quietly relay the information. "Olsson might've sprained his ankle. Better to keep him off the ice until Dr. Holt gets a look at him." He kept his attention on Olsson.

If they were lucky, it'd be something minor that'd be all fine and healed by the end of the week. But getting a rookie to take their injury care seriously was easier said than done. Some only learned the hard way, which often left them in hospital rooms with a leg cast and a month or more of rest. It hardly helped that minor injuries were laughed at or mocked by other players.

Nobody wanted to be seen as weak.

"Alright." Cedric gave a long, heavy sigh, nodding, and eyed the line-up of players that'd be going on the ice next. (Y/N) could virtually see the gears shifting, adjusting the next line-up. "I'll get Beaulier on the ice instead. Thanks for letting me know."

Sitting back down, (Y/N) pulled his shirt free from his pants and gave a quiet huff. He never cared for the tucked-in look. It was uncomfortable, leaving him feeling restricted from certain movements. He felt half-tempted to tear his coat from his shoulders, but he kept it on for the sake of the many cameras positioned around the arena to capture the game.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if Aimee had tuned in.

His eyes darted up at Cedric's enthusiastic hiss, and he watched Hollander take an impressive, sharp shot at the goal. The puck shot across the ice, and Detroit's goalie failed to block it, hitting the back of the net in a perfect hit.

The Metros fans erupted in shrieks and screams of triumph, and (Y/N) smiled to himself at the visible pride on Hollander's face as he returned to the bench and the next group of players got on the ice. 

Hollander was an interesting guy, one who seemed like he needed a friend from the number of times he went out of his way to speak with (Y/N).

Sometimes, it'd be a normal conversation, usually about strategies or drills they should incorporate into training. Sometimes they'd sit in comfortable silence, with Hollander's elbow or shoe barely touching his, their attention on those on the ice. Other times, Hollander quietly asked about his sexuality, about his experiences living as a queer man in the league. 

Maybe (Y/N) needed a friend, too, because he enjoyed Hollander's presence more than he expected. It was soothing, welcomed. Hollander was wise and amusingly solemn at times, but his smile was sweet, and his words were always genuine.

(Y/N) wondered if he read into it too much, if, instead of a friend, Hollander wanted a more brotherly figure to look up to, to lean on while he figured himself out.

Maybe Scott was right. He needed to get out more. He couldn't rely on his coworkers for friendship forever.

The horn signaling the end of the game sounded, and the crowd of Metros fans roared their approval and pride at their team from their seats, hooting and hollering hard enough that (Y/N) knew at least half the crowd would return home with raspy voices.

They'd won, beaten Detroit in their own city and state, and Cedric clapped his hands together loudly in restrained glee.

(Y/N) stood to shake the hands of Detroit's team of staff, murmuring thanks for their congratulations while the teams went off to the locker rooms. He uttered the usual pleasantries ("Good game." "It was well-fought." "Good luck against Buffalo." "See you around." "Great meeting you." "The team did great.") before he took a swing of his water bottle and braced himself.

As part of his obligations, (Y/N) reluctantly stuck around for the post-game interviews, answering questions that were more about his adjustment to being on the Montreal team rather than the game itself.

His smile made his cheeks hurt, his words gentle with an attempt at warmth while he spoke ("Montreal's great, thanks for asking." "Oh, the team was very welcoming." "I've adjusted fine, thank you." "I'd rather talk about our win instead of my love life, thanks."), but he knew he'd sound as neutral and serious as always.

By the time he finished his additional post-game duties of handling the game sheets and helping Russell move some of their equipment from the arena's storage room to the back of their rented van, (Y/N) made his way to the locker rooms, hoping to catch Olsson and ensure he'd checked in with Nyla.

If he knew anything about rookies, it was that they loved to dodge the doctors on their teams.

"Olsson?" (Y/N) called out, but the locker room seemed desolate, with most of the locker stalls empty.

He presumed the guys had either returned to their hotel rooms or rushed off to celebrate at the nearest club or bar. His ears picked up the sound of wet feet slapping against the tile in the private showers.

"Olsson, that you?"

He walked toward the hallway leading to the private showers and paused at the entrance, finding Hollander heading in his direction instead of Olsson.

His skin glistened with water droplets, and his wet hair clung to his face, sticking to his forehead and temples. His muscles flexed as he adjusted the towel around his waist. (Y/N) averted his eyes out of instinct and respect and then forced himself to look back to be polite.

"Olsson still here?" He asked, sparing another glance around the locker room in search of any backpacks or duffel bags the guys usually used, but he only noticed one. The showers were all turned off by the sounds of it, and there was no more movement behind Hollander when he came to a stop in front of him. "It looked like he hurt his ankle."

Hollander shook his head, his eyes trailing downward to eye his suit. "No, he left already. He, uhm," Hollander wet his lips. "He spoke with Dr. Holt already. He sprained it, but it's not severe." 

"Oh, good, good."

(Y/N) cleared his throat and gave him a smile, taking a few steps forward so he could place his hand over Hollander's bare shoulder. Hollander glanced at his hand, his gaze lingering for a few seconds.

"Speaking of good, you did great out there today. You were like lightning in that rink. You'll be assistant captain in no time, Shane."

That was a good compliment, right? Another checkmark on his list of post-game duties, with the added plus of uplifting his favorite Metro.

Hollander blinked, notably startled, before his features softened and his cheeks colored. "Thanks, Coach."

Hollander's teeth showed with his smile, and he raised his hand, curling his fingers around (Y/N)'s palm. (Y/N)'s own smile pressed into a slightly puzzled line, his brows slowly drawing into a furrow when Hollander's fingers tightened around him. His mouth opened to question him, but Hollander brought his palm to his cheek, nuzzling into it.

... Alright.

"You.. okay, Hollander?"

He could feel the warmth of Hollander's skin grow, his collarbone and ears turning a soft red, too. Hollander's adams apple bobbed, and his other hand lifted, slightly trembling. (Y/N)'s shoulders went slack, his brain offering him white noise when Hollander's lips parted and his hand guided (Y/N)'s thumb into his mouth. Heat spread over (Y/N)'s face immediately.

Defintely not brotherly.

(Y/N) could only blink dumbly, his body going rigid with surprise at Hollander's boldness, at the heaviness in his eyes. His heart surged in his chest, and his stomach turned fluttery. He assumed Hollander- Shane's attraction to him had been superficial, a normal crush that'd been heightened by his drunken mind, but this was... something else.

Sexual attraction. Not quite as superficial.

(Y/N)'s head split in two: on one hand, it was utterly nonsensical and unprofessional, and he knew he had to rip his hand away and gently chide Shane about it... on the other hand, (Y/N) hadn't felt wanted in almost two years​​​​​, and it felt good to be desired again. (Y/N) swallowed, his eyes jumping back and forth between the wall and Shane's gaze. 

Shane tilted his head back enough for his thumb to slide out, the pad of his saliva-covered finger running down his bottom lip and resting over his chin. Shane stared at him, seemingly waiting, but (Y/N) remained still.

"I like your suit." He said quietly, his hands dropping to his sides, his look turning sheepish.

(Y/N) hummed softly, then exhaled. One kiss surely wouldn't hurt...

So, he leaned in, catching the way Shane's eyes widened before his own closed. Shane's lips were soft and cold, which was the first thing (Y/N) noticed, the second being how readily they parted to accept his tongue.

Shane's hands clumsily grasped at him, tugging at his coat and shirt, his bare upper torso pressing against him, wetness soaking through the fabric of his shirt when his shirt clung to Shane's skin. 

Shane shuddered as his back pressed against the cool wall, and (Y/N) heard the soft thump of the towel he'd had around his hips falling to the floor with the movements. His hands moved on muscle memory, reaching down to palm at his thighs and hoisting his legs up around his waist. Shane made a small noise against his mouth, muffled, his arms curling over his shoulders and body arching into him slightly.

His skin was equally soft and cold, but there was a mixture of plumpness and hardness; his body caught between shedding softness to make way for muscles earned through working out and playing.

(Y/N)'s fingers squeezed, feeling the faint outlines of stretch marks against his palms, though his brain focused on the obvious hardness between them that Shane grinded against him.

Shane kissed him feverishly, like he was diseased and (Y/N)'s tongue was the cure. It was messy, uncoordinated, pure impulse without any real thought.

(Y/N) missed kissing. It was intimate and worked for any kind of mood. Kissing could be sweet, funny, or passionate. It could be modest or vulgar. It'd been his favorite display of affection...

And now he was doing it in the hallway of the private showers connected to the locker room of an arena with a player twelve years his junior.

(Y/N)'s arms shook, his throat tightening, and he swiftly set Shane back down on the ground, jerking back away from him once he knew his feet were firmly on the floor. Shane blinked at him wildly, his lips slick and raw, his body naked and slightly shivering.

(Y/N)'s eyes threatened to follow the trail of hair below his belly button, more flustered heat spreading over his body. He averted his eyes properly, but he could still see Shane's blurry, nude form from the corner of his eye.

"It's- I- We-" (Y/N) stuttered, his face burning as hot as a forest fire. "We're in public."

Realization seemed to strike Shane, because his hands darted down to wrap the towel around himself, and he nodded quickly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Not here, right." Not ever again. "Uhm..." Shane evidently hadn't considered what to do after making a move. He looked lost, unsure.

"We have an early flight," (Y/N) breathed out, running his palm over his stomach and hoping the heat of his skin would dry the splotches of wetness on his shirt. "We, uhm, we should be heading back to the hotel."

Shane nodded, and (Y/N) tried not to notice the outline of something straining against the towel. "Yeah.. uh, will- will you drive me?"

"I don't think that's a good idea," (Y/N) muttered apologetically. "Russell- Hendricks is still here. He can give you a ride."

"Oh." Shane exhaled and then blushed, his head dipping with a little smile. They couldn't be trusted around each other alone again for the time being; that much was obvious. Shane seemed.. to like that. "Okay."

(Y/N) said nothing else, his footsteps echoing in the empty room as he made his way to the doors. Stepping out of the locker room, he brought his hand to his forehead.

What the fuck were you thinking?

He internally groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. Shane was twelve years his junior! He hadn't even been close to being a preteen when (Y/N)was a rookie. He was old enough to have a twelve-year-old child.

It was wrong, on so many levels, especially professionally. He was an assistant coach; he was meant to mentor, advise, help, and watch over his players, not tongue-kiss them! His heart thumped roughly against his ribcage, his brain struggling to piece together a coherent thought aside from alarm bells blaring.

Logic over impulse, that had always been the (Y/N) (L/N) way.

(Y/N) took a couple of breaths, in and out, in and out. He steadied himself and adjusted his coat with trembling hands, trying to usher away the much-needed feeling of having lips pressed against him and the way Shane pulled him in.

Logic over impulse. Logic of impulse.

(Y/N) planned on returning to his hotel room, taking a shower (dealing with his half-chub), climbing into bed, and focusing on getting the team through the season. He'd wake up bright the next morning to recheck their schedule and ensure everyone was ready by the time they had to head to the airport.

Shane Hollander wasn't a quitter, though, and he hardly ever ran from his problems. He fucked up, but he would try to fix the problem as best he could, even if it meant trying to glue together a crumbling friendship that hadn't even managed to get up on its feet yet.

Summer in Montreal was coming to an end, with the at times agonizing summer heat slowly being chased away by cooler winds and less suffocating humidity. The sky was cloudy, but the bright blue still peeked through, and Shane allowed the gentle weather to ease his body as he walked across the parking lot to the entrance.

The AC in the lobby greeted him, soothing his warm skin enough to lessen the impact of the coldness in the arena when he stepped inside. It was quiet, with most players still on their way, but Shane spotted Coach Hendricks already seated with a clipboard over his thigh.

Shane glanced around in search of the second assistant coach who'd consumed his mind over the weekend, but he found no sign of (L/N). He released a tiny breath and slapped a smile on his face for Coach Hendricks when he looked up.

"Hey, Coach." He greeted with a dip of his head.

"Hollander." Coach Hendricks returned the gesture with a nod of his own.  "Heard you and some of the guys had a bit of a wild weekend."

Shane nearly stumbled over his feet, his whole body warming with embarrassment. Fuck. "Uh, yeah... things got out of hand, I guess." His vision focused on the dark blue arena seats beside him, his throat tightening. "Is Coach (L/N) around here?" He asked, hoping he sounded less breathless than he felt.

"Not sure." Coach Hendricks replied, raising his head and casting a look around the arena, as if double-checking (L/N) hadn't spontaneously appeared somewhere without him noticing. "He gets here early most of the time. I think I saw his car in the parking lot, but I don't know. I'll let him know you're looking for him."

Shane nodded stiffly and forced out, "Thanks."

Is he avoiding me?

Shane quickened his pace on his way to the lockerroom and nearly tossed his backpack on the floor, shooting Olsson and Taylor a tight-lipped smile when they peered over their shoulders at him. He took a deep breath and held it as he fumbled with his backpack, yanking his water bottle from the mesh pocket and squeezing some ice-cold water into his mouth. 

"You okay, Hollander?" Olsson asked, his Swedish accent thick and heavy, curling around his words pleasantly.

"I'm fine," Shane answered, despite his borderline trembling hands.

He knew his face was likely tight with a look that made him appear annoyed, so he tried to smooth it out into something more neutral, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't help but revert to furrowed brows and a frown.

"I'm going to uh-" His heart picked up in pace. (L/N) totally hated him, huh? "-get some air."

Without waiting for a reaction, Shane left the lockerroom and stepped out into a hallway that felt never-ending. There was sweat already building along his spine and armpits, his nostrils flaring with each breath he took that felt like the air never properly reached his lungs.

He'd spent so long hoping to one day meet his favorite player, and he'd ruined it.

Shane practically slammed open the push bar to the exit door and stepped out into the gentle heat of early afternoon, his chest heaving with the deep inhales and exhales he took. The door rattled shut behind him, and he exhaled heavily, his head turning over his shoulder to peek at it, only to make eye contact with the very man who'd sent him spiraling.

(L/N) was leaning against the wall by the exit door, his brows slightly raised in startlement and a cigarette pinched between his fingers. Puckering his lips and tilting his head downward, (L/N) exhaled the smoke in his lungs and straightened against the wall, pressing the end of the cigarette against it to snuff it out. 

"You smoke?" Shane blurted out, blinking.

"Not usually," (L/N) answered swiftly, shaking his head. "I haven't smoked since high school, but.. I.. I guess I'm.. trying to rediscover myself." He said thoughtfully, his eyes drifting away as if he'd had an epiphany. His shoulders shook with a small chuckle, and he rubbed the back of his neck with his fingertips. "Don't smoke. It's bad for you."

"I know. You can get cancer, heart disease, lung disease, gum disease, premature aging, and trigger asthma. It's an addictive death stick that smells horrible."

Shane's nose largely used to the smell of smoke from the handful of guys that had a pack or two during the off-season, but it still tickled his nostrils irritably. His cheeks warmed, and he glanced away.

He added, in a much gentler, flustered tone, "Secondhand smoke is bad, too."

(L/N)'s nodded, his gaze remaining on the pavement beneath him. "My father had a stroke back in 2010. He's alright now, but it was.. a horrible call to get. Doctors said it was linked to his smoking habit." 

Shane grimaced. "Sorry to hear." 

There was a beat of silence afterward, and Shane took the moment to cautiously approach, his hands sliding into the pockets of his pants and his back pressing against the wall. His arm brushed against (L/N)'s, and he resisted the urge to jerk it away. He swallowed, finding his throat achingly dry, and his nerves jittery. Get it over with, Hollander.

"Coach, I'm... I'm..." A flare of frustration at himself shot up his spine. "Thank you for taking care of me the other day. I-I swear, I never drink like that. I'm not- I'm not a heavy drinker. I usually only ever have a bottle or two. I'm... really embarrassed with my behavior, and I'm really sorry about-" Shane's eyes closed briefly. "About kissing you. I'm- I'm not gay or anything like that. I think I was just-"

"Hollander." (L/N)'s voice interrupted him, soft and calm. Shane stared forward, feeling his heartbeat begin to uncomfortably pick up again with dreaded anticipation. "It's alright. I really don't care. You weren't thinking straight, and we've all been there at one point or another. I'm.. glad you seemed to feel safe enough to be bold, but, yeah, I think you should hold off on drinking."

Shane huffed out a quiet, dry laugh. "I'm not touching alcohol again for at least a year." He muttered, his head turning to gaze at (L/N) when he chuckled agreeably. He rubbed his lips together, his body tilting to face the assistant coach. "You.. you're not upset?"

Shane imagined most men, espeically men of his age, would've been completely and utterly repulsed by what'd occurred, but (L/N) gave a small, casual shrug, as if what Shane had done was an average Tuesday for him.

Shane stared at him unblinkingly, his brows twitching into a slow furrow and his eyes slightly squinting, his brain struggling to process (L/N)'s nonchalant attitude. 

(L/N) stared back at him, his lips slightly tugged up in a semi-polite smile, before his head cocked to the side. "Do you want me to be upset?" He asked curiously, his lips parting in a small inhale.

He got a look on his face caught between puzzlement and surprise, as if he hadn't considered being upset as an option.

"You were drunk." He stated factually. "It was a mistake. I don't have any reason to be upset."

"I kissed you." Shane reminded him quietly, his eyes flickering around cautiously, wary of someone overhearing, but they were alone in the backside of the arena.

Not a single soul in sight, yet it did little to ease his anxiety. He usually never spoke about anything remotely gay aloud, let alone in public.

"I, a man, kissed you, another man. Isn't that... weird for you?"

If it were Coach Hendricks or Coach Theriault, Shane assumed they either wouldn't look him in the eye while asserting their straightness or they'd be seething and raving about it as if they'd been given some kind of gay cooties. It was natural, Shane thought.

Most guys he knew cringed away from anything that could be seen as remotely gay, either expressing their outright disgust or cackling about it because it was that unbelievable for them.

"Hollander.."

(L/N) licked his lips, and Shane's eyes unwillingly lowered to his mouth. A quiet, ignored part of him was more annoyed that he hadn't been able to tell what it was like to kiss those lips. His memory was fuzzy enough that he only called leaning in and pressing their mouths together, but nothing more. He took a breath.

"You're not the first guy who's kissed me," (L/N) revealed.

Shane promptly choked on that breath.

Raising his fist to his mouth, Shane coughed and hacked, his face burning under the faintly amused gaze of (L/N). He reached out, his palm giving Shane's back two hearty thumps, and Shane's coughing turned into soft hisses at the stinging that spread through his muscles. Shane's arms twisted around, fingers rubbing into his back to soothe away the sensation. 

Slightly apologetically, (L/N) set his palm back over Shane's back and ran it in circles. For a vague, delirious moment, Shane wished his shirt had been off so he could feel the subtle callouses on his fingers and the creases in his palm brush over his skin.

"What-" Shane cleared his throat. "What do you mean by that? You've.. kissed other guys?"

Was that the reason for the divorce? Had (L/N) cheated on his wife? With a man?

Shane was torn between feeling disturbed and curious. Cheating was despicable, even more so when it was done in a long-term relationship, but zero hockey players acted casually about being into men. There were no active players in the league publicly out, though Shane knew they existed.

He had... no real way of knowing who was straight and who wasn't, unless they said it aloud.

"In high school." Ah, no cheating, then. That was a relief. "I always knew I liked women, that much was obvious... but I realized I felt the same way about guys. My best friend at the time wanted to explore 'cause his sister had come out as lesbian to their family, and his parents took it fine. We made out a few times. Hooked up here and there. Nothing else came of it. We weren't really each other's type."

Shane's brain froze for a moment; he swore it. 

(Y/N) (L/N) was into women and men. 

His idol, the very one he had a poster of in his childhood bedroom that he'd dreamily stare at for hours on end, was into women and men. The man he'd fantasized about more times than he wanted to admit, the one his thoughts drifted to the couple times he had sex with women out of obligation rather than strong desire... was into women and men. 

He had a chance, a chance to do what exactly? He wasn't sure. Maybe to kiss him, maybe to finally know what it was like to sleep with another man, maybe to develop a relationship with him.

"Oh," Shane said dumbly. It was the only word his mouth could form.

(L/N)'s polite, closed-lipped smile returned to his face, but his eyes were notably softer in a way that had butterflies bursting in Shane's stomach. "It's okay if you're into guys, Hollander. Nothing to be ashamed of, but you should be careful. Some of these guys we work with... they might not understand. The league needs a little more time to adjust to the times."

There was that reflexive unease that jabbed his chest. Sometimes, he wondered if the league and its players would ever understand. "I know." He sighed. "I hear what's said in locker rooms and on the ice. The insults we're expected to give out and take."

He'd been called plenty of things, each insult or slur feeling like a blade tearing through his tough skin. He could tolerate a lot, but they always hit a sore spot.

"Keep your head down and focus on the games," (L/N) told him, pushing himself off the wall, thumbing the end of the cigarette until there was a streak of ash over the pad of his finger. "That's always worked for me." He added. "Better to stay out of the way and build your career than try to change decades of tradition."

While Shane agreed, some small part of him thought that sounded bleak. Miserable. But he loved hockey more than anything, wanted to play it until his legs could no longer carry him across rinks and his lungs burned with each breath he took.

He wanted to see the cheering crowds and hear how he inspired kids, kids that looked like him, to pursue their dreams. He owed it to his mother and her parents, who sacrificed everything to build a good life in Canada.

"I understand." Shane looked away, the tips of his ears undoubtedly turning red. "Do.. do you think you'd be with a man now that.. you're single?" He almost winced.

He knew, from seeing the dejection on others' faces, that not everyone enjoyed having their relationship status brought up after a break. Adding insult to injury, he'd heard someone say once.

"Maybe," (L/N) answered genuinely, and Shane's heart leaped to his throat. "I don't really see a point in trying again, honestly. I did the relationship thing, the marriage thing.. tried the baby thing." (L/N)'s eyes fell onto the pavement again, and his chest rose with a deep inhale. "I did it, I failed, no use in trying again."

"We don't quit trying to make goals when we fail, Coach." Shane piped up tentatively, his eyes darting away and fingers flexing. It wasn't his business, but it was the opposite kind of outlook on life that he expected from a retired player who'd spent most of his young adult life on the ice. "We keep trying until we're satisfied with the result."

"Aren't you a wise one, Hollander? Maybe I should be calling you coach instead." (L/N)'s mouth curved into a genuine smile, and Shane let out a little laugh, his chest warming.

He wanted to be a coach in the future, maybe to a youth hockey team where he'd be able to teach little boys and girls the wonders and thrills of hockey. To hear the man he looked up to consider him wise enough to be coach... lifted his hopes to achieve that one day tremendously.

He still had a lot to learn; he knew that well, but everyone always said he had the making of a captain. Maybe he had the makings of a coach, too.

Licking his lips, Shane met his eyes, feeling a little more comfortable. "Can I ask why you and your wife divorced?"

(L/N)'s head lolled to the side, seemingly giving it some thought before he answered with a curt: "No."

"Okay."

"I know people talk.. I'm aware there's been gossip, but I can tell you that it wasn't because of adultery or debt or anything substance-related. Aimee's a good person. I like to think I'm a good person. You'll understand, someday, but sometimes people have... different needs. Life isn't a fairy tale where everything ends in a happily ever after. Relationships take work, and sometimes that work isn't enough." 

Unlike some divorcees he'd heard before, (L/N) sounded... resigned, not angry or bitter. Shane refused to pry, to coax (L/N) into speaking about something he evidently wasn't comfortable discussing, but he wanted to tell (L/N) that giving up on relationships hardly sounded like the right idea.

He was thirty-four, for goodness sake. He'd heard about people in their fifties and sixties who remarried after divorce or losing their spouse, people who started all over again in a different place and job.

Shane set his hand over (L/N)'s arm, unable to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds without awkwardness gripping his chest. "I think you should give relationships another go. It's not like you've had a dozen that haven't worked out. Maybe.. maybe you'll find someone who really likes you here, in Montreal."

(L/N) patted his hand, his fingers curling around it briefly. "I'll think about it, Hollander. We should get back inside, though. I'm sure Theriault's been searching high and low for you."

"I'll, uhm," Shane's hand reluctantly fell back to his side when (L/N) stepped aside to tug on the door's handle, holding it open. "I think I'm going to take a breather. For a little longer." 

"Alright."

Shane waited for the door to slide shut before he dug into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his phone, tapping on the Google app and typing 'how to flirt?' into the search bar. It was silly, he knew that, but he had little idea how to successfully flirt.

Most of his ex-girlfriends gravitated toward him because they found him 'cute' or 'interesting' to talk to, which meant he never truly had to flirt with them. The handful of times he tried, he always found himself cringing, anyway.

The couple of blogs and articles he read through listed a few things in common: standing close, holding eye contact, smiling a lot, innocent touches, complimenting. Shane pursed his lips.

He could do compliments, but smiling and holding eye contact sounded... rough. Shane knew how to fake a smile, knew when to force himself to look someone in the eyes or when to look away when he felt like he'd been holding it for too long. He doubted it'd look flirtatious if he tried it.

Shane clicked the power button and leaned his head back to peer up at the sky. "How hard can it be?"

2012, Montreal, Three Days Later

"So, Kathy's been buzzing since you had dinner with us-"

Here we go.

"-and she's been begging me to ask you if you'd want to go on some dumb double date thing with this friend of hers." 

"Russell-"

"I know, I know." Russell threw his hands up in the air, his mouth pressed into a line. "It's the wife's idea, not mine. I told her you'd be uninterested, cross my heart I did, but she's been a pain in the ass about it. So, I'm going to ask you: (L/N), will you go on a double date with us to, I don't know, fucking Modavie or something?" 

(Y/N)'s fingers ran over the chain of his necklace, rubbing it between his fingers. "I really-"

"Here, I'll show you a picture of her."

Lifting himself off the seat briefly, Russell took his phone out from his back pocket, plopping back down and turning his phone on. The screen was at full brightness, and (Y/N) looked away temporarily, blinking a few times.

He watched the guys on the rink begin to wrap up the last of their drills, their faces flushed and bodies notably slower than when they'd first stepped into the rink earlier in the day. Cedric, at the very least, looked satisfied.

Russell tapped on his phone's screen a couple of times before tilting it to show him. "Now, she's a pretty lady, I'll admit, but I'll let you be the judge."

Katherine's friend was, admittedly, gorgeous. She was a bottle blonde, noticeable by the brown roots that turned into a soft golden color of her hair and the darker color of her brows. Her eyes were a nice shade of blue, not too bright to be startling but not dark enough to be mistaken for another color under dim lighting. Her features were soft, kind, with cupid's bow lips and thinly plucked brows.

If (Y/N) had to guess, she'd probably been prom queen in high school.

"Her name's Megan. She's the drama teacher at our eldest's high school, and divorced, just like you. She's got a kid from that marriage, though. I'd say that's the only downside. Not everyone wants to be raising another man's child."

Russell tapped out of the picture, which had been posted on Megan's Facebook page, and scrolled down to another one. It was of Megan with a teen girl around thirteen or fourteen.

"Good girl, though. Very well-mannered, good grades, does her chores. Kathy adores her."

(Y/N) tore his eyes off the phone screen to watch the guys begin to shuffle off the ice and head toward the locker room to change. His attention naturally fell onto Hollander, his mind drifting back to the words the young man had spoken to him.

The divorce had been a devastating blow to him, to his heart and pride, but it was only one failed relationship. He had more time now to be more present at home, to really build a solid life. 

"I'll... think about it." 

Russell's brows shot up. "Really?"

While meeting a stranger for the first time while on a double date with other people he hardly knew well sounded as appealing as eating wet cement, what harm could it do?

At worst, he and Russell would end up conversing about the upcoming season while the ladies chatted about their own things, and then they'd go their separate ways. 

"Yeah, I'll.. I'll sleep on it and, uhm.. let you know." (Y/N) nodded, twisting and turning the necklace in his fingers.

"Well, I'll be damned." Russell let out a laugh and stood up from his seat, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and patting (Y/N)'s shoulder. "Attaboy." He shot him a playful wink and began making his way to the stairs. "I should tell Holt the good news. Maybe she'll try to set you up with that nurse friend of hers. She isn't too bad on the eyes, either."

Sometimes, (Y/N) wondered why Katherine Hendricks stuck around. The financial stability? The big stone mansion on Upper Westmount? The fact that they had two underage children together? The fancy private primary and high schools within five to ten mintue walks from their home?

There were a handful of things to consider, but it was no surprise Katherine had leapt at the chance of hosting him for dinner. She seemed like the type of woman who needed an army of friends, given how much she enjoyed chatting about everything and anything.

Their children were nice, too, if not a bit snippy with their father at times. (Y/N) had a feeling Russell would end up in his spot once the youngest went off to college.

(Y/N)'s fingers gingerly tugged the necklace out from beneath his shirt, curling around the wedding ring hanging from it. His teeth nipped lightly at the inside of his bottom lip, his chest growing heavy despite his mind being partly made up.

It felt like a betrayal to Aimee, a betrayal to the good times they'd had together. All the laughter, the smiles, the intimate moments, the endless support.

He'd ask a lot of her as a husband. His career made it difficult to be there for the hard times consistently, and they never knew how the games would go, if he'd be away for multiple weeks, or if he'd return home early from a final loss.

It wasn't fun for the WAGs who had to stay home, who couldn't simply drop everything to follow their partners from city to city. He knew he was harder for those with young children. 

He was retired now, though, and while his schedule hadn't exactly cleared up, it was easier to return home for the hard moments when he wasn't actively needed on the ice. He had an opportunity to build something with a strong foundation, and maybe he'd succeed with Megan or the friend of a friend or a stranger he met by chance.

"Hey." 

(Y/N) raised his gaze from the seat in front of him to look up at the figure standing beside him. "Hollander." He greeted, straightening up when he took a seat beside him.

He wasn't entirely sure what Hollander's deal had been, if he was gay, bisexual, or something else, but he'd looked.. surprised, relieved, to find out about (Y/N)'s sexuality. It was a nice feeling to know Hollander trusted him.

"Need something?"

Hollander fidgeted with his hands, and his foot slid across the floor, bumping against (Y/N)'s. "I..." His face warmed, his head angling forward to stare ahead. "I was wondering what Coach Hendricks looked so pleased about."

"He wants to set me up on a date," (Y/N) told him, his eyes almost rolling.

Hollander scoffed softly. "Pike and Boiziau are like that, too. They're always talking about some girl they know who would 'love' to meet me. I think I'm capable of getting into a relationship without help." 

"Same here," (Y/N) cracked a small grin. He liked Hollander. He was more tolerable to be around than most guys his age. "But I get them. You guys are young, you should be figuring out what you like and don't like. I know Pike's already got a girl, but it'd be good for you to go on those dates."

"Maybe I want to mess around. Maybe..." Hollander's head tilted in his direction, his eyes lowered, and his voice quiet. "Maybe I want to experiment with guys."

"I can't help you with that, Hollander." Hollander's eyes shot up to meet his, and he began to frown. "I don't know much about the, uh.. queer scene here in Montreal. I don't really have any advice for you, aside from, uhm... wear protection and pick wisely." 

"Oh." Hollander's shoulders, which had been tensing, relaxed. "I-I get that. I didn't expect you to be able to name any clubs or bars, Coach. I.. I was, uh..." Hollander folded his arms over his abdomen, the shade of red on his face deepening.

(Y/N) wondered if he was the first queer-friendly person he'd spoken to in a while. He deduced his behavior stemmed from the discomfort and awkwardness that came from trying to find your footing regarding your sexuality while in a sport that expected its players to be traditionally masculine.

"I like your necklace." Hollander said suddenly.

"Thanks. It's.."

(Y/N) unwrapped his hand from around it and hooked his thumb on the chain, finally allowing someone else to look at his wedding ring since the day he regretfully slid it off his finger. Hollander leaned over the armrest to get a closer look, humming quietly, his hand raising to gently touch the ring.

(Y/N) could see his freckles better, the color on his cheeks fading into a softer shade of subtle pink. 

"It's pretty. What stone is this?"

"Moss agate," (Y/N) replied, and Hollander's head slightly turned to meet his gaze. They were close enough that (Y/N) could feel the quiet breaths Hollander exhaled. He twisted the ring to show him the stones, but Hollander continued to watch him, instead. "It's a chalcedony quartz. The manganese makes it look like moss, hence the name."

"(L/N)," Hollander said his name softly, almost below a whisper. "I-"

"Hollander, come on!" Pike's voice rang through the arena, and Hollander jerked back into his seat, his eyes wide like a deer in headlights. His head whipped around to look down at Pike, the heat returning to his face. "Jackie's almost done cooking, and she wants us to eat it while it's still hot. Come on!" 

"I'm coming, relax!" Hollander shouted back, huffing quietly under his breath as he stood up and retrieved his backpack from the floor. He looked down at him, a faint look of frustration in his dark eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow, Coach."