Archive of Our Own

Shane’s world breaks apart over his morning coffee.

He wakes up in a good mood. They had a good game last night, beating Toronto 4-1 with Shane scoring two of the goals. He gets out of bed, brushes his teeth and checks his phone. There’s a text waiting from rose, good game last night! good luck with the all stars game next week. Will be tuning in :) 

His stomach flips at that. He always enjoyed the all stars games, getting to loosen up a little, playing for fun, doing the little skill competitions. And getting to see Ilya.

He hasn’t seen Ilya since that night in the club, locking eyes with him as he danced with that girl, pain blooming in his chest like pressing down on an old bruise. In a way, that’s what his feelings for Ilya felt like - something painful and deep that he’s been waiting to heal for years now, with no avail.

But the all stars game was gonna change that, Shane was determined. His conversation with Rose changed things for him. A problem is something you can fix. Shane didn’t know if he could fix how he felt about Ilya, and honestly he didn’t know if he wanted to. Being with Ilya felt… good. Not just the sex - which was great, mindblowing even - but all of it. Arguing with him, making fun of each other, playing against him. All of it made Shane feel alive, like his body was humming with electricity. And the last time they were together, it was… nice. Napping together, Ilya making him lunch, talking about hockey and cuddling on the couch. It felt like they were something, like they could have more than quick hook ups and stolen kisses in hotel rooms. It scared Shane, scared him so much he ran away, tried to bury it deep. But the bruise didn't stop aching, and Shane was tired of denying himself. So yeah, things were gonna change at the all star game. He’s gonna find Ilya and talk to him, finally face this weird fragile thing they built over the years. 

Plus, they were gonna get to play together. Shane’s heart speeds up at the thought, getting to be on the ice with Ilya rather than against him for once was gonna be exhilarating. 

Thank you <3 he texts Rose back and goes down to the kitchen. While his coffee is brewing he lets himself dream, for once. He thinks about Ilya’s hair curling around his face, about his eyes crinkling when he laughs, about the way his name sounded coming out of his mouth. About getting to have it for more than just stolen moments.

“Ilya,” he whispers to himself, practicing. A smiles comes to his lips, unbidden. 

He sits down with his coffee and opens his phone. He can’t help it, he wants to see Ilya’s face. He opens his instagram and goes to the search bar, Ilya’s profile instantly popping up as his last searched.

He scrolls through his feed. There’s a picture of Ilya at a club, a glass of vodka in his hands. His cheeks are flushed, his shoulders relaxed and his curls are drooping into his face. The next picture is of Ilya on the ice, bent over with a determined look in his eyes. after it there’s one from a photoshoot he did for some vodka company, he’s standing in a half buttoned up white shirt, his chest showing as he smoulders the camera. 

Shane smiles to himself as he look at the photos. He’s so focused on Ilya it takes him a while to notice the top comments.

💔💔💔

Fly high king 💔🙏

can’t believe he did that. He will go down in hockey history. 

Shane’s heart stop beating for a second. What the fuck?

He clicks on the comment section. It’s full of comments, all from this morning.

You never know what someone is dealing with. So heartbreaking

R.I.P legend

GOAT. can’t believe he’s gone.

Shane’s heart is now beating so hard he can feel it in his ears. He scrolls through the comments, desperate to find an explanation, his head refusing to comprehend what he sees. It’s something else, he tells himself. Maybe Ilya left the bears? Maybe he got traded and people were just being dramatic. This has to be it.

He gets a notification and almost jumps in his seat. He hasn’t gotten a message from Lily in months, but he prays it’s him, silently begging to see his name pop up on the top of his screen.

Hayden: did you hear about Rozanov?

Hayden: fuck man

Hayden: you would never think he would do this

Shane blinks at the messages. Terror starts settling in his stomach like gathering storm clouds, low and dark. He doesn’t respond to the messages, instead opening google. His fingers are shaking as he types Ilya Rozanov and hits search.

Ilya Rozanov was a Russian hockey player, the blurb that pop up says. He played for the Boston raiders in the MLH, the team having recruited him in the draft from…

Shane doesn’t read the rest of it, his eyes blurring. He feels the room spinning around him.

Was. played.

He scrolls down more and a new article pops up. He clicks on it without reading the headline, fingers whitening as he grips his phone, waiting for it to load.

Boston Raiders center Ilya Rozanov found dead in his apartment in apparent suicide at age 25

7.1.17

BOSTON, massachusetts - Boston Raiders opening center Ilya Rozanov was found hanged in his Boston apartment this morning, according to law authorities.

Boston (massachusetts) police came to check on Rozanov after a concerned teammate called, saying he hasn’t come to practice and haven’t responded to attempts of contact for a couple of days. Trooper found Rozanov in his apartment, dead by strangulation after seemingly hanging himself. The state of the body and the autopsy reports suggest he hung himself a couple of days prior to his finding this morning. 

The team put out a statement that did not address the cause of death.

“We’re heartbroken to share that Ilya Rozanov has tragically passed away. He was a beloved teammate and a generational talent. Our thoughts and prayers arw with his friends and family at this time.”

Rozanov’s family did not put out any official statements.

The article continues with a quote from Ilya’s agent, from his teammates, with a breakdown of all of his professional achievements and records he broke. There’s one line mentioning his legendary rivalry with fellow player Shane Hollander. Shane read it all numbly, then reads it a second time. The words pass in front of his eyes but refuse to sink in, the truth of it all too overwhelming. Ilya Rozanov, dead at 25. Death by strangulation, seemingly hung himself. It feels like something from a different world.

Shane’s alarm clock rings, signaling it’s time to head out to practice. He ignores it. He read the article again. He goes back to google and refreshes the page, more articles popping up. He read them all, they all say the same things, use the same quotes. Generational talent, a tragic death, his teammates will mourn his passing. Some of them link suicides prevention hotlines at the end of the article.

He sits there, reading articles, scrolling twitter, scrolling instagram. His body is both numb and buzzing. He ignores texts from Hayden and his coach, asking him where the fuck is he, why he’s not in practice. He closes his phone and puts it down, then picks it back up and goes back to scrolling. Other hockey players he follows post about Ilya, how sad they are to hear about his passing, how they will miss playing against him. He’s vaguely aware he should also post something like that, especially considering their legendary rivalry, but he doesn’t.

He’s been there for hours, his coffee has gone cold and the sun starting to set when he gets a message from an unrecognized number.

Hey Jane, this is cliff marlow. Got your number from Ilya’s phone. I know you guys have been together for a long time and I’m so sorry for your loss, you must be going through hell right now.

Shane stares at it, frozen. Another text comes in.

His funeral will be tomorrow. I think he would’ve wanted you to be there.

Following that are the details of the funeral. Of Ilya’s funeral.

Suddenly it dawns on him, Ilya is dead. Really dead. This isn’t just a nightmare, this is really happening.

He barely makes it to the bathroom in time, throwing up bile and coffee into the toilet. He sits on the floor, panting, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He's not gonna see Ilya next week at the all stars game. He’s not gonna see Ilya at all, not gonna get to tell him everything he’s been practicing over the last few weeks.

He takes a deep breath and stands up. The room is spinning around him.

He somehow finds his way back to his bedroom. He opens his closet and shoves the neat organized piles of clothing aside, ignoring the way some of them fall into heaps on the floor.

At the back of the closet there’s a black shirt, hidden away. He put it there when he came back from Boston, months ago, and hasn’t touched it since. He pulls it out now, letting it unfold in his hands, feeling the soft material beneath his fingers. His hands are shaking as he takes off his current shirt, throwing it on the floor, and pulls this one over his head, he hasn’t washed it, too rattled, just buried it in the back of his closet. It smells faintly like Ilya’s cologne, musky and ambery with a hint of spice. He breathes it in and feel tears stinging at the edges of his eyes, rising up in his throat. He swallows it down and starts packing a bag.

When he sits at the airport he texts Hayden and his coach saying a family thing came up, and he won’t be in practice tomorrow either. His coach is mad, Hayden is worried. He ignore both of them.

He’s aware he should eat something, so he buys a shitty overpriced salad. He shovels it down mechanically, the leaves taste like ash in his mouth. There’s shitty pop music plays and one of the songs, a cheesy love song, gets stuck in his head. It stays stuck in his head as he boards the flight and they take off, the two lines whose lyrics he remembers playing in a loop in his head. It’s so unbelievably stupid, he thinks to himself. Ilya is dead, he’s gone, and he’s sitting here in the middle seat of an airplane with a fucking song stuck in his head. It feels like something so banal it shouldn’t happen now, not after Shane’s world tilted off of its axis and thrown him floating into the void. But the song keeps looping, over and over again, all the way to Boston.

There’s a crowd gathered in front of the funeral home. Of course there is, Shane should’ve expected that. It’s full of people in Rozanov jerseys, crying, holding signs Shane can’t be bothered to read. 

He ducks his head as he passes by them, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but he still hears whispers as he goes by.

-Is that..?

-shane hollander?

-came to show his respect-

He ignores them, pushing past the crowd and into the funeral home. The security person seemingly recognizes him, lifting a brow but letting him through with no issues.

The funeral home is big and dark, the quiet chatter of people talking echoing off the walls. Shane removes his sunglasses, adjusts the tux he changed into in the airport bathroom and looks around, lost. He shouldn’t be here, he realizes. This is a place for people who were a part of Ilya’s actual life, not the dark corner Shane occupied. It was stupid to come here, to expect to get a proper goodbye, to-

“Hollander?” 

Cliff Marlow steps towards him, confused expression on his face. He’s wearing a neat tux but his face is pale, eyes rimmed in red and sporting heavy dark bags. Shane is aware he doesn’t look much better.

“Marlow,” he greets him, his voice low and scratchy. It’s the first time he’s spoken since yesterday morning, he realizes. 

Yesterday morning. It’s only been thirty one hours since Shane clicked on the comment section, but it feels like an eon. He feels empty, his insides scraped raw. Thirty one hours ago he was preparing to talk to Ilya again, to make things right. Now he’s never gonna get the chance.

Did Ilya die thinking Shane didn’t care about him? That he was just someone Shane fucked when it was available, that he turned his back on him as soon as he tried to make it real?

Did Ilya kill himself because of that? The thought lands like a punch and suddenly it’s all Shane can think of. Was Ilya thinking about him bolting out of his house when he was tying the rope? Did he think about him dancing with rose when he stepped off the stool?

Shane knows he wasn’t Ilya’s entire life, knows it’s irrational to blame himself for it. The thoughts keep coming all the same.

“Thanks for coming,” Marlow says across from him, blind to Shane’s inner turmoil. “It means a lot. Showing your respect, and all that.”

“No,” Shane says without thinking.

Marlow looks confused. “No?”

“I'm not… I’m not here to show my respect as his rival, or to be a good sportsman or whatever it is,” Shane says. It feels important.

“Then why the fuck are you here, Hollander? To spit on his grave?” Marlow squares up to him, his voice shaking. “Cause I swear to god, if you try anything I’ll fucking-”

“I'm here as,” Shane’s voice cracks on the last word, and he coughs. “I’m here as Jane.”

Just like that, his biggest secret is out in the world. Thirty one hours ago this was his worst nightmare, someone finding out, someone knowing about them. Now it feels so small, trivial. Shane can barely remember why he cared so much, why they put so much effort into hiding whatever they were.

Marlow takes a sharp breath in. “fuck, man.”

They stand there in silence for a moment. Shane is shaking, he realizes distantly.

“So this whole time, Roz’s Montreal girl was-?”

“Me,” Shane says, flatly. “Yeah.”

“Fuck, man.” Marlow repeats. He then looks up at Shane, his eyes softening. “How are you holding up?”

“I don't know,” Shane admits, quietly.

“Yeah.” Marlow agrees heavily. “I get it.”

He then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small black box.

“This isn’t going exactly how I thought it would,” Marlow lets out a small humorless laugh. “But I think you should have this.” he hands it to Shane.

Shane stares at the box for a second, scared of opening it, scared of what it might reveal. His hands move slowly, shakily, as he gently removes the lid.

In it is a small golden chain with a cross pendant. Ilya’s cross necklace.

“The cops had to- had to take it off his body when they,” Marlow swallows thickly. “When they took him down. Told them I would give it to his girlfriend. Didn't know it was his boyfriend, but the point stands.”

We weren’t boyfriends, Shane wants to say. We weren’t and now we’re never gonna be. He feels tears prickling at his eyes and wills them away.

“Thank you,” he says instead. He picks up the chain gently, like the slightest touch could break it. It feels cold and metallic, catching the light of the candles lit around them. He attempts to put it on, struggling with the clasp. Marlow wordlessly takes over, his big hands gentle as he closes it against the back of Shane’s neck. The weight of it feels unfamiliar, strange. Almost wrong. Shane tucks it under his shirt.

“For what it’s worth man, he really… he really cared about you. He was always in a better mood when we played Montreal, glued to his phone and blushing. Always seemed a little lighter after meeting you. I don’t know much about his family, but I know it was bad. I think having you is one of the reasons he hung on for so long.”

That only makes Shane feel worse, cause if that’s true (and deep down he knows it is, knows it was something more for Ilya as well), then isn’t it his fault this happened now? Did him walking out all those months ago doom Ilya, did Shane sail away with Ilya’s lifeboat, leaving him to drown?

“I… I really cared about him too,” is all he can bring himself to say, choking on the last word. Marlow simply nods.

“There’s gonna be some speeches soon, then the actual burial. Its a closed casket, the body… the body’s condition is, not great.” he says. Shane’s stomach twists at that, images of Ilya flooding his mind - his gorgeous eyes, his smug smile, his broad shoulders and strong thighs - he doesn’t want to imagine what they look like now, after hanging dead for multiple days. Ilya was the liveliest person he knows. Or, knew.

“Is he- is he not getting buried in Russia?” he asks. He assumed this funeral was mostly just for Ilya’s friends in America to say goodbye before his body got sent back home.

Marlow’s eyes go dark at that. “No.” he says tersely. “I spoke to his family, they… didn’t want us to send the body back. Said he was- said he was weak.” his voice shakes as he spits out the last word, Shane is not sure if with tears or anger. “They’re fucking assholes. All they cared about was what’s gonna happen with his money.”

Shane’s throat tightens. He knew something was… off with Ilya’s family. Could see it in the way he tensed every time Shane brought up Russia, heard it in his voice when he talked on the phone to his father. But this - not even wanting his body, rejecting him after his death - it was fucking cruel. Shane wishes he had time to talk to Ilya about it, to find out what’s wrong, if there’s a way he could’ve helped. His mind goes back to his secret fantasies, the ones he rarely let himself indulge in, of Ilya coming to his house, meeting his parents as his boyfriend, joining them for family meals. Maybe in a different world he could’ve given Ilya a new family, if he wasn’t such a coward, if he hasn’t run away as soon as Ilya tried to make them something real. 

“You can sit in the front row. For the speeches. I’ll talk to the rest of the team, make sure they don’t bother you.”

“Thanks.” 

Marlow hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Then he nods at Shane, turns around and goes into the crowd.

The speeches pass at a slow, agonizing crawl. 

Shane can’t bring himself to pay attention. His eyes are fixed on the casket standing in front of, a picture of Ilya standing in front of it. It’s not a picture Shane’s ever seen before. He’s smiling widely, his hair tousled with a view of a beautiful beach behind him. During his speech Marlow mentions he took that photo on a team beach day. Shane’’s never seen Ilya on the beach. He’s never seen him on the street, in a coffeeshop, in a restaurant, in the pool. The amount of ways Shane will never get to see Ilya in feels like an insurmountable weight pressing down on him, choking him. He never got to wake up with Ilya in the morning, never got to spend more than a few hours with him, and now he never will.

When they walk behind the casket Shane is filled with a sudden urge to stop everything. He wants to yell at them, what are you doing! He’s still alive in there! He’s suddenly filled with the certain belief that none of this is real, that if he were to run and open the casket Ilya would simply sit up, eyes glinting, smiling his easy smile as he teases him, Damn Hollander, so desperate to see me? 

Instead he buries his hands deeper in his jacket’s pockets and trudges along behind the casket. He watches as they lower it into the ground, standing at a distance as everyone tosses a handful of dirt onto the coffin. He waits there for a long time, the crowd slowly dwindling, before he approaches the coffin. It’s barely visible through the layer of dirt on top of it. Shane can’t help but imagine Ilya lying there, banging against the coffin, begging someone to let him out, to realize he’s not dead.

He picks up a handful of dirt, dry and crumbly in his hand. He scatters it slowly, watching as it hides the final visible part of the coffin.

“Goodbye, Ilya.” his mouth rounds around the syllables gently, like it’s a precious thing, like he can put everything he feels for the dead man in this one utterance of his name.

The all stars game is cancelled to honor Ilya’s memory. Shane spends the weekend at home, watching videos of Ilya on his phone. He watches old game footage, interviews, commercials, anything he can find. He tries to memorize the way Ilya’s hands grip his hockey stick, the smug look on his face as he chirps his opponents, his bloodied smile after getting into a fight.

He watches every clip he can find of the two of them together - the commercial they filmed as rookies, the press conference they did together at their first all star game, the award they presented together in Vegas. And games, countless games. Both of them at the center of the ice in a faceoff, Ilya whispering something to him. Ilya crashing him into the boards. Shane stealing the puck from Ilya and scoring. He cards through all of them trying to find - something. Anything. Anything that will prove that what they had was real, any hint of emotion or feeling he can see on their faces. He watches videos until his eyes sting from watching the screen for too long, his head pounding from lying for hours on his phone without eating or drinking anything.

He opens their text thread. The last message is from him, a simple on my way. He scrolls back through all of it, a collection of times and hotel numbers and see you next seasons, an occasional sext thrown in the midst (from Ilya’s side). He tries to type a message, but he doesn't know what to say. He calls him, just to hear his voice. Hi. this is Ilya. I will never listen to your voicemail. It only makes Shane feel worse. He finally falls asleep, phone held against his chest like a teddy bear, and he doesn’t dream.

Their next game is against Boston. Cause of course it is.

The locker room is quiet, tense. Shane has gone back to practice at the beginning of the week, he thinks. He can’t really remember, the last week and a half all blurring together. He woke up every morning after snoozing every alarm, had a smoothie (he refused to even look at his coffeemaker) and headed right into practice. He spent the practices on autopilot, his body acting on his own accord. He was good, he was always good, but he knew his teammates could sense something was off. He didn't care. He finished practice, finished changing first without showering and went back to his home where he would watch videos of Ilya until he fell asleep. Rinse and repeat.

He’s lacing up his skates when his teammates start talking.

“It’s gonna be weird playing Boston without Rozanov,” Drapeau says. “I can’t believe he fucking killed himself.”

Shane stiffens up where he’s sitting on the bench.

“Yeah, it’s fucking crazy. He was so annoying, you would never think someone like him would do something like that.” Comeau responds, casually. Like they’re talking about the weather.

“I mean, I hate to say it but it kinda works out for us.” Drapeau says. Everyone look at him, scandalized, and Shane feels the blood roiling in his ears.

“What? I’m just saying, he was their star. Without him, Boston isn’t as much of a threat. Plus, they’re not playing at their best, y’know?” he shrugs.

“Neither are we,” Shane hears someone mumble. 

“That’s so fucked up,” Hayden says. “I didn't like the guy either, but have sone respect, man.”

“He's kind of right, man.” Comeau pipes up. “They’ll definitely be out of their heads tonight. Easy win for us.”

Shane sits up.

“I don't wanna hear anything about Rozanov today,” he says. The room goes silent, everyone looking at him. “No sly comments, no chirps. This is a real man who died, and we will be respectful. If I see anyone even thinking about saying something, I will make sure he’s benched for the rest of the season. That includes conversations in the locker room and on the bench. Is that clear?”

Most of the players around him nod. Drapeau frowns, but doesn’t argue.

“Okay,” Shane breathes out. “Let’s get this over with.”

Not his best speech, but he doesn’t have anything else to give.

The energy on the ice is foul. The crowd is quieter than usual. The seats are full of Boston fans, of course, they are playing in Boston. Most of them are wearing Rozanov jersey, a crowd full of 81s looking down at the game. A lot of them are holding signs:

RIP ILYA
GONE BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN
OUR CAPTAIN IN OUR HEARTS

The Boston team is quiet, reserved. Their new center (Shane knows he knows his name, but can’t bother to remember, doesn’t wanna give the man who replaces Ilya so easily that respect) is standing apart from everyone else. They’re all wearing Ilya’s jersey too. Shane finds himself jealous of them, jealous of the way they can wear their grief on their sleeve. The cross chain feels heavy under his jersey.

A few of them make eye contact with Shane, giving him somber nods. He nods back, wondering what Marlow told them. Do they all know? If so, they kept it quiet, nothing coming out about them in the last week. Shane supposes he should feel grateful for it, but he’s almost bitter.

He skates to the center, getting ready for the faceoff. The new center skates across from him, bending down. Shane doesn’t bother looking at him. If he doesn’t see him he can pretend it’s Ilya, mouthguard held between his lips, waiting to chirp Shane.

Shane loses the faceoff.

The game is brutal, cruel almost. Shane knows it’s one of the worst game he’s ever played but it doesn’t matter, not when they’re playing a team in grieving. They win 3-0, the crowd booing every goal. Shane agrees with them, deep down. 

When they line up for handshakes, Shane says “sorry for your lost.” to every player. Most of them nod back at him, a deep understanding in their eyes. Marlow whispers to him, “you too.” 

“Hollander! They want you for media!” Coach Theriault calls into the locker room, and Shane flinches.

“Can I not, today?” he dares to ask.

“No ifs, ands or buts.” Coach Therault fixes him with a glare. He already chewed Shane out for his performance, telling him he played like a fucking pansy. Shane just stood there, nodding. “Be out in two minutes.”

“Are you okay, man?” Hayden sidles up next to him. “What was that?”

“Just… my family stuff. I’m off my game,” Shane tells him.

Hayden nods in sympathy. “Okay man. At least we’re in Boston, you get to see Lily!”

Shane’s stomach lurches. He's almost grateful when Coach Therault pokes his head back in to call him for interviews.

“Hollander, what a defeat! What do you think contributed to your success today?”

Probably the fact that the entire opposing team is in grieving, Shane thinks. “We just, played the game, did our best. Make sure communication is good, make those passes connect.”

“What would you say to the people saying you weren’t on the ice today? How do you feel about you performance?” another reporter asks.

Shane grits his teeth. “We all have good games and bad games,” he replies, rehearsed. “Today was a bad game for me, and I’m gonna put in the effort to assure the next one is a good one.”

“Hollander!” a third reporter calls. Shane turns to her, forcing a smile. “This is your first game against Boston since their star center and your personal rival tragically passed away. Rumors are you were seen attending his funeral. How does it feel, playing against them without him?”

The answer is on the tip of Shane’s tongue. He prepared for this, formulated it, repeated it until the words made no sense - Rozanov was an incredible player. I had a lot of respect for him, on and off the ice, he always pushed me to play harder, be he best I can. I was very saddened too hear about his passing, and playing the game will not be the same without him there.

Thats not what comes out of his mouth.

“Ilya-” he chokes out, and starts crying.

It’s like the dam that has been building up inside him suddenly breaks, all of the tears and feelings he held back for the last week and a half come rushing in. his body heaves with every sob that comes out of his mouth, his vision goes blurry. He's distantly aware of the reporters, stunned into silence in front of him, of the cameras flashing. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if everyone in the world makes the connection, how could he care about that when Ilya is dead? He’s gone, he’s never gonna see him again, never gonna kiss him again, never gonna feel his arms around him again.

It’s at that moment the fundamental truth Shane has been avoiding for the last week and a half - for the last eight years - rears its ugly head.

Shane loves Ilya Rozanov. Somehow, between brief nights and long glances across the ice, he fell in love with him. He loves him, and now he's never gonna know that, Shane will never get a chance to tell him.

He cries so hard his throat hurts, his chest burns. He feels lightheaded, dehydrated.

There are arms wrapping around him, escorting him back to the locker room, someone calling no more questions! 

“Man, what’s going on? Should i call your parents?”

Shane shakes his head between sobs. “No, not- not my parents.”

“Should I call Lily?”

A new wave of sorrow hits Shane, his sobs growing louder. “There- there is no Lily anymore,” he choked out.

“Fuck, did you break up?” Hayden asks. “Is that what this is about?”

“There is- no Lily anymore,” Shane repeats miserably. “He's dead.”

The room is silent, and Shane is suddenly aware that all of his teammates are here, that Coach Therault is here.

Hayden’s face goes through a cycle of emotions - confusion, then understanding, then shock. It settles on sorrow.

“Oh, Shane.” 

Shane chokes out another sob, and then Hayden’s hands are around him again.
“He’s fucking dead, and he doesn't even know- doesn't even know how I feel,” he cries into Hayden jersey. “He thought i didn’t want him, I made him think I didn’t want him and now he’s dead,” he gasps. He hears whispers around the room

Hollander is gay?

Is he talking about- about Rozanov?

Fucking what is going on?

“Hollander.” coach Therault’s voice is cold. Shane lifts his head, trying to even out his breathing, and locks eyes with him.

“You're benched for the rest of the season.”

Shane can’t find it in himself to care.

The therapist’s waiting room is nice. There are a couple of comfortable couches, a few potted plants. It’s homey, intimate.

Shane stares at the wall in front of him. He didn't wanna come here, but after he had a very public meltdown and got benched for the season, the team management decided he needs to go therapy. They gave some bullshit public statement saying he was having a family situation and taking some time off to be with them during that time. He doesn’t know if people believed it, didn’t bother to check the reactions. He suspects they didn’t, that the connection was too clear, that the way he choked on Ilya’s name gave it away.

So now he’s sitting here, staring at the houseplants and dreading this first meeting. What the fuck is he gonna say? Yeah, i had a public breakdown cause the guy I was fucking in secret for eight years killed himself? That seems like a bit much for a first therapy appointment.

His mind unwillingly drifts to Ilya. he wonders if the way he’s been feeling these last few weeks - the heaviness. The tiredness, the constant ache in his chest. He can almost understand why Ilya… did what he did. There are moments’ late at night, when he's lying his bed where he thinks what’s the point? Why am i even here for? There are moments where he selfishly wishes he could be gone only cause it means he might see him again.

“Mr. Hollander?”

The therapist is a kind faced woman with long hair. She’s wearing a blouse and a long cardigan, which feels almost like a therapist uniform.

Shane swallows and gets up.

“So, for this first meeting I’m mostly looking to get to know you a bit.”

The therapist, Dana, is sitting across from him on an armchair, legs crossed. She looks at him with an open face, no notepad in sight, which surprised Shane. He thought therapists always wrote down everything you say, but maybe it’s not necessary?

“Umm, okay,” he says dumbly. They sit there for a moment in silence. Shane’s palms start to sweat.

“Tell me a little bit about yourself. Where are you from, what do you do for a living. Things like that.”
Shane highly doubts the therapist his team sent him to isn’t aware of what he does for a living, but he decides to play along.

“Umm, I’m Shane. I’m 25, I play hockey for the Montreal metros.” he feels kind of like he’s at a job interview, not that Shane ever had one of those. “I’m originally from Ottawa.”

“Is your family still there? Do you have a good relationship with them?”

“Yeah, my parents. I’m an only child. And yeah, they’re great.” his heart twists when he mentions his parents. He’s barely spoken to them in the last few weeks, only a couple of terse phone conversations. His mom sounded like she was on the brink of tears when she asked him what was wrong, how they could help. Shane didn't know what to say to her, so he said nothing, listening to her muffled sobs through the phone.

“So, a professional hockey player. That’s a very intense job.” Dana crosses her legs.

“Umm, yeah. It’s basically my whole life.” it feels weird to say when he barely thought of hockey for the last three weeks, but it was the truth. All of his life, all of who he was, was hockey. His diet, his daily habits, his relationships, they all centered hockey, everything he did was a part of his goal to be the best hockey player he could be.

Everything except Ilya. That was… an outlier. Something he did not because of hockey but in spite of it, in spite of how difficult and messy it made their relationship. Shane swallows.

“You know, there is something to be said for having a life outside of work, but we’ll keep that for a different session. For now, tell me what brought you here.”

Shane takes a deep breath. “I kinda had… a breakdown, the other week. While getting interviewed by the media after a game.”

“Okay.” Dana nods. “Tell me about it.”

“I uhh, i had a bad game. Against Boston, we won but I wasn’t playing very well. And they asked me questions about the game afterwards, and then they asked me about this… about my…” Shane is at a loss of words.

“About your?” Dana prompts him gently.

“There was this… guy at the Boston team. We were, like, rivals. Were the top two draft picks the year we were drafted, were the top two rookies in our years, we were always head to head. And a couple of weeks ago he…” Shane squeezes his eyes shut. “He killed himself.”

A silence settles into the room. 

“And they… asked me about him. About not playing against him anymore, and I just broke down.”

Dana nods slowly. “Sounds like you knew this guy for a long time.”

Shane nods. “Since before our rookie year. Eight years.”

“It’s always hard to lose someone you knew for a long time, Shane. Sounds like you were dealing with something difficult. Can I ask what your relationship like outside your professional rivalry?”

Shane stares at his hands. He clenches and unclenches them, then decides fuck it. He’s tired of hiding, there’s no point anymore. “We were… together.”

Dana’s eyebrows shoot up. “Together? Romantically?””

“Not exactly,” Shane sighs. “It’s… complicated.”

“Tell me about it.”

So Shane does. He tells her everything, how he was drawn to Ilya from the first time he saw him on the ice, how something compelled him to go out and introduce himself to the young Russian phenome. He tells her about how after that it’s like something pulled them together, both of them circling each other’s orbit whenever they saw each other. He blushes as he tells her about his first hook up, about how it was the first time he had sex with someone he wanted, about how gentle Ilya was with him. He takes her through their entire relationship, years of hooking up in secret, meeting each other under the cover of night. He cries, a lot, slobbering all over his sweatshirt. Dana just sits there, listening quietly. Occasionally asking a question.

“Then, the last time we were together it was different.”

“Different how?”

“Different like… he asked me to stay. We never stayed. He made me food, and we watched hockey, and we talked. It was like…”
“Like you were a couple?” Dana asks gently.

“Yeah,” Shane breathes out. “Like we were a couple. And it… scared me. It felt too real, so I,” he chokes up. “I ran. I left and I got a girlfriend.”

“Did you like this girl?” Dana asks, no judgement in her voice. 

“I did. I really did, she was great and I had fun talking to her but she wasn’t…”

Dana looks at him expectantly.

“She wasn't him.”

Dana nods. “Yeah.”

“She wasn't him. We only saw each other once after that. I was at a club with my girlfriend and I saw him dancing with a girl there, and we just… looked at each other from across the dance floor.”

“And how did that feel?”

“Awful,” Shane chuckles darkly. “I had to pull over on my way home from the club cause I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the road.”

“Sounds like you had pretty intense feeling for this guy.”

“Ilya,” Shane says. He doesn’t wanna act like this was some big secret anymore, either she knew hockey, in which case it was very clear who he was talking about, or she didn’t and wouldn’t know what it means. “His name was Ilya.”

“Anyways, a week after that my girlfriend essentially broke up with me by telling me I was gay. And I, I realized she was right, that I am gay and that I have… feelings. For Ilya. and I was getting ready to talk to him about it, but I never got the chance.” he stares down at his shoes.

“Sounds like you went through something pretty awful, Shane. I wouldn’t blame anyone for having a breakdown in this situation.”

“I just… I can’t help but feel it’s my fault. For leaving, for pushing him away.” Shane starts crying again. He didn’t think he could cry this much, he feels drained.

“That’s natural. People often feel guilty when losing someone to suicide, wondering what they could do different, how they could prevent it.” Dana leans towards him. “But the truth is, if someone kills themselves it’s because they’re suicidal. It’s rarely truly someone else’s fault.”

Shane sniffles.

“You can’t be responsible for someone else’s life, Shane. Only your own.”

“You know, I wrote my thesis about secrets.”

It’s their third meeting. Shane left the previous two feeling hollow, having cried almost the whole time he was there, but it feels good to have someone he can talk to about Ilya, someone who won’t judge, just listen.

“Really?”

Dana nods. “You know, everyone has secrets, that’s a part of life. But sometimes keeping a secret can be… an irritant. Like a grain of sand under your skin.” she clenches her fist, lays her other hand on top of it. “It festers in your soul, infects everything around it.”

Shane nods slowly. It makes sense to him, the way his secret relationship with Ilya kept him up at night, the way he longed to talk to it to someone else.

“You said you still haven’t told anyone about you and Ilya.”

“My… my teammates know, they kind of figured it out after my breakdown.”

“Yeah, but that was not a conscious decision. That was you having a vulnerable moment in a public setting. Sometimes telling a secret, choosing to let it go, is what you need to start healing. Have you considered telling your parents?”

“I just…” Shane hesitates. “I’ve been lying to them for so long. I’m scared of how they’ll react.”

“Do you think they would have a problem with you being gay?”

“No,” Shane immediately says. “They’re cool with gay people. I just don’t know how to even approach it. ‘Hey mom, hey dad, I’m gay and also been seeing my rival who recently killed himself for eight years without telling you’? It’s kind of… a lot to drop at once.”

Dana laughs. “Yeah, maybe i wouldn’t put it like that,” she agrees. “But from everything you told me about your parents, I think that they would want to be there for you while you’re going through this. And I think you would benefit from having that support in your life. The way you’re dealing with this now, it’s lonely.”

Yeah, it was. Shane spent the last few weeks feeling like he was alone, like his world has stopped and everyone else just kept moving around him. Whenever he’s go out he’d get mad at the shops being open, at people walking their dogs and talking on the phone. How can you keep going? He wanted to yell at them. How can you act like everything is normal when he’s dead?

“Maybe you should give them a chance to be there for you.” Dana leans back in her chair.

“Yeah,” Shane closes his eyes. “Maybe.”

Dinner with his parents is quiet, tense. 

It’s the first time he’s come to their place since Ilya died. That in itself is an outlier, Shane usually taking any chance he has to visit his parents.

His parents are worried about him. They talk to him gently, like he’s gonna run away if they talk to loudly. They keep exchanging glances when they thing he doesn’t notice. His mom made his favorite meal from when he was a kid, buttered noodles and chicken cutlets. It doesn’t fit his diet, but Shane doesn’t really care about his diet right now. The food is warm, comforting.

He clears his throat halfway through the meal. “I need… I need to talk to you guys.”

His parents immediately go silent, eyes locking onto him. “Of course honey,” his mom reaches across the table. “You can tell us anything.”

Shane isn’t sure what to say, so he starts with the easy part. “I’m… I’m gay.”

His parents look relieved. “Is that what this is all about?” his mom asks. “That’s okay, baby.”

“Yeah, we love you no matter what,” his dad adds, smiling at him softly.

“No, that’s not it. I’ve been seeing this guy. For a while now.”

“How long?” his dad sounds surprised.

“Since rookie year.”

They both sit there in stunned silence. “That’s… a long time.” his mom finally says.

Not long enough, shane thinks. Not nearly long enough.

“We would love to meet him,” his dad breaks the silence, and his mom nods. “You know we would love anyone you bring, right?”

Shane shakes his head, feeling the tears starting to gather in his eyes. “You can’t meet him,” he says meekly.

“Why not?” his mom’s brow furrows.

“Is he closeted?” his dad asks. “We wouldn’t tell anyone, you know that, right?”

“No, it’s not that.” Shane wipes his eyes, but more tears keep coming. “It’s - it was - Ilya. Rozanov.”

He watches the realization dawning on both of his parents face, and then his mom’s face crumbles.

“Oh, honey.”

Then they’re both across the tables, holding him as he shakes with sobs.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” another sob racks his body. “I really tried, I tried not to- I promise I tried.”

“Shane, you have nothing to apologize for.” his dad pulls him into his lap like when he was a kid, and Shane goes willingly. “You did nothing wrong.”

“Yeah baby, you’re alright.” his mom strokes his face gently. “I'm just- I’m sorry. Sorry you thought you couldn’t tell us, that you went though this alone. It must’ve been so hard.”

“I love him mom,” the words tear themselves out of his throat. “I loved him so much, and now he’s- now-” 

He gives up on words, sobbing into his father’s shirt, getting snot all over his nice button up. They stay there for a long time, until Shane’s cried it out of his system. He feels stretched thin, raw, but something inside him loosens. He sniffles and looks up at his mom, watching him with tears in her eyes.

“Mom, I’m - I need your help with something.”
“Of course,” she whispers and kisses his forehead. “Whatever you want, honey.”

There’s a sea of cameras in front of him. Reporters whisper amongst themselves, sneaking him sideways glances.

Shane shifts in his shift. Smooths out his shirt, adjusts his necklace - Ilya’s necklace - so that it sits right in the middle of his chest.

“Hello everyone,” he says, and the room goes silent.

“As I’m sure you all know, I spent the last few weeks on… break, after the situation at the Boston game.”

A camera flashes.

“The official explanation the team has given was I was having family trouble. That’s not the truth.”

A murmur passes through the roof.

“A few weeks ago, Ilya Rozanov committed suicide. We were known as two bitter rivals, but the truth was more complicated then that.”

He pauses, takes a sip of his water.

“Ilya… was someone very special to me. On the ice he was my biggest rival, yes, but off it he was… he was someone I loved.”

He wonders if he’ll ever get used to saying those word. If saying them enough times will make up for not saying them when it mattered most.

He suspect it won’t.

“So today, I’m here to announce that I’m starting a new charity, the Ilya foundation. It’ll be a summer hockey school, with all of the proceeds going towards mental health and suicide prevention organization. These last few months have been the worst part of my life, and i wanna do what I can to make sure other people don’t have to go through it.”

He swallows.

“Any questions?”

All of the hands in the crows fly up.

Shane was barely conscious when he attended Ilya’s funeral. He barely remembers it. Still, his legs carry him through the graveyard directly to Ilya’s grave, drawn to him like two magnets. That’s how they always were. Maybe that’s something that persists even through death, he thinks to himself.

“Umm, hi.”

The grave doesn't answer.

“My therapist told me I should try talking to you, so, here I am.” Shane shudders. It’s a cold night at Boston and the graveyard is empty except for him.

“I’m not sure what I should say. It feels like it’s too late to say all the really important things. I guess I wish things could be different, that I could make things right before… before it went so wrong.” 

He crouches down next to the grave. 

“I miss you. I know it’s stupid, we barely got to see each other even when you were here, but I miss you so much. I miss being with you, playing with you, fucking you. I miss all of it. It feels like when you died you took a part of me with you, and now I just have to keep going with a piece of me missing.” he feels tears start to stream down his face. He lets them.

“And I’m mad at you. Mad at you for taking yourself away from me, for not having a chance to… figure this out. How to be together, how to be happy.”

He hugs his knees. 

“I know you were going through a lot. I don't know all of it, I never will, but I know you were struggling. I hope… I hope wherever you are, you’re at peace now.”

As he talks more it gets easier, the words flooding out of his mouth.

“Everyone knows about us now. I told them, I couldn’t keep this to myself. It was hard enough being two people with this secret, I couldn’t be the only one. The league was not happy. My team was not happy. They traded me to fucking Ottawa,” he laughs. “They traded me to fucking Ottawa and all I could think was Ilya would love it.  I could imagine you laughing at me, telling me finally, a team that suits your level. God, you were such an asshole. I don't know why I love you.”

He places a hand on the gravestone. The marble is cold, hard. 

“But I do. I love you, Ilya.”

He bends down and presses his lips to the marble, right over where Ilya’s mouth would be.

“I hope… I hope I’ll get to see you again. Make this right. Maybe in the next life.”

He stays there for a while, minutes stretching like hours.

“Goodbye, Ilya,” he whispers into the quiet night.

He turns around and walks out of the graveyard.