um…take my breath?

And Ilya doesn’t know what to do. Obviously, Shane is hiding because he doesn’t want Ilya to hear him. So, maybe it’s best to give him some space. But also, he can’t just leave him to cry. What if he needs help?

So, Ilya quietly sits on the other side of the door, ear pressed to the wood.

He doesn’t know how long Shane has been in there. He got back from the meeting with Farah and the Ottawa management about half an hour ago, so it can’t be that long. He decides to give Shane five minutes, and then he’s going in.

The five minutes are absolutely painful. Hearing Shane cry and sniffle. Occasionally Ilya hears him take deep breaths to try and stop his tears, only for them to start again.

Ilya makes it about … ninety-five seconds before he’s opening the door. He probably should have knocked first, but unfortunately he’s not thinking and bursts right in.

He finds Shane on the floor in the middle of the room, sitting crisscrossed. His body is sort of slumped over his legs and one of his hands is covering his mouth, trying to hold in his sobs.

Shane turns his head towards the door as Ilya enters.

“Hey,” Ilya tries, using a soft voice. He immediately sits down next to Shane and pulls him into his side.

Shane buries his face into Ilya’s armpit, and although his tears were finally slowing down, they pick up all over again. Ilya wraps an arm around Shane and soothes his hand up and down his freckled arm.

“I’m sorry—“ Shane cries, turning his face further into Ilya’s shirt.

“No, no,” Ilya says. “Is okay. Cry. I just didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Shane shakes his head but doesn’t move from Ilya’s shoulder.

The tears continue for a bit, and the way Shane’s breath sometimes catches, almost hyperventilating, is what really freaks Ilya out.

After a few minutes of that, Ilya guides Shane to sit on the floor in the space between his outstretched legs, facing him. Shane’s legs wrap around Ilya’s torso and he grips onto him for dear life, tucking his face into Ilya’s neck. This position is better, with Ilya able to squeeze Shane with firm, even pressure.

Eventually, Ilya turns Shane’s face towards him to kiss him a bit, which often works as a good distraction when Shane is upset. Shane responds and kisses Ilya back for a minute before pulling away and tucking his head once more. That’s when Ilya is unable to stand it anymore.

“Okay,” Ilya says decisively. Not even the kissing helped! “Tell me what is wrong.”

Shane shakes his head.

“Tell me one thing,” Ilya repeats.

Shane shakes his head again, stubborn as always.

“Shane,” Ilya says, voice coming out sounding too stern, because he’s terrified.

This snaps Shane out of it, and finally he shares what he’s been crying about for half an hour.

“My number is retired,” Shane mumbles.

“What?” Ilya asks, not understanding.

“The meeting. With Ottawa. My number is retired, so I can’t keep it when I switch teams.”

Ilya takes that in for a moment. He visualizes the rafters of the arena he plays in every week, trying to remember if he’s ever seen 24 hanging there. He honestly doesn’t look upwards much, since there are no cup trophies hanging. But still, he should have known.

“Oh,” Ilya says, at a loss for words.

He knows why Shane is upset. His legacy, everything he’s built with Montreal, gone. He’ll never get to retire his number in the Bell Centre with his old team. Even if they were homophobic assholes, this is still hard on Shane who has made hockey his entire life. Well, his entire life until Ilya came along.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid,” Shane says, voice dripping with guilt.

“No. It’s not, Hollander.” Ilya realizes, “is that why you were hiding in the closet?”

Shane nods his head, and Ilya feels it rather than sees it. “I didn’t want you to feel bad for me. You moved to the middle of nowhere in Canada to play on a shit team for me. The least I can do is take a pay cut and give up my stupid number.”

“It’s not stupid Hollander. It’s all your goals and your wins. And your stats. And your number. And your … наследие” Ilya struggles with the english word, but he knows Shane will get it, even if he doesn’t know the word in Russian. “You are allowed to be upset.”

Shane starts tearing up again. “It just feels like I’m losing everything I worked so fucking hard for,” Shane says, miserable.

“I know, moya lyubov. But you are not. Your name is what matters, not your number.”

Shane’s face crumples again with pain. He thunks his forehead on Ilya’s shoulder. “Stop being so nice to me,” he sounds pitiful. “You’re making it worse.”

“What?! How?” Ilya says, exasperated. He frowns, his concern deepening.

“I’m selfish. You would give up even more for me. Hell, you already have. Your country, your city, your team.” His voice breaks when he adds, “I don’t deserve it.”

Ilya shushes him immediately, not having any of that.

“Yes, and I would do it all over again. I do not have regrets.”

“But—” Shane starts, and Ilya cuts him off.

“But, no. You have always cared more about hockey than I do. I am good. I am happy. But if you are not happy, I won’t be happy.” Ilya takes a deep breath, and as much as it pains him to say the words, he gets them out anyways. “You will be my husband. That is enough. If you need to stay in Montreal, then that is what you will do. We will make it work.”

Ilya finds Shane’s chin and lifts his face up until Shane’s eyes meet his own. “But I do not think you will be happy in Montreal any longer. You are not treated well. I think you will like it in Ottawa, as number twenty-four or number five-two.”

“I know,” Shane looks away, embarrassed.

“You have time. Think about it. Ottawa will wait for your decision.”

Shane shakes his head. “No, I want to do this. I’m just feeling sad.”

“You’ve been through a lot this year, Hollander. It is catching up with you.”

“What do I do?” his voice is small.

“We,” Ilya corrects. “Just keep going. Live how we want to live. Not worry about the NHL or the homophobes anymore.”

Shane nods and wraps his arms firmly around Ilya again, hugging him tight. Ilya suspects a few more tears escape, but he doesn’t mind. He’ll rub Shane’s back for as long as he needs.

———

Three weeks later, Shane comes home from his contract signing and finds Ilya in the living room. Shane’s wearing his new Centaurs jersey with a small, resigned smile on his face.

It’s still weird, and it still hurts to have a different number on his back. But maybe a new number is good for a new era.

Ilya has a serene smile on his face that takes Shane’s breath away.

“So, what did you choose Hollander?”

Shane smirks and turns around to show him.

Ilya takes in the number 18 on his back, and now it’s his turn for his eyes to well.

Ilya tackles him immediately, and is pulling down Shane’s shorts and getting on his knees as Shane laughs happily.

Shane thinks he’s going to like being a Centaur, even if he’ll no longer be number 24.