Shane didn't know how the hell he'd gotten here. The last two years of his life had felt like a blur—days folding into each other, time slipping past him faster than he could keep track of. But he was here now. At college. To play hockey. On the men's team. His heart sped up just thinking about it, a sharp, nervous thrill cutting through him. McGill wanted him. They'd scouted him. Picked him.
He had known it would be a challenge when he accepted, and he'd told himself—repeatedly—that he was up to it. His coaches still didn't know he was trans. Shane had been surprised by how little prying McGill had done into his past, how few questions they'd asked, how quickly they'd seemed satisfied with his records and references. It was a relief. A fragile one. He didn't want to talk about it, or think about it, or open any doors that didn't need opening. His biggest concern was the roommate. He hadn't been told who it was, only that he'd be rooming with one of the guys on the team. The logistics of not being found out—of sharing a space, of existing this close to someone—were going to be complicated. Exhausting. But Shane had signed up for it. He wanted this. He'd wanted it for too long to back out now.
Shane's parents had left to pick up more of his things from the hotel, leaving him alone to meet his roommate. By himself. The hallway felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath. Introductions were…difficult for Shane. They always had been. Everyone else seemed to understand exactly what everything meant all the time—how to stand, how to speak, how to move through the world without second-guessing every action. Shane was always just confused and nervous. And itchy. His hand was sweaty. He wiped it on his pants, took a breath that didn't do anything to calm his nerves, and knocked on the door.
Inside the room, there was a clatter—something metallic hitting wood—and the sound of someone shuffling around. A muttered curse. Then, a moment later, the door opened.
And Shane's heart dropped straight to his stomach.
Ilya.
He leaned into the doorframe with a bored look on his face, a cigarette resting between his lips like it belonged there. Shane would have to talk to him about that. Later. Ilya looked…different. Broader through the shoulders, taller than Shane remembered, his hair a little more wild, like he'd stopped bothering to tame it. And that light Ilya had always carried—something easy and bright and alive—was dim now. There was a darkness in his eyes Shane had never seen before, something sharp-edged and heavy all at once. For half a second, instinct took over. Shane was about to smile, to open his arms for a hug, muscle memory pulling him forward—
Then he remembered where he was. What he was doing. Who he was now.
Ilya didn't know who he was. What he was. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, and rightfully so. Ilya knew the old Shane. That Shane didn't exist anymore.
"Are you just going to stand there gawking at me," Ilya said, accent thick and familiar, "or will you come in? You are my roommate, no?"
"Sorry—um." Shane swallowed. "I'm Shane."
Something passed across Ilya's face, quick and unreadable. His eyebrows furrowed, like he was trying to figure something out. Shane's pulse spiked, thudding loud in his ears. Did he know? If Ilya recognized him—if something clicked—what would stop him from telling the coaches? What would stop him from telling everyone?
Then Ilya smoothed it away, the moment gone as if it had never existed.
"Huh," he said. "Funny. I used to know a Shane. Pretty girl. Good at hockey."
Shane's eyes widened. His mouth went dry. Was Ilya fucking with him?
"Oh—um. I—"
"Relax," Ilya cut in, lips curling into something almost amused, almost sharp. "You are very pretty, too."
"I—what?"
"And," Ilya added, stepping back and gesturing him inside, "very easy to rile up. Come in."
Shane awkwardly stepped through the doorway, bags heavy in his hands. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, like it was trying to break free of his ribs. This was just Shane's luck. He needed to be normal. He couldn't let this—their past, their history, who he used to be—touch his future. He couldn't afford that.
"What's your name?" he asked, hating how thin his voice sounded.
Ilya looked surprised, like the question had caught him off guard.
"Ilya," he said roughly. He didn't wait for a response, didn't linger—just turned and retreated into his room, closing the door behind him with a quiet, final click.
Shane was left standing in the living area, bags still in his hands, more confused than ever. Ilya was here. He was his teammate. His roommate, too. They were going to be living together—sharing space, air, silence. Shane forced himself to wrap his mind around the concept, to make it real.
And then he remembered.
Ilya had said he was pretty.
Did he still—
No. That was before.
Pretty girl.
Shane's chest ached, a dull, familiar pain settling there. He hadn't allowed himself to mourn the loss of…whatever they'd been. Whatever might have been. But sometimes Shane remembered the way Ilya would smile at him after they'd finished playing, the way he'd always leaned a little closer, like he didn't even realize he was doing it.
Thinking about that was stupid. The way they had been—it would never happen again. Shane wasn't that person anymore.
He never would be.
Shane numbly watched as his parents filled the dorm, feeling incredibly stupid at how much stuff he'd brought with him. It suddenly seemed excessive, piled in corners and stacked against the walls. Ilya was still shut away in his room. Shane bristled at the thought. If it were him—if the roles were reversed—he would've come out, said hello, done the polite thing. Whatever. Maybe Ilya really was different now.
At least they had separate rooms.
Yuna moved through the space like a machine, efficient and unstoppable, setting everything up at light speed. Clothes were folded, toiletries lined up, shoes tucked neatly away. When she was done, she stepped back, admiring her work with quiet satisfaction. Then she turned and pulled Shane into her arms.
"My baby. I can't believe it."
Shane hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent—clean laundry, something floral, something unmistakably home. His chest tightened. This was it.
"Mom," he said softly, trying to keep it light, "I'm not going off to war."
Her eyes twinkled.
"You kind of are."
Shane laughed, the sound shaky but real. Then she sobered, hands firm on his shoulders.
"Shane. I'm so proud of you. I'm proud of everything you've overcome, and I'm proud of the man you're growing up to be. Anything happens—anything at all—you call me."
Shane nodded, feeling the tears prick at the corners of his eyes. A wave of gratitude hit him so suddenly it almost stole his breath. He was so lucky. Luckier than he let himself believe most days. He pulled her into another hug, resting his chin on the top of her head.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For being okay with me—with who I am." His voice broke on the last words.
She didn't hesitate.
"Baby," Yuna said, holding him tight, "I love who you are."
Shane hugged his dad too, who was already getting teary-eyed. They didn't need to say anything more. He already knew.
"Love you, buddy."
"Love you too, Dad."
And then they were gone.
Shane was alone. Well—not quite. He could feel Ilya's presence in the dorm like a low hum under his skin, unreachable, but close enough to make his nerves buzz.
It was odd. How could you know someone so well, and then just—not know them at all? Shane felt like a chunk of him had been torn out, which was incredibly dumb, because they hadn't even been together. Or anything. They'd just been friends.
That was it. And yet, Shane remembered the first time they'd spoken like it was yesterday.
He'd just finished begging the coach of the boys' hockey team for a spot. A little demeaning, yeah—but Shane was dedicated. He wasn't above asking for what he wanted, even if it sounded outrageous out loud. He hadn't been surprised by the answer.
Sorry, kiddo. It just wouldn't make sense. Maybe soon we'll start a girls' team if we have the budget and the interest.
Shane had nodded, feeling stupid and embarrassed and too big for his own skin. A couple of boys were still on the ice even though practice had finished, skating lazy laps, most definitely eavesdropping. They probably thought he was an idiot.
Shane slumped down in one of the seats, face flushed.
He watched the boys skate for a while, hypnotized by the sounds of blades moving across the ice. He told himself to leave. Told himself he didn't care. His skates were still on, bag half-zipped at his feet.
"Hey."
Shane looked up.
The boy standing at the edge of the rink had dark blond hair plastered to his forehead, his stick balanced casually against his shoulder like it was an extension of him. He wasn't smiling exactly, but there was something open about his expression—curiosity, maybe.
"You play?" the boy asked.
He was foreign, Shane thought uselessly. A thick accent, something Eastern European. Shane hadn't seen him before.
Shane snorted despite himself. "Guess not."
The boy tilted his head, studying him. "You were talking to Coach."
"Yeah. It was stupid. Dunno why I thought I could get on the team," Shane said, picking at the peeling skin of a scab on his hand.
"Is more stupid we don't have girls' team. Or co-ed. It's high school hockey, not the NHL. Who gives a fuck?"
"Coach, apparently," Shane mumbled.
"Has he seen you play?" the boy asked, leaning against the partition.
"Nope. I said I'd skate for him, but he didn't even give me the chance."
The boy's eyebrows furrowed.
"That's bullshit," he said flatly.
Shane huffed a laugh. "You're telling me."
"No," the boy said, pushing off the boards. "I am telling him. If he were here."
Shane glanced up despite himself. "Yeah? You gonna fight him?"
The boy shrugged. "I have done worse."
That got a real laugh out of Shane, sharp and surprised. He scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly embarrassed by how much it meant to be taken seriously.
The boy watched him for a moment, then nodded toward the ice. "Come skate."
Shane hesitated. "I'm not on the team."
"So?" the boy said. "I have puck."
He hopped over the boards easily, skates hitting the ice with a clean, confident scrape. He circled once, smooth and fast, then stopped in front of Shane.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Shane."
"Ilya," the boy said meaningfully. Then he slid the puck across the ice toward him. "Show me what you can do."
Shane's heart kicked painfully in his chest. He shouldn't, he knew that. But he stepped over the boards anyway, the cold biting through his skates, the ice familiar beneath his feet.
Shane pushed off, letting muscle memory take over before his nerves could catch up with him. The rink opened beneath him, wide and bright, the scrape of blades echoing off the boards. Ilya waited near center ice, weight resting easily on one leg.
"Whenever you are ready," Ilya said.
Shane swallowed, then tapped the puck forward.
He didn't rush. He let himself skate, let his edges bite and release the way they always did. The puck stayed close to his stick, moving side to side in small, controlled motions. Ilya drifted backward to meet him, eyes alert now, posture shifting into sharp focus.
They circled each other once.
Ilya lunged suddenly, stick darting out to poke the puck free.
Shane reacted without thinking. He pulled the puck back at the last second, pivoted hard on his inside edge, and slipped past Ilya's reach. His shoulder brushed Ilya's as he went by, close enough to feel the impact vibrate through his chest.
"Oh," Ilya muttered, surprised and smiling.
Shane didn't slow down. He cut toward the boards, then snapped back toward the middle, forcing Ilya to turn and chase. Ilya recovered quickly, matching his speed, skating stride for stride now. He pressed in, using his body to angle Shane off, trying to pin him against the boards.
Shane dug in. He dropped his shoulder, planted his skates, and shielded the puck with his body, back curved protectively around it. Ilya tried to muscle him off balance, but Shane held his ground, legs burning, breath coming fast.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Shane spun out, quick and sharp, slipping the puck through his own skates and into open ice. He broke free, accelerating hard, wind rushing past his ears. He wound up and snapped a shot toward the empty net at the far end of the rink.
The puck rang cleanly off the post.
The sound echoed.
Shane coasted to a stop, chest heaving. He heard laughter.
Ilya skated up beside him, grinning wide now, eyes bright with something like excitement.
"Coach is idiot," he said, breathless. "You are good. Very good. And not just for a girl."
Shane laughed, shaky and disbelieving. "You don't even know me."
Ilya shrugged, tapping his stick against Shane's. "I know hockey."
He looked at Shane for a long moment, like he was filing something away.
"I think," Ilya added, "we will be friends."
Shane grinned. He thought so, too.
Ilya had been right. They became fast friends. It was strange. All of Shane's friends were other girls. He'd never been great with people, always missing something, always a beat behind. But something about Ilya was easy.
He was so direct, so unambiguous, that Shane almost never felt that sinking confusion he usually carried around with other people. If Ilya was annoyed, he said it. If he liked something, he said that too. There were no hidden rules to decode.
They didn't talk at school. Not really. Ilya ran with the sports guys, loud and sprawling and confident. Shane had his circle of girls, clustered together in the halls. Their worlds barely touched.
But after practice, it was always the same.
Shane would sit in the bleachers while the boys' team finished up, elbows on his knees, stick resting between his hands. He knew the drills by heart by now—the flow of the practice, the whistle cuts, the way Ilya moved through it all like he belonged there. Sometimes Ilya would glance up at him mid-skate, just once, like a quiet check-in. Shane would pretend not to notice and feel warm anyway.
When practice ended and the rink began to empty, Ilya would stay.
The other boys peeled off their helmets and disappeared toward the locker rooms, laughing and shoving and loud. Shane waited until they were gone. Only then would he slip into the girls' bathroom to change, moving quickly, keeping his head down, tugging on knee pads and compression shorts as fast as he could. By the time he came back out, Ilya would be waiting by the boards, stick balanced on one shoulder.
Effortless.
That was the word Shane kept circling back to. The way Ilya filled space without apologizing. The way his shoulders stayed loose, his movements sure. The way the other boys seemed to orbit him without question. He never had to try. Shane felt like he was trying so hard, at everything. He felt it like a low ache sometimes—something tight in his chest that wasn't jealousy exactly, but wasn't not that either. It was wanting.
Then they'd go back on the ice.
It was always just the two of them. Just the rink mostly empty, the lights humming overhead, the echo of blades cutting clean arcs across the surface. Hockey felt different then. Ilya was so fast, so skilled, and yet. Shane could keep up with him. It made him feel worthy, like he belonged. Like he was meant to be there even though everything around him was screaming that he wasn't.
And they would talk.
Usually while coasting, sticks tapping idly against the ice, breath fogging in the cold air.
"What the fuck does 'wherefore' mean?" Ilya asked one afternoon, exasperated.
Shane laughed, nearly tripping over his own skates. "What?"
"'Wherefore art thou Romeo,'" Ilya said, mangling the cadence. "My teacher keeps saying it like it is romantic. Why is she asking where he is? She knows where he is."
Shane grinned. "It doesn't mean 'where.' It means 'why.'"
Ilya slowed to a stop, staring at him. "That is stupid."
"Shakespeare is stupid," Shane agreed easily.
Ilya groaned, dragging a glove over his face. "Every word is a trick. I read the page three times and still feel like idiot. Everyone else is nodding like they understand. I do not."
Something in his voice made Shane glance over. The irritation was still there—but underneath it was something deeper. Frustration edged with embarrassment. Ilya rarely sounded that way.
"You're not dumb," Shane said without thinking.
Ilya snorted. "You say that because you are too nice."
"No," Shane said, more firmly this time. "You just… English is hard. And old English is worse. That doesn't mean anything about you."
Ilya was quiet for a moment, skating slow circles, eyes fixed on the ice. Then he shrugged, too casual.
"Back home," he said, "I was very smart. Teachers liked me. Here, I open my mouth and people laugh at my accent. Or I say the wrong thing." He kicked lightly at the puck. "Sometimes I think maybe they are right."
Shane felt something twist painfully in his chest. He knew that feeling. All too well.
"I don't think that," he said. "You're good at…so many things."
Ilya glanced at him, surprised. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Shane said, suddenly shy. "Hockey. Math. You remember plays after seeing them once. You're so… confident, and—"
Handsome. Masculine. Tall.
Shane swallowed the rest of it down.
"I dunno," he finished lamely. "Anyway. I like your accent. I wish you'd speak Russian more. Even if I don't know what it means."
Ilya's face softened into a smile—open, earnest.
"Вау. Красавице Шейну нравится мой акцент." He said, clearly pleased. "Интересно, сколько я смогу сказать по-русски, чтобы ты ничего не понялa?"
Shane flushed. There was something magnetic about the way the words rolled off Ilya's tongue, confident even when Shane understood none of them.
"Okay," Shane said, laughing a little, "now you have to tell me what you just said."
Ilya's smile lingered.
"You help me," he said. "With words. And… other stuff. You don't judge me." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "With you, I do not feel stupid."
Shane's throat tightened. "Me neither."
They skated side by side after that, not talking, just letting the scrape of blades and the cold air fill the space between them. Shane watched the way Ilya moved—the muscular line of his back, the way he took up space so unknowingly—Shane wanted that.
But he didn't know what it meant yet.
Shane blinked, and the memory dissolved. The sharp scrape of blades and the cold air faded into the quiet hum of the dorm. His hands still rested on the straps of his bag, the echo of it lingering in his chest.
Ilya was here. Right there, in the next room. The thought made Shane's stomach tighten in a familiar, nervous rhythm.
He let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the wall. The past still tugged at him, no matter how hard he tried to shake it loose. But the present pressed forward: Ilya's dark silhouette through the half-open door, the faint scent of smoke clinging to the room, the weight of sharing this space.
He wouldn't slip up.
Wouldn't let this—Ilya—be the thing that unraveled everything he'd built.
The next couple days were… tense.
To be fair, Shane was trying. Ilya gave him nothing back. Shane would ask if he wanted to grab dinner, offer to put a movie on, float the idea of doing literally anything together—and Ilya would brush him off with a shrug or a distracted grunt, already halfway back into his room. Shane would be lying if he said it didn't sting.
On top of that, Ilya was a slob.
Shane should've known. Towels on the bathroom floor, damp and forgotten. Empty soda cans left on every flat surface. Cigarette butts crushed into the ashtray until it overflowed, ash dusting the coffee table like it belonged there. Ilya never acknowledged it, and he never apologized. He just stepped around the mess like it wasn't his problem.
And somehow, it became Shane's.
He cleaned because asking did nothing. Because living in the mess made his skin crawl. Because it was easier to bend than to push and get nowhere. By the end of the third day, Shane could track Ilya's movements through the apartment by the debris he left behind.
The worst of it, though, was the girls.
Shane came back from the gym that evening sweaty and exhausted, gym bag slung over his shoulder, already rehearsing the quickest route to the shower in his head. He froze just inside the doorway.
Ilya was on the couch with a blonde girl Shane had never seen before. Her legs were draped over Ilya's lap, her shoes kicked off onto the floor like an afterthought. Shane wanted to tell her that there was a designated shoe rack near the door for guests, but he decided against it. Ilya had one arm slung behind her shoulders, loose and familiar, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
"Oh," Shane said dumbly.
Ilya glanced up. His face was blank.
"Hey," he said. Then, to the girl, he murmured something low and foreign that made her laugh.
Shane nodded once, sharp, and ducked into his room before either of them could say anything else. He shut the door quietly and stood there, heart hammering, staring at the blank wood like it had personally betrayed him.
He told himself it was none of his business. Ilya could do whatever he wanted.
That didn't stop the sounds.
Shane heard muted laughter, a door closing, music turning up too loud to ignore. The rhythmic thump of the couch against the wall. Shane lay flat on his bed, forearm pressed over his eyes, counting his breaths like he was trying not to panic.
He stayed there until it was over.
Ilya didn't look at him afterward. Didn't say anything the next morning, either—just left early, the smell of smoke lingering behind him, the couch cushions still rumpled.
It happened again the next night.
Different girl.
By the third time, Shane felt like a prisoner in his own space.
He started wearing his headphones all the time. He timed his showers. He learned exactly how long it took Ilya to bring someone home and how long he usually stayed locked behind his door. He told himself, over and over, that this was fine. That this was normal. That this was what living with a stranger was like.
But late at night, staring up at the ceiling, Shane couldn't shake the thought that settled heavy in his chest:
This Ilya didn't need him.
And that hurt more than Shane wanted to admit.
He finally broke.
"Look," Shane said, voice sharp despite his effort to keep it steady, "if you're going to bring home a different girl every night, can you at least warn me? Jesus, Ilya—this is fucking excessive."
Ilya was sprawled on the couch, feet slung over the coffee table like the place belonged to him alone. He looked up slowly, eyes flicking over Shane with lazy interest. Then his mouth curled into something mean.
"Sorry," he said. "Just trying to get my fill before hockey prison starts, you know?" He shrugged. "Is not like you can't bring people home too. I wouldn't be mad."
Shane clenched his jaw.
Actually, it was like that. Shane physically could not do that—but Ilya didn't know. And Shane wasn't about to explain himself, not like this, not when Ilya was looking at him like he was a joke.
"That's not the point," Shane said tightly. "This is my space too."
Ilya laughed. "You barely use it. You come in, you clean my mess, you disappear into your room like a ghost." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It works for me, but if you want something, say it."
"I am saying it," Shane snapped. His hands were shaking now, fists curled at his sides. "I'm asking for basic fucking respect."
Something shifted in Ilya's expression, something colder.
"Respect?" he echoed. "You want rules now?"
"I want—" Shane cut himself off, breath hitching. He didn't even know how to finish the sentence without saying too much. I want you to look at me like you used to. I want you to stop pretending I don't exist. I want—
Ilya stood abruptly, towering over him. "You think you get to tell me how to live?" he said, voice low. "You think because we share a room, you will change me?"
Shane stared up at him, heart pounding. He hated how small he suddenly felt. Hated that familiar itch under his skin, the one that told him he was doing something wrong just by taking up space.
"I thought we could be friends," Shane said quietly.
The words landed heavier than he meant them to.
For a moment, Ilya didn't say anything. His jaw tightened. His gaze flicked away, just briefly—toward the window, toward anywhere but Shane.
Then he scoffed. "You are not my friend."
Shane felt it like a blow.
"Right," he said, swallowing hard. "Okay. Got it."
He turned and walked back to his room before Ilya could see the way his face cracked, before the ache in his chest had a chance to spill over. He shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard, like he'd just finished a shift instead of a conversation.
On the other side of the wall, the dorm stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
Ilya and Shane weren't speaking when the training intensive started. If things had been tense before, they were ten times worse now. Ilya hadn't stopped bringing girls back, and every time Shane walked in on him, Ilya would lift his eyebrows in a silent, taunting challenge. Say something. I dare you.
Shane never did.
Instead, he focused on what he could control. His performance on the ice. He kept his head down and his mouth shut and let the anger burn where it wanted to.
He would prove he belonged here.
And one way or another, he'd show Ilya just how fucking good he was.
That morning, Shane had gotten up early, done his mobility exercises, gone for a run, and eaten a solid breakfast. Ilya was still in bed by the time Shane was getting ready to leave for training. Whatever. It wasn't his problem.
He grabbed his bag, and headed out the door. If Ilya was late, that was on him.
When Shane got to the rink, he was directed to go to the locker room. There were already a couple boys there, getting gear on and exchanging lighthearted conversation. The locker room hushed when he walked through the door.
"Hey, it's the prodigy!" One boy called, a playful smile on his face.
Shane rubbed the back of his neck. "Oh–I'm not really–"
"Shane Hollander, right? Coach told us about you. Said you came outta nowhere."
"Uh–yeah. I'm Shane."
"Hayden. I'm a sophomore. Good to meet you."
Shane nodded, fumbling slightly with the straps of his bag. "Good to meet you." He glanced around the room, noticing the way the other boys moved with ease—loud, comfortable, already claiming space. The benches creaked under heavy backpacks and hockey gear; socks and gloves littered the floor.
Hayden waved toward the far side. "Don't mind the chaos. First week's always messy. Everyone's figuring out who's who." He grinned, adjusting his helmet. "You'll fit in soon enough."
Shane tried to smile, but his stomach was a knot. He spotted Ilya almost immediately—leaning casually against a locker, stick in one hand, helmet dangling from the other. He was already halfway changed, exuding that same effortless confidence Shane remembered from home. A group of upperclassmen laughed at something Ilya said, and he didn't even glance their way. He hadn't noticed Shane yet.
Shane's chest tightened. He told himself to focus. This is about hockey. Not Ilya. Prove you belong.
Hayden clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get you geared up. You'll need to meet Coach in about ten minutes for the first drill." Shane nodded, letting Hayden guide him through the maze of benches and lockers.
From the corner of his eye, Shane caught Ilya's gaze for a brief moment—just a flicker—but it vanished before Shane could process it.
His shoulder was jostled by another player as he slid his knee pads on.
"Oh–sorry."
Shane turned, giving him a small smile. He was struck by how beautiful the guy was. He was around Shane's height, with the most piercing blue eyes he'd ever seen.
"You're good. No worries, man."
"I'm Troy. I'm a freshman, too. This is kinda nuts." He said.
Shane sighed in relief. "Thank god. Everyone here seems so experienced. I'm, like, terrified."
"Well–I'm sure you'll be fine. Coach hasn't stopped talking about you and Rozanov since I got here."
Shane couldn't respond to that, too nervous to acknowledge the very obvious anticipation around him and Ilya. He finished lacing up his skates, Troy sitting on the bench next to him.
"So… first week," Troy said, leaning back casually, "crazy, right?"
Shane shrugged, trying to keep his nerves in check. "Yeah. Definitely… intense." He hesitated, then glanced at Troy. "You don't seem scared at all."
Troy grinned, crooked and a little daring. "I've been playing since I could walk. But you?" His voice dipped, conspiratorial. "You're the one everyone's watching. That kind of pressure—I could never."
Heat crept up Shane's neck. "Uh. Well. Hopefully I don't disappoint," he muttered, tugging his bag closer.
"You're not disappointing me," Troy said easily, nudging Shane's shoulder with his own. It was kind of nice. It reminded him of the way him and Ilya used to be.
Not now. Shane needed to stop thinking about Ilya and focus.
Shane let himself smile. "Thanks, Troy."
The locker room buzzed louder as the last players finished gearing up. Coach called for everyone to line up near center ice. Shane followed, Troy falling into step beside him, easy conversation sliding between them as Shane tried to quiet the knot of nerves in his stomach.
"Eyes forward, everyone!" Coach barked, voice cutting through the chatter.
They skated out onto the ice, the chill biting through Shane's uniform. The team lined up for warm-ups, stretching, passing pucks in controlled arcs. Troy and Hayden stayed next to him the whole time. It calmed his nerves a little bit, having people to share little comments and looks with. Shane felt the familiar muscle memory of skating take over, edges biting into the ice, stick in his hands like an extension of himself.
And then, of course, it happened.
Coach paired players up for one-on-one drills, and Shane's heart thudded as he realized: he was paired with Ilya.
"Rozanov, Hollander—against each other," Coach barked. "Let's see what you've got."
Ilya's eyes flicked up, catching Shane's. A loaded look passed between them, quick and sharp. He leaned on his stick, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Shane clenched his jaw. Focus. This is your moment.
The drill began. Ilya moved first, aggressive, trying to get to the puck with practiced precision. Shane reacted instantly, pivoting, keeping the puck close, his body angled just enough to shield it. Ilya pressed him, shoulder against shoulder, trying to shove him off balance.
Shane felt every inch of pressure, every scrape of Ilya's stick against his own. But he remembered his training, the hours he'd spent honing his skills. With a quick fake to the left, a sudden shift in weight, he slipped past Ilya's defense, cutting toward the net.
Ilya recovered, snapping back with speed, but Shane was ready. He lifted the puck just enough and snapped a clean shot toward the goal. The puck hit the ice, slid past Ilya's reach, and hit the net.
Shane's chest heaved, adrenaline still hammering in his veins. Ilya's smirk was gone, replaced by a clenched jaw. Shane caught the glint in his eyes and looked away.
Ilya muttered something low in Russian, shoulder checking him as he brushed past to reset for the next drill.
Shane let himself exhale, but his chest still throbbed. He had done it. Just barely, but he'd beaten Ilya. He'd done it before, back then, but somehow, this felt monumental. Like he had a leg up on him. Like whatever game they were playing—Shane was starting to make a comeback.
Troy skated over after the drill, grinning. "Damn, Shane. That was fucking awesome." He raised an eyebrow, not hiding the admiration. "I didn't expect that."
Shane's cheeks warmed. "Thanks. Didn't think I'd get past him either."
Hayden slid in beside them, clapping Shane hard on the shoulder. "I did. That kid's a show-off. You're way better."
Troy laughed. "Pretty sure we're not supposed to start rivalries. Same team, Hayden."
Shane smiled—but something twisted low in his stomach. Pride, yes. Relief. And complication.
Ilya had seen him now. Tested him.
And Troy was here. Hayden too. They could be friends, maybe. People who saw him, just as he was.
He didn't need Ilya.
…But part of him still wanted him.
The whistle shrieked again, cutting the thought clean in half.
"Next drill!" Coach barked.
Shane pushed off, letting the ice take him.
This was hockey.
This was where he belonged.
The rest of the week continued similarly. Shane won… a lot. He was coming to realize that winning came with something else, too—with respect. All of a sudden, every guy on the team was being incredibly nice to him, quick with grins and a pat on the shoulder, easy in a way they hadn't been at first.
Everyone, except for Ilya, of course.
Ilya had also gotten exceptionally good since the last time Shane had seen him—faster, sharper, more dangerous on the ice. He was decidedly not nice. They still weren't speaking, aside from whatever insults Ilya decided to hurl at him in Russian during practice, clipped and cutting, meant for Shane and Shane alone.
It was unbearably tense.
Everyone seemed perched on the edge of their seats, waiting to see which of the new kids was better—Shane, or Ilya. The comparison followed them everywhere, buzzing through the rink like static. Shane honestly didn't care. He just wanted to play hockey, and win. That was it. The other stuff didn't matter to him.
Not the way Ilya would look at him when they faced off, eyes dark and determined, like he was daring Shane to make a mistake. Not the way he would watch from afar as Troy drifted closer into Shane's space, easy and familiar.
None of that mattered.
At least, that's what Shane told himself.
Whatever time they spent in the dorm was…better. Shane had become fast friends with Troy and Hayden, who came over after practice whenever they could. Ilya would just disappear into his room without a word, not coming out for the rest of the night. Sometimes, Shane would smell smoke from his room. But, at the very least, he seemed done bringing people home. Maybe he actually did give a shit about hockey.
They were over again tonight, Hayden having offered to cook. Shane didn't care as long as he didn't make a mess.
Troy had an arm slung around Shane's shoulders, sitting close on the couch, close enough that Shane could feel the steady warmth of him through his hoodie. Hayden was at the kitchenette, wooden spoon in hand, making a sad excuse for a stir fry—vegetables overcooked, sauce splattering the stovetop.
"Don't look at me like that," Hayden said, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm an athlete, not a chef."
"It smells… ambitious," Troy offered, grinning, squeezing Shane's shoulder just a little.
Shane laughed despite himself, leaning into it without thinking. The TV murmured uselessly in the background, forgotten.
The sound of a door opening pulled Shane from his thoughts.
Ilya emerged from his bedroom, shirtless and disheveled. As always, there was a fucking cigarette hanging from his lips. God, Shane really hated how much he smoked. He'd never done stuff like that in high school.
Ilya stopped abruptly just outside his door, eyes raking over Troy and Shane on the couch.
"Wow. You two look cozy," Ilya remarked, smirking coldly.
Those were the first real words Ilya had said to him all week.
Shane scooted away from Troy on instinct, his face heating instantly. Troy shot him an unreadable look, but didn't say anything.
"Shut up, Rozanov."
Ilya shrugged and walked to the fridge, smoke curling lazily around him. He had more moles on his back than Shane remembered. Not that he'd been keeping track or anything. The realization made Shane's stomach twist.
Ilya grabbed a can of Coke and turned back toward his room.
Guilt clawed its way up Shane's spine. Why the hell was Rozanov holed up in his room right now? They didn't even have practice tomorrow.
"Wait." The word slipped out before Shane could stop it. "Hayden's cooking. Do you want some food? We're just watching a movie, but you're welcome to join."
Hayden turned toward him from the stove, eyes wide, silently mouthing What the fuck? No! Shane ignored him.
Ilya paused.
For a moment, Shane thought he might actually turn around. Instead, Ilya glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
"No," he said simply. Then, quieter, almost clipped, "I'm good."
He disappeared back into his room, the door closing with a soft but final click.
The silence that followed was thick.
"Well," Hayden said after a beat, gesturing weakly at the pan. "That went… great."
Troy shifted beside Shane, his arm dropping back around his shoulders like nothing had happened. "You didn't have to invite him, you know."
Shane nodded, staring at the hallway. "Yeah. I know."
And so it continued this way. Shane stopped trying eventually—too tired of being turned down, brushed off, dismissed with a look or a word that made it clear he wasn't wanted. If Ilya wanted to smoke and drink and live like an animal, that was his prerogative. He'd been right before. Shane was stupid to think he could change him.
The days settled into a sort of routine. Practice, class, winning more games than he lost. Nights filled with Troy's easy laughter and Hayden's constant presence, the hum of the TV, the clatter of dishes in the sink. Ilya became more of a shadow than a person—someone Shane heard rather than saw. It was in the creak of his door late at night. The faint scrape of a lighter. Smoke seeping under the crack of the door and into the hallway, sharp and bitter.
Shane told himself it was better this way. If he didn't expect anything from Ilya, then he couldn't be disappointed.
But some nights, when the dorm was mostly asleep and the laughter had faded, Shane would catch himself listening. Waiting. For footsteps, for a door opening, for anything that suggested Ilya still existed in the same space as him.
It was one of those nights—late enough that the hall lights had dimmed, the TV long turned off—when the silence broke. Not with the careful, controlled sounds Shane had grown used to, but with something heavier. Unsteady. A laugh, low and rough, drifting down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable thud of someone colliding with the wall.
Shane sat up in bed before he could stop himself, heart already picking up speed. The smell hit him next—alcohol, sharp and sour, layered over the familiar smoke.
Ilya was back.
Shane heard a crash, followed by a sharp curse in Russian. He was on his feet before he fully processed it, padding across the room and peeking through the crack in his door.
Ilya was stumbling around the common area like a baby deer, all limbs and no balance, bumping into everything in sight. A lamp lay tipped over on the floor, its bulb shattered. Glass glittered across the carpet—and across Ilya's hands, blood already starting to seep between his fingers.
Fucking Christ.
Shane didn't bother thinking it through. He stepped fully into the room and dropped to a crouch beside him. Ilya blinked down at him, eyes glassy, heavy-lidded, unfocused in a way that made Shane's stomach twist.
"What the hell are you doing?" Shane hissed, already scanning for more broken glass.
Ilya lifted his hands, swaying slightly, and made a vague motion toward his face. Shane grabbed his wrists immediately, firm but careful.
"Stop—" Shane said, sharper now. "You have glass all over your hands, you idiot."
Ilya frowned at him like Shane had just asked him a complicated math question. He tried to pull away, sluggish and uncoordinated.
"Is fine," he slurred, the words thick. "You are very dramatic."
Shane tightened his grip just enough to keep him still. Up close, the smell of alcohol was overwhelming, clinging to him in waves. Shane swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm.
"Yeah, well, I'm not the one bleeding all over the floor," he muttered. He glanced around, then back at Ilya. "Don't move. Seriously. I'll get a towel."
He stood quickly, grabbing the cleanest one he could find from the bathroom, along with the small first-aid kit under the sink. When he came back, Ilya was still sitting on the floor, legs stretched out awkwardly, staring at his own hands like they'd personally betrayed him.
"Hey," Shane said more quietly, kneeling again. "Look at me. Just—stay still, okay?"
Ilya's eyes flicked up to his face, something unreadable passing through them before his expression smoothed back into careless indifference. He nodded once, slow.
Shane exhaled and gently began picking glass from his skin, working carefully, methodically, trying not to think about how close they were—or how easily Ilya let him do it.
"Shanyusha," Ilya whispered.
He drifted closer as he said it, eyes tracing Shane's face like he was trying to memorize every line.
Shane's heart nearly stopped.
He hadn't called him that since—since they were fifteen. Shane couldn't even remember when it had started, only that Ilya had brushed it off once, said it was just a Russian thing. A kind of nickname they used with their loved ones.
But it had never felt like nothing. It was all in the way Ilya said it. Soft, fond, like Shane was something precious.
Why would he call him that now?
"What?" Shane asked quietly, throat tight.
"I missed you, my Shane," Ilya murmured. His words slurred together, warm with alcohol and something dangerously close to honesty. "Missed your freckles. Your pretty face." He laughed weakly, breath puffing against Shane's neck. "Why did you go away?"
Before Shane could react, Ilya's forehead tipped forward, resting heavily against Shane's shoulder.
And now—Ilya was looking at him like he knew. Knew.
Shane swallowed hard. He couldn't move. He couldn't let himself react. Every instinct screamed to pull back—to remind himself that this wasn't real, that this was vodka and talking, that sober Ilya wouldn't say any of this. But Ilya was warm and unsteady and very real, his weight slumping into Shane like he trusted him not to let go.
"I didn't go away," Shane said after a moment, voice low and careful. "We—we just met this year."
Ilya hummed, unconvinced. One of his hands twitched in Shane's grasp, fingers curling weakly. Shane tightened the towel around it, grounding himself in the small, necessary task.
"You left me," Ilya whispered instead, sadly.
Shane swallowed hard, staring at the carpet. He focused on the steady rise and fall of Ilya's chest, on keeping the pressure even on his bleeding hand, on anything except the way his name sounded like a confession in Ilya's mouth—like drunk Ilya was seeing the old Shane, the one he had buried all those years ago.
"You're drunk," Shane said gently, voice tight. "You're gonna hate me again in the morning. I'm not who you remember."
For a heartbeat, Ilya froze. Then he nuzzled his face into Shane's neck, warm and unsteady, words muffled but clear.
"No," he whispered. "I could never hate you, Shanyusha."
Shane's chest clenched. He knew he should push him away, should remind himself this was dangerous—that sober Ilya must never know. McGill, his career, his whole carefully constructed life—everything teetered on a knife-edge. And yet, Ilya's trust, his drunken memory, his softness…he was too close, too human, too good to resist.
And Shane had always been weak.
So Shane let himself hold him, let his arms wrap around Ilya until his breathing evened out, until his eyes drifted shut against the collar of Shane's shirt. That would have to be enough for now.