Per The Url

"Don't like my goal Hollander? Don't worry, is not the only thing I'm scoring tonight."

"Fuck off, Rozanov."

It's always like this. First the heated face-offs when they're on the ice together, both trying to catch each other; both unable to shake the other off completely. Second is the push and the pull when they're kissing, like they're both grasping for control; neither of them succeeding.

"Oh dear god, Rozanov."

"Fuck Hollander."

Then comes the heat and the pleasure that defies all logic, all reason, threatening to consume them both. And finally, the soft and the quiet after, as they cling to one another, in an attempt to slow their racing hearts.

They linger here, Ilya notices. More and more so every time. It's like something is shifting. But it's so small that it's hard to tell if anything is happening at all. It's in the smile on Shane's face when he's seeing him. In the way Shane's lips linger in their kisses, pulling away slower and slower every time.

It's in the way Shane clings to him like he doesn't want to let go. And in the way Shane's heart is beating against his, long after they've finished and cleaned up. It's been fueling Ilya, the part of him that asks what if, what if, what if. Whatever it is, it's dangerous.

"I guess I should go." There it is again. In the thing that sounds like sadness in Shane's voice as he says this.

What if you stay? Ilya wants to know. But for now, the part of him that says we can't, we can't, we can't is louder.

So he says, "See you next time."

Because there's always a next time. It's a cycle. A pattern they set early on, that has gone on for so long that it's become something neither of them can break out of.

They're at the door now and they've been trying to say goodbye for several minutes. Shane doesn't seem to be in a hurry and Ilya can't stop pressing slow, soft kisses against his upturned lips. Between each kiss, he's saying bye, bye, bye but really meaning stay, stay, stay. Shane is smiling like an idiot, eyes crinkled with joy so Ilya thinks maybe he understands.

Finally, Shane lets out a longing breath and pulls away. "See ya," he says softly as he leaves.

When the door closes behind him, Ilya decides. Yes, next time.

What made Ilya think: oh yes Shane is coming over tomorrow and we are going to fuck all over the place and I'll ask him to stay at night for cuddles for morning sex so I'll have his favourite fucking ginger ale perfectly chilled and oh yes I'm gonna cook him a tuna melt, specifically. Yes, I will feed us a filling, greasy sandwich, give us fishy cheesy breath, that is thee perfect base for some heavy making out after.

Everything of this makes perfectly sense if there is some hidden lore about this fucking tuna melt and you can't convince me otherwise.

Ilya was sooo prepared for Shane's visit (hence, the infamous Ginger Ale), he even had the ingredients chopped and ready in tupperware, his fridge didnt look like he was lacking for other choices, that man was down to cook!

And if Ilya didn't know how to cook, there would certainly be easier things to make (or he could simply order smth). No, he was at the boyfriend championship, aiming for gold by showing his cooking skills.

Ilya literally says later he makes sure the food is perfect for his shitty family - so yes of course he would try to make something that he knows Shane likes.

Probably Ilya also knows about Shane's "bird food habits", I can imagine so well that there was an interview in some men's magazine or some shit that would cover Shane's nutrition or rumours cycling the league. It's not exactly a secret that Shane is a health freak. But Ilya specifically chooses something probably not nutritionist approved and Shane is fucking delighted. No signs of second guessing if he should eat that. I choose to believe it's not only because Ilya is on BoyfriendTurbo1000 mode but also because of the tuna melt specifically.

This is a long way to say, that I believe that over the years Ilya watched every interview, read every article he could find about Shane. To keep an eye on the opposition. Or as means to fall asleep. Whatever fit Ilya's narrative. Anyway. At one point, a few years ago, he stumbled upon an old, almost forgotten interview, maybe for a teen magazine, featuring 17yo canada's rising hockey star Shane Hollander. There was a pic of him, baby faced, a lil pimple that wasn't photoshopped, but looking so stern already, with a seriousness beyond his age. All these answers were so grown up, boring and nothing Ilya wouldn't have guessed anyway.

Favourite team: Montreal. Favourite celeb: Jean Béliveau. Favourite colour: Blue. Favourite season: Winter. After school I like to: Play hockey.

Ilya had to roll his eyes at this little perfect hockey machine but then he gets to the next question.

Favourite food: A tuna melt sandwich but without tomatoes or pickels, made in the oven. And with lots of cheddar, no processed cheese.

And Ilya had to catch himself from laughing at this ridiculously answer that is so childish and so grown up and so genuinely Shane, so much more honest than the "protein bowl" bullshit he would say nowadays.

Ilya shouldn't have found it so charming, knowing picky Shane has strong opinions on a damn sandwich. The following years he tries to forget that tidbit of information that feels to personal to know about someone who just semi-regulary fucks.

But then this someone commits unsportsmanlike conduct and sneaks his way behind Ilya's defence. And suddenly Ilya wants him to stay there, wants to make him happy. And suddenly that little tidbit of information that he should have forgotten immediately comes to Ilya's mind, quite handy this time, and Ilya has to smile again, quite smugly because fuck yes. He can already see the suprise in Shane's face, the sparkle in his eyes. That will give him extra points in being a good boyfriend. "You like tuna melt", he asks casually, pretending not to know already, but hoping it's still true.

It was getting harder to say goodbye.

Shane’d figured it’d be easier, once they were official. To part, knowing that there definitely was going to be a next time. But now? Now, it was excruciating. Because whenever he had to kiss Ilya goodbye, it was with the knowledge that Ilya belonged to him. That he was sending the most precious and fragile piece of his heart into the universe, unprotected, just praying that it would come back unscathed.

So yeah, maybe the last time they’d said goodbye, he’d gotten carried away.

Caught up in the moment, the feeling of Ilya inside him, the need to be inside the other man’s very soul.

He’d been loud. Groaning Ilya’s name so raggedly that it’d pulled Ilya over the edge after him, pulling him closerclosercloser, refusing to let go even in the sticky aftermath.

But it was just unbearable. How much he fucking loved him.

But he didn’t realize how needy he’d been until a text arrived on his phone the next day.

Unknown Number: Montreal Jane

He froze, shocked and a bit terrified.

Shane: Who is this? Unknown Number: Cliff Marleau Unknown Number: Damn girl Unknown Number: Look what you did

And then, a picture. An attached picture of Ilya in front of the mirror in what must’ve been the Raiders’ locker room, his torso bare. His expression in the reflection was electric, the uninhibited grin on his face lighting up the whole room. 

But the best part?

The picture gave a clear view of long, possessive marks scratched down Ilya’s sculpted back. Etched over his beautiful muscles and pressed into his perfect flesh, Shane had, in the heat of the moment, used his nails like claws, marking what was his.

Suddenly, he broke into a crazed grin that matched his boyfriend’s.

Shane was determined. Montreal had made a grave error, getting caught in a penalty and giving Ottawa a rare power play. Moments like these were the reason why Shane played hockey. The thrumming in his veins, the determination pumping throughout his body, the feeling of his husband only meters away from him on the ice, just as hungry as he was to kick the asses of the team that’d betrayed him. 

As soon as the puck was dropped, he shot off like a rocket. 

It was magic. 

He and Ilya together on the ice, on the same team, always was. Moving seamlessly, communicating without words or even the need to look each other’s way, the puck flew between the two of them before the other team could react. And within seconds, the goal buzzer sounded, and Ottawa was in the lead by two.

Beaming, Shane slammed into Ilya in celebration, shouting with happiness as his husband placed a sloppy kiss on his helmet and yelled, “Fuck yes, sweetheart!” before skating off again.

But as he moved to face off against Monreal’s new star center again, he saw the rage boiling under the other man’s skin.

“Sweetheart?” the player muttered, so low the ref couldn’t hear. “So fucking gross. What’ll it be next? Honey bear? Sweet pea?” He scoffed, face twisted in disgust. “Jesus Chirst, sweetheart, can’t fucking wait for the day the league gets it’s shit together and kicks you both off the ice, god knows how many of us might get some terrible disease just being near you f–”

But the whistle blew and the puck dropped, and Shane skated away with it, allowing the man to chase after him just long enough to turn and slam him into the boards. 

Shane on the other hand talked a mile a minute. He was always babbling and bubbling about one thing or another. He was a yapper.

As they got older, Ilya realised that it’s simpler to hide in the spot light and that it’s easier to get away with things when he’s loud. It’s whole another kind of invisibility, hiding in plain sight, everyone sees him, believes they know him, but they only know the parts he allows them to see.

Shane became quiet. He figured out that people didn’t want to listen. He understood people find him more likabke when he’s quiet. So he keeps his thoughts to himself, doesn’t talk, doesn’t make people uncomfortable by having too much information to share and not knowing when to shut up.

Fast forward to the cottage. They’re sitting on the couch, Shane’s legs in Ilya’s lap as he waves in arms around, talking excitedly about something. And Ilya, Ilya just listens. He doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t tell him to stop talking. He enjoys not having to be the one talking for once, actually. There’s a small smile dancing across his lips as he listens to his boyfriend (boyfriend!!!) yap about beavers, their importance for the ecosystem and how they became the national animal of Canada.

Shane's rituals are, in large part autism, and disruptions to his routine happen frequently. he's travelling, he's living with relatively low support, his routine is going to get disrupted; but he's an adult with relatively low support needs, so he knows how to deal with it. if someone pranks him by fucking with his gear, he's not going to freak out. He might re-arrange it then re-do it, but he'll be fine. Keep in mind also, he's been teased much more harshly for doing the same thing as everyone else, he wouldn't be able to get away with noticeably freaking out (it'd only make people do it more).

Ilya on the other hand, is totally superstitious. it's cannon that he is sort of spiritual but doesn't fully believe in a god, which is the perfect foundation to have some weirdly entrenched beliefs about the Proper Hockey Pre-Game Ritual.

Ilya is Slavic. That’s really all there is to it. There is no deeper explanation and he will not provide one. If you keep being weird about it, he’ll start giving you made up reasons just to fuck with you. Why? Because fuck you, that’s why. Who just goes around asking people to explain their faces? Rude.

Shane is Shane. He’s a neurodivergent baddie who’s in his own head a lot. No, he’s not pissed off; that’s just his face. No, I promise you, he’s not plotting a murder. That’s seriously just his face. Yes, he knows, we’ve all mentioned it at least once because we thought we did something wrong. That’s just his default face.

Post-outing, Ilya’s Slavic stoicism and Shane’s…Shane-ness don’t magically go away, but the public notices a shift as they stop hiding their relationship. They show up places together now, holding hands and existing in each other’s personal space without having to excuse it with the Irina Foundation. Their respective reputations for Resting Bitch Face take a major hit when their default faces start popping up less and less in pictures. IG comments document the change.

Ummm…anybody else notice Rozanov’s always smiling now? 🤔

I thought Hollander was a robot. I ain’t never seen robots smile.

Look at them! They’re so happy 🥹

When will happiness like this find me?

Is this what married sex do? Just rewire your brain?

Bro’s Slavic face? Gone. Perma-smile.

Demons on the ice, gummy bears in real life.

Have Hollander’s teeth always been so white? I don’t think we’ve ever seen them this much.

How much you wanna bet Roz has been a loverboy this entire time? Yes Shane, anything you want Shane, anything for you Shane. 😂

Did we know Roz had a dimple on his left cheek? Holy shit.

Got Shane “RBF” Hollander smiling like it’s candy and rainbows around here…Ugh, I hate them both so bad.

- Actually or…?

- Fuck no, I love smiley Hollanov. I hate that I don’t have someone to be this cute with!

It’s funny until one comment makes Ilya squawk indignantly.

Rozanov - Looks like he’ll murder you, is actually a cinnamon roll. Hollander - Looks like he’ll murder you…probably will, just happily now.

“They know I am soft,” he whines, not doing himself any favors as he throws himself down on the couch and pouts dramatically. “My reputation is ruined! A whole career as the sleep paralysis demon of hockey players worldwide, destroyed by a beautiful man with beautiful freckles. I will never recover, Shane!”

Shane smiles softly at the comments and tangles his fingers in his husband’s wild curls. “How tragic. The world knows you’ve got a soft, gooey center.”

Ilya continues pouting (“That is lie, liar told you that.” “I can see you with my own eyes.” “Your eyes lie. Russians do not pout.” “I mean…you’re Canadian now.” “…Shane. SHANE. How can you say this?!”). He huffs and crosses his arms petulantly.

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles, eyes drooping in relaxation as Shane massages his scalp. “They still see you as a threat. I am Mister Cinnamon Roll now.”

“Then I’ll threaten them enough for both of us, baby.”

Ilya smiles sleepily and puckers his lips, wordlessly demanding a kiss. Shane obliges without hesitation.

Shane Hollander, brightest pupil in the league, after first hooking up with big strong competent competition Ilya Rozanov, has found a skill he is not good at. Shane was fumbling that first time sucking Ilya's dick, and Ilya had to guide him and hold his head and instruct him and Shane was so insecure about his performance he asked 'was that bad?' which is NOT a phrase usually in Shane's repertoire. And Ilya was manhandling and pulling him into the right position and pulling Shane OFF to finish the job himself which is Not the sign of a Good (Blow)Job.

So Shane makes it his mission. He Will Not repeat the sins of his past. He's been given a new skill he needs to perfect. To study. Literally. He busts out an archaic incognito window and his lonely dildo and a condom and he fucking practices like he's practicing a new play. It's wristwork, its form, he can be good at this.

Hear me out. Lemme rant.

Shane is a man of color, a gay man, and a talented man. This means that in his youth, he was a child of color in a majority white country who also may not have known he was gay or actively resisted thinking about what his body’s reactions to certain stimuli meant—and on top of those things, he’s in the Gifted/Talented Child nexus, in a majority white sport that doesn’t have the kindest history toward anything outside the Heterosexual Manly Man archetype.

Shane never stood a chance.

His clean-cut, camera-ready, squeaky clean public persona isn’t just for the endorsements. He’s an outwardly, obviously different cog in an otherwise uniform machine. He walks into a room and everyone knows one of these things is not like the others and WHY. His racial and ethnic difference means that he has to work twice as hard for half as much; conversely, he only has to fuck up an eighth as hard for three times the backlash.

Any conscious racial minority can tell you what that means. You keep your head down. You smile and nod. You grind and you work harder than everyone else to prove that you deserve to be here. You straighten your hair, or you cut it to fit what’s “in” with the majority crowd. You code-switch and keep your tone soft, volume low. You watch the shows and listen to the music they like—not because you enjoy it, but because the majority culture expects you to know about these things. They’re the default and you’re expected to know this stuff. Anything to fit the mould and make sure you’re safe; safe to the majority and safe from them.

Masculinity and sexuality add to the nexus of assimilation for Shane. He has to check himself and his mannerisms, what he says, how he looks, for anything that might be perceived as feminine or gay. He spends years offering a tight smile as his teammates talk about picking up women or their hookups after a great game. He does his skincare routine in secret after away games and acts like he doesn’t know what the fuck toner is, because apparently caring for his body’s largest and most protective organ is feminine behavior. On the rare occasion he joins the Metros at bars, he drinks when he doesn’t want to because he can only refuse so many times before “Hollander must be on his period” starts up.

So much of Shane’s public behavior is meant to put his straight, white male colleagues at ease around him. It’s been an unfortunate necessity to build his career thus far, but it’s also fucking exhausting. He’s tired.

That’s why, after he comes out to Ilya and Rose and his parents, he starts changing things. Small things at first, but they grow over time as he realizes how much of himself he’s shoved down over the years.

He stops hiding his skincare kit in hotels. It’s rare for him to share a room with anyone as captain, but if he does? He’s in the room by 9, oil cleansing by 9:15, deciding between a sheet mask and a wash-off mask by 9:20, and gently patting in his moisturizer by 10. Retainer in, reading glasses and jammies on, travel humidifier running on the nightstand—because it’s good for your pores. You can look 50 when you’re 30 if you want, Hayden, but I choose moisture.

He hires a stylist after breaking up with Rose and starts experimenting with clothes. It occurs to him one night that everything he owns is comes in neutral, muted tones. He tries bright, bold colors. Ruby red, royal blue, emerald green, obnoxious highlighter yellow. He tries different cuts and silhouettes, and pointedly ignores stares from Comeau when he strolls into an early practice in black jeans that look painted on instead of sweats.

For the first time ever, Shane buys accessories other than sunglasses and his fitness-tracking watch (and the Rolexes—no, Mom, I haven’t forgotten). He treats himself to things that catch his eye without regard for what the guys will think. Nobody notices when he starts wearing a gold bracelet. Nobody knows that the diamond choker he’s wearing in the latest Versace shoot is his, kept in a special box on his dresser for special occasions with Ilya. No one has a clue that he got his ears pierced at the end of one season so they’d heal before the next one started.

But the crowning achievement? The pièce de rèsistance? Shane grows his hair out.

At first, he tells his parents that he just hasn’t found time for a cut. Busy schedule, Dad, no time. It’s a lie, and one that he almost fesses up to when he gets past the awkward shaggy phase and his mom won’t stop looking at him anxiously. He tells them a half truth instead; that he’s just trying something new. He’s almost 30 and tired of looking the same. Plus, Mom, you saw the reactions on Instagram. People love it!

The truth, the full truth that Shane has only ever admitted aloud to Ilya, is that he’s done. So fucking done. Years of bending and stretching and contorting himself into the perfect player, teammate, captain, man, and he’s completely over it. He’s proven that he’s the best (second best, if you ask Ilya). He’s shown time and time again that he’s not just that one Asian guy or a blip on people’s screens. He’s a force to be reckoned with and regardless of how he looks, be it the manly man presentation everyone expects or an undefined look of his choosing, his skills are never in question.

He created an account when he first moved to the US, and it was mostly a way to learn about what his Boston teammates were referencing in their conversations. He didn’t really post in the beginning. Not that he’ll ever admit this out loud, but he’d still been learning English and hadn’t been confident enough in his writing skills to make public posts in a new language. Anybody with enough time and curiosity to scroll back to his oldest posts will only find retweets of announcements from the official Boston Bears account.

When he goes from Rising Star Ilya Rozanov to Captain Ilya Rozanov, management asks him to start posting more. For social media engagement, they say. You’re popular; the public loves you or loves to hate you.

They immediately regret that decision. Not because it backfires or anything—it’s actually wildly, exceedingly successful. The regret comes when they realize that Ilya, now mostly fluent in English and American pop culture, has an infinite amount of shit to say, a flimsy brain-to-fingers filter, and not even a whisper of a concept of shame.

He takes chirping off the ice. Scott Hunter gets called ancient at least twice a week, and Hayden Pike trends almost exclusively under “15th Best Player.” The Metros’ legal team makes threatening calls when Gilbert Comeau’s mother gets doxxed. Ilya claims no responsibility for that, by the way. All he said was that maybe Comeau should produce his birth certificate and prove that he didn’t “sneak past God and onto Earth with a face like that.”

He Tweets streams of consciousness about everything from a dream he had about talking bacon (“It asked me how I could be so cruel to pigs. I asked why it had the nerve to be so tasty with lettuce and tomato.”) to ranking Beyoncé songs (“Love on Top is the obvious winner, but Signs is an underrated hit. I will not explain further unless The Queen herself asks.”). The social media team fields calls from politicians and pundits when Ilya live-Tweets his commentary on the 2012 Presidential debates (“Binders full of women? Corporations are people? Barack, call Michelle. She deserves to slap this man.”).

The public learns that he claps back at anyone and everyone—viciously, with no mercy. His Twitter fingers are rated E for Everyone. Fans (“I’ll be so mad if I go to this game and Roz doesn’t beat somebody’s ass.” “Then don’t come.”), haters (“Rozanov sound like he barely speak English bro. I don’t care what he got to say lol” “English is my FOURTH language, and my grammar and punctuation are still better than yours. Read a fucking book before you critique me, troglodyte.”), commentators (“Captain Rozanov sluggish in the ice?” “Raaah! Polly want a fucking cracker? You’ve Tweeted the same thing 3x. Get a fucking life 😒”), even friends (“Bruh. I thought we were COOL 😭” “Marley, you insulted my cooking. I must roast you. There is no other way.”). Anybody can get it.

When he and Shane are outed? It’s not an ideal situation, obviously, but there’s the tiniest silver lining: Ilya can finally abandon his filter entirely and Tweet about everything. The Centaurs social media team realizes that Ilya Rozanov’s Twitter in his Boston Era is what he looked like with restraint.

Shane learns pretty quickly not to play any audio from Ilya in public, both because he doesn't want to blow up Ilya's spot and reveal how secretly sappy his boyfriend is, and because there's no telling when Ilya will launch into sex talk in the middle of an otherwise mundane message.

years into this, he's driving Hayden to the airport after hosting him for a long weekend. a message from Ilya comes in, starting with "hey baby, coach just called..." according to the iPhone speech-to-text description. it's short, anyway, and Shane doesn't want to read while driving on the highway — he has no choice to press play.

"Hey baby, Coach just called and said practice is pushed back an hour tonight, I told him that's fine for us. Also, I was just showering and I have a hickey on my dick —"

Shane turns bright red and almost swerves into oncoming traffic trying to turn the phone off.

"Did not know this was possible. You gave me dick hickey," Ilya's voice continues despite Shane's best efforts.