I Am Already Enough. There is No Need To Be More.

and shane finds ilya there, hoodie in his hands, frozen in silence. “oh,” shane says, “that’s — i probably should’ve gotten rid of that ages ago.” ilya looks at him then, still half choked, blurts out, “never. you’re never getting rid of it.” and it dawns on shane that ilya must know why he kept it, all those years. the hidden reel of memories they share between them.

“i wore it for days afterward,” shane says, because he can, now. “because it smelled like you, a little. it was almost like — you were holding me, still. kissing me. kinda stupid, isn’t it?”

Hollanov, Shane/Others, Ilya/Others, Scott Hunter/Many, Ryan Price/Many | Explicit | secret gay hockey player network AU, feat. my army of hockey OCs

Chapter preview:

Troy pressed his palms flat against the tops of his thighs, forcing himself not to fidget. He was sure all of the other prospects on the bench felt just as nervous as he did, but none of them wanted to show it with so many eyes and cameras on them. He wasn't going to be the obvious one.

After an eternity of staff milling about the converted ballroom, impossible-to-discern adjustments being made to various fitness stations, one of the trainers approached the bench and called, "Anderson." When two boys started to stand up, checked his clipboard and added, "Kristoff."

One of the boys sat down. The Andersons were not, as far as Troy could tell, related. Kristoff Anderson followed the trainer to the first station, where he was measured and weighed, then sent on. The trainer returned for the second Anderson while the first stripped to his waist and was marked up with a sharpie on his torso, arm, and thigh. Then they went at him with a terrifying set of calipers, pinching his skin between the sharpie marks to measure body fat.

As the second Anderson transitioned from station one to two and the second moved on to the third, the trainer called, "Barrett," and Troy stood and crossed into the center of the ball room.

"Hey, I'm Joe Tiller," the man said, extending his hand and giving a brusque shake. "Go ahead and take your shoes off. We'll start with height."

Feeling like he'd almost forgotten how to speak, Troy croaked, "I'm declining to be measured."

That was the line his agent gave him.

Tiller eyed him, then nodded. "What is your reported height?" he asked.

"Five-eleven."

Tiller stared at him, a tired expression. Troy was five-eight. His doctor said he would probably grow another inch or two, but his father insisted he should add three to his current height. Plenty of guys lied about their height to avoid getting skipped over, he said.

"Five-ten," Troy bargained.

"Yeah," Tiller said, flat. "Alright. That means we can't do wingspan either, so we'll move along to weight. Shoes off."

With coding and art by the compulsively extra @mock-speed