The truth was, plan A, B, or any other letter would be the same: they’d do whatever the league told them to do. Because they were professional hockey players and wanted to continue to be professional hockey players.
“We will see what Farah’s statement says.”
Shane ran a hand through his hair, knocking half of it out of its bun. “Coach told me not to post anything.”
Anger flared in Ilya’s chest. “He’s not my coach.”
“I know. And for what it’s worth, I hate that he said that.”
“Good,” Ilya said. Then, “I can drive back there tomorrow. My team is on the road, so. No reason to stay.”
“Yeah? God, I’d love that. I need you.”
“I will leave first thing tomorrow. After I walk Anya.”
Shane smiled at that. “I’m glad you got a dog.”
Ilya grinned back. “Me too! She is so good! I will send you more pictures.”
“Awesome.” Shane grimaced. “I feel like shit.”
“Try another Snickers bar.”
“I shouldn’t have eaten that. Or maybe I should have been eating them all along. Fuck, what am I even doing with this diet?”
“Trying to live forever, I thought.”
“With you? No thank you.”
“Eat what you want. If that is only healthy things, is fine. If you want treats, is also fine. It is your life, Hollander. Not the NHL’s. Not the Montreal Voyageurs’。”
“You sure about that?”
“I think we are both going to have to decide about that soon.”
Ilya woke up to two emails the next morning. One was from Farah, and included the statement she’d written for them. The second was from the offices of Commissioner Crowell, informing Shane and Ilya that he would be at the Montreal branch of the NHL’s offices tomorrow, and that he wanted to meet with both of them there.
Fuck.
Ilya went back to Farah’s email and read the statement. The first paragraph plainly described the events as they had happened: a video had been circulated, it had unintentionally shown Ilya and Shane in an intimate moment, that Hayden hadn’t realized what could be seen in the background when he’d sent it.
The second paragraph was more interesting.
Although having the decision to disclose our relationship made for us isn’t ideal, we would like to announce, officially, that we are in a committed, romantic relationship, and have been for several years. We wish we could have told you in our own way, but we don’t hold this unfortunate accident against Hayden.
It was good, Ilya thought. To the point, and made it clear that they weren’t blaming anyone （except fucking Brad, but anyway）。
We know that our relationship will be difficult for a lot of people to accept and understand. We have never let our personal relationship interfere with our competitiveness on the ice, and we believe our career achievements show that very clearly. We’ve always kept personal and professional separate, and we hope our teams, our fans, and the league can do the same.
Nice. Better than what he would have written himself, which probably would have been along the lines of, We’re in love and fuck you.
A text from Shane popped up as soon as Ilya finished reading Farah’s statement: Meeting with Crowell. Fuck.
Ilya: Will be ok.
Shane: You sure about that?
Ilya: Should Farah be there?
Shane: Probably but… I kind of want it to be just us? Is that stupid?
Ilya understood what Shane was saying. If things went sideways, they could involve Farah later. But this was about more than hockey, or their careers. This was personal, and Ilya, like Shane, wanted to fight this battle themselves if they could.
Ilya: Not stupid.
Shane: I’ll tell Farah about the meeting, but explain what we want to do.
Ilya: Ok.
Shane: When are you getting here?
Ilya was keen to see Shane, but before he got on the road, Anya needed her walk.
Ilya: Soon.
Ilya considered, as he walked around the slushy sidewalks of his neighborhood, that he should probably book another appointment with Galina. It had been a couple of weeks, and he didn’t want to get lazy about it. He certainly had something to talk about now.
Oddly, he’d been feeling relatively peaceful since they’d been outed. Shane, he knew, was an absolute wreck, but Ilya was ready to face whatever happened next. Even though what was going to happen next was a meeting with Crowell. He should be nervous about that, but he was more curious than anything.
Curious, and ready to fight.
Ilya passed his neighbors’ house—the one where Willa and Andrew lived—and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a large hand-drawn sign attached to the tree near the end of their driveway: We love you, Ilya!
Underneath the sign was a little shelf that held two Funko Pop figures: one of Ilya, and one of Shane.
Ilya fumbled for the phone he was glad he’d decided to shove in his coat pocket before leaving. He turned it on, took a photo, and sent it to Shane.
Shane: Oh wow. Is that your neighbors’ house?
Ilya: Yes. We are not so alone, I think.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Are your parents still here?” Ilya asked as soon as he’d finished kissing Shane hello.
“No, I told them they could go home. I loved having them here, but I, um…”
“Want to be railed by your boyfriend?”
Shane’s eyes darkened. “Fuck yes.”
Their mouths crashed back together. Ilya gripped Shane’s hair, still mostly wet from the shower he’d obviously just taken. He smelled like seaweed shampoo and sport bodywash and tasted like toothpaste. Ilya wanted to devour him.
“Make me forget everything,” Shane murmured. “Just want to feel you.” He started walking backward toward the living room, clutching Ilya’s coat, pulling him closer.
Ilya broke the kiss to check on Anya. She’d found one of her toys on the living room floor and was chomping happily on it in her dog bed.
Ilya removed his coat and sneakers, leaving them in a pile by the door. “This way,” he said, and took Shane’s hand.
“The hell?” Shane said when he realized Ilya had led him to his trophy room.
Ilya just smiled at him.
“No way,” Shane said. “Weird.”
“Is it?” Ilya asked, trailing a finger along Shane’s jaw. “I thought you need a reminder, before our meeting tomorrow.”
“Reminder of what?” Shane said faintly as he tipped his head to the side and closed his eyes.
Ilya kissed just under his jaw, then in front of his ear. “Of who the fuck you are.”
Shane gasped and grabbed a fistful of Ilya’s T-shirt, as if to steady himself. “Yes,” he whispered. “Remind me.”
Ilya hauled him over to a leather armchair in the middle of the room. It was facing a wall of glass shelves that held miniature versions of Shane’s three Stanley Cups, and of all the individual trophies he’d won during his career. Other shelves displayed various game pucks that were mounted and labeled with their achievements. There were also frames displaying his Team Canada jerseys from the World Juniors and the Olympics. On a smaller, lower shelf, boxes displayed his Stanley Cup rings and his gold and silver medals.
“Look at all of this,” Ilya said as he bent Shane over the chair with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. “You almost need two rooms.”