by Rachel Reid
Shane shook his head, but he was smiling a bit. “My dad is not boring.”
“He is exciting?”
“He’s...normal. He works for the Treasury Board of Canada.”
“Super exciting.”
“He played hockey for McGill.”
“Wow. Is McGill a town? What the fuck is McGill?”
“It’s a school! A university in Montreal! A very famous one.”
Ilya shrugged and took a sip of his beer.
“My parents are awesome,” Shane said, turning his attention back to the grill. “Seriously, they’re the best.”
“Maybe I will meet them someday.”
Shane froze. Ilya saw the tension grip his back and shoulders.
“Relax,” Ilya said. “Was a joke. I know I won’t—”
“I’d like you to,” Shane said quietly. “I mean... I wish you could. You know. If things were...different.”
Ilya reached out and tapped Shane’s elbow. Shane turned to face him.
“Do they know?”
“About you?”
“No,” Ilya said. “About you.”
Shane looked down and shook his head. “No.”
“They would not be...good? If you told them?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said they are the best.”
Shane looked up. “They are. I mean... I think they would be fine with it. I know they would be, really. They love me. They’ve always supported me. They aren’t homophobic at all, I don’t think. It’s just not something we’ve ever really talked about.”
“Maybe you should.”
Shane turned and picked up a plate that he started piling burger patties on. “Sometimes I think I would have told them by now. If it wasn’t for...”
Ilya raised an eyebrow that Shane couldn’t see. “This is my fault?”
“No. Yes. Sort of. I just think...if I had a normal dating life or whatever. I mean, still dating men, but not...doing whatever we’re doing. With, you know, you.”
“You don’t want to tell your parents that you are fucking Ilya Rozanov?”
Shane sputtered out a laugh. “No. I definitely do not want to have to explain that to them.”
“Why would you, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can tell your parents that you are gay, I think, without telling them the names of men you are fucking. I am pretty sure about this.”
“I know! I know. But...” Shane sighed. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. Let’s eat these burgers before they get cold.”
Ilya wanted to push him to say more, but instead he just followed Shane to the table.
* * *
The truth was that Shane thought about Ilya meeting his parents a lot.
He was kind of obsessed with the idea.
He couldn’t even form a clear thought about why it was so important to him. For one thing, it was an absurd, terrible idea and there was absolutely no reason why he should want it to happen.
He had even imagined benign scenarios where they are at a function—maybe the NHL Awards—and Shane just casually says, “Mom. Dad. Have you met Ilya Rozanov?” And they would meet. And they would shake his hand and Ilya would nod politely at them and tell them it was nice to meet them. Then it would be over, and his parents would shake the hand of the next person who approached them and they would have no idea—no idea—how much of a relief it would be for Shane to have witnessed just that simple contact. To know that the two people he loved the most had touched the skin of Ilya Rozanov, and had looked into his eyes, even for a second, and that Shane now had concrete proof that all three of them existed in the same world.
These were the thoughts that kept Shane awake at night. Total and complete madness. His deepest, most closely guarded desire was to just have his parents make contact with the man he’d been secretly fucking for seven years. Part of him felt that, if it happened, something would become clear. Something would finally make sense.
The real actual truth—the truth that Shane mentally stomped on every time it dared try to get his attention—was that he wanted Ilya to meet his parents for the same reason anyone wanted their boyfriend to meet their parents: he loved him, and he wanted them to love him too.
Except Ilya was not Shane’s boyfriend. And, even if he was, if Shane introduced Ilya as his boyfriend they would be beyond confused. For one thing, he supposedly hated Ilya Rozanov. And they hated Ilya Rozanov. And everyone in the whole goddamned world of hockey knew that Shane Hollander hated Ilya Rozanov. So even introducing them formally at the NHL Awards would be weird.
His biggest nightmare was that he and Ilya would be caught together somehow. Paparazzi or whatever. And then the world would know, but more importantly, his parents would know. They would find out that their son was gay and their son was being gay with Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya Rozanov, who, at that moment, was sitting across from Shane at the table on his patio, eating the food Shane had prepared for him. He had mustard on the corner of his lips.
If Shane removed all of the complications of their relationship—the rivalry, the expectations for both of them, the fact that Ilya was kind of a dick—he could just be proud of the fact that the man was really hot. Like, Shane had definitely snagged himself a ten.
That morning, Shane had woken up early because he hadn’t closed the blinds the night before. Sunshine had streamed into the room, reflecting off the white bedsheets, and off the beautiful man who had been wrapped up in them.
Shane had taken advantage of the moment, while Ilya had still been asleep, as an opportunity to drink his fill of him. Ilya had been on his back, his arm draped over his forehead, his long fingers curled against the pillow. Shane had traced a fingertip down that arm, over the swell of Ilya’s bicep, because he couldn’t help it. The morning light was making everything beautiful, and Shane was in love, so he had leaned in and lightly kissed Ilya’s wrist.
When Ilya’s eyes had fluttered open, Shane’s face had been inches away from them. He had seen the initial confusion in Ilya’s expression before it softened into a shy smile.
It had been a perfect morning.
A perfect day, really. They had worked out very competitively in Shane’s gym, then lounged by the pool, and eventually headed down to the boathouse. Shane had suggested they take the kayaks out, but that got dropped as soon as Ilya spotted the Jet Skis. The rest of the afternoon had been spent racing around the lake, laughing and soaking each other. Ilya was never happier than when he was in control of a high-speed vehicle.
Although, he had been pretty happy later on, when Shane had pinned him to the wall inside the boathouse and they’d stripped off their bathing suits and taken each other in hand...
It had been a really good day.
And now they were eating burgers that Shane had totally aced, and drinking beer on the deck as the sun set, and it was everything he had ever wanted. He imagined a life of spending summers together at the cottage. It was his intention to make this his permanent home after he retired. He wondered if Ilya would be into living here when—
What the hell, Hollander? Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?
But these were the thoughts that consumed him these days: Ilya meeting his parents, Ilya spending the summers with him, Ilya making a home with him.
He’d give anything to go back to the simplicity of the early days, when all that consumed him was the confusing desire to have Ilya’s dick in his mouth.
For seven years, they’d been getting away with this thing. Their luck had to run out sometime, right?
* * *
Ilya stared at the fire because he wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do, exactly. This seemed to be the extent of the entertainment a bonfire provided: it burned, and you looked at it.
The bonfire had been Shane’s i
dea, of course. Ilya could think of better things to do with their evening alone together than watch logs turn into ash, but Shane had been so damn excited about it.
But it was a beautiful night—the air was a bit chilly, and the fire was warm, and Ilya was pressed against Shane on a little bench made out of a chunk of tree.
It wasn’t terrible.
“How is your head?” Ilya asked. Shane had complained of a headache that afternoon. He’d said they had been common since his injury.
“Oh, better now. Thanks.”
That was good news, because Ilya very much wanted to do sex stuff later.
Shane’s phone suddenly lit up, the screen startlingly bright in the dark that surrounded them. When Shane glanced at the screen, his face lit up almost as brightly.
“What?” Ilya asked. He couldn’t help it.
“Oh,” Shane said absently as he typed something. “Nothing. Just a message from Rose.”
Ilya snorted. Rose. “What does Rose want?”
“She’s just checking in. She—hey. You’re not jealous, are you?”
“No.” It was the least convincing lie ever.
“Ilya. I’m gay.”
“Not too gay to fuck Rose Landry.”
Shane put the phone down and glared at him. “Oh my god. I only slept with her a couple of times, and they were both disasters. Believe me, she is not looking for a repeat performance.”
Ilya suppressed a grin. “Disasters?”
“I’m not giving you the details, so shut it,” Shane grumbled. He poked at the fire for the hundredth time. Ilya wasn’t sure it actually did anything useful, but Shane seemed to enjoy doing it.
There was something a little creepy about sitting in this small pool of light in the middle of total darkness. It was so eerily quiet—just the crackling of the fire, the occasional lap of water from the lake, and—
A fucking wolf. That was a fucking wolf howl.
“What the fuck was that?” Ilya said. He couldn’t conceal the terror in his voice. But who the fuck cared, because they were surrounded by hungry wolves!
Shane laughed. “It’s a loon.”
“A what?”
“A loon!” Shane was really laughing now. “It’s a bird. Like a duck, kind of. Oh my god, you thought it was a wolf!”
“What the fuck bird makes a noise like that?”
“A loon!” Shane said again. Then he doubled over in hysterics. Ilya wanted to push him into the fire.
“Fuck you and your loon!” Ilya said. “Stupid Canadian wolf bird.”
Shane looked up at him, still laughing. His whole face was crinkled up: eyes, nose, freckles. Ilya wanted to grab embers from the fire and smash them into his own eyes because he could not bear to look at this adorable, crinkled, happy face.
“Look,” Shane said. He made a tunnel out of his hands, brought them to his mouth and...
Made the wolf bird noise.
No human should be able to make that noise.
“You speak bird now too?” Ilya asked flatly.
Shane cracked up again, and shoved him. Ilya fought like hell not to, but he started laughing too.
“I speak fluent bird. No accent!” Shane gasped.
“I fucking hate you.”
Shane leaned against him. “No you don’t.”
Ilya sighed. No. He didn’t.
He picked up his can of Coke that was resting on a chunk-of-tree table next to the bench and took a sip. He handed Shane his ginger ale.
They sat in comfortable silence for a long time.
“Have you talked to your family in Russia at all?”
The question came out of nowhere, which meant it was something that had been on Shane’s mind for a while. Also, it probably wasn’t the real question that Shane wanted to ask.
“No. Is just my brother there now. And he sucks.”
“Oh. Right.”
A much less comfortable silence fell between them.
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, for no reason at all.
“Why?”
“Your family. My parents are so great. I just...wish you had that too.”
Ilya shrugged. “My mother was great.”
He knew he shouldn’t have said that, because it was only going to lead to—
“How did she die?”
It had been fourteen years, almost, but a lump formed in Ilya’s throat anyway.
“An accident,” he said sardonically. He said it because that was what his father had told everyone. It was what Ilya had been told, very sternly, even though he had known it wasn’t true even at the age of twelve. She had an accident, Ilya. You understand, yes?
“An accident?” Shane asked. His hand was on Ilya’s arm now, squeezing him through the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt.
“Yes,” Ilya said, with a tight, humorless smile. “She accidentally swallowed a whole bottle of pills. Oops.”
He felt Shane’s body tense. He was sure Shane couldn’t even imagine such a thing. Not in his perfect little family.
“Ilya,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
Ilya pursed his lips and shook his head. The fire was looking very blurry now.
“How old were you?” Shane asked.
“Twelve.” And then, somehow, words scraped their way out of Ilya’s throat that he had never shared with anyone before. “I found her.”
His voice broke on the last word, and Shane was on his feet, hauling Ilya up with him. Shane engulfed him in his arms and held him tight, letting Ilya bury his face on his shoulder.
“I don’t want you to think she was weak,” Ilya said. “She wasn’t. She was...amazing. But she was so sad. And my father was so hard on her and...”
Ilya didn’t cry. Not really. He wiped quickly at his eyes to remove the moisture and just breathed Shane in. He smelled like wood smoke because everything around them smelled like wood smoke, and it made Ilya want a cigarette.
But mostly he just wanted to hold Shane close to him in this place where no one would ever find them. He wanted to stand in the spotlight of the campfire under the endless stars and feel Shane’s fingers stroking his hair and not think about his horrible father or his wonderful, desperately sad mother. He didn’t want to think about hockey, or rivalries, or what was going to happen when these two weeks were over.
“You’re so strong,” Shane murmured in his ear. He kissed his temple. “You’re incredible. I—”
Ilya held his breath.
And then another fucking loon screamed over their heads. And both men completely lost it. They held each other as they shook with laughter. It was a wonderful relief to laugh after all that.
They sat back down, but this time Shane tucked himself into Ilya with his legs pulled up on the bench. Ilya wrapped an arm around him and kissed the top of his head.
“Is there more wood for the fire?” Ilya asked.
“Yeah. There’s lots.”
“Good.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“What the fuck? You can’t pick Montreal!”
“I just did,” Ilya pointed out, gesturing his PlayStation controller at the television.
“Well then... I’m picking Boston.”
“Good choice.”
“I’m going to fucking destroy you.”
“I am you.”
“You aren’t anything,” Shane grumbled.
Ilya laughed and nudged him hard. “I’m on the cover of the game.”
Shane shoved him against the arm of the couch. “Big deal.”
They had barely gotten past the first puck drop when Shane’s phone rang.
Shane glanced at it and frowned. “It’s Hayden. I should get it.”
Ilya rolled his eyes and hit pause.
Hayden.
He didn’t actually
know Hayden Pike at all. He knew he was an average forward, extremely unremarkable in the looks department, and Shane’s best friend.
Shane walked a few steps behind the couch, standing between the living room and the kitchen. “Hey, Hayden. How’s, um...how’s the baby?”
Ilya smirked to himself. Shane had forgotten Hayden’s baby’s name.
“Amber. Right. Is she...good?”
Hayden must have had a very long answer to that question, because Shane went silent for a while. Ilya endured about five minutes of Shane saying nothing but “Oh yeah?” and “That’s cool” and “Right” before he stood and gave Shane a look.
Shane shrugged at him. What do you want me to do?
Ilya had an idea.
He crossed the room until he was standing right in front of Shane. He gave him a little smile, and Shane furrowed his brow at him.
Ilya’s gaze darted down to Shane’s crotch, then back up again. Shane shook his head silently.
“So how’s Jackie doing?” Shane asked the phone. “Tired?”
Ilya unfastened the button on Shane’s shorts. Shane shook his head again, more forcefully this time.
But he wasn’t, like, stopping him.
Ilya slowly pulled down the zipper, and was rewarded with a sharp inhale from Shane.
Shane’s shorts dropped to the floor, and Ilya sank to his knees.
He glanced up and saw Shane mouthing Don’t, eyes bugged wide.
Ilya pulled an exaggerated confused face. Don’t what?
He carefully peeled Shane’s briefs off and slid them down to join his shorts on the floor.
To be fair, Shane’s dick was soft, so maybe he really didn’t want Ilya to be doing this. Ilya sat back on his heels and glanced up at Shane’s face, trying to gauge whether or not he was into this game.
Shane bit his bottom lip as he gazed back at him, and Ilya knew it was game on.
“Uh, just one second, Hayden. My mom is calling. One sec.”
He hit the mute button on his phone and snarled at Ilya, “What the fuck? Knock it off!”
“I think you want it.”
“I...I mean...”
“No?”